CHAPTER 164: REVENGE??

Flashback – Russia, Christmas Eve

Snow fell softly outside, blanketing the narrow streets of Saint Petersburg. The glow from street lamps spilled over the white rooftops, and the faint sound of church bells echoed in the distance. Inside a small, warmly lit restaurant, people huddled together, laughing, toasting, and sharing meals with family.

At a corner table near the window, Miles, still a boy — maybe twelve, dressed in a black sweater and scarf — sat across from Ray, who was in his usual dark coat. The window beside them was fogged from the warmth inside, and the candle on their table flickered gently between them.

Steam rose from two bowls of soup.

Miles lifted his spoon and took a careful sip. His eyes lit up.

"It’s better than what we have at base," he said, genuinely surprised.

Ray chuckled, stirring his bowl lazily. "Yes, it is."

Miles leaned forward a little. "Can I ask you something?"

"I’m listening," Ray replied, not looking up.

"Why did you bring me all the way here? We don’t even have a mission."

Ray smirked. "It’s Christmas. Just assume we’re on vacation."

Miles tilted his head. "Vacation? Really? No training, no tasks, no learning Chinese tonight?"

Ray’s lips curved slightly. "Yes, none of that."

Miles squinted, unconvinced. "Really? Then why though? I was supposed to be at the base right now, you brought me overseas."

Ray sighed, setting down his spoon. "You ask too many questions, little bud. Sometimes, you should just listen to your seniors."

Miles shrugged, obediently. "Alright, sir."

The two continued eating quietly. Miles sipped his soup again — this time slower — then moved on to the roasted chicken on his plate. The smell of spices filled the table, the crackling fire from the nearby hearth adding warmth to the room.

Around them, the restaurant buzzed with joy. Families clinked glasses, children laughed, carols played softly through an old speaker near the counter. It was one of those rare places untouched by war or politics — just warmth and peace.

Miles’s gaze wandered, scanning the room. At the next table to their left, he saw a small family — a father, a mother, and their little girl, no more than four. The girl tugged on her father’s sleeve, holding her arms up.

"Daddy, upsie! Upsie!" she said, giggling.

The man smiled, his eyes soft. "Alright, my princess. Come on." He lifted her onto his lap, and she squealed in delight.

Miles watched them quietly, spoon resting in his bowl. His face softened, but his eyes grew distant — like something about that sight hurt more than he wanted to admit.

Ray noticed the change immediately. He followed the boy’s gaze, then leaned back slightly. "Is there any problem, little bud?"

Miles shook his head. "No. Just..." He hesitated. "Why is that girl so fond of her father?"

Ray smiled faintly, his tone gentle. "Well, that’s the bond between parents and a child. You can call it love."

Miles frowned. "Love?"

Ray nodded. "Yes."

Miles thought for a moment before asking, "Do you have a father?"

Ray’s hand froze for a split second on his spoon. He set it down slowly. "I did. Lost him a few years back."

"Oh," Miles said softly. He hesitated again. "Then... do you have any children?"

For a moment, Ray didn’t answer. His expression shifted — not sadness, exactly, but something complicated. Regret. Distance. Memories. Then he smiled faintly, trying to bury whatever flickered behind his eyes.

"Does it matter?" he said. "I have many kids I’m raising in the Graveyard Base. Just like you."

Miles gave a small smile. "I’m not your child, Ray."

Ray laughed lightly at the boy’s bluntness. "Maybe not. But you’re here with me, celebrating Christmas. That’s close enough."

Miles looked away, still watching the family.

Ray’s voice softened. "You know... I always wanted to do this with my father. Just sit, eat, talk... something simple. But I didn’t get the chance. He was gone before I could. So I don’t want to regret it again."

Miles followed his gaze and noticed something strange. The mother at that table — the same one the little girl had called "mama" — was looking their way. Her eyes met Ray’s for the briefest moment. There was recognition there, a faint smile shared between them.

Miles blinked, turning to Ray. The man’s face remained calm, but his eyes softened in a way Miles had never seen before.

Then the boy said quietly, "That little girl, she looks just like you, Ray."

Ray froze. His eyes widened slightly before he chuckled under his breath, lowering his voice. "Shhh, little bud. Don’t say that too loudly."

Miles tilted his head, smiling a little. "Christmas with family... I wonder what that feels like."

Ray looked at him, his expression unreadable for a long second. Then he smiled, slow and tired.

"You’ll know one day," he said quietly. "When you find the people who make you feel like home."

Miles looked back at the family again — the little girl still giggling in her father’s lap, the mother smiling, Ray looking away, hiding whatever truth he carried.

Outside, the snow kept falling.

Few Years Later – Russia

The night was quiet, but the silence was deceiving.

