2025-09-04 08:47:29The city was wide awake—horns blaring, somebody laughing too loud on the next street, a siren cutting across the skyline—but Shepherd sat in the dead quiet of his bar as though none of it existed. His whiskey had gone warm in his hand. He turned the glass again and again, watching the faint light catch in it. A drink was supposed to take the edge off. Instead it only made the edges sharper.
He kept hearing the shot. Not the gun itself—that was gone in an instant—but the way the man’s head snapped forward, the breath leaving him like a secret being forced out. Shepherd had thought there’d be something after. Regret maybe. Nausea. Relief. But there was nothing except a kind of hollow weight pressing down in his chest.
The door opened. He didn’t lift his eyes. The steps told him enough—measured, heavy, like the man owned the air he was breathing.
The Syndicate’s handler slid onto the stool across from him, suit too crisp for this place, cologne curling in the stale air. “Clean work,” the man said, voice calm, like they were talking about a delivery. “The bosses are impressed.”
Shepherd rolled the empty glass between his palms. “And you?”
The man’s mouth twitched. “I only care if you break.”
Shepherd finally looked at him. “Did I?”
“You didn’t.”
An envelope scraped against the counter between them. Thicker than the last. Shepherd didn’t touch it, not yet.
“Stack a few more like tonight,” the man said, “and your debt clears. You’ll be free. Maybe even whole again.”
Shepherd barked out a laugh that had no joy in it. “Free? That died in the forest with the man I used to be.”
The handler leaned forward, eyes cold. “Then quit pretending you aren’t ours. You’re Syndicate now. The sooner you stop lying to yourself, the easier this gets.”
Shepherd shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket, his hand tight around it. “When?”
“Tomorrow. Bigger stage. More eyes. Don’t miss.”
The man left without finishing his drink.
---
The walk back cut him open worse than the trigger had. He saw everything—the girl smoking outside the corner store, the dealer counting cash with his back to the wall, the man passed out against the subway entrance. His senses wouldn’t let him ignore anything now. Every twitch, every whisper, every nervous gesture carved itself into his head.
And inside him? It wasn’t silence. It was noise he couldn’t sort through. His heart thudding too fast, his jaw tight enough to ache, his thoughts splintering between Zoya’s pale face in the hospital and the stranger’s face going slack in that car.
Then the system came alive, uninvited, like someone whispering into his ear.
**\[System Update: Pathway Unlocked – Harem Probability Tree.]**
His vision blurred with flashes—faces pulled from memory. A hostess who laughed too brightly at his jokes. A tired-eyed manager who watched him more than she should. A woman in a silver dress whose stare had lingered just a little too long.
**\[Directive: Emotional bonds generate power multipliers. Candidates identified.]**
Shepherd staggered into an alley, one hand pressed against the brick as if he needed it to keep standing. “Even this? You’ll use this too?” His voice cracked in the dark.
The system gave nothing back except a hum that faded into nothing.
---
By the time dawn stretched pale light across the city, Shepherd was in his apartment. The envelope sat unopened on the table. His reflection in the window didn’t look like him anymore. His eyes caught too much, his jaw was clenched too hard, his whole face belonged to someone else—someone who had killed before the sun came up and poured whiskey before it went down.
His phone lit up on the table. A message slid across the screen:
*We saw what you did. Nice shot.*
A second followed almost immediately:
*But you’re not done. See you tomorrow, Ghost.*
The name clung to him. Ghost. It wasn’t what he called himself, and it wasn’t what the Syndicate called him either. It was what the city had already decided he was.
Shepherd turned the phone facedown. He didn’t want to watch it glow anymore.
The man who used to wipe glasses behind a bar, who begged for scraps of help, who believed promises—that man was gone.
The Ghost had taken his place. And the Ghost had work to do.
