Matt sat behind the desk, tapping a pen against a stack of requisition slips. The office he had stolen still smelled faintly of dust and stale coffee, but after days of occupying it, it was beginning to feel like his. The twenty-seventh floor bustled just outside the door—boots clicking against tile, voices barking orders, the ever-present hum of printers and comms relays.
He leaned back in the chair, studying the words on the form in front of him. Patrol rotations. He didn't even know half the squads these slips belonged to, but it didn't matter. He signed his name, scribbled adjustments, and when the orders were carried out no one questioned them. His Burden smoothed the rough edges. By the time the squads were deployed, nobody remembered he hadn't been the one in charge all along.
That was when he started giving orders directly. Quiet at first, small things. "Shift those crates to supply." "Reassign this unit to the southern corridor." "Check in with me before you leave." Operatives accepted his instructions with nods, sometimes hesitation, but the hesitation always slipped away, lost in the fog of memory. He was nothing and everything—forgotten until he spoke, obeyed the moment he did.
It couldn't last unnoticed forever.
The summons came late in the afternoon. A sharp-jawed secretary told him the boss wanted to see him. The corner office at the end of the hall radiated authority, thick with cigar smoke and stacked files. Behind the desk sat a man built like a tank, shoulders filling the space, a scar cutting down his jaw. His eyes were the kind that never blinked unless they meant to.
"Can I see your Black Omen ID?" the boss asked, voice low, deliberate.
Matt froze for only a heartbeat before answering. "You said you wanted me to be a secret weapon. That I didn't need one. After all the infiltration missions you've given me, an ID would've been a liability."
The boss narrowed his eyes. A long silence stretched, heavy enough to crush air. Then he leaned back in his chair, lips twitching as if half-amused. "Hmm. I see. Well, I've changed my mind. We need a way to remember you." His voice sharpened, final. "Go down to the mail room and get an ID."
Matt inclined his head. "Understood."
No argument. No pushback. He walked out and headed to the mail room. The clerk asked his name, scribbled something down, then frowned halfway through as if he'd lost the thread. Matt finished the form himself and slid it across the counter. Half an hour later, he held a plastic card with his face and the Omen crest. A strange weight pressed against him—the idea of being remembered, anchored in the system.
For the first time, he had proof that he existed here.
---
The following days blurred into a rhythm. Matt wore the ID on a lanyard, letting it clink softly against his chest. If anyone doubted him before, the card silenced it. He leaned into the role.
He began throwing his authority wider, louder. "Squad Seven, reroute to the northern wall." "I want those supply chains doubled." "Push the timetable forward; we're behind." His voice was never harsh, but it carried a weight people accepted without question. The ID gave him legitimacy, but his Burden sealed it. They forgot their doubts before they had a chance to breathe.
By the end of the week, Matt wasn't just signing papers or redirecting crates. He was running logistics, making calls on deployments, answering questions from junior officers who swore they'd always reported to him. A few even started calling him "sir." He didn't correct them.
---
The true test came when he was called into his first meeting with the upper ranks.
The conference room was lined with polished steel, a long table stretching down its center. Screens flickered with maps of the Lawless City, red markers glowing like wounds across the districts. The boss sat at the head, cigar smoke curling in lazy ribbons. Around him were commanders, officers, strategists—all sharp, all dangerous. Matt slid into a seat at the far end, unnoticed at first, then regarded with the vague assumption he had always been part of these briefings.
"Lawless City is spiraling," one officer said, pointing at the map. "The Red Circle Cartel is consolidating power. Our trade channels are being squeezed. We need someone inside."
Murmurs ran down the table. Volunteers were named, shot down, reassigned. The boss puffed his cigar, eyes scanning the room. Then they landed on Matt.
"You."
The word snapped through the air. Heads turned toward Matt, who sat calmly, pen resting against his knuckles.
"You've run infiltration missions before," the boss said, his tone certain even though Matt hadn't. "You'll go as our operative. Establish contacts, secure footholds, grab document and report back."
Matt didn't blink. "Understood."
The officers nodded around the table, accepting it without question. Some swore they remembered his reports. Others recalled briefings he'd given. None of it had ever happened, but it didn't matter. His Burden had already rewritten the truth.
When the meeting ended, Matt rose with the others, his new assignment stamped into reality by nothing more than belief. He walked out of the conference room with the weight of authority pressing against his shoulders, but it wasn't heavy—it was light, dangerous, liberating.
He had come to Black Omen with nothing. In days, he had become their chosen operative for one of the most dangerous missions in Zone Alpha.
The fire of ambition burned low in his chest, cold and steady. He wasn't a ghost anymore. He was the shadow that everyone believed in, even if they couldn't remember why.
And soon, the Lawless City would remember him, whether they wanted to or not.