They called him a ghost.
Not because he was unseen—no, Thomas Rider had a presence that made even the boldest pause—but because he never left traces behind. Not a whisper. Not a shadow. Just results. Silent, clean, final.
For over twenty years, he had served under black operations, corporate wars, and hidden agendas. Governments hired him. Corporations feared him. Enemies vanished without a sound. He was a blade in the dark, a whisper before death.
He had mastered every form of killing that man could invent—hand-to-hand, silent weapons, long-range precision. He didn't speak unless necessary. He didn't hesitate. He didn't miss.
But Thomas Rider was human.
And humans make mistakes.
The mission was supposed to be simple. Infiltrate. Recover sensitive documents. Exfiltrate undetected. Nothing Thomas hadn't done a hundred times before. But the moment he stepped into that building, something was wrong.
Too quiet. Too clean. Too easy.
Doors were left open that should've been locked. Hallways were abandoned. No guards. No resistance. His instincts screamed.
Then came the gunfire.
Not from in front.
From behind.
Rider dove behind cover as bullets tore through the walls. Not enemy fire—friendly. Voices he recognized. Faces he'd fought beside. Now aiming to kill.
"Bastards," he hissed, snapping the silencer onto his weapon and returning fire.
This wasn't a betrayal. It was an execution. A sanctioned erasure of someone who knew too much. He had seen files, ops, blackmail rings. He had secrets that could bring down empires.
And for that, he had to die.
He moved like a machine—every step calculated, every bullet finding its mark. Three down. Five more. A knife flew from his sleeve, striking a throat. Blood sprayed. He didn't flinch.
But they had numbers. And explosives. And plans made weeks in advance.
His breath came shorter. His movements slower. Wounds opened on his shoulder and thigh. His pistol clicked empty. He switched to his blade.
More came. More than he could handle.
But Thomas Rider didn't surrender.
Not until the last moment, standing alone in the ruins of a hallway soaked in red, chest rising with effort, surrounded by shadows with guns.
Then he heard it.
A familiar voice.
"Thomas."
He turned. It was Mason, his former handler. Calm, untouched, pointing a pistol at his head.
"You should've disappeared, Rider."
Thomas spat blood, chuckling dryly. "You taught me to survive."
"And I regret it."
Mason stepped forward. "The less you know, the longer you live."
Bang.
The bullet pierced between his eyes.
Silence.
Darkness.
Nothingness.
Until...
A breath.
A scream.
Light.
It wasn't pain. It was pressure. Wet, suffocating warmth. Sounds, blurred and high-pitched. Then cold air, sharp and sudden.
He was born.
Not metaphorically—literally. He was crying, confused, small.
What the hell?
He couldn't move. Couldn't see clearly. He heard voices—soft, female, exhausted.
"So strong... just like his father," she whispered.
Father? he thought. What the fuck is going on?
The midwife spoke. "What shall we name him, my lady?"
A pause. Then the woman—his mother—smiled weakly.
"Thomas… Thomas Black."
And just like that, she died.
Right there, before his tiny eyes, she collapsed. The warmth of her hand faded.
Black?
Thomas's newborn mind reeled.
Like Sirius Black? Like Regulus? No… No, no, no… This isn't real.
But it was.
He had been reborn.
In the world of Harry Potter.