3:47 A.M.
The black Dodge Charger SRT8 rolled into the station—low growl, dark rims. Stopped at Pump 4.
Two girls stepped out. Both Black. Early twenties. Dressed like they had motion.
They walked in like they owned the place. Grabbed Red Bulls, chips, candy. Straight to the counter.
One wore a red crop top and tight black leather pants. Calm. Controlled. Moved like she was used to being watched.
The other had baggy cargo pants and an oversized white tee. Loud. Smacked her gum like it owed her money.
She was the one who spoke.
"Fifty on Pump 4. And these."
Dropped the snacks on the counter.
The man behind the register didn't look up. Just watched the two guys still posted by the car.
A few seconds passed. He rang the items. Still silent. Finally looked up—halfway.
"Fifty-nine."
The loud one leaned in, lowering her face.
"Hm. You kinda cute."
The calm one didn't even glance over.
"Girl, quit. Pay and let's go."
Loud one grinned wider. Reached over, grabbed a box of condoms from the shelf. Dropped it on the pile.
"Put that on too. For him."
Other girl sighed, dragged-out.
"My goddd. I'm going back to the car."
She turned and walked out.
The man behind the counter scanned the box.
"Sixty-four."
Loud one sucked her teeth. Still smiling. Still playing. But it was wearing thin.
"Add them Backwoods too, boy."
He didn't flinch. Just scanned them.
"Seventy."
She stood there, waiting—for a glance, a smirk, something. Got nothing.
He never even looked at her.
Then the door buzzed.
One of the guys outside stepped in.
He spoke.
"Aye, bitch—what's takin' so long? You flirtin' with this punk?"
"Hell nah. I'm just buyin' shit."
"Hoe don't lie. You been talkin' to this dude for minutes, smilin' and shit."
While he ran his mouth, another Charger pulled into the lot. All black. Tinted like someone had something to hide.
It stopped next to theirs. Windows stayed up. Then muzzle flashes lit the inside.
Gunshots cracked through the air, short and fast.
The man inside the store moved—reached for the pistol on his waist and ran outside. Fired at the car.
The loud girl dropped behind the chip rack. Real quiet now. Just her breath.
The man shot once. Then twice.
A lucky bullet caught him dead center in the forehead. Dropped him mid-step.
The Charger screeched across the lot, tires screaming, then cut sharp and stopped right in front of the doors.
Two men jumped out. Black ski masks. Gloves. Glocks in hand.
They moved fast. No panic, no wasted motion. Like they'd done this before.
One of them stepped to the counter, gun sideways, already talking.
"Run the cash, bitch."
Man slowly raised his head and thought:
"It was so silent. And fucking peaceful. This is literally the second robbery this month. I should get a server job or something. Or maybe Starbucks."
The robber hit the counter hard.
"I said run it!"
"Alright. Chill."
No hands raised. No panic. Just opened the drawer, grabbed the bills, started stacking them.
Outside, the other guy went through the bodies. Took wallets, phones, whatever had weight to it.
The cash got handed over.
The one with the gun looked at it, frowned like it was an insult.
"The fuck's this?"
"Cash."
"Bitch, it's like three hundred dollars."
"That's all there is. Most people use card or Apple Pay."
The man squinted through the mask.
"You tryin' to be smart?"
"No."
"Run your pockets."
He paused. Then said—
"You really think I got more in my pockets than what you're holdin'? I work at a gas station."
That pissed him off. He stepped forward and pressed the barrel to the man's forehead.
Man thought, "Fuck's sake. Just what I need in the middle of the fucking night. I needed this fucking fuckery in this fucking gas station."
He didn't waste time arguing. Didn't say a word. Just moved.
His hand shot up and grabbed the gun. The slide kicked back under pressure — and he kept it there. Locked.
The robber pulled the trigger. Click. No fire. Just confusion.
He tried to yank it back, panic setting in, but the man had the upper hand now.
"If the slide's back, the gun won't fire," he said flatly. "You're carrying this shit and don't even know the basics."
No hesitation. He reached in with his other hand, gripped the robber's wrist, twisted. Hard. The pistol switched hands.
The second guy bolted inside, already yelling.
"Fuck you doin'?!"
No time to aim. The man raised the pistol and shot him clean through the right shoulder. Dropped him on the spot — screaming, Glock clattering across the tile.
The first robber made a move — lunged, maybe thinking he could still win. He didn't even get close.
Found himself staring down the barrel of his own weapon.
The man held steady.
"You ruined my night."
Then he fired — not a kill shot. Just one next to the guy's ear.
The deafening crack dropped him screaming, hands to his head.
Man that got shot yelled:
"Fuck you think you are, huh? You think the others ain't gonna get you?"
"Others?"
That's when he saw them — five, maybe six silhouettes running toward the storefront. Glocks in hand. Ski masks. Fast.
The man exhaled through his teeth.
"Fuuuuuuck sake."
Five years earlier – Houston, Texas
The interrogation room was cold. Quiet.
Hank Mercer stood alone, pacing in circles around the body of a woman with her face caved in. The metal table was bent from the impact. Blood still pooled near her temple.
