The air in Vienna bit colder than Ethan remembered. It wasn't the kind of cold that stung the skin — it was quieter, heavier, the kind that pressed down on the lungs and made every breath feel borrowed. The streets gleamed under scattered raindrops, the city's old-world charm wrapped in mist and melancholy.
He moved with purpose, collar up, gloved hands hidden. Every reflection in the glass storefronts made him flinch a little — not from fear, but from instinct. Mirrors always felt wrong to him lately. Sometimes, when he caught his reflection too long, it didn't feel like him staring back.
A faint hum crackled in his ear.
> "You sure this guy's still alive?"
Lena's voice was sharp, laced with static and impatience.
> "Matthias Krüger doesn't die easily," Ethan murmured. "He used to be Division 7's cleanup man."
> "Used to be. People like that don't retire. They vanish."
"Then let's see which one he chose."
The café was three blocks away — Café Weisse Nacht, a narrow little place tucked between a bookstore and an antique shop. Ethan slowed as he neared it, scanning windows, rooftops, parked cars. No snipers. No tails. Still, his instincts didn't rest.
He entered quietly.
Warm jazz hummed through a speaker in the corner. A few locals lingered over coffee and quiet conversation, the kind of late-hour crowd that had nothing left to lose. Smoke hung in the air, golden under the lamplight.
Behind the counter stood a man with a bald head, thick beard, and pale blue eyes that saw too much. He was cleaning a glass, but his hands froze the moment he looked up.
> "We're closed," the man said in German, his accent too refined for a simple barkeep.
Ethan removed his gloves and took a seat anyway. "Then call it a private reservation."
A pause. Then, faintly, recognition softened the man's expression.
> "Ethan Ward," he said slowly. "You were supposed to be dead."
Ethan smirked. "I get that a lot."
The man — Matthias Krüger, once known as Agent Kron — sighed, poured coffee, and slid it across the counter. "You shouldn't have come. Not here. Not to me."
Ethan sipped, grimacing. "Still brew it like motor oil. Thought you'd have refined your taste by now."
Matthias ignored the jab. "Division 7 doesn't forget their ghosts. You bring heat with you."
"I'm not looking for trouble."
"Then you're in the wrong life."
They sat in silence for a moment, only the faint saxophone filling the gap. Finally, Ethan leaned forward.
> "Project STRAY. You were there when it started."
Matthias's eyes flickered. "You shouldn't even know that name."
"Then you know why I'm asking."
Matthias exhaled, glancing toward the window. His voice dropped low. "They told me it was a memory-stabilization program. A way to rewrite the mental trauma of agents who'd seen too much. But it wasn't therapy, Ethan. It was erasure. Division 7 wasn't healing its agents — it was replacing them."
Ethan's stomach tightened. "Replacing?"
Matthias nodded slowly. "Synthetic memory grafts. Layered consciousness. They called it construct replication. You think you're Ethan Ward because the file says so. But are you sure you remember your first mission, or the memory they uploaded into your head?"
Ethan's hand tightened around the coffee cup. "I remember everything."
"Do you?" Matthias asked softly. "Or do you just remember what they wanted you to?"
Ethan opened his mouth — then froze.
Outside, two men in dark coats crossed the street, reflections flickering in the rain-slick glass. Their steps were too measured. Their eyes moved too much.
> "Matthias," he said quietly, "how long have they been watching you?"
Matthias's eyes darkened. "They don't watch me. They watch everyone who comes through that door."
The front door clicked open.
Two masked men entered, silenced pistols drawn.
Ethan flipped the table, pulling Matthias down as bullets tore through the café. Glass shattered, chairs splintered, the jazz cut to a sickening feedback loop. Civilians screamed and dove for cover.
Ethan moved fast — years of instinct packed into seconds. He fired once, dropping the nearest gunman, then rolled behind the counter. The second assailant pinned him down, bullets slicing through the espresso machine, steam hissing around them.
Matthias crawled toward the back door, clutching his shoulder. "There's an exit—!"
The surviving shooter turned and fired — a clean shot, grazing Matthias's arm. Ethan rose from behind the counter and fired twice. The man crumpled, lifeless.
For a moment, all that remained was the hiss of steam and the sound of Ethan's ragged breathing.
He knelt beside Matthias, pressing his coat against the wound. "You're fine. Just a graze."
Matthias coughed, blood speckling his beard. "You… shouldn't have come."
Ethan's jaw clenched. "You said that already."
Matthias gripped Ethan's wrist. "They didn't just copy your memories. They made others. You weren't the only one."
Ethan's pulse pounded. "What do you mean?"
Matthias's lips trembled. "There were seven. Seven Strays. You were Prototype Three."
The world seemed to tilt. For a second, Ethan couldn't breathe.
"I'm—what?"
"Find… the Archivist," Matthias whispered. "He holds the truth. The names. The original memories. Find him… before they find you."
Ethan leaned closer. "Where—"
A single gunshot cracked the air.
The window exploded behind them. Blood splattered across Ethan's hands. Matthias went still.
Ethan dropped flat, dragging the body down. The distant echo of a rifle faded into the night.
> "Lena!" he barked into his comm. "Trace that shot!"
> "Already trying! Rooftop, east sector, 300 meters. You've got a high-caliber signature — military-grade suppressor. You need to move!"
Ethan grabbed his gun and bolted for the back door. Rain pounded the alleyway as he burst through, glass crunching under his boots. He sprinted for cover, bullets tearing into the brick wall beside him.
> "Lena, jam their frequency!"
> "On it! Five seconds!"
"Make it three!"
He dashed toward a fire escape, climbed fast. At the roof, the rain came down harder, drumming against the metal. A faint glint caught his eye — a figure on the opposite rooftop, lowering a rifle. Ethan aimed — fired — missed. The sniper vanished into the darkness.
Then his phone buzzed. Unknown number.
He hesitated. Then answered.
A distorted voice, calm and cold, slid through the static.
> "You were never meant to wake up, Stray."
Ethan's heart stopped. "Who is this?"
> "You're not supposed to exist. The one they built wasn't supposed to remember."
"What do you mean built?"
Silence. Then, faintly —
> "Sleep, ghost. The world's safer when you're dead."
The line went dead.
Ethan stood there, the city stretching out beneath him — wet rooftops, neon lights bleeding through the fog. He looked down at his reflection in a puddle, the rain distorting his face into something unrecognizable.
Was he still Ethan Ward? Or just a shadow of the man he used to be?
Lena's voice cut back through his earpiece, softer this time.
> "Ethan… you okay?"
He didn't answer for a long time.
Finally, he whispered, "Get me everything you can on someone called the Archivist."
> "Got it. You're not sleeping tonight, are you?"
"Dead agents don't dream."
He holstered his pistol, took one last look at the blood-streaked café below, and vanished into the mist-covered rooftops of Vienna — a ghost chasing the memory of the man he might never have been.