The news of the Northwood Unity Tournament spread through the city like a wildfire.
It was all anyone was talking about.
The fame.
The glory.
The impossible, legendary prize.
To most, it was a dream come true.
To Miles Vane, it was a beautifully wrapped box with a bomb inside.
He sat in his apartment, the tournament announcement playing on a loop in his mind.
It was a trap.
He knew it was a trap.
The system knew it was a trap.
Even his half-eaten sandwich on the counter probably knew it was a trap.
"Okay, so, plan A," he said to the empty room, his voice a low, sarcastic murmur.
"I walk in the front door."
"I say, 'Hello, I am the ghost you are trying to capture'."
"'Could I please have the magical glowing rock now?'"
"'I promise to use its incredible power for good, and not, you know, for dismantling your entire criminal enterprise'."
"I see no flaws in this plan."
He was spiraling.
The bait was too good.
The risk was too high.
