---Rain poured like heaven itself was mocking him.Ethan Cross stood under the golden arch of the Whitestone Hotel, soaked to the bone, ignored by the very people he once called friends. Through the towering glass doors, laughter spilled out from the extravagant ballroom. Crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, champagne flutes clinking like bells—Clarissa’s engagement party was in full swing.His Clarissa.Or so he thought.Ethan tightened his fists as he watched her smile up at Brandon Thorne, the man standing beside her in a custom-tailored Armani suit. The man she now called her fiancé. Brandon gripped her waist like he owned her, like Ethan had never existed.Just hours ago, Ethan was still her boyfriend. A struggling delivery guy who’d worked himself to the bone for three years to support her law degree. Paid her rent. Missed meals to cover her textbooks. Sacrificed everything.Now he stood outside the celebration of her betrayal.The security guard glared at him. “You don’t belong

---“Isn’t that the delivery guy?”The voice cut through the polished hum of the Oakridge Country Club’s grand ballroom like a rusty knife. Heads turned. Champagne paused mid-sip. A hundred wealthy eyes settled on Ethan Cross as he walked in—head high, shoulders squared, exuding the calm pressure of a man who didn’t need to prove anything anymore.Not to them.Not anymore.But he still remembered when they used to laugh.Three years ago, Ethan had crashed a car outside this very building trying to deliver gourmet sushi to one of these elites—unpaid overtime, a sprained wrist, and a kicked door in return. Tonight, he wasn’t carrying orders.He was buying the club.---Mason Whitaker, president of the Oakridge Executive Board and third-generation billionaire, stood near the stage with a drink in hand. His smirk twitched when he saw Ethan approaching.“You’ve got nerve showing up here,” Mason said. “You weren’t invited.”Ethan gave a calm smile. “Correction. I wasn’t invited last year. T

---Ethan’s fingers trembled—not with fear, but fury.On his phone screen, Jules hung limp in a chair, blood crusting the side of his temple. The image was grainy, but unmistakable. His only true friend—kid who’d once patched Ethan up after a street fight, who gave him a place to sleep when Clarissa kicked him out—was now a hostage in this sick, invisible game.Attached was a note in cold, precise lettering:> “Withdraw from the Ghost Fund search, or he dies.”– Council Operative: FenrirEthan didn’t flinch. He didn’t panic. He stood calmly, walked to his whiskey cart, poured two fingers of scotch, and downed it in one shot.Then he picked up his phone and dialed.---“Wren. They took Jules.”He didn’t wait for pleasantries.Silence, then: “Send me the photo. I’ll run trace analysis. But Ethan… if it’s Fenrir, we’re dealing with a ghost. Ex-black ops. One of the Council’s oldest dogs.”“Then I’ll put him down like one.”---Forty minutes later, Ethan walked into his war room.A massiv

---Ethan Cross didn’t knock. He kicked the doors open.Inside the marble-floored manor, two guards barely had time to draw their weapons before Wren had them disarmed and face-first on the ground. Ethan stepped over one of them, calm as if he owned the place.In a way, he soon would.Because the man they had come for—Marcus Vale, the infamous kingmaker, blackmail broker, and former political puppet master—was sipping aged bourbon in his drawing room like he hadn't orchestrated wars for profit.He looked up from his glass as Ethan entered, amused. “My, my… The bastard son of chaos walks into my home like he’s the heir to it.”Ethan smiled coldly. “Not yet. But I’m buying the deed.”---Marcus gestured to the chair across from him. “Sit, boy. You’re early. I expected you two days from now, after more digging through your father’s leftovers.”“I don’t like wasting time,” Ethan replied, taking the seat without asking.“Neither do I. That’s why I killed your father.”Wren’s hand tensed ov

---The moment Ethan’s boots hit the cracked marble floor of the Yalova estate, he felt the weight of history and lies press down on him.The house was abandoned on paper, sealed off since the early '90s, but the security cameras, heat sensors, and distant hum of electricity told a different story.Ethan stared up at the withered mansion. It loomed on a hill overlooking the Sea of Marmara, quiet as a crypt. But somewhere behind those rotting walls was the answer he’d chased for most of his life.“She's in there,” Ethan said. “Alive. Watching. Waiting.”---Wren adjusted the scope of her rifle from her perch on a nearby rooftop. “Movement on the west side. Four armed men patrolling. Suits. Not hired thugs. Military posture.”Jules, crouched beside Ethan, loaded his sidearm. “Same snake-pin badge from the Fenrir video. Whoever this guy is, he's running an elite crew.”Ethan cracked his knuckles, voice low and cold. “Let’s see how elite they look bleeding in the snow.”He nodded once.An