The rain in the city didn’t wash things clean; it only smeared the grime into new, intricate patterns. It was the kind of night that felt like a bruise—heavy, dark, and throbbing with a low-frequency dread.

The sleek, low-profile speedboat cut through the freezing harbor waves like a black knife, its engine muffled to a low hum. Up ahead, towering out of the fog like a steel leviathan, was the Star of Antioch. The massive freighter was slowly pulling up its anchor chains, preparing to depart.

Vance killed the engine, letting the momentum carry the small boat silently against the rusted hull of the freighter. He attached a magnetic grappling hook to the railing above and ascended the line with terrifying, practiced speed.

He crested the railing, slipping over the edge and landing softly on the main deck. The ship was bustling with cartel mercenaries, securing the cargo holds for the journey. Vance didn't have time for stealth anymore. He had to stop the ship from reaching international waters.

He moved like a force of nature. He engaged the first three mercenaries with suppressed fire before they even registered his presence, dropping them to the deck. As alarms began to blare across the ship, Vance drew his karambit, engaging a fourth man in close quarters, slipping under the man's rifle barrel and driving the pommel of his blade into the guard's temple.

He fought his way across the deck, a whirlwind of calculated, brutal efficiency. He wasn't fueled by anger; he was fueled by absolute, unyielding focus. He reached the bridge, kicking the heavy steel doors open.

Standing by the helm, clutching a heavy shotgun, was Silas. The enforcer was heavily bandaged beneath his coat, moving stiffly from the gunshot wound to his armor, but his eyes burned with manic desperation.

"You just don't know when to die!" Silas roared, firing the shotgun.

Vance dove behind the heavy steel navigation console as buckshot shredded the glass windows above him. "The Commodore knows everything, Silas! You're a dead man walking!"

"Then I'll take you to hell with me!" Silas pumped the shotgun, advancing slowly.

Vance knew he couldn't outgun the shotgun in a narrow corridor. He unclipped a flashbang grenade from his vest, pulled the pin, and tossed it blindly over the console.

BANG.

The blinding flash of light and deafening boom disoriented Silas for exactly one second, but a second was all Vance needed. He vaulted over the console, tackling Silas to the steel grating.

The two men engaged in a savage, grinding melee. Silas was stronger, but Vance was faster and fighting for his humanity. Silas wrapped his massive hands around Vance’s throat, squeezing with crushing force.

Vance’s vision blurred, but he didn't panic. He reached down to his boot, drawing a secondary, smaller blade he kept hidden. With a violent thrust, he drove the knife directly into the juncture of Silas’s shoulder and neck.

Silas bellowed in agony, his grip releasing. Vance spun away, grabbing the shotgun Silas had dropped. He racked the slide and pointed it directly at the enforcer’s chest.

Silas fell to his knees, clutching his neck, blood pouring through his fingers. He looked up at Vance, a grim, bloody smile on his face. "Go ahead, Ghost. Do it. Prove you're just a killer like me."

Vance held the gun steady. His finger hovered over the trigger. The ghosts of his past screamed for blood, begging him to pull it. But he thought of Elias, the gentle clockmaker who had shown him kindness when he was a monster.