The screams had stopped ten minutes ago.
Now, there was only the drip.
Not a fast one.
A slow, deliberate one — the kind that marked time, not urgency. It came from the edge of a steel chair, where blood had formed a lip and began its descent in lazy, fatal rhythm. It tapped the concrete like a clock run by the dying, measuring seconds in silence.
The warehouse was tomb-still.
Air clung to the walls, thick with copper, smoke, and old sweat. Rusted beams loom mi ed overhead like broken crucifixes, watching. The floor bore smears and bootprints, old stains layered on new ones. Nothing inside this place had ever been clean. Not the floor. Not the men. Not the truth.
And yet, even in all that rot and residue, this moment was different.
Three men knelt.
One man lay dead.
And something worse was in the room.
The three who knelt didn't speak. Their faces were pulp — raw, swollen, leaking. One had a dislocated shoulder, twitching slightly in its unnatural socket. Another's eye socket had ruptured but not bled. His tears came red. The third — Miguel — trembled like an exposed wire. His breathing was shallow, sharp, panicked. A high-pitched whistle came from his nose where cartilage had collapsed. His hands were tied in front of him, shaking so violently they barely resembled hands at all.
And the fourth?
The fourth had already been dragged away.
Not like a man. Like meat.
He'd died with his eyes open. They stared back from across the floor, two glassy tokens left behind as warning.
There had been no warning shot. No speech. No forgiveness.
Just one bullet, delivered like punctuation.
That was how El Fantasma handled betrayal.
Not with fury. Not with showmanship.
With finality.
That was why they called the Ghost El Fantasma.
Because no one had ever seen their face and lived long enough to say what it looked like.
Because ghosts did not ask.
Ghosts did not bleed.
Ghosts did not speak unless absolutely necessary.
And when they did, the room listened like a church.
Then came the sound. The only one that mattered.
One set of footsteps.
Not heavy. Not fast.
But inevitable.
And then the voice — steady, smooth, indifferent, like a knife being rinsed in water.
"You know what bothers me," the voice said, calm as a sigh, "isn't that you lied. Everyone lies."
The words weren't barked. They were laid down gently. Like tile. Cold. Unavoidable.
"It's that you thought I wouldn't find out."
No one answered. Not because they were unsure what to say, but because they knew that speaking would be the second betrayal.
Miguel's teeth clicked again, now less from cold and more from the terror of being noticed.
A second set of steps, lighter, approached. A lieutenant. He emerged like smoke from the shadows, not daring to meet El's eyes — or where El's eyes might have been. His head was slightly bowed, hands outstretched, palms up like an altar offering.
A flash drive. Bloodstained. Still warm.
El Fantasma didn't look at the man.
Just took the drive.
Pinched it between two black-gloved fingers like a surgeon holding a scalpel.
The Ghost didn't check the data. No need. It had already been verified.
"Banco Nacional," the Ghost said. "Cayman accounts. Shell structure. Routed through Panama twice to look cleaner. Transferred at 2:17 a.m."
The Ghost paused. Not for effect. For accuracy.
"Eight-point-five million."
There was a low, involuntary inhale from one of the men. A sharp one — barely there. It sounded almost like guilt.
El Fantasma turned slightly toward him. The weight of attention alone felt heavier than death.
"Split three ways."
Silence.
Then came the razor:
"Sloppy math."
Miguel whimpered. Just once. Just enough.
"You should've taken the full ten," El continued, voice still surgical. "At least then I'd have respected the ambition."
The silence that followed wasn't quiet. It was tense. Thick with unspoken pleas, prayers, second guesses.
"You think I built this empire on mercy?"
That one wasn't rhetorical.
It was a challenge.
No one answered.
"Wrong."
A pause. Then:
"I built it on fear. And silence."
The gunshot came before the breath after.
One of the kneeling men dropped sideways, like a puppet with its strings cut. Blood fanned out behind him in a delicate arc, like a halo made by a violent god. His skull cracked open on the floor, and something inside sprayed upward, catching the light like glitter.
The other two didn't move.
Didn't scream.
Didn't sob.
Smart.
The moment you begged, you admitted guilt.
El Fantasma stepped closer.
The smell of iron hit like a wall. The scent of blood, sweat, and death pooled at their feet like an offering.
The two remaining men kept their eyes down. Looking up was not an option. Looking up made you remember the Ghost.
And no one who remembered got to speak.
"You'll return the money," El said, soft enough to make the sentence feel like a deadline. "All of it. Plus interest."
A pause.
No nods. No words.
Good.
"If you don't..."
The Ghost let the sentence hang. Behind it, the body still twitched slightly.
"...well. You've already seen the consequences."
Still nothing.
The Ghost turned.
The sound of footsteps felt louder in their wake.
Not because the room had changed.
But because it hadn't.
Each step was final.
Each one proof that the execution had not been the event — only a punctuation mark in a longer sentence.
The cigar burned low between the Ghost's fingers. Ash trailed to the floor, scattered without apology.
At the door, El paused.
Outside, the Sonoran desert was waking. Pale orange light cracked over the mountains in thin, vengeful slivers. Heat shimmered just above the sand. A hawk circled overhead.
Something was coming.
Not death. Not war.
Something worse.