Snow blanketed the ground in thick layers, untouched by the world—except for the chaos that painted it red.

The faint crackle of gunfire had stopped minutes ago.

Now, only the wind spoke through the whispering trees.

Bodies lay scattered across the white field, dark uniforms soaked in crimson.

The smell of blood lingered, sharp against the cold air.

In the middle of it all, Ghost

stood—his breath visible in the freezing night.

Snowflakes landed on his coat, melting against the heat of his skin.

Before him, a man crawled backward through the snow, leaving a red trail behind him.

His voice trembled with terror, his hands raised, eyes wide like a cornered animal.

"P–please, don’t kill me," the man stammered. "I can give you anything you want. Anything—please, just spare me!"

Ghost’s gloved hand tightened on the pistol. The suppressor gleamed under the faint moonlight. His voice came low, calm—too calm.

"Anything?"

The man nodded desperately. "Y–yes, anything! Money, information, weapons—whatever you want, I’ll give you!"

Ghost took a slow step forward. His boots crunched in the snow.

"Anton Zelenov," he said, his voice slicing through the cold.

The man froze. His eyes darted up. Panic flooded his face.

Ghost continued, tone like a verdict. "I want him back alive."

The man shook his head rapidly, almost sobbing. "I’m sorry—I didn’t know. I didn’t—please, spare me. I have a kid. A wife. Please."

Ghost’s face didn’t change. His voice stayed steady, almost emotionless.

"So did he."

The man’s mouth opened to plead again—but the sound never came.

Ghost pulled the trigger.

The thup of the suppressed shot echoed faintly, followed by a dull thud as the man collapsed onto the bloodstained snow.

Ghost exhaled slowly, lowering his gun. The air around him steamed from his breath. He looked at the man’s body for a long moment, then at the endless white sky above.

Snow kept falling—soft, pure, and indifferent to the death beneath it.

He finally sighed and pressed the small button on the radio clipped to his vest.

"Ghost to base."

A familiar voice crackled through the static—Ray.

"Status?"

Ghost’s tone was calm, almost tired. "Target eliminated."

A brief pause on the line. Then Ray’s voice returned, quieter.

"Well done... thank you, Ghost."

Ghost’s jaw tightened. He glanced once more at the body.

"You feel good now?" he asked.

There was silence. Only the faint hum of wind through the transmitter.

Then Ray answered, his voice low, weary.

"Good? No. If you think killing someone for revenge makes you feel good, you’re wrong, Ghost."

He sighed audibly, like a man trying to breathe through the weight of his own words.

"Just like him, we’ve destroyed a family tonight. So if you ask me if I feel good—no. Not really. But the guilt of doing nothing, of letting him live free out there... it’s heavier. This just replaces one regret with another."

There was a pause, a faint crackle of static. Then a dry, bitter laugh.

"But who cares, right? We’re going to hell anyway. Tonight, I’ll drink to celebrate the new guilt."

Ghost said nothing for a moment, just looked out at the horizon, the faint glimmer of lights in the far-off village.

Then quietly—

"Take care, Ray."

The line went dead.

Ghost clipped the radio back to his vest.

He turned, walking away through the snow, his dark figure fading into the white storm.

Behind him, the world remained still—silent witnesses to vengeance, guilt, and the quiet curse of survival.

Present Sterling Estate

"Ten minutes have passed," Gordon said, glancing at his watch before lifting his gaze to the room. "The votes are being counted. Within five minutes, we will announce the results."

The aides continued moving briskly around the room, collecting envelopes from each table, stacking them neatly, and carrying them toward the center desk.

Gordon continued, his tone heavy with control and pride.

"Whatever the result may be," he said, "I am proud that this family has remained united enough to stand under one roof and make decisions like this. And because Miles has finally returned to the family," — he looked in Miles’s direction — "our strength only grows."

The room murmured with polite applause. A few faces forced smiles; others looked wary.

Gordon raised his glass slightly. "We’ll have a banquet tonight. The guests are already invited. It’s time to remind the city that the Sterling name still carries weight."

At the far end of the table, Miles sat with one leg crossed, expression unreadable. He leaned back in his chair, his hand resting under his chin. The faint smirk that curved his lips didn’t escape the notice of a few seated near him.

When Gordon finished, Miles spoke — quiet, composed, but with a trace of something colder.

"I think you shouldn’t celebrate too soon."

The murmurs in the room stopped.

Gordon turned his head slightly toward him, brow arching. "What do you mean, Miles?"

Miles’s smirk widened just enough to unsettle the silence. He didn’t answer. He only looked up — eyes sharp, calm, like he already knew what was about to happen.

A hush fell over the hall.

Even the ticking clock on the far wall seemed louder than before.

And then—

To be continued...