The city of Ravenbrook mourned Daniel Miller in the way modern cities do—with social media posts, fleeting news segments, and then a swift return to normalcy. But for Silas Kane, normalcy was a foreign concept. His world was one of calculated precision, and Daniel's death was merely the first brushstroke on a dark and sprawling canvas.
He stood before his planning wall, a mosaic of faces, timelines, and meticulously drawn lines connecting secrets, habits, and vulnerabilities. Twenty-four faces remained. His eyes lingered on the next name: Ethan Croft.
Ethan hadn't just been a bully; he'd been an architect of misery. Now, he was a rising political star, his smile plastered across campaign posters all over the city. How fitting, Silas thought. The man who once ruled the schoolyard now wants to rule the city.
But Silas had a different kind of rule in mind.
---
Across the city, in a brightly lit conference room that smelled of stale coffee and ambition, Ethan Croft adjusted his tie and flashed a polished smile at his campaign team.
"The polls are looking good, people! Let's keep the momentum going. I want—"
His phone vibrated. Another unknown number.
You can't campaign against your conscience, Ethan. Blackwood remembers.
Ethan's smile didn't falter, but his knuckles tightened around the edge of the table. He dismissed the message as spam, but a cold knot tightened in his stomach. Blackwood. No one had mentioned that name in years.
He shook it off. "Where were we? Ah, yes—fundraising."
---
Silas didn't believe in coincidence. He believed in cause and effect. And tonight, he would become the effect of Ethan Croft's past causes.
Ethan's weakness wasn't physical; it was reputational. He cared more about his image than his life. So Silas decided to break him before he took him.
Using a hacked Wi-Fi network from a nearby café, Silas uploaded a carefully edited video to a private server—one only Ethan could access. It showed manipulated footage of Ethan engaging in illegal dealings, mixed with real clips of his cruelest moments from Blackwood. The footage was fake, but the fear it would provoke would be very real.
Within minutes, Ethan's phone rang. His voice was panicked. "Who is this? What do you want?"
Silas used a voice modulator. "I want you to remember. I want you to feel exactly how you made others feel."
"Is this about money? I can pay you!"
"Some debts can't be paid with money, Ethan. They can only be paid in fear."
The call ended. Silas smiled. Phase one was complete.
---
Meanwhile, in a cluttered office that smelled of sugar and logic, Inspector Alistair Finch licked raspberry filling off his thumb and stared at two seemingly unrelated case files—Daniel Miller's sudden cardiac arrest and a flagged cyber tip about Ethan Croft receiving threatening messages.
Too coincidental, he thought. Or not coincidental at all.
He zoomed in on a screenshot of the message sent to Ethan. The phrasing was specific, almost poetic. "Blackwood remembers."
Finch opened a new browser tab and typed: Blackwood High School incident records.
Nothing.
He tried again: Blackwood High School student list 10 years ago.
The records were scarce, almost intentionally buried. But Alistair Finch didn't believe in dead ends—only puzzles waiting to be solved.
He took another bite of his pastry and got to work.
---
Silas observed Ethan's upgraded security—a bodyguard at the door, a new alarm system. Predictable, he thought.
He didn't need to break in. He needed Ethan to break himself.
Using his skills in chemical synthesis, Silas had crafted an odorless, colorless aerosol inducing paranoia and mild hallucinations. That night, he vented it into Ethan's apartment through the air conditioning unit.
Ethan woke in a sweat, his mind racing, his fears amplified. He saw shadows moving. Heard whispers. He was crumbling from the inside out.
When his bodyguard rushed in, Ethan attacked him, convinced he was the one who'd been threatening him.
The struggle made the news the next morning: "Mayoral Candidate Ethan Croft Hospitalized After Mental Breakdown."
Silas watched the report without emotion. Ethan wasn't dead—not yet. But his reputation was. And for a man like Ethan, that was a fate worse than death.
---
Finch saw the news report and immediately knew. This wasn't a breakdown. This was design.
He compared the timing: the threats, the manipulated media, the psychological unraveling. This was the work of someone with patience, intelligence, and a very personal grudge.
He stood up, wiping powdered sugar from his trousers. He walked to a whiteboard and wrote in neat, precise letters:
SUSPECT PROFILE:
· High intelligence
· Knowledge of victims' pasts
· Expertise in psychology, chemistry, cyber tactics
· Connection to Blackwood High
He circled the last point twice.
He was no longer investigating a death. He was investigating a ghost. And the ghost was just getting started.