London, 7:00 a.m.
Rain again.
The glass walls of the Apex Dynamics Tower reflected a skyline drowning in gray. Inside the 42nd floor, executives in suits whispered over coffee and stock reports, unaware that the man fixing the office printer had once negotiated peace between warlords.
Alexander Cross—thirty-one, clean-cut, perfectly calm—watched the toner jam like it was a ticking bomb.
"Paper jam, tray two," the machine blinked.
He sighed. "I faced down an armed militia for this."
A young intern hurried past, nearly spilling her latte. "Morning, Mr. Cross!"
"Morning," he replied, straight-faced. She blushed and ran off.
Normal life: Day 412.
No gunfire, no mission briefings, no satellite comms in his ear. Just meetings, budgets, and HR seminars titled 'Emotional Intelligence in the Workplace.'
He'd chosen this. After years of covert operations and black-ops negotiations, he wanted peace. Stability. A salary with health insurance.
But peace, as it turned out, was harder than war.
At 8:30 a.m., the boardroom filled. The air smelled of perfume, burnt espresso, and fear.
A rival conglomerate had arrived for a merger talk—a deal that could save or sink Apex Dynamics.
The COO, Claire Hartmann, stood beside Alex, tablet in hand, eyes sharp as glass.
"Try not to scare them this time," she murmured.
"I'll do my best," Alex said.
The doors opened. The rival team entered—expensive suits, rehearsed smiles. Their lead negotiator leaned back in his chair, oozing confidence.
"Mr. Cross," he said, shaking Alex's hand. "You look more like a soldier than a businessman."
Alex smiled faintly. "I get that a lot."
Claire's pen clicked—tck, tck—a silent warning. He was supposed to keep things civil.
The meeting began.
Numbers. Offers. Counteroffers. The usual dance.
Until the other side tried to pull a fast one—sliding a clause across the table meant to bleed Apex dry.
Alex read it once. Twice. Then met the man's eyes.
He leaned forward slightly, voice quiet but razor-sharp.
"You're hiding a performance guarantee under Section 7-B. You think I wouldn't notice because you rephrased 'liability coverage' into 'loss redistribution.' Clever."
The man froze. "That's… standard language."
Alex's gaze didn't waver. "It's predatory language. And in three paragraphs, you made yourself legally responsible for breach arbitration in my jurisdiction."
Claire almost smiled. The rival negotiator didn't.
A long silence followed. Then the man exhaled, defeated. "Fine. We'll revise."
The room relaxed. Someone even clapped quietly.
Alex leaned back. "Good. Let's keep this honest."
For a moment, the rain outside thundered against the glass—like applause from the heavens.
After the meeting, Claire followed him into the hall.
"You terrify people," she said.
"Only the dishonest ones."
She crossed her arms. "You didn't even look at the legal doc for more than five seconds."
"I used to read death warrants disguised as peace treaties," he replied.
She blinked. "…You're joking, right?"
He gave a non-answering smile, which somehow made it worse.
"Coffee?" he asked.
She sighed. "You're impossible."
He took that as a yes.
That night, back in his flat, Alex poured a glass of scotch and stared at the city lights. His phone buzzed with an unknown number—encrypted.
He frowned. That ringtone hadn't played in three years.
He let it ring once… twice… then answered.
A calm voice on the other end spoke four words he thought he'd never hear again.
"Ghost One. We need you."
The glass slipped from his hand.
Outside, lightning flashed over London.
The man who only wanted a normal life exhaled slowly and said,
"...I retired."
"Not anymore."