The Return of The Phantom General

Even God Cannot Help You

"Superior?!" Marcus wept, tears and mucus mixing on his expensive face. "Let go! Please let go!"

The ghost general did not let go. Instead, he crushed Marcus's wrist.

CRACK.

The sound of Marcus's breaking bone echoed in the silent room.

Caleb still stared at Marcus with a cold gaze, as if enjoying the sound of the snapping bone.

"ARGHHHH!" Marcus dropped his pistol. His hand was now bent at a gruesome angle. The ghost retreated into the shadows, but its cold aura still choked Marcus's neck.

Caleb leaned forward, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers.

"Your laptop is in front of you, Marcus," Caleb said softly. "The biometric system is active. You have one left hand that still works. Start typing or your other hand will be crushed too."

"I... I can't..." sobbed Marcus, clutching his broken hand. The pain was excruciating, but the fear was far greater.

"Human resilience is funny," Caleb stood up slowly.

He walked around the desk, approaching Marcus who was now cornered between the desk and the glass window.

Caleb gripped Marcus's jaw with one hand, forcing him to look up.

"Look into my eyes, Marcus."

Marcus tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't. He was forced to stare.

And in that moment, Marcus saw the truth.

Caleb's eyes changed. They were no longer dark brown human eyes. They became swirling black holes. Inside those black holes, Marcus didn't see a soul. He saw emptiness. He saw thousands of souls screaming in eternal suffering. He saw himself—his tiny, pathetic soul—being pulled into that darkness to be chewed on forever.

He realized one thing that short-circuited his brain: This man in front of him wasn't a human using magic. This man was a vessel for something far older and more evil than the Devil in any holy book.

"God..." whispered Marcus. "God help me..."

"God?" Caleb smiled, and that smile tore Marcus's sanity down to its roots. "Your God isn't in this building, Marcus. He's too disgusted to look at your sins. In here, there is only me."

A warm sensation spread across Marcus's crotch.

His dress pants were now soaked, turning dark at the thighs, dripping urine onto the expensive carpeted floor.

The CEO of Sterling Bank, the most powerful man in the Swiss financial world, had just wet himself out of absolute terror.

Caleb released his grip, letting Marcus slump to the floor, swimming in his own urine.

"Disgusting," said Caleb while grabbing a tissue from the desk to wipe his hand. "Now, stop crying and start transferring that money before General Hans decides to break your other hand."

Marcus nodded quickly, crawling up to his chair with his last remaining strength, typing with one hand while sobbing like a baby. He didn't care about the money anymore. He just wanted this creature to leave.

"It's done... hic... it's sent. Look for yourself! The screen is green! Transaction successful!"

Marcus Sterling howled between his sobs, tears and mucus wetting his swollen face. His healthy left hand shook violently as he pointed at the laptop screen. There, a bank transfer confirmation notification displayed a number so long it almost didn't fit on the screen.

Total Transfer: 500,000,000.00 CHF

Recipient: Lisa Thorne

Status: SUCCESS

Caleb glanced at the screen, his face flat without a single emotion.

"Good," said Caleb briefly. He took back the slip of paper with his sister's account number from the desk, folded it neatly, and put it back into his coat pocket.

"Now get out!" screamed Marcus hysterically, cradling his broken hand against his chest. "You got your money! Get out of my office! Get out of my life! I'll call the police... no, I'll call the army! You won't be able to enjoy that money!"

Caleb turned around, his steps thudding softly on the floor. He stopped at the doorway.

"Enjoy the rest of your time as a rich man, Marcus," Caleb said without looking back. "Maybe you have five minutes left."

"What do you mean?! You already took all the money!"

Caleb didn't answer. He stepped out toward the elevator. As the elevator doors closed, Caleb touched the metal wall of the elevator with one finger.

"Zero," Caleb whispered to the cold metal. "Eat."

Somewhere in another dimension, or perhaps within the building's fiber optic network, the spirit of a genius hacker who committed suicide in solitary confinement—laughed. A laugh made of binary code and static electricity.

***

In the underground server room of Sterling Private Bank.

Hundreds of server racks blinked with calm green indicator lights. The room was cold, kept at a constant 18 degrees Celsius.

Suddenly, the indicator light on Rack 1 turned red. Then Rack 2. Then Rack 10.

An IT technician on night duty looked up from the adult magazine he was reading. "Huh? System overload? Did the AC die?"

BZZZT!

The sound of popping electricity rang out loud. Not just one, but in succession.

Black smoke began to billow from the server machines. Cooling fans spun madly until the blades detached and hit the metal casings.

"Hey! What's happening?!" The technician panicked, running to press the emergency fire suppression button.

But the halon fire suppression gas didn't come out. Instead, the main monitor screen in the control room turned on by itself. A skull face made of green matrix code appeared on the giant screen.

The skull opened its mouth.

DELETE ALL. PUBLISH ALL.

BOOM!

One of the server units physically exploded, spewing fire and electrical sparks. The technician was thrown backward, fainting instantly.

On the lobby floor, the panic that had just subsided exploded again.

All the printer machines behind the teller counters turned on simultaneously. They began spewing paper at full speed. Thousands of sheets of paper flew through the air like snow inside the building.

Wealthy clients and bank staff picked up the papers in confusion.

"This... what is this?" an old socialite woman read the paper in her hand with trembling hands. "Marcus Sterling's bribery list to the Supreme Court Justice? Evidence of money laundering for the Mexican Cartel? Human trafficking transactions?"

"Look at this!" shouted a stockbroker. "A list of deposits from officials evading taxes! Oh God, my name is here! My secrets are leaked!"

In seconds, the bank lobby turned into chaos. People ran around, screaming, tearing up the papers, or scrambling to grab them as evidence.

The bank's security system went completely dead. The main vault door in the treasury room opened by itself, letting anyone enter and take the gold bars inside.

The Sterling dynasty, built for fifty years on secrecy and intimidation, collapsed in less than ten minutes.

And amidst that chaos, Caleb Thorne walked casually out the main door, lit his cigarette under the falling snow, and disappeared behind the commotion of approaching police sirens.

***