The Disgraced Heir's Revenge

Ghost Protocol

POV: Ethan Cole

I woke up twelve hours later and felt like I'd been hit by a truck. Again.

The safe house bed was surprisingly comfortable, but my body hadn't gotten the memo. Every muscle ached, my ribs throbbed with each breath, and my broken arm felt like it was on fire. The pain suppressant skill kept me from screaming, but it didn't make any of this pleasant.

I forced myself to sit up, which took about five minutes and way more effort than it should have. The protein bars stocked in the kitchenette tasted like cardboard mixed with sadness, but I ate three of them anyway and drank enough water to make my stomach slosh. My body needed fuel if it was gonna heal, and I needed to be functional for what came next.

I head to the computer work station and set up the monitors in a configuration that made sense, one for news coverage, one for social media, one for the system interface. My personal war room in a converted warehouse. I almost smiled.

The  first news coverage I saw made my blood pressure spike.

"ETHAN COLE, CEO OF COLE INDUSTRIES, MISSING FROM HOSPITAL"

The anchor's voice was professionally concerned as she explained how I'd fled treatment despite serious injuries. They had quotes from "anonymous hospital staff" saying I'd been unstable, possibly suicidal, refusing to accept reality about my condition and my failed relationship. Daniel's spin was all over it.

I switched to social media, and there was Emma's face filling the screen. A selfie from this morning. The caption made me want to throw the monitor across the room.

"Still praying for Ethan's safe return. He's going through so much right now and I just want him to know we all love him and want him to get the help he needs. Please come back, E. We're all so worried. "

Four hundred and sixty-three comments, all supportive. All telling her what a good person she was for caring about her "struggling ex-fiancé."

I wanted to vomit, fuck!

The third monitor showed the system interface, and I focused on that instead before I did something stupid like punch the screen.

[MISSION TWO: GHOST PROTOCOL] [OBJECTIVE: ESTABLISH NEW IDENTITY] [OBJECTIVE: GATHER INTELLIGENCE ON PRIMARY TARGETS] [OBJECTIVE: COMPLETE PREPARATORY INFILTRATION TASKS] [TIME REMAINING: 99 DAYS, 4 HOURS, 17 MINUTES]

The mission details expanded when I focused on them, and the system laid out exactly what I needed to do. Forged documents waited in a file folder, driver's license, credit cards, a whole identity I could slip into. Cryptocurrency accounts for untraceable purchases. Access to dark web marketplaces for services the legal world didn't offer.

But the hardest requirement hit different.

[CRITICAL: COMPLETE PSYCHOLOGICAL SEPARATION FROM FORMER IDENTITY REQUIRED] [THE MAN YOU WERE IS DEAD. SENTIMENT IS A LUXURY YOU CANNOT AFFORD. HESITATION WILL RESULT IN FAILURE AND DEATH.]

I stared at those words for a long time.

The man I'd been—the guy who trusted people, who believed in playing fair, who thought friendship and love meant something permanent—that guy had died in a hospital bed while his fiancée announced her engagement to his best friend. What I needed to become was something harder, colder, willing to use every tool available no matter how questionable.

The system was right. Hesitation would get me killed.

I stood up, ignoring the way my ribs protested, and walked to the bathroom. The mirror showed someone I barely recognized.

I'd lost at least fifteen pounds, turning my build from athletic to lean and hungry. The fractured cheekbone had healed wrong, making my face more angular. My hair had grown shaggy during the hospital stay, falling across my forehead and shadowing my eyes. The scar on my left hand was still raw and red. 

[COSMETIC MODIFICATION OPTIONS AVAILABLE] [CONTACT LENSES: BROWN - REDUCES RECOGNITION PROBABILITY BY 34%] [RECOMMENDED HAIRSTYLE: SHORT, STYLED BACK - REDUCES RECOGNITION PROBABILITY BY 27%] [RECOMMENDED CLOTHING: CASUAL, FORGETTABLE - REDUCES RECOGNITION PROBABILITY BY 41%]

The system walked me through everything. How to move differently, carry myself with different energy, become someone else entirely when necessary. It wasn't just about looking different, it was about being different. Posture, gait, mannerisms, even the way I made eye contact.

By the time I'd practiced for an hour, I felt like I was wearing someone else's skin.

The reward structure for Mission Two was different than the first mission. Instead of one big payout, the system offered incremental rewards for each successful task.

[TASK 1: ACCESS EMMA HART'S EMAIL - REWARD: $10,000 + BASIC DIGITAL INFILTRATION SKILLS] [TASK 2: PHOTOGRAPH COLE INDUSTRIES BOARD MEETING - REWARD: $20,000 + INTERMEDIATE SURVEILLANCE TECHNIQUES] [TASK 3: RETRIEVE ORIGINAL ACCIDENT INVESTIGATION REPORTS - REWARD: $50,000 + ADVANCED RESEARCH CAPABILITIES]

Each task built on the last, teaching me skills I'd need for more complex operations later. The system was training me methodically, turning me from a betrayed executive into something way more dangerous.

I spent the rest of the day working through the preparatory tasks. Setting up encrypted email accounts, testing the forged documents, familiarizing myself with surveillance equipment that appeared in the safe house's weapons locker.

By sunset, I'd completed two tasks and earned my first skill upgrades. Information flooded my brain, command lines, encryption protocols, surveillance techniques, and it felt like downloading knowledge directly into my brain. I could feel everything, sense everything. It’s weird as hell, but I’m loving it..

I was prepping for my first real infiltration mission—accessing Emma's social media through a coffee shop she frequented, when an alert hit.

[CRITICAL INFORMATION ACQUIRED] [NEW DATA CONCERNING CATHERINE COLE'S CONDITION]

A video file opened automatically, and my hands froze on the keyboard. It’s a security footage of my mother's hospital room. The timestamp said yesterday, while I was still unconscious from my own injuries.

Daniel walked into frame alone in the middle of the night when no nurses were scheduled for rounds. He approached Mom's bed, and I stopped breathing.

His hand reached for the IV line, adjusting something I couldn't quite see from the camera angle. The footage ran for three minutes, three fucking minutes, of Daniel making modifications to her medication while his mouth moved, speaking words the audio couldn't capture.

Then he left.

Twenty minutes later, Mom's vitals dropped. The monitor started alarming, and nurses rushed in for emergency response. My hands were shaking so badly I could barely keep them on the desk. Heat flooded my chest, and my vision went red at the edges.

Daniel had been personally ensuring Mom stayed in her coma. Visiting her, tampering with her treatment, and keeping her trapped in that vegetative state as leverage against me.

[PRIORITY MISSION OVERRIDE] [PROTECT CATHERINE COLE] [DANIEL CROSS SCHEDULED HOSPITAL VISIT: TONIGHT, 2:47 AM] [INTERCEPT? Y/N]

I selected yes before I'd even finished reading.

The system displayed route options and tactical considerations, but I barely saw them. My mind was already calculating, figuring out exactly how I'd make Daniel pay for what he'd done to my mother.

Tonight, he'd walk into that hospital room expecting to find a helpless woman in a coma and no witnesses. Instead, he'd find me.

And I'd make damn sure he regretted ever touching my family.