Jack had walked out twenty minutes ago and hadn't been seen since. No answers. No trail. And Hank had no idea what the hell to write in the report.
He rubbed his temples, stopped by the mirror.
Then—knock on the interrogation room door.
Hank flinched hard.
"Not right now," he barked.
A calm voice from the other side answered, level.
"You know there's a one-way mirror in here, right?"
Hank closed his eyes. Let out a slow breath. Then opened the door.
The man who stepped in wore a clean black suit. Blonde hair, lean frame, sharp jaw. Quiet. Controlled. The kind of man who didn't carry a badge — just permission.
He locked the door behind him, walked to the mirror.
"Don't let anyone near this room," he said.
Another voice answered through the wall intercom:
"Understood."
The man took a slow look around. Snapped a few photos of the body with his phone. Then grabbed the two knocked-over chairs, set them upright, and gestured for Hank to sit.
Hank didn't move.
He already knew this was above his pay grade. Deep. The kind of deep that came with a cleanup crew and untraceable bullets.
They sat across from each other. The man spoke first.
"I won't waste your time with the deep state monologue. You already know the weight of this."
Hank leaned back, arms crossed.
"Yeah. And I know there's somethin' you want. Otherwise, this mess would already be on the news."
The man gave a slight nod.
"Correct. We want the kid."
"Jack?"
"Yes."
Hank squinted.
"What the hell would someone like you want with Jack?"
"I'll give you the basics. Since you've been acting as his handler—unofficially."
Hank didn't deny it. Just waited.
The man gestured toward the body.
"This woman? We've been looking for her for five years. She was one of ours. Went dark. Started freelancing. Took contracts for people whose names never show up in courtrooms."
"She was here for a hit?"
"Yes. Dumb luck we had eyes on Houston. Dumber luck she walked into the wrong station and got her skull caved in."
"Yeah. Real fuckin' lucky."
The man smirked briefly. Then reset his face.
"This runs deeper than a rogue agent. But I've got a feeling the kid's going to clean up more of it for us—on his own terms."
He paused.
"But for now, you've got a corpse in your station. And I can make it disappear."
Hank leaned forward slightly.
"So here's the part where you offer me somethin', or threaten me."
"You should give yourself more credit," the man said. "You're sharper than you act."
He continued.
"We'll scrub the scene. Remove all trace. Clean forensics. No body, no reports. No surveillance. In return, two things: One—you never lived this day. And two—we take the kid."
Hank stared at him.
"Why him?"
The man stood, adjusted his cufflinks.
"Let's just say I've got a staffing shortage."
One Month Later
Jack was bleeding out.
Eyes sunken, head pounding. He'd been driving for two hours straight. Couldn't remember most of it. Road lines blurred. Breaths shallow. The car reeked of old blood and gasoline.
Revenge had tasted sweet. For about thirty seconds.
After that, the silence hit harder than the bullets ever did.
He was headed back to Houston. To give himself up. Or maybe just see the house one last time. Either way, he wasn't planning past that.
Then a voice came from the passenger seat.
"You look tired, son."
Jack turned. Saw his dad sitting there, just like he remembered — arms crossed, jaw clenched, calm. Not real. He knew that. But still, he answered.
"Yeah, Dad. Last month's been rough."
Victor didn't blink. "Why don't you rest for a while?"
"I wanna see home first. One last time. Then I'll join you guys."
"It's a bit early for that."
Jack let out a dry laugh.
"I think this is one of those rare times you're wrong, Dad."
Victor looked ahead, voice steady.
"The fact you're talkin' to me proves it ain't your time yet."
Jack wiped at the dried blood crusted on his forehead, confused. "What do you mean?"
"Ask yourself why it's me you see. Why not your mother? Your brother? Your sister?"
"I… I don't know."
"Then live long enough to figure it out."
Victor vanished like smoke. The passenger seat was empty again.
Jack drove in silence. Thought deep. Came up empty.
Then his gut pulled. Two black sedans. Following.
He caught them in the mirror. Subtle. Tinted.
"Great," he thought. "I missed some. And I'm outta bullets. Gonna have to close distance or I'm done."
He took control. Pulled over.
Grabbed the combat knife from the passenger seat. Tight grip. Heart like a slow drum.
Both cars stopped behind him.
One man stepped out.
No rush. No threat posture. Just steady steps. Hands open, nowhere near his waist.
He walked up to the Javelin, leaned slightly at the window, and knocked.
"Mind if we have a chat, Jack?"
5 Years Later – Gas Station, Detroit
Jack hadn't planned to kill anyone that night.
But he couldn't take chances.
He shot both men on the ground — one bullet each, right between the eyes.
Then he dropped into cover. Checked the mag.
"Twelve rounds. One in the chamber. Thirteen total. Five, maybe six closing in. Two bullets each. No more. Tight space. Tighter entrance. Only two can get in at once. They're gangsters — loud, sloppy, untrained. My advantage? No angle to flank me if I play this right."
He moved deeper into the store, clear of the windows, toward a position with a clean line on the entrance from the side.
The loud girl was still there, crouched low with her head buried in her arms. Jack moved past her, dropped to the floor in a prone position, and leveled the Glock at the door.
