There's a name I've been hearing lately—a name that makes my blood run cold. Every whisper, every hushed conversation in the dark corners of the city, all lead back to him. A ghost from my past. A man I thought was gone, buried under the weight of time and regret.
But ghosts don't stay dead. Not in this world.
His name is Soren, and he's not just anyone. He was my mentor. My tormentor. The one who took me in when I was nothing, shaped me into something lethal, and then discarded me when I no longer fit his vision. The one who taught me how to kill—how to carve a life out of violence and precision. The one who broke me before I could rebuild myself.
I find him in a decaying mansion on the outskirts of the city, a place where the walls are thick with mildew and the air hums with the ghosts of past sins. No one comes here unless they want to disappear. It's fitting. Soren has always had a taste for the macabre, for theatrics that mask the cold pragmatism underneath. His sanctuary is crawling with hired muscle, men who have no idea what real monsters look like. They think they're dangerous. They think they matter.
They don't.
I move through them like a shadow, cutting them down with practiced ease. Their deaths are quick, clean, efficient. No wasted movement, no hesitation. By the time I reach the study, my blade is warm in my hand, a silent witness to the bodies left behind.
Soren is there, hunched over a desk littered with maps and documents, his fingers tracing over faded ink and battle plans. He doesn't look up when I enter. He doesn't need to.
"Did you think I would stay gone forever?" My voice is steady, but the air crackles with old wounds, with everything left unsaid.
Soren finally lifts his gaze, his lips curling into something that is neither a smile nor a smirk, but a thing in between. Amused. Appraising. "You've come far," he says, his voice still the same—calm, controlled, surgical. "But you're still the same. Weak. A shadow of the person you could have been."
Anger flares in my chest, hot and consuming, but I don't let it surface. He wants a reaction. He always did. He wants to see if I'm still the child he forged in blood and discipline. But I am no longer that person. Not anymore.
"I'm not here for your games," I reply, taking a step closer. "I'm here to end this."
Soren exhales through his nose, a quiet acknowledgment. He rises from his chair slowly, like he has all the time in the world, like he isn't staring at his own death. There's no fear in his eyes. Only calculation. He's weighing my stance, the grip on my weapon, the distance between us.
Then, he nods, just once. "Show me."
I don't hesitate.
The knife in my hand is the same one I used for my first kill. The same one he placed in my grip all those years ago, guiding my hand through flesh and sinew, whispering lessons of pain and power. Now, it moves with a will of its own, slipping into his side before he can react. The blade sinks deep, finding home between ribs, puncturing something vital. His breath hitches, and for the first time, something flickers in his expression—recognition. Maybe even pride. But then it's gone, lost to the weight of his failing body.
He staggers, hands grasping for purchase on the edge of the desk. Blood pools between us, dark and thick, soaking into the papers that once held his plans. His fingers twitch like they want to reach for me, to hold on to something familiar, but I step back.
"You were always a tool," I whisper, watching as the light dims in his eyes. "And now you're just another corpse."
He doesn't respond. He can't.
The mansion is silent as I leave, save for the distant echoes of the past pressing in from the walls. Another ghost buried. Another name crossed off my list.
But ghosts have a habit of coming back. And I know, deep down, that this is far from over.