Dear Miles,
Happy birthday, my dear son. Eighteen years — I can hardly believe it. It feels like just yesterday I held you in my arms for the first time. I hope wherever you are, this letter somehow reaches you and reminds you that you are not forgotten.
The twins, Hope and Asher, just turned two last month. They're growing so fast — always laughing and curious about everything. Daniel is a wonderful father to them. He's kind, patient, and tries every day to fill the void that your absence has left in my life. I wish you could see them someday. They ask about their big brother often, and I tell them stories about you, hoping those tales keep your memory alive for them.
I won't lie, some days are harder than others. The silence in the house is heavy. I miss your laughter, your mischief, and even the quiet moments when you'd sit beside me, just being there. Life hasn't been easy, but I've held onto the hope that you might come back to us. Every year, on your birthday, I write these letters, hoping one day you'll read them, hoping you'll know that my love for you never faded.
Daniel and I talk about you often. He's never met you, but he understands how much you mean to me. I've shared with him every memory I have, every picture I kept safe in a box under my bed. Sometimes I wonder what kind of man you've become. Are you happy? Are you safe? Do you think of me?
No matter what you've been through or where life has taken you, I want you to know that you always have a home here — a place where you're loved and awaited. The house still holds the echoes of your childhood, the scent of your favorite books, and the warmth of your laughter in the walls. Whenever I sit by the window, I imagine you coming back through that door, and it's the hope that keeps me going.
Please be careful, my son. The world can be a cruel place, but I believe in your strength and your heart. Remember that you are never alone. We are here, always thinking of you, always wishing you well.
If you ever come back, or if these words find their way to you, know that you are deeply missed and eternally loved.
With all my heart,
Mom
Miles folded the letter carefully, the weight of his mother's words settling deep inside him.
The car slowed to a stop. The driver glanced back. "Sir, we've reached the province headquarters."
Miles said nothing, eyes fixed ahead. The car door opened, and a line of sharply uniformed soldiers stood at attention, their expressions solemn but respectful.
They didn't need to cheer. His reputation preceded him — the ghost who had struck terror into enemy ranks, the mercenary whose name was whispered with a mix of fear and admiration. They respected the quiet strength he carried, the aura of a man who had survived hell and returned.
His boots clicked firmly on the marble floor as he walked toward the imposing building. The soldiers parted silently, giving way to the man who had become both a myth and a protector.
At the president's door, Miles stopped and raised his fist to knock. The knock was steady, deliberate.
"Enter," came the calm voice from inside.
Miles pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside.
The president rose from behind a grand desk, his expression unreadable but his eyes sharp.
"Commander Ray informed me you're retiring," the president began, voice low but respectful.
Miles remained silent, standing tall and motionless.
The president's gaze held steady. "Thank you. I can't thank you enough for your service. The province owes you a debt that can never be repaid."
Miles nodded slightly — the only sign he gave.
The president walked to a drawer, withdrew a red ID card, and held it up between his fingers.
"This," he said, "is the rank of general in the provincial army. You don't have to work, not if you don't want to. It's a courtesy — a shield, really. With this, you'll have privileges, protections. Legal immunity, access, respect. It's the highest honor I can offer."
He extended the card toward Miles.
Miles took it, his fingers brushing the smooth surface. His eyes lingered on the red badge — the symbol of authority and recognition.
The president's tone softened. "It's not enough, but it's what I can give. You've earned it."
Miles gave a subtle nod in reply.
The president stepped back, folding his hands calmly. "If you ever need anything — resources, manpower — my doors are open. You're one of us now, whether you speak or not."
Miles remained quiet, his expression unreadable but his eyes holding a flicker of something — maybe gratitude, maybe resolve.
Without another word, he turned and left the room.
The heavy door closed behind him with a soft thud.
Outside, the soldiers resumed their posts, watching the man who was no longer just a mercenary, but a general — a ghost reborn into a new life.
