Moscow, Russia. 2011.
The Moscow River was a vein of black glass, churning sluggishly beneath the weight of a thousand years of history. Along the stone embankment bordering the Kremlin, the night air was thick—not just with the biting chill of a Russian spring, but with the invisible tension of a city that had spent decades perfecting the art of the secret.
Evan Cross walked with a measured, rhythmic gait that spoke of deep, subconscious conditioning. Every step was deliberate. His leather heels struck the pavement with a crisp click-clack that echoed against the red-brick fortifications of the citadel to his left. He wasn't just walking; he was measuring the world. He was calculating the distance to the nearest cover, the line of sight from the shadowed windows above, and the reaction time of the two Russian police officers patrolling the far end of the bridge.
To a casual observer, he was a striking figure. He had the kind of brooding, cinematic handsomeness that drew immediate, hushed comparisons to a young Keanu Reeves—sharp jawline, dark, intense eyes, and a mop of black hair that the river wind seemed determined to ruffle. He wore a black wool overcoat over a tailored suit so dark it seemed to absorb the dim yellow glow of the streetlamps. He looked like old money from the East Coast, but the way his eyes constantly flicked toward the shadows suggested he knew exactly how much blood that money cost.
Across the water, the "Shipbuilding Bank" sign bled harsh, crimson LED light onto the river's surface. Evan stared at the flickering letters, his mind drifting back to the sheer, vertigo-inducing absurdity of his existence.
In another life—a life that felt like a fading photograph tucked into the back of a drawer—he had been a different man entirely. He remembered the grey skies of Chicago, the smell of cheap diner coffee, and the relentless, exhausting grind of trying to make it in a world that didn't care if he lived or died. He had survived the indifferent walls of a state-run orphanage, worked three jobs to put himself through a mid-tier university, and finally started a tech firm that was actually turning a profit. He'd been on the verge of the "American Dream"—the house in the suburbs, the car, the status that would finally make the world look him in the eye.
Then came the truck. The screech of tires on a rainy night in Manhattan. The sudden, violent end of a world.
When he opened his eyes again, his old life was a ghost. In its place were the cold, clinical memories of a man named Evan Cross—a man who had never existed for himself, but only for the state.
The "original" Evan had been a void, a human blank slate. Another orphan, another soul slipped through the cracks of the foster system, only to be scooped up by the CIA's recruitment net before he'd even hit puberty. They hadn't wanted a person; they'd wanted a tool. They had broken him down in secret black-site bases in Virginia and the Nevada desert, rebuilding him into a master of "irregular solutions." He had been molded until his personality was a series of masks he could swap as easily as a tie.
Then, the IMF—the Impossible Mission Force—had come knocking.
Born from the paranoid depths of the Cold War, the IMF was a ghost organization. They weren't an agency; they were a shadow that reported directly to the Oval Office. But even ghosts have bureaucracy. Years of friction between the CIA's blunt-force trauma and the IMF's surgical finesse had led to a diplomatic compromise written in blood and deniability: The "Joint Charter Agreement."
The two most powerful intelligence machines in the Western world needed a bridge—a "Liaison Officer" who could navigate the friction when their missions inevitably collided.
Evan was that bridge. In the IMF's redacted servers, he was a senior field operative with no fingerprints. In the CIA's Special Operations Division, he was a Tier 3 asset with "Special Access" clearance. He was the man who cleaned up the mess when the two giants stepped on each other's toes. He was a double-edged sword that belonged to no one, and because of that, everyone watched him.
To polish the blade, they'd even sent him to the University of Pennsylvania for two years. It wasn't just for a degree; it was a finishing school. He learned how to blend into high society, how to speak the language of power, and how to look at home in a five-thousand-dollar suit while concealing a ceramic blade in his sleeve.
It's a movie, Evan thought, his fingers twitching toward a phantom cigarette. I've landed in a world made of celluloid, spy tropes, and high-octane paranoia.
He knew the names in his head. Ethan Hunt. William Brandt. The IMF. But his memories of the "films" from his past life were frustratingly hazy—like trying to watch a pirated DVD through a thick layer of static. He knew the world was dangerous, he knew the players, but he didn't have the full script. He was improvising in a world where a missed cue usually meant a bullet to the brain.
A low, dull vibration pulsed against his ribs.
Evan didn't flinch. He didn't even slow his pace. He merely stepped into the deep shadow of a stone pillar, allowing a laughing, drunken couple to stagger past him toward the bridge. He waited until their voices faded into the wind before retrieving a sleek, black smartphone from his inner pocket.
"United Insurance," a woman's voice said. It was melodic, professional, and entirely devoid of human warmth. "Sir, would you like to learn about Zero Insurance?"
Evan's grip tightened. Zero. His callsign. The trigger word that signaled the end of his "observer" status. His knuckles flashed white under the streetlamps, the only sign of the adrenaline currently spiking in his veins.
"No, thank you," he replied, his voice a cool, American baritone. "I prefer to take my own risks."
He hung up. The signal had been given. Fifty meters ahead, a dilapidated phone booth stood like a rusted sentinel of the Soviet era. Its glass panes were smeared with city grime and half-peeled advertisements for cheap hostels. He stepped inside, the door creaking on rusted hinges that screamed in the quiet night, shutting out the wind and the smell of the river.
The interior smelled of ancient dust, stale tobacco, and ozone. He didn't pick up the receiver. Instead, he reached for the heavy, rotary dial and spun six specific digits in a sequence that would have seemed random to anyone else.
Click.
