CHAPTER 148: DID YOU KILL THEM ALL?

Another fat man shoved forward from the gang, his gut bouncing against his belt as he pushed aside two of his own men. His voice was rough, drunk with false bravado.

"Hey brat—who the hell are you? Get out of here before I—"

Miles didn’t even turn his head. His eyes stayed locked on the trembling goon, the one already drenched in fear from the memory of broken bones. That silent stare was heavier than any weapon.

The fat man spat on the ground, furious at being ignored. "Oi! I’m talking to you!"

Still no answer.

The fat man’s cheeks burned red. He clenched the metal rod in his hand until it groaned under the strain, then roared—"You—!!"

He flung the rod straight at Miles.

A sudden clang split the air as Miles tilted just slightly, the rod grazing past his sleeve. His cufflink snapped loose and clattered against the pavement.

Miles lowered his gaze. He picked it up carefully between two fingers, brushing the dust away, as if the world had gone completely still.

His voice came calm, almost too calm.

"You know what... my mom gifted me these."

Then he picked up the rod, the steel whining in his grip. He walked towards the fat man. Each step was deliberate.

The fat man swung again, his roar louder this time. But before anyone could even blink—he was on the ground, choking.

Miles had bent the rod with bare hands and jammed it into the concrete. The twisted steel looped like a hook, pinning the man’s thick neck tight against the pavement. His legs kicked weakly, eyes bulging, spit foaming at the corners of his mouth.

The crowd gasped in shock.

Too fast.

No one had even seen when he moved.

Whispers rippled like fire through dry grass.

"W-what did he just—"

"He bent steel... with his hands?"

"That fat idiot’s finished—"

The rest of the gang snarled, their fear mixing with rage. Their weapons clattered as they rushed forward, trying to hide their shaking knees behind brute noise.

But then—

WEE-OOO, WEE-OOO.

The scream of police sirens tore through the air, flashing red-and-blue lights washing over the street.

The gang froze mid-step, glancing around like trapped animals. The crowd parted, murmuring louder now, some already pulling out their phones to record.

Miles still stood calm, his cufflink in one hand, the fat man writhing helplessly under the bent steel at his feet.

The cavalry arrived. Three police cruisers screeched to a halt, their tires burning the asphalt, sirens cutting out with a sharp whine. Behind them, two sleek black sedans pulled in tight formation, stopping clean and deliberate.

Doors slammed open. Armed officers spilled out, weapons raised, formation crisp.

"Arrest them!" Captain Sam barked as he emerged, his voice carrying like steel through the chaos.

The crowd broke into murmurs as the officers swarmed the gang. Metal cuffs clicked shut, chains rattling as one by one the goons were forced to their knees.

But Captain Sam didn’t look at the criminals first. His eyes went straight to Miles. For just a second, his chin lowered, a faint bow of respect in the middle of the street. But not a single word. His face stayed locked in the mask of duty.

Miles read the silence and returned it with his own. Both men understood—the unspoken weight between them.

Then the black sedans’ doors opened.

Out stepped men in black suits, moving with a sharpness that didn’t belong to local muscle. Their shoulders were squared, their shoes polished, their eyes scanning like predators trained to kill. Foreigners, Miles noted instantly. The way they moved—synchronized, disciplined—they weren’t simple guards.

Miles’ gaze narrowed. Sam’s silence wasn’t only respect. It was necessity. If he said anything here, in front of them, it would expose too much.

The suited men walked past Sam’s officers without a word and approached the black car that had been surrounded earlier. The driver, another in matching coat and tie, stepped out first. He bowed slightly—not to the police, not to Sam, but towards the passenger side door.

It opened.

From inside, a woman stepped out, her heels clicking soft against the pavement.

She looked young—mid-twenties, no more. A cascade of silvery-blonde hair framed her sharp features, each movement deliberate, every gesture carrying an almost regal confidence. Her skin was pale against the black of her tailored dress, and her presence was enough to silence even the whispers in the crowd.

But Miles didn’t focus on her face first. His eyes went to her neck.

There, half-covered by the sweep of her hair, glimmered the faint dark ink of a tattoo. The spider web, etched just above her collarbone.

Miles’ pupils narrowed. So she is the one.

Her eyes met his. Cool, piercing, like someone who could peel apart the layers of a man’s soul just by looking too long. But there was no hostility. Instead, she smiled faintly, composed, and walked towards him. The black-suited guards formed a neat V around her, but she didn’t slow.

