The tuxedo felt more like a cage than any prison cell I had ever occupied. The starch of the white shirt was stiff against my neck, and the silk lapels of the jacket shimmered under the crystal chandeliers of the Aegis Grand Ballroom. To the five hundred people in this room—politicians, billionaires, and socialites—I was Oliver Thompson, the golden son who had returned from the dead to claim his empire.
But as I adjusted my cufflinks, I felt the phantom weight of a mask in my pocket. My knuckles, hidden by white gloves, were still tender from last night's patrol.
"Stop adjusting your sleeves, Oliver. You'll look nervous," a soft voice whispered beside me.
I turned, and for a moment, the air left my lungs. Emily was standing there, radiant in a deep emerald silk gown that matched the color of her eyes. Her hair was swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck—the same neck I had been inches away from just twenty-four hours ago in the library.
The memory of the kiss hit me like a physical blow. The silence of the morning, the awkwardness at breakfast, and then William's bombshell revelation—it all swirled together in my mind.
"You look... incredible," I managed to say, my voice sounding like it had been dragged over gravel.
Emily blushed, a faint pink creeping up her cheeks. She stepped closer, sliding her arm through mine. "We have a role to play, remember? The perfect couple. The united family. William is already at the tech booth, and Ethan is... well, you know where Ethan is."
I glanced at my watch. 19:30. The gala was officially starting. Across the city, in a cold, damp shipping yard, Ethan was currently pulling a black hood over his head.
"Let's go give them a show," I said, patting her hand.
The ballroom was a sea of false smiles and expensive perfume. I spent the first hour shaking hands with men whose names I had once seen on a target list. I smiled at the Mayor, nodded to the Chief of Police, and kept my eyes moving.
Every time I caught Emily's eye, I felt a jolt of electricity. We were pretending to be a couple for the sake of the cameras, but the way she leaned into me, the way her hand lingered on my shoulder—it didn't feel like acting. It felt like a confession we weren't allowed to speak out loud.
"Mr. Thompson! A word?"
I turned to see a cluster of reporters. Behind them, standing near the champagne fountain, was a figure that made the hair on my neck stand up.
Detective Sarah Vance.
She wasn't in a tuxedo or a gown. She wore a sharp, charcoal-grey suit, her badge clipped to her belt, partially hidden by her blazer. She wasn't drinking. She was watching me with the intensity of a hawk watching a mouse.
"Excuse me," I whispered to Emily. "The hunter is here."
Emily's grip on my arm tightened. "Be careful, Andrew."
I walked toward Vance, a polite, corporate smile plastered on my face. "Detective Vance. I didn't realize the NYPD had a budget for charity galas. Or did you sneak in through the service entrance?"
Vance didn't smile. She stepped into my personal space, ignoring the surrounding guests. "I don't need a ticket for a crime scene, Thompson. And tonight, the whole city is becoming one."
"Is that so? It looks quite peaceful from here."
"That's because you're looking at the lights," Vance said, leaning in. "But I'm looking at the shadows. My teams are stationed at the rail yards, the power plant, and the old library. We got a tip that your 'friend'—the one who likes to leave notes—is going to make an appearance tonight."
"Hotdog?" I laughed, the sound hollow in my chest. "The urban legend? Surely you have better things to do than chase ghosts, Detective."
Suddenly, Vance's radio chirped. She pulled it from her belt, her eyes never leaving mine.
"Dispatch to Vance. We have a sighting. Black-clad figure spotted on the roof of the East Side Power Plant. Moving fast. Requesting backup."
Vance's eyes widened. She stared at me, then at the radio. I remained perfectly still, my expression one of mild, confused interest.
"Vance here. Proceed with caution. Do not—"
Another voice broke through, frantic. "Vance! This is unit 42 at the Brooklyn Library. We have a visual! He's here! He just dropped a smoke pellet and disappeared into the vents!"
I checked my watch, making sure the cameras caught the movement. "Two sightings at once? Your ghost seems to be quite busy tonight, Detective. And yet, here I am, standing right in front of you, drinking overpriced cider."
Vance was vibrating with rage. She knew. She knew I was behind it, but the math didn't add up. I was here. The sightings were miles apart.
"You think you're smart," she hissed. "You think this little light show clears you. But I know what I saw on that windshield. I know who you're protecting."
She glanced over at Emily, who was watching us from a distance.
"Stay away from her, Vance," I said, the corporate mask slipping for a fraction of a second. My voice was a low growl that belonged to the streets, not the ballroom.
"Or what?" she challenged. "You'll leave me a note?"
Before I could respond, a third call came in. The big one.
"All units, we have a 10-31 at the North Rail Yards. A shipment of illegal munitions has been intercepted. Suspect is on the move. He left a signature. Repeat: Hotdog was here."
Vance looked like she wanted to scream. She looked at me, her face pale. I was the only person in the world who could be her suspect, but I was currently the most public person in the city.
"Enjoy the party, Detective," I said, raising my glass. "I hear the caviar is excellent."
Vance stormed out of the ballroom, her team following her like a wake of vultures. I stood there for a moment, the adrenaline finally starting to fade, replaced by a deep, aching exhaustion.
I felt a hand on my back. It was William. He had slipped out of the tech booth and was standing behind me, looking like the picture of innocence.
"The drones are returning to base," William whispered. "Ethan is clear. He's heading back to the precinct to 'check in' on the reports. The diversion worked, Andrew."
"He's not safe yet," I said. "Vance is going to double down. She doesn't like being humiliated."
"Let her hunt," William said. "While she's looking for three ghosts, we're building a kingdom."
I looked across the room at Emily. She was talking to a group of doctors, but her eyes kept drifting back to me. She looked relieved, but also... distant.
I walked over to her, ignoring the stares of the crowd.
"It's over for tonight," I said softly.
"Is it?" Emily asked, her voice trembling slightly. "Andrew, I saw the way you looked at that Detective. You weren't Oliver Thompson. You were him. The man from the alleys."
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
"We need to talk," she whispered. "Not about the mission. Not about the company. About... us. About the library."
I looked at the cameras, the lights, and the hundreds of people watching us. We were the most powerful family in the city, but in that moment, I felt like the loneliest man alive.
"Not here," I said. "Let's go home."
As we walked out of the gala, the flashes of the paparazzi cameras felt like lightning. To the world, we were the perfect survivors. But as the doors of the limousine closed, I realized that the real war wasn't against the Obsidian Circle or Detective Vance.
The real war was the one happening inside this car, between the man I had to be and the man she wanted me to be.
"Andrew," Emily said, her hand reaching for mine in the dark.
I took it. Her skin was warm, a sharp contrast to the cold night air.
"I'm not going to stop, Emily," I said, my voice steady. "I can't. The city isn't clean yet."
"I know," she whispered, leaning her head on my shoulder. "That's what scares me. Because if you don't stop, eventually, the ghost is the only thing that will be left of you."
I closed my eyes, the scent of her perfume filling the small space. Outside, the sirens were still wailing, chasing a 'Hotdog' that didn't exist.
But inside, the heart of the ghost was beating faster than it ever had before.