They say the best ghosts are the ones who hunt themselves.
The Helix contractor interface wasn't supposed to be accessible outside of secured terminals. But with a clean persona, scrubbed credentials, and a few lines of worm code nested in synthetic bio-pings, even the safest walls opened if you knocked just right.
My name was Kade Rowan now. Signal analyst. Former military. Specialized in anomalous neural drift cases.
Every word of it was a lie. Except for the part where I was dangerous.
The relay node I used was patched through four proxy chains and rerouted through a classified contractor terminal I lifted years ago. It wasn't much, but it still carried Helix's recruitment signature, enough to get me past the firewall and into the private job pool.
The low-tier contracts were as expected. Surveillance sweeps. Civilian dissident tracing. Low-risk recoveries for stolen biotech.
I bypassed all of them.
I was looking for something else.
In the back channels of the board, where the jobs carried no names, no payout ceilings, and no public logs, there was a tag I hadn't seen since the war.
**CLASS D7 : Containment/Asset Recovery. Genetic Sync Risk.**
I clicked it.
The system paused. A long silence. Then a login prompt blinked on.
I fed in one of the old black-op access strings, one I'd burned two years ago. It should have failed.
It didn't.
The folder opened.
There was no photo at first. Just data: a target profile flagged *Subject Alpha*, status rogue, authorization tier 0, the highest classification level Helix had.
No name.
Then the image tried to load.
It glitched.
Then cleared.
The face that appeared on the screen was mine.
Not current. Reconstructed. Shaved head, leaner jaw, a near match to the boy they probably scanned during Echo Root's first trial. The AI had guessed at aging patterns: bone structure, skin density, ocular symmetry. It looked a little like the me I was at eighteen. But not enough. Not exact.
They didn't have my military records.
Didn't have my merc logs.
Just a phenotype and a ghost.
They were guessing.
And that made me more dangerous than they realized.
I leaned forward. The profile updating in real-time. Predictive modeling showed minor aging, possible facial hair, altered eye tone. But it was me.
Or who I used to be.
> Target: Subject Alpha. Status: UNSTABLE. Containment priority: EXTREME.
> Reward Variable: Uncapped.
> Live Contract: Authorized.
I stared at the screen.
They were hunting me.
And they didn't know it.
Beneath the Alpha file, a second field expanded.
> Adjacent Subject: Codename: Lyra.
> Drift Warning: Level 3. Anomalous emotional bleed detected.
> Contact: FORBIDDEN. Retrieval unnecessary. Risk: Contagion.
My blood went cold.
They knew she existed.
They knew she was leaking.
But they didn't want her back.
They wanted me. Recovered. Or erased.
She was just a byproduct. A glitch.
A failed twin.
No.
A threat.
I hovered over the ACCEPT CONTRACT prompt.
My thumb hesitated.
One confirmation and I'd be inside. Assigned a handler. Access to internal movement logs, biosignal triangulation, blacksite repositories. All under the illusion that I was hunting myself.
No one would look twice at a ghost hunter.
I pressed the key.
> Contract Accepted. Operative Assigned.
> Remote Liaison: Codename SPECTER.
A secure message followed seconds later. A synthetic voice ran through a briefing:
> "Operative Kade Rowan. Your assignment is active. Subject Alpha was last detected near Lower Sector 12 approximately six hours ago. Biosignal trace is weak but confirmed to match early neural drift architecture. Forwarding trace logs to your system."
My last resonance bleed.
> "You will receive live updates. Should the subject be found, you are to initiate immediate retrieval. If uncooperative, lethal confirmation is authorized."
I logged out before the audio ended.
There was no doubt now.
Lyra's name. My face. The contract.
They were playing a game they didn't even know I'd already joined.
I scrubbed the last relay hop and rerouted to a secure output buffer. The contract package included additional intel: network heatmaps, recent signal spikes, personnel logs.
One name caught my eye.
Dr. L. Thompson.
> Status: On leave. Location: undisclosed.
> Specialty: Neuromodulation and Synchronization Systems.
> Affiliation: Project Echo Root — Level Red Clearance.
I leaned back in the chair.
Lyra.
It wasn't just her chip.
She had worked on the system.
Or been programmed to believe she had.
Either way, her location mattered. Helix wasn't trying to recover her.
They were trying to keep her isolated.
My alias had passed inspection. I was inside.
All I had to do now was play along, track myself like a good little hunter, ask the right questions, follow the right leads.
Until I found where they had buried her.
And whatever else they buried with her.
The lab's terminal dimmed.
The silence returned.
But now, the ghost had a name.
And he was hunting himself.