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CHAPTER 11: THE GALA
Morning crawled in gray through the blinds, dust drifting in the stale air of Shepherd’s apartment. He sat on the edge of the bed with the unopened envelope on the table, staring at it like it was a snake waiting to strike. His fingers itched to tear it open, but his chest tightened each time he reached for it.He thought about Zoya. Her thin smile, the way her voice still shook when she tried to sound strong. He wondered if she’d know—if she could look at him and see the blood on his hands. He told himself he was doing it for her, that the debt was a chain he had to cut for her sake. It sounded noble in his head. In his chest it sounded like a lie.The system pulsed faintly, a line of static brushing the edge of his mind, as if it was waiting for him to slip. He shoved the thought away, stood, and finally picked up the envelope.---By nightfall, the bar looked the same as always—bottles glowing under the lights, laughter spilling from a corner booth, the thump of bass shaking dust o
CHAPTER 10 : A New Era
The city was wide awake—horns blaring, somebody laughing too loud on the next street, a siren cutting across the skyline—but Shepherd sat in the dead quiet of his bar as though none of it existed. His whiskey had gone warm in his hand. He turned the glass again and again, watching the faint light catch in it. A drink was supposed to take the edge off. Instead it only made the edges sharper.He kept hearing the shot. Not the gun itself—that was gone in an instant—but the way the man’s head snapped forward, the breath leaving him like a secret being forced out. Shepherd had thought there’d be something after. Regret maybe. Nausea. Relief. But there was nothing except a kind of hollow weight pressing down in his chest.The door opened. He didn’t lift his eyes. The steps told him enough—measured, heavy, like the man owned the air he was breathing.The Syndicate’s handler slid onto the stool across from him, suit too crisp for this place, cologne curling in the stale air. “Clean work,” the
Chapter 9: The Ghost system
It had been a few weeks since Shepherd had settled into his new life. The Syndicate had kept their word, giving him anonymity, a routine, and assignments that kept him occupied—tasks that were simple but full of subtle testing.The bar became his cover. It was in the heart of the city, tucked between towering buildings and crowded streets, yet it was bland enough for him to blend in. He worked long shifts, wiping down glasses, serving drinks, listening to the chatter of the patrons, each of them oblivious to the man who stood behind the counter, pouring their drinks.But even in the mundanity of it all, his senses were sharpened. He observed everything—the way people interacted, the small tells in their movements, the words they didn’t say. His cognitive sight was like a second instinct, and it allowed him to pick up things others wouldn’t notice. A drink lingering too long on the counter. A hand nervously tapping against the table. The glance exchanged between two men seated at a bac
Chapter 8: The First Mission
The room was softly blue, the shadows falling across his face sharp. His eyes read the map leisurely. Veins of lines crossed the digital surface. Routes. Entry points. Hidden markers. He could sense them. Not merely to see them--but to feel them throbbing with significanceShepherd was in front of the map that was glowing.“The mission is clear,” the figure said, his voice chilling. “Get in, get the Ember Bloom. Bring it back.”“Why this one?” Shepherd asked, his gaze narrowing slightly. “Why this plant?”The figure didn’t hesitate. “Because it’s vital for our next sequence. A plant like the Ember Bloom could change everything for us.”“Right,” Shepherd muttered, not satisfied with the answer. But he didn’t push. The Syndicate never gave answers unless they had to.The map zoomed in, focusing on the mountain facility buried in the heart of Eastern Europe. Shepherd had already studied the layout, memorizing every detail, every guard shift. This was his first mission and he had to make
Chapter 7 : The training ground
Shepherd remained on the middle mat.The ground under his feet was solid, yet his heart was beating louder than anything. His hands were bound. His arms were covered with sweat. The shirt was stuck to his back. The morning had been a drilling time, and now the actual test had arrived.His teacher turned to him.Tall. Masked. Calm. The man made every movement sharp and clean. As a knife that had been whetted by years of silent war.Think not, said the man. His voice was like steel. “Trust your instincts”Shepherd nodded.He drew a breath.Then another.He needed to pass this training. The Syndicate had assured him power. Control.Zoya’s wellbeing and Revenge.And that was his new purpose.The initial attack was quick.Too fast.A hand was swung at his face and cut through the air. The elbow of his instructor came next, to his jaw. Most would have blinked too slow to notice it. However, Shepherd was no longer like most people.He foresaw it before it actually occurred.Not only the punch.
Chapter 6: The price of salvation
The figure’s head tilted, just a little. “You will be given missions. Tasks to help you pay off your debt. If you do well, you will be rewarded. If you fail, there will be consequences. Once your debt is cleared, you will have a choice. You can renew your contract and work for us... or you can walk away and return to your old life.”The words sank in like cold water.Missions. Tasks. Rewards. Consequences.It sounded more like a trap than an offer. But Shepherd knew the truth. He had no way out. Not yet.His fingers curled into a tight fist.“I’ll do it,” he said quietly.The figure gave a small nod. Not surprised. Almost like he had expected Shepherd to say yes.“Training will begin soon,” the man said. “You will be taught how to serve the Syndicate. You must understand the work before you are sent into the field.”Shepherd gave a small nod, even though his stomach twisted. He did not know what they planned for him. He did not know what kind of world he was stepping into. But none of
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