Deep breath.
The first man came in.
One shot. Temple. Drop.
As the body fell, it cleared a visual on the man behind him.
Jack fired again — one to the chest, one to the throat. That one dropped, clutching his neck.
Jack rolled sideways, repositioning.
Then glass shattered behind him.
"Huh. One of you had a working brain after all."
He grabbed a Pringles can on his way to the next angle, lobbed it near the counter.
The remaining four opened fire, unloading toward the register like it was breathing.
Jack stayed calm.
That blue-haze focus dropped in.
Time slowed.
He leaned out. Two quick shots. Both to the heads near the door.
They dropped.
He caught movement — another one crouched outside, behind the car. The other was inside.
Jack moved fast. Quiet.
He leaned left, found the one who'd broken the glass creeping toward the counter, pistol raised, hands shaking.
Jack closed the distance, step by step. Stopped short of the broken glass. No mistakes.
One clean shot to the back of the head.
Dropped.
Jack turned toward the counter, ready to pivot to the last one—
Gunshot cracked from outside. Not at him, but close.
He peeked.
A voice cut through the quiet, loud enough to carry but too casual to come from one of them.
"You were such a good boy for five years, Jack. And now you get yourself in trouble on some random night like this? Or is this your idea of a welcome party?"
Jack knew the voice.
He stood. Walked to the door. Locked eyes with the man.
"Gantz. Mind cleaning this up for me?"
"I won't."
Jack kept his eyes on him. "Why are you here?"
"Objective."
"Where?"
"Nowhere. Yet."
Gantz stepped closer, calm as ever. Hands behind his back.
"Tell me, Jack… you feelin' patriotic tonight?"
4 Hours Later – Jack's Flat
He was lying on the mattress. The mattress on the floor. Staring at the ceiling, replaying what Gantz had said. Replaying the unnecessary gunfight. Too much noise. Too many bodies. "Too much attention," he thought.
Five years had changed a lot for Jack — but not that. Not the isolation. Not being broken.
After that night on the Houston road, they picked him up. Who? He still didn't know. Deep state. Private black contractor. Some other alphabet soup. Didn't matter.
They trained him for two years straight.Hard. Cold. Purposeful.Close-quarters combat. Tactical firearms. Infiltration. Language work. Psy-ops. Cyber ops.Then they cut him loose. Told him he could do whatever he wanted.Said they'd come one day and ask for something back.A favor. In return for the investment.
"Time's come, huh," Jack said out loud.
Then came the knock.
He stood up. Heavy. Bones aching like bad memories. He checked the peephole. Then opened the door.
It was a kid. No older than sixteen. Jack knew him.
Marcus Johnson. M.J.Lived two doors down. No parents, just an older sister who worked two jobs.Only person in the complex who talked to Jack like he was human.
Jack sighed.
"Marcus, isn't it too early? Even for you?"
"Ditched school."
The kid walked in without permission. He never needed it.
He dropped onto the pillow near the old TV like it was his.
Jack didn't have furniture. Just a mattress.An old TV.And a beat-up NES still clinging to life.
Marcus powered it on. Jack sat down beside him, grabbing another pillow.
"Contra?" Marcus asked.
"Again? Why not Double Dragon?"
"You suck at DD. But you're surprisingly good at Contra."
"Contra's easy."
"It's one of the hardest NES games there is."
"Nah, you just suck at Contra. That's it."
"Yeah? Aight, you'll see then."
They played in silence. Just buttons, explosions, and static.
Then Jack spoke, low.
"So… your sister know you ditched school today?"
"Nope."
"Why'd you ditch? Don't tell me you're getting bullied — you're literally the Detroit Golden Gloves Junior Welterweight champ. You got a belt and everything."
"Jack, man, drop it. Aight?"
"Okay, okay. Just… feels off. That's all."
They went quiet again.
Then Marcus broke it.
"Got suspended for a week, aight? You happy?"
Jack answered while demolishing enemies on screen.
"Damn. What'd you do?"
"Some punk talked slick. I don't fight at school — coach'd kill me. But he said some shit about my big sis. I just… snapped."
"You punch him?"
"Yeah. Wasn't even a fight."
"You should've let him hit you once or twice. Now you look like 'One-Punch Knockout MJ bullying weak kids' or some shit."
"Didn't think about that. Kinda saw red, you know?"
"Yeah. I do." Jack's voice was flat. Honest. "So who'd they call?"
"My coach."
"Worse than your sister. Am I wrong?"
"Yes and no. If they called her, she might've pulled me out of boxing. But the coach…"
Jack cut him off.
"Wouldn't want to lose the goose that lays the golden eggs. So he gave you a warning and let you slide?"
"Yeah…"
There was a pause.
Jack spoke again.
"Marcus… I might go somewhere for a while. At the end of this year."
"Huh? Where you goin', loser?"
Jack smacked him lightly on the back of the head.
"Army."
Marcus rubbed his head, eyes wide.
"You? Why?"
Jack didn't smile. Didn't blink.
"Feelin' patriotic."
End of Chapter I: Ghost of Detroit