CHAPTER 120: 120

In his entire career, he had never once heard the name Blue Vipers whispered in the underworld, never seen their mark, never crossed their trail.

As the world’s biggest and most feared assassin group, the Phantoms prided themselves on knowing every corner of the underworld.

Their reach spread farther than governments, their network wider than corporations.

No syndicate, no mercenary cell, no shadow organization slipped past their eyes.

Yet here was a gang—small on the surface, nothing but street rats in comparison—bearing a mark, moving in silence, and somehow Bishop had never heard of them.

Not a whisper. Not a trace.

The thought unsettled him, clawing at the back of his mind.

How could insects like these exist beneath his radar?

How could they move so quietly, with connections stretched across borders, without leaving even a ripple in the Phantoms’ intelligence web?

He dragged one of the members into the shadows of a deserted alley, his fist slamming hard beneath the man’s nose.

Blood sprayed, and the man groaned, clutching his face. Bishop’s voice was low, dangerous, each word edged with steel.

Bishop’s grip tightened on the man’s collar, dragging him upright. His voice was ice-cold, each word deliberate.

"Who do you answer to? And how does your gang work? Why have we never heard of you before?"

The man coughed, his blood staining Bishop’s glove, but there was no humor in his face—only a strange mixture of dread and resignation.

"You shouldn’t have..." he rasped, "...found us."

His eyes darted sideways, as if even the shadows themselves might be listening.

"We don’t show ourselves. That’s the rule. We blend in, disappear. Small on the surface, but... stretched everywhere. Always watching, never seen."

Bishop’s frown deepened. "That doesn’t answer my question. Who gives the orders?"

The man’s body stiffened, the defiance returning despite the pain. "We answer to Boss.

No one else. Not syndicates, not governments, not even the underworld dares to cross him.

That’s why you’ve never heard of us—we keep quiet, just as he demands. Anyone who leaks... anyone who betrays..."

His voice cracked, fear seeping through. "...they don’t live to see another sunrise."

The man wheezed, trembling but defiant, as though fear of Bishop was nothing compared to what waited behind him.

His words came broken, choked, but steady.

"We... we stay quiet. No one notices us. That’s how it’s always been.

The words struck Bishop heavier than he expected. This wasn’t the arrogance of a small-time gang member.

This was devotion—fearful devotion. Whoever their boss was, his control ran so deep that even under torture, the men clung to silence.

Bishop’s fist crashed into the man’s jaw again, blood spraying against the wall. His voice thundered, low but edged with raw fury.

"Where is your boss?"

The man shook his head, trembling, lips quivering though he tried to stay silent.

But Bishop wasn’t having it—his patience had already run dry. He could feel the weight of vengeance burning in his chest, heavy, unrelenting.

He had to avenge his boss. There was no room for mercy.

At last, the man broke. His words came out between ragged breaths, half sobs, half confessions.

"We... we don’t know... he never tells us his location. We’ve never seen his face. He always... he always wears a mask."

Bishop’s eyes darkened.

He pulled the crumpled photograph from his coat, shoving it in front of the man’s swollen eyes.

"This man. Do you know him?"

The answer came, desperate but certain. "No. None of us do. I swear it."

Bishop tested them, one after another.

Every corner of the world, every hideout, every member of the Blue Vipers he dragged from the shadows—each faced the same photograph, each gave the same answer.

Their terror was real, their confusion genuine.

One by one, Bishop hunted them down, cutting through their ranks until nothing but silence remained.

Not a single face matched the man from the footage. Not a single thread led to the truth.

Only the leader remained. The faceless boss.

A ghost in the underworld.

So Bishop began to pursue him.

Tireless, merciless—he tore through every lead, every whisper, until the faceless phantom of the Blue Vipers’ boss was all that remained.

And then fate, in its cruel irony, turned the blade.

It did not give them the assassin. It gave them someone they had already buried.

Luna.

The very name unraveled them. The thought of her alive sent a violent tremor through their souls.

When the distress signals crackled on their jammers that night, Knight and Hunter froze.

For a breathless moment they were convinced it was a trick, some cruel mimicry meant to rattle them.

Because everyone knew that signal. It belonged to only one person.

Their very dead Boss.

The internationally feared, the whispered phantom of the underworld—Hades A.K.A Luna..

But how the hell was that possible?

Perched high on a discreet mountaintop, Knight and Hunter exchanged a look that said what neither dared to voice.

At first, they believed someone was playing a dangerous game, mocking their grief with a signal that should not exist.

Yet when they called Jeremiah, the truth detonated like a bomb in their chests—Boss was alive. Bishop also knew. Only they didn’t.

Every instinct screamed to abandon everything, to run headlong to her.

To see her with their own eyes, to hear her voice, to believe and ask her why she hadn’t informed them that she was alive.

But Bishop intercepted them before they could take a step.

"Stay on mission," his voice was iron. "Whatever you’re doing, finish it. She’ll call you when it’s time."

It was not that Luna didn’t want to see them—that much they understood.

If she hadn’t revealed herself, then she was onto something far bigger, far more dangerous.

She would come to them when the time was right.

And her men, loyal to the bone, knew better than anyone what that meant. They would wait.

But for Hunter, joy was poisoned by doubt. The memory clawed at him relentlessly.

He had seen it with his own eyes—the fire that devoured everything, the black smoke choking the sky.

He had seen the charred remains lowered into the earth. The earth had closed over her coffin, final and absolute.

Not only that—on the video too. They had watched it frame by frame, their eyes burning, their breaths shallow.

And nowhere, not once, had they seen anyone walk out.

The fire had swallowed everything, leaving nothing but collapsing steel and smoke.

If someone had escaped, the camera would have caught it. But it hadn’t.

They had seen the shadows of people inside, and then nothing—just the blaze consuming it all.

If Luna had lived... how?

The question carved into him like a knife.

His fists curled as the elite forces closed in, the question burning in his mind like a brand.

Only Luna herself could answer it.