The streets of Westbridge smelled of oil, smoke, and broken dreams. Rusted streetlights flickered against cracked sidewalks where the homeless huddled in shadows, and the hum of engines mixed with distant sirens that never came soon enough.Jackson Carter adjusted the strap of his worn-out backpack and tightened his fists inside his pockets. The night was colder than usual, but the hunger gnawing at his stomach was louder than the wind.His sneakers, two sizes too small and patched in more places than they were whole, scraped against the concrete as he marched down the alley toward the convenience store.Inside his pocket was a miracle. A crumpled wad of bills, ten-dollar notes, fives, a few singles, all stacked together to make a full hundred dollars. A hundred.It wasn’t much to the people who drove by in their shiny sedans, but to Jackson, it was a treasure. One hundred dollars meant his mother could finally get the medicine she needed instead of rationing pills.It meant his littl

The night air in Westbridge shimmered with neon and smoke. Clubs pulsed with bass, liquor flowed like rivers, and men with dirty money laughed too loudly in dark corners. To the casual eye, it was just another Friday night in the city. But Jackson Carter knew better.Beneath the music and champagne, Westbridge belonged to monsters. Men who dealt in blood as casually as stockbrokers traded shares. Men who had murdered his family and walked free. Men who thought themselves untouchable. And tonight, Jackson intended to touch them.The limousine rolled to a slow stop outside The Gilded Serpent, a private club reserved for Westbridge’s elite. Jackson stepped out, his polished shoes clicking against the marble pavement. Cameras flashed as guests turned their heads. Nobody recognized him, and that was the point.He wasn’t Jackson Carter anymore. He was Mr. Black, a reclusive investor who had risen out of nowhere with impossible wealth and mysterious connections. His name had begun circulatin

The morning after the massacre, Westbridge buzzed like a hive kicked open. News anchors shouted about the bloodbath at The Gilded Serpent, splashing images of shattered glass and bloodstained carpets across every screen.Police promised investigations, but everyone knew they were empty words. The Moretti name was too heavy for justice to touch. For Jackson Carter, now Mr. Black, the night had been a test. And he had passed.Victor Moretti sat in a leather chair inside his private office, cigar smoke curling lazily above him. His lieutenants stood along the walls, battered and bruised but alive.Carlo nursed a stitched gash across his temple, glaring daggers at Jackson every chance he got. Victor gestured with his cigar. “The rats thought they could bite the lion. Instead, they bled. And when the dust cleared, one man stood by my side.”His sharp eyes locked onto Jackson. “This man.”The room shifted, every gaze turning toward him. Jackson stood tall, expression neutral, the mask of ca

The city never truly slept, but Jackson hadn’t closed his eyes since the docks. The photograph lay on the table in his penthouse, its edges curling, the image burning into him.His mother, bleeding, frozen in her final moments. Whoever left it had been close enough to slip past his guards, close enough to know where he lived. And the message: We know who you are.He poured a glass of whiskey, his reflection in the window looking back at him, Mr. Black, the phantom billionaire, the mask that was both his weapon and his cage. But someone out there saw the man underneath.By morning, Victor called. His voice was gravel and command. “Black. You did good at the docks. Carlo says you’ve got fire in you. I like that. Tonight, you ride with me.”Jackson hesitated. Victor himself? That was closer than he expected this soon. “Where to?”Victor chuckled darkly. “You’ll see.”The line went dead. Evening bled into night, and a black Bentley collected Jackson. Inside, Victor lounged in the backseat

The phone call wouldn’t stop replaying in Jackson’s head. I was there the night they killed your mother, That voice. That low, steady certainty. Whoever the Ghost was, he wasn’t bluffing. He knew too much.And that meant one thing: the Ghost wasn’t just watching. He was in it, Victor’s summons came at dawn. A convoy of black SUVs pulled Jackson into the industrial zone again, this time to a slaughterhouse that reeked of blood and ammonia.Victor stood in the center of the floor, smoking a cigar while two men knelt in front of him, hands bound, bloodied from hours of beating.“Rats,” Victor said simply, nodding toward the men. “They sold weapons to the Bratva without my blessing.”His gaze slid to Jackson, almost testing. “Black. What do we do with rats?”Carlo chuckled darkly, pacing behind the prisoners. “We gut them, boss. Split ‘em open so the others remember.”Victor’s grin was cold. “Exactly.” He turned back to Jackson. “But tonight, you choose the method.”The room went quiet. D