The warehouse was a cathedral of silence and shadows. The only light came from a single, naked bulb hanging over a chair in the center of the vast space, its glow barely pushing back the oppressive dark. The air smelled of damp concrete, rust, and the coppery tang of blood.
Karl Vorlender lay on his side on the cold floor, his body a symphony of broken things. Each breath was a ragged, wet effort. The world swam in and out of focus, but one thing remained crystal clear: the man standing over him.
Nightingale looked immaculate. His tailored overcoat was unbuttoned, revealing a suit that cost more than most people made in a year. Not a speck of dust, not a drop of blood marred his appearance. He held a sleek, silver syringe, its contents catching the light—a viscous, pearlescent fluid.
"A shame, Karl," Nightingale said, his voice smooth as oiled silk. It was the same tone he used to debrief a successful mission. "Truly. You were the best."
Karl tried to speak, to demand why, but only a choked, guttural sound emerged. His vision blurred at the edges, tunneling down to the polished tips of Nightingale's shoes.
"The world is changing," Nightingale continued, as if lecturing a promising but disappointing student. "New alliances are being forged. Unfortunately, your particular set of skills… and your regrettable sense of loyalty… have become a liability to those alliances."
He knelt, his movements economical and graceful. He didn't look like a man committing murder. He looked like a doctor administering a cure.
"This will make it look more authentic," he murmured, almost kindly. "A tragic end for a talented operative. They'll never know you were on the wrong side of the deal."
The needle pricked Karl's neck. A cold burn flooded his veins, spreading like ice fire, slowing his heart, dragging him down into a deep, cold blackness. The last thing he saw was Nightingale's smile, a thin, cruel curve in the shadows.
The last thing he heard was his mentor's voice, a final, whispered benediction. "They'll call you a ghost,Karl. And soon, that's all you'll be."
Consciousness fled. The world ended.
But then, a miracle. Or a curse.
A distant, frantic sound. A woman's voice, cutting through the void. "He's crashing!Get the—!"
A jolt of electricity. His body arching off a gurney. A gasp—his first breath in a long, long time.
Light. Blinding. Harsh.
The face of a doctor, a strand of dark hair escaping her cap, her eyes wide with panic and determination. A small silver cross on a chain around her neck.
Life rushed back in, a painful, shocking return.
Karl Vorlender was dead.
But the Ghost was born.
And he would spend the rest of his life hunting the man who had killed him.