Beep. Beep. Beep. The sound pulled him back from nothing. Ethan's eyes opened slowly. White ceiling. Fluorescent lights that stabbed into his skull. The sterile smell of disinfectant and something else, bleach, maybe. His throat felt like he'd gargled broken glass. Where...?He tried to sit up. Pain exploded through his chest. An IV line tugged at his left arm. He was in a hospital bed, wearing one of those paper-thin gowns that left his ass hanging out.The heart monitor beeped steadily beside him.I should be dead.He remembered the water. The cold punching into his lungs. The car sinking. The peace of finally letting go.So why the fuck was he here?The door opened.A nurse walked in, late twenties, dark hair in a ponytail, checking something on a tablet. She glanced at him and did a double-take."Oh. You're awake." She came closer, checked the monitors. "How are you feeling?"Ethan's voice came out like gravel. "What happened?""Car accident. You drove off Morrison Bridge tw

The city air tasted of exhaust and rain, but to Ethan, it was the taste of freedom. A grim, expensive freedom. He stood on the sidewalk, the hospital a concrete tomb behind him. The System’s final message from the car glowed in his mind: [HOST PSYCHOLOGICAL STATE: STABILIZED.] As he walked, a subtle warmth spread through his chest where the seatbelt bruise had been a dull agony. The raw ache in his throat from the river water faded to a memory. It wasn't miraculous healing; it was a targeted, efficient repair. [MINOR PHYSICAL TRAUMA MITIGATED. EFFICIENCY PRESERVED.] the System noted, coldly clinical. Another task was being prepared. He had no car. His Civic was at the bottom of the Clearwater. He had no home. The studio apartment was another life. He had a destination. The Aethelstan Hotel. It wasn't just expensive; it was a monument to wealth, a 80-story glass spire where the lobby had more marble than a cathedral. He’d once walked past it with Claire, who’d pointed and said, “T

The visual distortion faded like a receding tide, leaving behind a phantom ache behind Ethan’s eyes and a crystalline clarity in his mind. The System’s punishment was a lesson written in neural fire: precision mattered. Time was a weapon you either wielded or were wounded by. He stood in the immaculate, silent expanse of the Imperial Suite. The silence was oppressive. The only artifacts of his existence were the data stick on the marble console and the pile of reeking clothes on the bathroom floor, the khakis and scorched shirt that had absorbed the river, the hospital, the sweat of his desperate run. They were the uniform of Ethan Cross, the ghost. To build something new, he needed a new skin. The decision was logistical, not aspirational. He needed a uniform for Mr. AK. He called the concierge. “I need a car to take me to the most exclusive retail district. Not a boutique. A destination.” “The Galleria at Monarch Heights, sir. It is… particular about its clientele.” “Perfect,”

The migraine was a fading ghost. Ethan stood in the silent suite, the System’s final diagnosis [SOLO OPERATIVE CAPACITY - INADEQUATE.], etched in his mind. To move forward, he couldn't be Ethan Cross. He needed to be a rumor, a signature, a ghost with a bank account. Mr. AK. A ghost forged from a forgotten, mocking phrase of Claire's about "Ascendant Kings." His first act was a call. "Mr. AK's office" contacted the Legacy Corp board with a single, startling figure. No small talk. Just numbers. An hour later, he arrived at the Legacy Corp tower. As he reached for the door, it swung open from within. Claire and Marcus Voss walked out, their posture radiating the warm, satisfied aura of predators after a successful hunt. They saw him, and their expressions cooled into identical looks of distaste. "Well, look who's out and about," Claire said, her voice dripping with a bored contempt. "The hospital must have discharged you for being terminally dull." Marcus didn't even look directl