Raf’s body was still warm when Adrian dropped him on the marble floor.A crooked angle of the neck, eyes stuck wide open in shock—like even in death he still couldn’t believe he lost.The room was quiet.Too quiet.Adrian wiped the blood off his knuckles, chest rising and falling slowly—not from exhaustion, but from restraint. He could feel the old instinct, the old monster, pacing under his skin like a caged panther.Raf had touched the lock.He had almost opened that cage.Adrian exhaled and turned away.The moment he stepped outside, the world shifted.Raf’s men—about fifteen of them—waited outside the mansion gates. They didn’t shoot. They didn’t even breathe too loud. The air around them was thick with fear and confusion.One of them, a tall, jittery guy with a shaved head, swallowed hard.“Boss… Raf—where is he?”Adrian looked at him with eyes too calm.“Gone.”A ripple went through the group. Some gasped. Some cursed. Some glanced around like the ghosts of their own decisions w

Night in the city usually carried a rhythm—cars, music, arguments, distant sirens.But tonight, the rhythm had a new beat.Hunting.Adrian felt it before it started.A pressure in the air.A silent ripple across the streets.Like the city inhaled sharply and held its breath.Stormbreaker had gone underground to set up safehouses. Adrian walked alone, hood up, hands in pockets, drifting through alleyways like a man with nowhere to be and nothing to fear.Three different crews were tracking him.He knew.He felt it.They weren’t working together—not intentionally.Each gang wanted to be the one who killed the Ghost and earned power, money, or reputation.They didn’t realize what they were stepping into.---First Ambush — The Alley of Rusted ChainsThe first trap sprung behind a warehouse district.He turned into a narrow alleyway lined with rusted chains and metal hooks dangling from fire escapes like execution ornaments.The moment his shoe touched the puddle in the center—Chains rat

---Rain hit the asphalt like scattered gunfire as the black sedan rolled into the dead-end street Adrian used as his temporary safe zone. It was nearly 2 a.m., a humid, heavy hour—too quiet, too slow, like the city itself was holding its breath.Adrian noticed the car before it turned the corner.He felt the shift in the air — a slight tension, a whisper of danger threading itself through the night.His instincts were never wrong now.He stood beneath a flickering streetlight, hood up, hands in pockets, as if he were just another shadow. But inside that stillness, every part of him was coiled, ready, aware.The sedan stopped.Four men stepped out.Not street thugs.Not local muscle.These men moved like professionals. Clean stances. Expensive shoes. Calm eyes.Mafia.Moretti’s emblem — a small silver lion pinned inside the coat — confirmed it.The tallest stepped forward. “Adrian Kade?”Adrian didn’t answer.“We’re here with a message,” the man continued. “Captain Moretti has been wa

Moretti’s name spreads through the city’s underworld like infection, but Adrian moves faster—like the cure nobody asked for. The night after he returned the bodies of Moretti’s men, the streets feel different. Heavy. Watching. Waiting.Adrian doesn’t wait.He strikes.---1 — The Hunt BeginsThe first target is a supply hub hidden under a derelict textile warehouse. Moretti runs half his cash flow through it—guns in, narcotics out, laundered money slipping through like water.Adrian climbs the rusted side ladder as quiet as fog. His gloved fingers curl over the ledge, eyes scanning the inside through a cracked skylight. Below, two sentries smoke, joking about a woman one of them claims he’s sleeping with.They never see the shadow drop behind them.One arm slides around the first man’s throat. A twist. A thud.Before the second can inhale to scream, Adrian’s knife glides under his jaw, silencing him with a gentle, lethal whisper.The warehouse is his now.He moves through aisles stack

Rain slides down the windows of Moretti’s mansion like the sky is trying to wash the city clean. The estate sits at the top of the hill—white stone, armored gates, imported statues. A fortress dripping with arrogance.But tonight it feels small.Tonight it feels like a cage waiting to be cracked open.Inside, Moretti’s voice trembles as he shouts orders.“Double the guards! Put two men on every window! And someone get that damn thermal scanner working!”His lieutenants scatter like nervous rats. Everyone feels it—the pressure, the approaching end, the invisible presence stalking the mansion from somewhere in the dark.They know he’s coming.They just don’t know when.Or how.---1 — Snipers Don’t See Him ComingOn the roof, three snipers lie flat against the rain-soaked tiles, scanning the treeline. Their night-vision scopes glow faintly.“Nothing,” the first mutters.“That’s the problem,” the second replies. “When the Ghost is quiet, someone is already dead.”The third chuckles uneas