In the heart of the city, nestled among government towers and corporate high-rises, the Phoenix Clan Safehouse buzzed with quiet urgency. Holographic screens lined the curved walls—streams of surveillance feeds flickering in real-time. Hospital corridors. St. Patrick's University. The perimeter of Miles's home. Even the neon-lit alleys surrounding Paradise Club. All monitored. All watched.
Captain Ken stood at the center, arms crossed, jaw tight. His sharp eyes scanned the feeds with military precision. His team operated like a silent machine—analyzing, tracking, alerting.
Then, something changed.
A corner screen flashed—four ambulances, entering the hospital compound one after another. Quiet. No sirens. Just ghostlike arrival in formation.
Ken's brow furrowed. "That's not right."
The drivers stepped out—one by one—stiff posture, alert eyes, identical uniforms. Too clean. Too synced.
"Tag them," Ken barked. "I want everything. Now."
Facial recognition kicked in. The screen blinked.
Match Found.
The system pulsed red—an alert vibrating through the room.
Blackfield Mercenary GroupStatus: Lethal OperativesEngagement Level: Extreme Risk
Ken's voice dropped, cold and sharp. "Goddamn it…"
He ripped the radio from his vest."All agents in and around the hospital, listen up. We've got four trained Blackfield assassins inside the compound. Secure the target. I repeat—secure the target. Backup is en route. Lock down all exits except for the secured evacuation route."
He slammed a fist into the metal console beside him. It dented."I shouldn't have left the hospital… dammit."
The hospital's internal security protocols lit up like wildfire. Hallways began sealing. Silent alarms triggered emergency lockdowns on sublevels.
Meanwhile, on the main road…
The black SUV tore through the streets—tires gripping sharp turns, engine roaring like a beast let loose.
Miles's phone buzzed.
Ken.
He tapped the steering wheel controls. "What's going on?"
"Young Master," Ken said tightly. "It's critical. Four assassins from Blackfield just entered the hospital disguised as paramedics. We don't have the right type of agents on site. They're surgical—lethal. This isn't like them. They never operate on domestic soil."
Ken's voice cracked slightly with guilt. "It's my fault. I left too early."
Silence filled the car for a beat.
Then Miles spoke.
"…Blackfield."
His voice was ice.
A moment later, he floored the accelerator. The SUV roared.
"Turn on private comms," Miles ordered. "You're my mission control tonight. First priority—secure civilians. Evacuate those who don't need to be there. Quietly. Silently. Use the east sublevel access. I'll handle the rest."
"Roger that," Ken said. "We'll coordinate with internal hospital staff. You'll have a clean entry point."
Miles's grip tightened on the wheel.
He muttered through clenched teeth, "Merlin… You piece of shit. I warned you… If Blackfield ever crosses me again—I'll tear out its root from this world."
And he meant it.
As the SUV became a black blur on the highway, Miles Sterling wasn't just a student anymore.
He was Ghost again.
Racing into war.
On-screen, four masked figures stood before the hospital's main lobby. In their gloved hands—pressurized silver canisters. One of them turned… looked directly into the security camera.
Just for a second.
Then—static.
The screen blinked.
And they were gone.
"Captain," one of the operators shouted. "We lost visual—hospital feed is dark. They're off the screen."
Ken snapped toward the console. "How the hell—?!"
"Blind spot," another tech muttered. "They found it. Damn pros..."
The flicker of fluorescent lights. The sterile smell of antiseptics. And the silence before chaos.
"Move in," whispered the one in front—the team leader, identifiable by a single red stripe on his tactical glove.
All four moved with unnatural precision—like phantoms sliding through reality. Their eyes cold, every step silent.
"Reminder," one of them said in a low voice through the comms, "we're not here for bloodshed. Just secure the target. Minimal contact. Swift extraction."
"Copy that," the others murmured in unison.
They slipped through the side hallway—marked 'Medical Logistics'. No cameras in this stretch. No alarms yet.
But then—a Phoenix agent turned the corner.
Too late.
PSSHHH!
A sudden cloud of white gas sprayed from the canister. The agent gagged, coughing violently, stumbling back—eyes watering, lungs burning.
But in a moment of clarity, he slammed his wrist into his chest—pressing the hidden panic button embedded in his cufflink.
"Captain!" a tech called out. "Contact! One of ours just activated a distress beacon. They're inside—hostiles are active."
Ken turned back to the wall of screens—now looping static or frozen visuals.
"What the hell is wrong with the feed?!" he growled.
"We checked—this isn't a remote hack."
Ken's eyes narrowed. "Then what?"
Another operator checked her panel. Her face paled.
"It's internal, sir. The footage isn't live anymore. It's… it's recorded. They swapped the feed from inside the server room."
Ken's voice turned steel. "You mean they physically infiltrated the server room… before the assault even began?"
"Yes, sir."
Ken's hand balled into a fist.
"Then this was premeditated. They've had eyes on this place for days… even before young master came to the city"
He slammed his fist down again, cracking the edge of the table.
The black SUV raced through the city like a shadow given form.
