Damien's Private Residence – Hillcrest, Tavara
The penthouse windows stretched from floor to ceiling, revealing a dark skyline lit by restless city lights. Rain lashed against the glass in rhythmic pulses, an omen matching Damien's mood. The silence inside was thick—tense, brooding.
Damien stood before a mirror in his walk-in closet, unbuttoning the last of his shirt with practiced efficiency. Beneath the designer fabric, scars of old battles whispered stories untold—each one a mark of loyalty, betrayal, or survival.
He ran his fingers over a thin line across his ribs. The bullet from Marseilles. The day the market nearly collapsed under his feet. The day he'd faked his death for the first time.
Now, the woman who had once betrayed his empire—his own mother—had returned, stronger and more dangerous than ever, siding with Blackridge in a union that could break Tavara.
"She's not doing this for power," he murmured to himself. "She's doing it to destroy me."
The door creaked open softly behind him.
Nora.
She was dressed down now in casual black, but her presence still commanded attention. She held a secure tablet in her hand and a look in her eyes that Damien had never seen before—concern, and something deeper.
"Check this out," she said, placing the device on the coffee table. "I cracked into the Harbridge Initiative's backend using one of their dummy affiliate sites. They're not just merging—they're preparing to privatize Tavara's defense contracts."
Damien swore under his breath. "That would give them direct access to military tech... drones, satellites, surveillance grids."
"And more importantly," Nora added, "they're targeting politicians who oppose them. Blackmail files. Financial traps. Hidden footage. They've already taken down three members of Tavara's parliament."
Damien's jaw tightened. "This isn't a merger. It's a hostile takeover of the country."
As Nora sat beside him, she hesitated. "There's more."
She pulled up a name—Archer Grey.
Damien's blood turned cold.
"He's alive?" Damien's voice dropped.
"I found encrypted messages from someone inside the Syndicate referencing him as 'The Architect.' They say he's been funding multiple rogue operations for years... including the one that almost got you killed in Dubai."
Archer Grey had once been Damien's closest ally. A genius in economic warfare, the man had vanished after a betrayal too painful to speak of.
If he was back... then everything was about to get worse.
Suddenly, alarms blinked red on Damien's security interface.
"We're breached," Nora snapped, instantly pulling out a concealed blade.
Damien tapped the panel. "Level 4 lockdown. Engage defense protocols."
The penthouse shifted instantly—blinds sealed, magnetic locks clamped, and silent turrets activated in the corridor.
But someone had already gotten in.
A dart whistled past Nora's cheek, embedding itself in the wall.
She dropped to the floor, rolled, and flung a blade across the room. A grunt followed.
"Two more on the balcony," Damien called, diving for the concealed compartment beneath the rug.
A flurry of movement followed—steel against steel, fists meeting flesh, silence shattered by grunts and sharp impacts.
Minutes later, it was over.
Three men lay unconscious—or worse.
Damien crouched beside one and pulled a small patch from his wrist.
"Encrypted emblem," he muttered. "Belongs to Blackridge's elite shadow unit."
"They're escalating," Nora said grimly.
"No," Damien replied. "They're desperate."
He looked out into the rain-soaked skyline again, his reflection fragmented in the shattered mirror beside him.
Because ghosts never stayed buried. Especially not the ones wearing your own face.