The morning after the mission bled into existence like a bad dream.
Ethan Cross sat on the edge of his bed, the faint glow of dawn spilling through half-drawn blinds. The city of New Vienna hummed to life outside — sirens, traffic, the buzz of drones in the skyline — but inside his apartment, the world was silent. Too silent.
He hadn't slept. Every time he closed his eyes, the warehouse returned — the gunfire, the screams, the look on Mason's face before the bullet hit. A memory burned into his skull.
Ethan rubbed his temples and exhaled slowly. "You should've seen it coming," he muttered to himself.
The steam from his untouched coffee curled into the air. On the table lay a single item: a small, encrypted communicator flashing red.
He picked it up, pressed his thumb against the biometric pad, and the holographic screen flickered to life.
> ECHO PROTOCOL ACTIVATED
"Fallback route engaged. Report to Safehouse 3B. Priority Red."
— Handler: Monarch
His jaw tightened. "Priority Red." The last time that code was used, six agents didn't make it home.
Ethan stood, grabbed his jacket, and slipped his sidearm into the shoulder holster. Before leaving, he glanced at the cracked mirror near the door. A stranger stared back — eyes cold, expression unreadable. The man who once served justice was gone. What remained was Echo — Division-9's most elusive operative, trained to survive even when his name didn't exist.
---
The safehouse was buried in the industrial zone, disguised behind a defunct bakery. Ethan entered a code into the rusted keypad, and the door creaked open. Inside, fluorescent lights buzzed faintly, illuminating a space lined with weapons, documents, and flickering screens.
Monarch was already there.
Her short black hair was tied back, her posture straight, her sharp eyes tracking Ethan as he entered.
"You're late," she said, tone flat.
"Had to burn a few tails on the way."
"Good. That means they're still watching." She motioned to the table. "Sit. We have a problem."
Ethan pulled out a chair, scanning the files scattered before him. Blueprints, mugshots, decryption codes. And at the center — a photo of a man in a black suit, smirking faintly at the camera.
Raiden Vale.
Status: Presumed dead.
Ethan frowned. "That's impossible. Raiden's file was sealed after Prague. He was executed for treason."
"That's what we were told," Monarch said. "But two days ago, intel surfaced of someone using his codename — Specter — to broker information from our own servers."
Ethan's chest tightened. "He's alive."
"Alive, and building something." Monarch's tone hardened. "He's calling it Ghost Protocols. A rogue network of former Division-9 operatives. Mercenaries. Arms dealers. He's selling state secrets — ours, MI6's, CIA's — to the highest bidder."
Ethan leaned back, disbelief slipping into anger. "If that's true, then the entire agency is compromised."
"It already is." Monarch's gaze met his. "The ambush last night wasn't random. They knew your route, your team, your objective. Someone inside fed them everything."
Ethan clenched his fists. "So what's my move?"
"You go dark," Monarch said. "No communications, no contact with HQ. We'll establish a cover. There's a lead — Tokyo. A contact there has been tracking Raiden's movements. Codename Wisp. She'll brief you on-site."
"Another ghost chasing ghosts," Ethan muttered.
"Don't get poetic on me, Cross. Get results."
He stood, grabbing his coat. "When do I leave?"
Monarch handed him a black case. "Now. Plane leaves in two hours. And Echo—"
He paused at the door.
"Trust no one. Not even me."
---
Tokyo, Japan — 48 Hours Later
Rain poured down in shimmering sheets, blurring the glow of neon lights. The crowded streets of Shibuya pulsed with color and motion — holograms flickering above the traffic, umbrellas colliding in the tide of people.
Ethan moved through it all like a shadow. His face hidden beneath a hood, his steps measured, his senses sharp. Tokyo was alive — too alive. It made hiding both easy and dangerous.
The rendezvous point was a ramen shop tucked between two tall buildings. He stepped inside, the scent of broth and ginger greeting him. The chatter of locals filled the air, but Ethan's eyes swept the room for exits, cameras, and suspicious faces.
He took a seat near the window, ordered tea, and waited.
Minutes dragged by. The clock hit 22:10.
Then, the door opened.
A woman stepped inside — silver hair, black jacket, a faint scar running down her cheek. Her gaze flicked across the room before landing on him. She approached with calm precision and sat across from him without a word.
"You're late," Ethan said quietly.
"You're early," she replied. Her voice was calm, steady — the kind that could hide a thousand lies. "Wisp."
"Echo."
"Good. You're not as dead as the reports said."
Ethan smirked faintly. "Depends on who's writing them."
Wisp reached into her coat and slid a data chip across the table. "Raiden Vale. He's alive, running an organization he calls The Veil Syndicate. He's recruiting ex-agents from across the world — Division, Interpol, even private security firms. Whatever he's building, it's big."
Ethan slotted the chip into his portable decryptor. The screen projected a video: Raiden standing before a table surrounded by masked figures.
> "The world thrives on information," Raiden's voice echoed. "And soon, I will own it."
Ethan's grip on the device tightened. "When was this recorded?"
"Forty-eight hours ago," Wisp said. "In Hong Kong. But he moves constantly. Every two days, he vanishes — new country, new face, new trail."
"Any clue why he resurfaced now?"
She hesitated. "Because he's coming for Division-9. And you're his opening move."
Ethan looked up sharply. "You think he planned the ambush?"
"I don't think," she said grimly. "I know."
---
Before Ethan could respond, the lights flickered. Once. Twice.
Every instinct in his body screamed.
He grabbed Wisp and pulled her down as glass shattered — bullets tearing through the window. The room exploded into chaos. Customers screamed and dove for cover. Ethan rolled behind a table, drawing his weapon.
Through the broken window, he spotted three figures in tactical suits advancing through the rain. Silencers. Precision fire.
"Division kill team," Wisp hissed.
Ethan fired two quick shots, hitting one in the chest. The other two split, flanking. He vaulted over the counter, landing hard, and returned fire. Bottles shattered. Steam filled the air.
Wisp ducked behind the counter. "Back door!"
Ethan covered her, dropping another agent before they slipped into the narrow alleyway behind the shop. Rain poured over them, neon bleeding into puddles.
A black van screeched around the corner, headlights cutting through the storm.
"Get in!" Wisp shouted.
Ethan jumped inside as the van roared forward, bullets ricocheting off the metal. He pressed a hand to his bleeding shoulder, breathing hard.
"Who the hell were they?" he demanded.
Wisp glanced at him, her expression grim. "Division-9."
Ethan froze. "You're saying my own agency just tried to kill me?"
"Raiden's corruption runs deep," she said. "You're a liability now. The moment you walked out of that safehouse, your name was marked."
He sat back, watching the city lights vanish behind them. "Then Division's already gone."
"No," Wisp said. "Not yet. But if we don't stop Raiden soon, the entire intelligence network collapses. Governments. Armies. Nations."
Ethan's gaze hardened. "Then we find him."
Wisp nodded. "Welcome to the other side, Echo. Welcome to the Ghost Protocols."
The van disappeared into the Tokyo rain, leaving behind nothing but shattered glass and echoes of betrayal.