The face of the phone didn't ring; it groaned and split open. The heavy plastic casing pivoted on a concealed hydraulic hinge, revealing a glowing, high-resolution miniature display embedded in the chassis. Evan leaned in, the faint, high-pitched hum of the electronics filling the cramped booth. A thin line of sterile white light swept across his retina, scanning the unique patterns of his eye.
"Agent confirmed," a synthesized voice whispered.
The screen flashed red, then settled into a cold, clinical white. A file appeared, stamped with a digital seal that carried the weight of the highest authority in the United States.
WELCOME BACK, ZERO.
URGENT NOTICE: THE PRESIDENT HAS SIGNED AND EXECUTED THE GHOST PROTOCOL. THIRTY MINUTES AGO, THE SECRETARY WAS ASSASSINATED IN MOSCOW.
Evan's breath hitched, the air in the booth suddenly feeling very thin. The Secretary is dead? This wasn't just a mission gone sideways; this was the total collapse of the IMF's command structure. If the Secretary was gone and the Protocol was active, the entire organization was being erased from the map.
ACCORDING TO THE JOINT CHARTER, MAXIMUM AUTHORIZATION IS EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. YOU ARE THE ONLY LIAISON REMAINING IN THE MOSCOW SECTOR.
RENDEZVOUS POINT: ALPHA 113. OBJECTIVE: PROVIDE COVER AND EXTRACTION FOR THE ACTIVE IMF TEAM UNDER BENJI DUNN AND ETHAN HUNT.
IF YOU ARE CAPTURED OR KILLED, THE STATE WILL DENY YOUR EXISTENCE. YOU ARE NOW A GHOST OPERATING IN THE VOID.
THIS MESSAGE WILL SELF-DESTRUCT IN FIVE SECONDS.
GOOD LUCK, ZERO.
The countdown began in a pulsing, angry red. 5... 4...
Evan didn't wait for the electronics to fry themselves. He knew the protocol. He coiled his strength, his shoulder tensing, and slammed his elbow into the center of the display with the force of a sledgehammer. There was a muffled thud, followed by a sharp hiss as a chemical charge ignited inside, melting the internals into a useless lump of slag and releasing a thin wisp of white smoke.
He pushed the door open and stepped back into the night. The city felt different now. Every car was a potential threat; every pedestrian was a possible tail. He needed wheels, and he needed them fast.
A battered Lada taxi, its blue paint faded to a dull grey, rumbled down the street. It sounded like a sewing machine filled with gravel, but it was moving. Evan raised a hand in a sharp, authoritative gesture. The car screeched to a halt, the tires protesting against the cold pavement. The driver—a man whose face looked like a topographic map of the Siberian tundra—leaned out the window.
"Where to, comrade?" the man grunted in a heavy Slavic accent.
"The central train station," Evan said, sliding into the back seat. The interior was a time capsule of the 1980s, smelling of cheap tobacco, old vinyl, and pine-scented air freshener that had long since lost its battle against the smell of diesel. "And skip the scenic route. I'm on a deadline that involves a lot of paperwork if I'm late."
The door slammed shut with a metallic thud, and the Lada lurched into the traffic, its engine screaming as it joined the flow of cars heading toward the heart of the city.
As the Kremlin receded in the rearview mirror, Evan leaned back and let his eyes drift closed. He didn't sleep; he went inward. This was the one thing he hadn't told the CIA or the IMF. This was his "Gold Finger"—the strange, RPG-like interface that had appeared the moment his soul had fused with this body. It was his edge in a world of super-spies.
With a silent command, a semi-transparent light screen shimmered into existence in his mind's eye, floating over the back of the driver's seat.
[SYSTEM STATUS: EVAN CROSS]
Constitution: 7/10
(Note: You are in peak physical condition. Your recovery time is 30% faster than a normal human, and your resistance to toxins is heightened.)
Spirit: 8/10
(Note: Exceptional mental fortitude. You are immune to basic interrogation techniques and can maintain focus under extreme psychological stress.)
Attribute Points: 0
Storage Space: 1 Cubic Meter (Empty)
[SKILLS]
Mixed Martial Arts: Lv.4 (Expert - Your body moves with lethal instinct.)
Shooting: Lv.4 (Marksman - 95% accuracy within optimal range.)
Driving: Lv.3 (Professional - High-speed pursuit capable.)
Tracking: Lv.3 (Specialist - You see the trail others miss.)
Language: Lv.2 (Fluent in English, Russian, and Spanish.)
Etiquette: Lv.2 (You can navigate a gala as easily as a gutter.)
Skill Points: 0
[CURRENT OBJECTIVE]
Mission: Ghost Protocol Support
Status: In Progress
Reward: Pending
The "7" in Constitution felt right. He felt fast, strong, and dangerously efficient, but he wasn't a superhero. He couldn't jump off buildings or dodge bullets by magic. He was still flesh and blood. But the "Spirit" at 8—that was his real power. It explained why he wasn't screaming in panic about being a transmigrated soul in a world of high-stakes espionage. He was calm. He was cold. He was ready.
He watched the city lights blur past the window, the neon signs of Moscow reflected in his dark pupils. The Ghost Protocol had been initiated. The IMF was officially dead. The US government had disavowed them to avoid a nuclear war, leaving Ethan Hunt and his team as the most wanted men on the planet.
And Evan Cross was the only man in the world who was authorized to help them—and authorized to put them down if they failed.
He checked the concealed holster at the small of his back, the cold steel of his sidearm a comforting weight. The game had started, and the stakes were nothing less than a global conflagration.
"Alpha 113," he whispered to the empty air of the taxi.
It was time to see if the legends about the Impossible Mission Force were true—and if a ghost from the States could actually save the world before it burned.
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