The System Rise: Shepherd Nexon's Return

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 out of the ceiling. Nobody here knew that upstairs was just a stage, and tonight, he was the act.

The messenger appeared again, crisp as ever, sliding onto a stool with that too-clean smile. “Glad you opened it,” he said. “Would’ve been disappointing if you hadn’t.”

Shepherd didn’t answer. The details were already in his head: location, target, timing. He’d studied them until the paper was soft at the edges.

“Different rules tonight,” the man continued. “Not a shadow job. This one’s in the open. We want to see how you handle heat. Eyes on you, ears on you, no quiet rooftops.”

Shepherd’s mouth went dry. “And the target?”

“A councilman. Mouth too loud for his own good. You’ll find him at the gala. Rich men in black suits, women dripping in silver and diamonds—you’ll blend just fine.”

Shepherd gave the faintest smirk. “You really think I blend?”

“You don’t need to. You only need to walk out alive.”

---

The gala was everything the Syndicate’s world loved: chandeliers catching every shard of light, glasses of champagne carried on silver trays, laughter that sounded like it was paid for. Shepherd’s suit was tailored enough to keep questions at bay, but his body carried tension under the fabric, every step measured, every glance catalogued.

He saw the councilman almost immediately—gray at the temples, fat with money, shaking hands and pretending he wasn’t terrified of half the people in the room. Shepherd tracked him, moving with the crowd, never lingering.

The system stirred again.

**\[Mission Parameters Engaged: Eliminate Target. Secondary Directive – Observe Influence Chains.]**

Faces flashed around the councilman. Donors. Mistresses. Bodyguards pretending not to be bodyguards. All data pouring into Shepherd’s mind, crowding it until he wanted to scream.

The music swelled. A toast was called. The councilman lifted his glass. Shepherd’s hand brushed the knife hidden in his sleeve. The moment stretched, his pulse loud in his ears.

And then the system whispered:

**\[Morality Drift: Action or Inaction Will Be Punished.]**

Shepherd exhaled, stepped forward, and felt the crowd close in around him.

The gala smelled of too much perfume, polished silver, and fear disguised as wealth. Chandeliers bled light over the ballroom, making everything shine in a way that hurt the eyes. Shepherd walked among it all in a black suit that fit better than anything he’d ever owned, though the fabric felt like armor.

He kept moving, slow and deliberate. One more glass of champagne taken, one more nod to a stranger who wouldn’t remember his face tomorrow. His gaze kept sliding back to the councilman—the target. Gray hair at the temples, belly pressing against his tux, his laugh too loud to hide the nerves. A man desperate to appear untouchable while standing in a room full of predators.

The Syndicate handler had said, *more eyes*. He hadn’t lied. Every corner had men watching, their smiles sharp as blades. Shepherd felt the weight of it pressing down, like he was a rat set loose in a pit for the crowd’s entertainment.

The system’s voice was the first crack through the noise.

**\[Mission Parameters Engaged: Eliminate Target. Observers Present: 14. Morality Drift Active.]**

Shepherd touched the knife strapped under his sleeve. A whisper of steel against skin, hidden but ready.

---

He drifted toward the buffet, pretending to study the crystal platters while keeping the councilman in his periphery. A woman in a sequined gown brushed his arm as she passed. “Haven’t seen you before,” she said, her smile sweet but her eyes calculating.

“First time,” Shepherd answered, voice low, eyes on hers just long enough to make it believable.

“You look more soldier than socialite.” Her tone was teasing, but probing.

Shepherd raised the glass in his hand. “Soldier of champagne, maybe.”

She laughed lightly, but she was already assessing him, already making a note to whisper later to whoever she trusted. He hated how easy the system made it to see her tells—the stiff fingers clutching her clutch, the tiny flare in her nostrils when she caught his scent.

**\[Candidate Identified: Emotional Multiplier Potential 23%.]**

He nearly choked on the drink. The system was relentless. Even here, even now.

---

The toast was called. A man in white gloves struck a bell, and the music fell into silence. Glasses lifted high. The councilman stood at the center of it, chest puffed, words rehearsed.

“Tonight we honor growth,” he declared, his voice booming. “We honor the progress this city has made, and we will not bow to intimidation. Not from gangs, not from syndicates, not from anyone who thinks fear rules forever—”

The last line was a mistake. Shepherd saw it ripple through the crowd. Faces tightened. Syndicate men exchanged brief, sharp glances. The handler was in the corner, wine glass untouched, his stare boring into Shepherd. *Now.*

Shepherd’s hand closed around the knife. He stepped forward, each pace timed with the clink of glasses being lowered. His pulse was steady, but his stomach twisted.

**\[Morality Drift: Warning. Failure to Act Will Incur Punishment.]**

He reached the edge of the councilman’s circle. The man turned slightly, eyes passing over him without recognition. A perfect opening.

Shepherd leaned close, his words low enough for only one man to hear. “You should’ve kept your mouth shut.”

The councilman’s eyes widened, confusion first, then fear as the knife slipped free and pressed into the seam of his jacket.

“What—who—” the man began, but Shepherd drove the blade up under the ribs in one clean, practiced motion. The councilman gasped, breath cut short. His champagne glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the marble.

The room went still.

For half a heartbeat, Shepherd swore the world tilted. He held the man upright, their bodies close, as though steadying him from a stumble. Blood spread dark beneath the tuxedo, hidden from most angles.

“Smile,” Shepherd whispered. “Make it look good.”

The councilman tried, lips trembling, but the effort crumbled as his knees buckled. Shepherd eased him down, murmuring something soft that could have been mistaken for concern. To anyone watching, he was just another guest helping a man who had drunk too much.

The system chimed, silent to all but him:

**\[Target Eliminated. Syndicate Influence +8%. Mission Ongoing.]**

---

Applause broke out, awkward and scattered, as staff rushed forward. The handler’s gaze met Shepherd’s from across the room, a slow nod sealing the test.

The woman in sequins reappeared at his side, her voice low. “Who are you, really?”

Shepherd turned, forced the faintest smile. “Ghost.”

She laughed softly, as though it were a joke. But something in her eyes said she knew better.

---

Later, in the quiet of the street outside, Shepherd stripped the gloves from his hands and let the night air cool his skin. His stomach was tight, his thoughts jagged. The blood wasn’t on his suit, but he could feel it anyway, pressing into him like a weight that would never wash away.

His phone buzzed once in his pocket. A message lit the screen:

*You passed. The Syndicate claims you now.*

Another followed seconds later:

*And Ghost? Don’t look for exits. There aren’t any.*

Shepherd closed his eyes, the word echoing in his head. Ghost. He hated it. He needed it. And he couldn’t escape it.

---