Miles's comm crackled.
"young master—it's bad," Ken's voice came through.
"They sabotaged the hospital feed from the inside. It's not a cyber attack—they replaced live footage with recorded loops days before your arrival in the city. They're already deep in."
Miles didn't answer immediately. His jaw tightened. His eyes burned with focus.
"…Copy that."
He reached for his watch—pressed a concealed switch.
[PHOENIX OPS INTERFACE ONLINE] HUD Booting… Accessing Command Tools…Status: Active Field Ops Unit
His voice was low. Calm. Dangerous.
"Get me a live blueprint of the hospital. All updated breach alerts. And patch me into emergency comms—every floor."
"On it," Ken replied. "We're with you."
Miles's voice hardened.
"Keep everyone else out of my way. Blackfield thinks they've walked into a hospital."
His eyes glowed under the dim streetlight reflections.
"…But they're about to realize they've walked into my warzone."
The fluorescent lights flickered as the Blackfield team moved swiftly through the sterile corridor of the third floor. The air smelled of antiseptic, but now also faintly of the chemical mist from their gas.
Bodies lay along the halls—Phoenix security agents, all unconscious, sprawled across tiles in still heaps. Each one had been expertly disabled without a sound of gunfire. But the leader was beginning to sense something off.
"How the hell are there this many trained guards in a hospital?" he muttered, glancing at the fallen bodies. His voice was low, agitated.
One of his men stumbled slightly, leaning against the wall. His breathing was shallow.
"You good?" the leader asked, eyeing the younger operative—code-named Vix.
"Just a graze," Vix replied, gripping his side. "That last guy had a hidden blade… didn't expect that from a hospital guard."
The squad paused. Another of the men pulled out a tablet, quickly scanning the hospital's internal map.
"There. Room 302. That's where the target—Daniel Keller—is being held."
"Then move. We're out of gas. No more silent takedowns."
They rounded the last corner—and then it happened.
From both ends of the hallway—Phoenix reinforcements poured in.
Not just hospital security. Real operatives.
Trained. Armed. Ready.
"Contact!" one Phoenix agent shouted, lunging forward with a collapsible baton.
The corridor erupted into chaos.
Blackfield wasn't known for hesitation. Instantly, the four assassins dropped into formation.
The leader, codename Kraven, moved first—disarming the first agent with a twist of the wrist and a brutal knee to the ribs. Another Phoenix guard came in with a sidekick—Vix ducked under, sweeping his legs with a swift low spin, and brought his elbow down across the man's jaw.
But the Phoenix operatives weren't amateurs. A larger agent tackled the third Blackfield member, ramming him into the wall. The plaster cracked. The agent went for a stun baton—only to get his arm broken in two swift moves.
Still, the numbers were against Blackfield.
Two more Phoenix fighters overwhelmed Vix, jabbing into his side repeatedly with tactical sticks. He cried out, blood spraying from his mouth as he struck one back with his elbow and shot a dart into the other's leg.
"Fall back! Vix—on me!" Kraven shouted, blocking a baton strike and countering with a spinning strike of his own, breaking the attacker's nose.
The hallway was chaos—shouting, gasps, bodies colliding with tile and wall.
One Phoenix guard tried to radio for backup—only to be choked out with Blackfield's last burst of smoke.
Vix slumped briefly, his shirt soaked with blood, but gave a nod. "Still standing…"
The assassins pulled together, the last of the Phoenix guards now groaning on the floor—unconscious, bloodied, or broken.
Kraven looked down at the final gas canister. He crushed it in his glove.
"Empty…"
He turned to the door in front of them.
Room 302.
No more delay.
They kicked it open—
The door banged against the wall.
The Phoenix agents lay sprawled across the floor—unconscious, motionless, or barely breathing. The air was thick with the remnants of chemical spray, tension, and the crackling edge of danger.
A shadow passed over them.
Fast. Precise. Silent.
Miles had arrived.
Black coat swaying behind him, he stormed through the third floor like a phantom. His boots made no sound. His eyes—narrowed with rage.
The comm crackled in his ear.
"Young master—Room 302," said Ken. "Copy that."
No reply. Just silence—and footsteps accelerating.
Miles's face was no longer that of the college student.
It was Ghost now.
Expression unreadable.
Intent lethal.
Inside, the beeping of medical monitors continued in rhythmic oblivion.
Daniel Keller sat upright, pale, terrified, unable to move—his paralyzed legs keeping him trapped in bed like a lamb cornered by wolves.
Beside him, Dr. Reyes struggled, restrained, bruised.
The four Blackfield assassins stood in a loose formation around the bed, glancing at one another. The mission was nearly complete.
The soft creak of the doorway stopped them cold.
All heads turned.
A silhouette appeared in the open frame.
Ghost.
No expression. No hesitation. Just a calm, measured step forward as the shadows behind him followed like silent wrath.
His eyes scanned the four men. Then landed on Daniel. Then on Reyes.
Then back to them.
He laughed—a low, cold chuckle that filled the room like smoke.
"Blackfield…
You're dead."