The train to Geneva was quiet.
Snow traced lines down the windowpane, melting into slow-moving droplets that distorted the view like fading memories. Ethan sat near the window, his breath faintly fogging the glass, watching the mountains blur past as snow-covered valleys stretched into the distance like an untouched dreamland. The rhythmic clatter of the train over the rails pulsed gently beneath them, a mechanical heartbeat marking time.
Across from him, Darius sat with one leg crossed, back straight, his face impassive. He was reading a financial report with the ease of a man skimming a murder confession—each line just another confirmation of how the world worked in silence and shadows.
Ethan broke the stillness by tapping the edge of his fake passport against the tray table, the plastic cover clicking softly.
"You do this often?" he asked, his voice low.
Darius didn't look up. "Too often."
"Feel anything?"
This time, Darius raised his eyes, the blue-gray of them steely. "Only when it's real. This isn't. It's survival."
The rest of the ride passed in near silence, broken only by the occasional announcement over the intercom in French and German. Geneva approached with the slow inevitability of consequence.
The city greeted them like a polite stranger—cold marble facades and glass towers reflecting a gray sky. Everything moved with detached precision. Trams hissed to a stop, pedestrians crossed only when the signal allowed, and even the pigeons seemed to respect the invisible order. It was clean, expensive, and emotionally vacant. Just the way their target liked it.
Vexalon Equity's main office stood three blocks from Lake Geneva, a pristine building tucked between a faceless law firm and a boutique bank whose name changed every six months. The tower's mirrored exterior offered no glimpse inside, as if it had been built to deflect both sunlight and curiosity.
On the surface, Vexalon handled real estate financing, shuffling capital between high-rises and waterfronts. But beneath that veneer: shell companies registered in tropical islands, data laundering chains routed through servers in Belize and Moldova, and encrypted transfers to countries Ethan couldn't even pronounce.
They stepped into the lobby, where everything gleamed. The floor was polished white stone that clicked under their shoes. The walls were covered with abstract art—geometries of gold and black that looked expensive enough to question the taste of whoever bought them. The air smelled faintly of ozone and pine, like wealth trying to imitate cleanliness.
Darius wore a charcoal blazer over a crisp shirt, glasses with wire-thin frames perched on his nose, giving him the look of a bored legal consultant. Ethan played the role of junior analyst—hair slightly tousled, messenger bag slung across his chest. Inside the bag, surveillance tools masqueraded as everyday office supplies: a pen that could tap a Wi-Fi signal, a stapler hiding a signal scrambler, a phone charger rigged to clone USB traffic.
They passed through security with forged IDs and minimal resistance. The guard barely glanced at them, more interested in his phone than the names on their badges.
"Basement level," Darius murmured as they crossed the atrium.
They entered the elevator. Ethan pressed a hidden button sequence on the service panel. A soft chime. The doors slid closed. No music, no mirror, just the quiet whir of descent.
The basement was colder—dry, metallic cold that seeped through the soles of their shoes. The lighting buzzed faintly overhead, casting harsh white light on walls painted a sterile gray. Keypads blinked at every junction. Security cameras were tucked into the ceiling corners like mechanical spiders.
Darius moved like a man walking through memory. No hesitation. Every turn, every door, recalled like muscle memory. They stopped in front of a steel door marked Data Compliance Suite 3B. The name sounded bureaucratic, intentionally boring.
Ethan knelt by the panel, pulled a device from his jacket, and cracked open the casing. Wires hissed as he bypassed the access protocol. The lock clicked.
It opened.
Inside: rows of servers stood like silent sentinels, humming in synchronized precision. A faint breeze from the cooling vents stirred the edges of printed diagnostic sheets pinned to the far wall. Monitors displayed endless lines of code—some green, some white, scrolling like a digital monologue.
No guards. No obvious surveillance.
They were in.
Darius stepped forward, pulled a slim portable drive from his inner pocket, and plugged it into a terminal linked directly to the mainframe. His fingers moved with practiced speed. Ethan moved to an unlabeled terminal in the corner, the keys slightly warmer from recent use. His screen blinked awake, and he began to dig—looking not for files, but for gaps. Things that were meant to be hidden always left traces.
Minutes passed. The only sounds were the soft hum of electronics and the occasional click of keys.
Then—
A file blinked open.
It wasn't encrypted.
PROJECT SIGMA: CANDIDATE TERMINATION PROTOCOLS
Ethan scrolled. His heartbeat quickened.
Names. Pages of them.
Some he didn't recognize. Some he did.
His own.
Cassian's.
And others—familiar aliases, people who were supposed to be ghosts.
"Son of a—"
He leaned closer. Metadata scrolled past—timestamps, locations, signatures. One name stood out, burned onto the screen like a scar.
Initiated by: GHOST02
Ethan's throat tightened.
"Darius," he said, his voice brittle. "What do you know about Ghost 02?"
Darius turned slowly. His expression didn't change, but the air around him did.
"Enough to know they shouldn't be active," he said quietly.
"Well, they are. And they've issued a hit list. Including both of us."
Darius moved fast. He yanked the drive, ran a purge command, and wiped the system's memory cache. The screen went black. Cables retracted like veins collapsing.
"Time to leave."
No arguments.
They exited the room, footsteps quick but measured. Then—a sound. A soft click, like a needle tapping glass. Then a slow, rising tone, unnatural in the silence.
The alarm.
Ethan muttered a curse. No flashing lights, no guards charging in—just that sound, subtle and ominous. It meant someone knew.
They ran. Not with panic, but with trained urgency. Down the corridor, past blank doors and maintenance junctions. The stairwell was three turns away.
"Who the hell is Ghost 02?" Ethan shouted over his shoulder.
"Once? Someone Marcus trusted more than anyone," Darius replied, breath tight. "Now? I don't know what they are."
Footsteps echoed behind them—sharp, fast, closing in.
They burst through a service door and out into an alley that stank of cold diesel and wet concrete. The sky was overcast, ash-colored, the wind sharp against their cheeks.
A black car pulled up from nowhere. Tinted windows. No license plate. No driver visible.
Darius didn't pause. "Get in."
Ethan dove into the back seat, landing hard. Darius followed. The door slammed shut. A click. The car accelerated—no voice, no commands, just motion.
They sat in silence.
Geneva passed outside—its edges blurred by speed and snow. The city that had once felt sterile now felt menacing, as though every building had eyes.
Ethan stared at his hands. They were shaking.
"We were compromised before we arrived," he whispered.
"Yes," Darius said. No denial. No comfort.
Ethan clenched his fists, the tension burning in his chest.
"Then whoever Ghost 02 is... they're not done with us."
Outside, the streets darkened.
And somewhere in that city, war sharpened its knives.