THE MARK
Now, it was Arkos' turn.
He glanced at the encrypted datapad beside him. His private file on the killer—unofficial, dangerous to even possess. But he had read every page, every rumor, every contradiction.
No confirmed image.
No known name.
No survivors.
Some said it was a former operative. Others said it wasn't human. A demon summoned by the people's pain. Nonsense.
But effective nonsense. The people had started to hope again—and that was worse than rebellion.
Hope was infectious.
Hope was poison.
Arkos stood and moved toward the tall windows overlooking Sector Nine. His city. His reign. He had sacrificed everything to maintain control.
He had no family left. No allies he trusted.
Only his name.
Only order.
And then he heard it—a soft click.
Barely audible.
Not from the door.
From above.
He spun, drawing his sidearm, eyes darting to the ceiling, the vents—
Too late.
The lights cut.
The room plunged into darkness.
His pistol trembled in his grip.
"Arkos," came a whisper, too close to be real.
"You're the fourth."
The silence that followed was absolute.
Watchtower Seven – 02:59 A.M.
He was in before the lights died.
The shadows in the ceiling welcomed him like an old friend.
Commander Arkos stood there, pistol drawn, hand shaking in the dark. Predictable. They all were when the moment came. Power gave them the illusion of safety — until they stood face to face with someone who couldn't be bought, begged, or broken.
He dropped soundlessly behind the console, watching Arkos' silhouette shift like prey sensing a predator in the tall grass.
"Arkos," he said, voice low. Controlled.
"You're the fourth."
Arkos spun toward the sound—toward the wrong side of the room.
That was all it took.
The assassin crossed the floor in four steps, silent as breath. He moved like water, each motion fluid and exact. A blade slid from the sheath on his forearm — not a gun, not a bomb. A blade. Intimate. Personal.
He liked it that way.
The pistol barked once, the shot cracking through the room. A hole scorched the terminal to his right. The assassin was already past it, already inside Arkos' guard.
The blade kissed flesh.
A single cut — clean across the throat. No theatrics. No blood spilled on the walls. Just the faint gurgle of surprise, the realization, and the final collapse.
Arkos hit the ground, twitching once before stillness took him.
He knelt beside the body. One gloved hand reached into the commander's pocket and retrieved a black security tag — top-level access. Not for the kill. For what came after.
The next phase.
He stood and turned to the console. With swift fingers, he activated the uplink and inserted a virus chip. The entire security feed of Watchtower Seven began to melt, corrupted line by line.
Erasure.
Total.
Absolute.
He left the way he came — not a single sound, not a trace.
Except one.
Before he vanished into the shaft above, he turned back, just for a moment. Arkos' eyes were still wide, frozen in that expression of disbelief.
"You ruled like a god," the assassin whispered.
"Now you're just another name I erased."
Then he was gone.
Blood pooled beneath the girl's body, still warm, still trembling. The man who stood over her didn't blink. He tilted his head, as if admiring his own work — the slice was clean. Arterial. Practiced.
He wasn't angry. He wasn't sloppy.
He was studying.
In the reflection of a shattered windowpane, his masked face stared back — a design modeled after the Ghost, but more jagged. Sharper lines. Blood-red etchings like war paint across the cheeks.
Let them see. Let them mistake me for him.
Let them hate him for what I do.
He moved like Kael. Walked like Kael. But his reasons were his own.
He reached into the dead girl's jacket and pulled out a pin — a small resistance crest, rusted and handmade. A whisper of rebellion.
"Infection spreads fast," he muttered. "You don't treat a plague with mercy."
He dropped the crest beside her and walked away. The rain had just started, washing away blood like memory. By morning, they'd find her. And they'd blame him — the Ghost.
Perfect.
⸻
Elsewhere – A Private Comms Relay – 03:00 A.M.
He knelt before a glowing terminal, eyes flickering across streams of code and mission reports. Each one a lie. Each one a tool.
A voice buzzed from the speaker overhead. Male. Cold.
"You've done well. Dareth is beginning to question its savior."
"He trained me too well," the copycat replied. "But he made a mistake."
"What mistake?"
"He thought killing tyrants would make him a hero."
"And what will you become?"
A pause.
"The necessary truth."
He rose and walked into the dark. His name didn't matter. Not yet.
But when he stepped into the light, he would take everything the Ghost had built — and burn it to ash.
Kael stood motionless beneath the flickering neon signs of a forgotten café. Rain dripped from the edge of his coat. Ahead, the street had been cordoned off by drones and patrols, but he'd arrived long before the police.
The girl was already dead.
Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Eyes wide open, caught in the moment between fear and disbelief. Her hand still clutched a crude resistance pamphlet. Blood painted the pavement like a warning.
His warning.
Or so they'd think.
He scanned the cut — clean, surgical, through the throat. His technique. A blade, not a bullet. No signs of struggle. No signs of mercy.
A Sentinel officer shouted orders nearby. Citizens were being herded away. Cameras buzzed in the corners, catching angles they weren't meant to see.
"Ghost strikes again!" one shouted.
"No one is safe now," another whispered.
Kael stepped back into the shadows. He couldn't breathe.
Not because of the blood. He had seen oceans of it.
But because this wasn't justice.
This was slaughter.
And the city thought he had done it.
He slipped into the alley, heart pounding beneath layers of control. His mind raced back to Elen's words.
"There's someone else. Another like you."
"He's not killing tyrants. He's killing the innocent."
Who was he? How had he learned the craft?
Only a handful had ever survived the Black Chamber. And fewer escaped.
A flicker of memory clawed its way out of Kael's mind — a face, younger, twisted by pain and fury.
"We were built for war, Kael," the boy had once said. "But I was born for chaos."
No.
It couldn't be him.
He looked down at the girl again. The pool of blood reflected the city lights — once dull, now bright red.
His legend was becoming a mask for monsters.
He turned and vanished into the misted alleyways.
"If he wants to wear my face," Kael whispered, "then he'll answer to it."