The heavy doors to the President's private office closed behind Miles with a soft click. A moment later, the silence of the hallway was broken by the synchronized thud of boots on marble.
Two soldiers snapped into formation as he emerged.
More were waiting below.
As Miles descended the grand steps of the presidential complex, the late afternoon sun bathed the courtyard in gold. Rows of high-ranking military officials stood at attention, crisp uniforms and polished medals catching the light. Their salutes were sharp, their expressions a mix of respect and awe.
This wasn't a ceremony. This was reverence.
They weren't honoring a man in a new position. They were honoring a myth.
Ghost.
He passed them without a word, the aura around him heavy — not with arrogance, but with a lethal stillness that came only from surviving a hundred deaths and never losing his edge. Whispers followed him, not aloud, but in looks. Some had heard the stories. Fewer had seen him in action. None forgot him.
His new rank, General, pinned in blood-red on his chest, only legitimized what many already believed:
That Miles was something more than a soldier.
As his car pulled away from the compound, the convoy broke formation. Just one vehicle, quiet and armored, made its way to the private airstrip outside the capital.
The inside of the vehicle was cool and dark, a low hum of the engine the only sound.
Miles reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small black phone — secure, unregistered, and connected to only one line.
He pressed a single button.
It rang once.
"Boss?" came the voice. Smooth, low-toned, professional — and unmistakably female.
"Monica," Miles said. "I'm heading to Star Harbor. Flight. Private. Terminal access only."
"I'll arrange it immediately," she said without pause. "ETA?"
"Thirty minutes. Send the boarding pass to this phone."
"Done. I'll have someone pick you up after landing," she replied, quick fingers already working behind the voice.
"Would you like me to prepare a safehouse?" Monica asked, her voice smooth as always.
"No," Miles replied after a pause. "Not this time."
"…Then what should I arrange?"
"I'm sending you an address. That's where I'll be going first." A few silent taps on the phone, and the location pinged across the line. "After that, find me a hotel. Keep it simple."
"Understood," she said.
But she didn't book simple.
Within seconds, Monica had bought the penthouse at The Viridian Crest, one of the most exclusive properties in Star Harbor. Private elevator, full-floor security, a skyline terrace — and more privacy than a fortress.
She didn't ask permission. She never did.
"I've found something close," she said calmly. "You'll be in the city center, two blocks from the address you sent. Quiet, well-kept, and… unobtrusive."
He didn't question it. Not this time.
"I've arranged for a driver to pick you up at the airstrip," she added. "He knows the city. He'll stay available."
Miles nodded slightly to himself. "Good."
Then, a shift in his tone. Intent.
"I need a name run."
Monica leaned forward slightly at her desk, posture sharpening. "Name?"
"Elena Keller."
Her fingers paused above the keyboard. Just for a moment.
"A woman?"
Miles' voice didn't change. "Yes."
"…What is she to you?"
"My mother."
The silence that followed wasn't technical. It was emotional.
Monica stared at the screen for a long second, the weight of that word hanging between them — mother. In all her years beside him, she had never heard him say it. Never heard him talk about anyone from before.
"I see," she said softly. "I'll begin gathering everything I can. You'll have a file before you land."
"Thank you."
A pause.
"Oh — and boss," she added, her tone light, but not quite neutral. "About the hotel…"
"Yes?"
"I might've gone a little overboard. They were… out of simple rooms."
He smirked faintly. "Define 'a little.'"
"Penthouse ," she said quickly. "Good curtains."
"…Of course."
She didn't say anything else. She didn't need to.
Before he could comment, the call ended.
The low rumble of the jet waited on the horizon, sleek and already fueled.
Miles stepped from the vehicle and approached the tarmac. An attendant handed him an envelope in silence. Inside — the flight boarding info, and a resident access card.
The Viridian Crest — Penthouse .
He exhaled, slowly. No surprise. Just Monica.
He boarded without another word.