The rain eased just before dawn, leaving the city slick and raw under the first ghost of daylight.Mira pulled the stolen truck into the shadows of an abandoned parking garage three blocks from Petrov’s glass fortress.She killed the engine but left the keys in the ignition — ready if they needed to run.Above them, the cracked ceiling wept slow drops onto oil-slick concrete.Somewhere above, pigeons shifted and cooed in the rafters.Ares climbed out first, boots splashing through shallow puddles that mirrored the tower’s jagged reflection.He rolled his shoulders under his damp coat, eyes locked on the skyscraper stabbing at the dull sky — thirty floors of glass pretending Petrov’s money was stainless.Mira dropped down beside him, landing light on her boots.She stretched her arms overhead until her ribs popped.The bruise under her left eye had bloomed deep purple, a war medal painted on skin.She caught Ares staring and raised an eyebrow.“Don’t start,” she muttered, wiping dried blood from

The truck rumbled through the bruised hush of dawn, rain stitching the city back together as Ares steered them deeper into streets that never asked questions. Beside him, Mira sat sideways, boots on the dash, coat collar pulled high. Smoke drifted from her lip, mixing with the cold that leaked through cracked windows.For a mile they said nothing. Neon signs sputtered off one by one, night’s lies giving way to the half-truths of daylight. Ares’s eyes flicked to the mirror every few seconds, but the road behind them stayed empty—just wet asphalt reflecting a sky too tired to fight.“You ever think about stopping?” Mira asked suddenly. Her voice was hoarse from gunpowder and cold cigarettes. “Just… bury the knife. Burn the coat.”Ares didn’t look at her. “You ever think about lying still in a grave that’s still warm?”Mira smirked, but it slipped quick. She rolled the window down an inch. Wind hissed in, damp and sharp. “Fair point.”He turned the truck off the main road, tires splashin

Victor Wu watched the photograph curl in his fingers, the fire eating through Ares’s image until only scorched edges remained.Smoke danced in the stale alley air, clinging to his coat like a warning no one could smell but him.He handed the last corner of the burnt photo to the man beside him, a younger enforcer with nervous hands and eyes that darted too much.“Find him,” Victor said quietly, flicking the match to the ground.“Don’t make contact.Don’t get clever.Just watch.I want to know what he eats, when he sleeps, how many times he blinks.”The man nodded, eyes narrowing.“And when you give the order?”Victor’s smile was slow, but it didn’t touch his eyes.“Then we turn the God of War into a cautionary tale.”...On the rooftop of a crumbling apartment block, Ares stood in silence.The night wind brushed against his coat, sharp with rain and the smell of distant smoke.The city stretched before him like a wounded animal, flickering and restless.Behind him, Mira stepped carefully onto the

The sun had barely crested over Lin City’s skyline, but inside the car, the light felt miles away. Ares gripped the steering wheel like it was the only thing anchoring him to this world. Mira stared ahead, her lips pressed into a thin, unreadable line.Neither spoke for a long time.“You believe what that man said,” she finally murmured. “That they’re trying to shape you?”Ares didn’t answer right away. The city passed by in silent blurs - faces on sidewalks, children crossing roads, oblivious lives untouched by the storm rising beneath their feet.“I don’t believe him,” Ares said finally. “I know him.”Mira turned to look at him.“That man in The Atrium?” he continued. “He used to be called Elias Zhen. Back when I was stationed in Croatia, he handled extraction ops for a ghost unit buried so deep they didn’t even have numbers. He’s not a messenger. He’s a sculptor. His job is to mold men into monsters… then aim them.”Her eyes widened. “You knew him?”“I watched him do it. He took go

The final seconds of the broadcast faded into black.Silence lingered across Lin City like a held breath.Then came the tremor.Not in the earth - but in the people.In the hearts of those who had once doubted.Of those who had once feared.And most of all, in the chambers of power where masks now cracked....In a dim bunker beneath the old subway lines, Hawk stood motionless before a row of monitors. The signal had gone out clean. No interference. No distortion.He glanced sideways at Mira, who stood with her arms folded tightly across her chest, jaw clenched.“You knew he’d do it?” Hawk asked softly.She nodded. “I hoped.”Hawk exhaled. “That broadcast… it didn’t just stir people. It broke the narrative. They can’t paint him as a ghost anymore.”“He’s not a ghost,” Mira said. “He’s the storm.”Just then, a secure terminal blinked.INCOMING SIGNAL: ENCRYPTED. ORIGIN UNKNOWN.Hawk opened it.A single message appeared on screen: “The Black Flame burns again.”He looked at Mira. “Your