It was only a matter of time before his higher ups realized a cop had been kidnapped and was still lost.
"Fuck," Thorne muttered, pulling out his pack of cigarettes with shaking fingers.
Thorne brought the cigarette to his lips and flicked the lighter.
Nothing.
He tried again. The flame sputtered, then died. His hands were shaking more than he wanted to admit.
A flame appeared in front of him.
For a split second, he didn't react. Then he leaned in, letting the cigarette catch. He exhaled softly and began to raise his head.
"Thanks," he said, then stopped.
The badge caught his eye first. His expression changed immediately.
Already? They were quicker than he had thought. Way quicker. His higher-ups were already on this case, and that meant questions, questions he wasn't ready to answer.
The newcomer didn't say much. Just gestured with his head and started walking.
Thorne followed.
They moved through the crime scene together, step by step. The newcomer's eyes missed nothing, shell casings, entry angles, blood trails. Every pause felt deliberate, every silence heavy. Thorne could feel the weight of suspicion growing with each minute they spent walking the compound.
Eventually, the pressure became unbearable.
Thorne stopped. He took a long drag from his cigarette, then let out a breath that felt like surrender.
"There's something you need to know," he said.
The newcomer turned to face him.
Thorne hesitated only a moment longer before speaking again.
"One of ours is missing," he admitted. "A cop. Taken sometime before this went down."
The words hung in the air.
Thorne already knew it was too late to pull them back and to pull away away from his lack of duty, he added something that would pull attention immediately "This cop may have something to do with ghost"
The newcomer stared at him in silence. After a long moment, they reached into their coat, pulled out their phone, and made a call without turning away.
That was when Thorne knew the situation had just escalated.
A week passed.
John stayed in his apartment "recuperating." Meanwhile, the city around him simmered.
The streets were restless. Police cars filled them day and night, lights flashing, engines idling. Gangs were out too, watching, listening, moving carefully. They avoided each other when possible, because they all shared the same priority.
Him.
For now, Ghost was the only target that mattered.
Yet to everyone's frustration, nothing surfaced.
No sightings. No reliable tips. No footage.
It was as if John had vanished.
Every feed that could have caught him, every camera, street lens, private system had come up empty.
This was John's doing.
Through his IBM, he worked while his body remained still. He couldn't move, but his ghost could. And through them, he retraced his steps, combing through the city's digital veins. Any camera that might have captured his figure was identified, accessed, and quietly dealt with. Footage corrupted. Logs erased. Angles blinded.
All the while, he kept watch.
John gave himself a week to deal with the gang.
Only a week.
He had one month left to find his mentor in a city this large, and he wasn't about to waste unnecessary time. Every day spent lingering was a day lost, another chance for the trail to go cold.
This coming week would be different.
He planned to be more subtle quiet. The first night had been rowdy, but not without reason. The noise, the mess, the attention it gathered all of it existed to cover a flaw in his actions. A gap that would have stood out if anyone from the League decided to look too closely. Something that needed to be resolved quickly and decisively, even if it meant drawing eyes.
Now that loophole was closed.
With his objective fulfilled, there was no longer any need for excess. No reason to rush or leave behind evidence of force. From here on out, every movement would be deliberate, every action measured.
He would move as he was trained to.
A week wasn't enough time for full recovery. The wounds still ached, still pulled when he moved too quickly. But they no longer hindered him. The pain was manageable.
Tonight, he would act.
Night fell quickly.
John stood overlooking his next target location, the city spread beneath him in muted lights and distant noise. Somewhere behind him, his tracer still followed, persistent as ever.
This time, John didn't pay him any mind.
From this point forward, his actions would no longer appear abnormal.
They would look exactly like the work of a trained assassin.
Like usual, John scouted the place before making any move.
Despite everything that had been happening, business hadn't stopped for the gang. Operations continued as normal or as normal as they could manage under pressure. Men moved with purpose, eyes sharp, weapons never far from reach. They were busy, but vigilant.
As always, John checked for sniper positions first. It was a common tactic for this gang, one they relied on heavily. This time, though, they were better. Smarter. The usual vantage points were empty, and the angles felt wrong.
Harder to locate.
He had IBM get closer and be more thorough.
The tech had been upgraded.
The snipers were there, he was sure of it, but they were blended almost perfectly into their surroundings. Some form of camouflage tech, advanced enough to distort outlines and break silhouettes. Not invisible, but close enough to be dangerous.
It seemed the gang was going all out to deal with him.
John wasn't particularly shocked. The world he lived in now was ridiculous in its own way, a place where a random individual could turn out to be a genius, or where impossible technology surfaced without warning. And this wasn't just any group. They were an underground gang with reach, resources, and connections. Equipment like this would be difficult to obtain, but not impossible.
Still, it made him more wary, it changed how he viewed this fight.
A week could be a long time in this world. Long enough for things to escalate. Long enough for unexpected variables to appear.
Even something as troublesome as a hired superpowered mercenary.
And that was a problem he couldn't afford to underestimate.
John had his ghost standby as he moved to deal with the snipers. This time he has to deal with them alone as someone was watching.
John adjusted his route accordingly.
He moved low and slow, never crossing open ground unless the angles were dead. When he reached the first position, the sniper never knew he'd been compromised. John came in from beneath the sightline, hands precise, removing the man without a sound. He eased the body down, careful not to disturb the rifle's placement.
No shot fired.
The second sniper was more alert. John could tell by the tension in his posture, the way his breathing hitched whenever movement passed below. Still, vigilance meant nothing if it was aimed the wrong way. John approached from behind, timing his movement between breaths. One sharp motion, clean and final.
The last sniper proved harder to deal with, almost like he knew John was coming, his movement showed that but unfortunately all this was already seen with John's IBM.
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