When she spoke, her voice carried the grace of someone used to being obeyed. Not arrogance—diligence. A tone that demanded to be taken seriously.

"Hello," she said, almost like she was greeting a dignitary. "I am Thea. Thank you for helping me there."

Miles didn’t flinch. He smiled back, polite but unreadable.

"I’m Miles. It was nothing."

Behind them, Captain Sam straightened his shoulders and stepped forward. His words came clipped, professional.

"Mr. Miles, please don’t be reckless next time. They’re a local gang. They could target you later."

Miles understood instantly. Sam wasn’t rebuking him. He was playing his part. Playing the officer in front of foreign nationals.

Miles gave him a smile in return. "I’ll take care, Captain."

Sam gave a sharp nod, then stepped back.

At that moment an officer rushed over, flustered.

"Captain—the rod! It isn’t coming out of the ground!"

All eyes turned. The fat man still lay pinned, face red, neck locked under the bent steel rod that Miles had hooked into the pavement. The officers were tugging at it with both hands, grunting, but the twisted metal was embedded like a spear in stone.

Miles sighed softly and walked over. He crouched, gripped the rod with one hand, and yanked.

The pavement cracked. The steel screeched free in his grip.

He dropped the twisted metal at their feet with a casual flick. "Here you go."

The officers quickly pulled the fat man up, cuffed him, and dragged him away with the rest.

Miles dusted his sleeve, slipped his cufflink back into place, and turned without another word.

"I should leave."

He walked off, calm as ever, and slid into his car. The engine purred alive, and he drove away, disappearing into the flow of city traffic.

Thea stood watching, her eyes glinting. She didn’t look at the police, nor at her guards. Only at the car pulling away.

Her lips curved into a smile.

"His moves impressed me," she murmured. "I should meet him."

The guards didn’t respond. But in their silence, it was clear—they already understood what that meant.

Flashback – Graveyard Base, The old commander’s cabin

The old commander’s cabin was quiet, the kind of quiet that carried weight.

The walls were heavy wood, scarred by years of use, lined with faded maps and old photographs of missions no one outside this base would ever know. A faint smell of tobacco lingered in the air, mixed with the sharp scent of oiled steel. Behind the commander’s desk, a rack of weapons sat neatly mounted—retired from service, but not forgotten.

A single lantern burned on the desk, throwing shadows across the room.

The commander sat on one side, posture straight despite his age, eyes as sharp as ever.

On the other side, a teenage boy—Ghost. Still young, but with that hard look in his eyes that didn’t belong to a child.

"Ghost," the commander said, voice steady but not unkind. "You’re already doing good. Tell me—why are you here?"

Ghost’s fists were clenched against his knees. He raised his head, the question leaving his mouth like a blade.

"Ray told me... you have killed those who attacked us."

The commander’s eyes flickered, but his face stayed calm. He leaned back slightly.

"He’s right. We have taken our revenge. It’s time for us to move on from that incident."

Ghost’s stare didn’t break. His voice was cold, flat.

"Did you kill them all?"

The commander exhaled slowly, studying the boy’s expression. The disappointment in Ghost’s face was sharp, like he had expected more—expected to be part of it.

"I know you wanted to be there," the commander said quietly. "But we couldn’t involve you. There are two reasons. First—you are too young to be thrown into such a risk. Second—you’re too emotionally involved. That makes a soldier vulnerable."

Ghost’s jaw tightened.

The commander leaned forward, his voice low but firm.

"I know she was your mentor. I know you were close to her. She did her job well. She protected the future of Graveyard. And we... we all feel the same as you about her. Don’t think for a second that you’re the only one carrying that pain."

He paused, letting the silence sit between them.

"I see you visit her grave often. But Ghost—listen to me. You must move on. You have a bright future ahead. Don’t waste yourself drowning in regret. It was never your fault. And I’m certain... in her last moments, she wanted you to live, not stay shackled to this grief."

The commander’s voice lowered, almost a whisper.

"I’m sorry I didn’t involve you. But we couldn’t lose you. We didn’t want that. And neither did she."

Ghost said nothing. His head lowered, his lips pressed tight. He stood slowly, shoulders tense, and walked out of the cabin.

The door creaked shut behind him.

Outside, Ray was waiting. The night air was cold, campfires flickering in the distance. Soldiers laughed somewhere beyond, trying to drown their own ghosts in drink and song.

Ray looked at the boy, saw the storm in his silence. He placed a hand firmly on Ghost’s shoulder.

"Come on," Ray said gently. "Let’s celebrate. Let’s celebrate... for her."