CHAPTER 84: FORKMAN

Commander Ray’s voice echoed in Miles’s earpiece, low and resolute. "Yes, Commander Ray," Miles said, standing by the window of the safe house, city lights faintly gleaming in the distance. "Dion is just as important to me as Jehan. This time... I’ll take care of it."

There was a short pause, then Ray responded, voice firm but warm. "I believe you, Miles. Take care of yourself—and keep me updated. Just finish this and come home to your family."

Miles gave a curt nod, though Ray couldn’t see it. "Copy that, Commander."

The call disconnected.

Miles let out a breath—but just as he lowered the phone, the screen lit up again.A message. Multiple images from Monica.

His eyes narrowed.

As he tapped on the photos, his expression hardened. His pupils focused like a hawk’s—jaw clenched.

Without wasting a second, he dialed her. The call connected instantly.

"You were right, boss," Monica’s voice came in sharp. "Got visual confirmation—Dion and Jehan just met."

"When were these taken?" Miles asked, eyes scanning every detail in the photo. Dion standing beside Jehan, handing over a briefcase. Not nervous. Not forced. Calm.

"Fifteen minutes ago," Monica replied. "Dion’s transporting funds. Looks like Jehan landed a big deal—and Dion’s helping him move it."

"Where are they headed?"

"Same car," she said. "They left together. But don’t worry—we’ve got eyes on the vehicle. It’s still on the move."

Miles’s voice dropped, steady as steel. "Okay. I’m on the way."

The call ended.

He moved without hesitation. Opened the drawer beside the couch and pulled out his handgun. Checked the chamber. Clean. Loaded.

He slammed in the magazine with a cold click, racked the slide.

Holstering it, Miles grabbed his keys and stormed out the safe house door.

He slid into the driver’s seat of his sleek, black sports car. The engine roared to life.

The road to the outskirts buzzed under Miles’s tires as the engine roared, cutting through Brightvale’s dusty fringes like a scalpel. Inside the car, his phone rested on the dashboard, still lit up from the call with Monica. He didn’t blink—his hands tight on the steering wheel, his jaw set. Dion and Jehan. The names burned in his mind.

Meanwhile, several miles ahead, a black sedan came to a quiet halt in front of an old motel. Its walls were chipped, paint curling from years of abandonment. But above the entrance, a flickering neon sign read: Bar & Lounge. A fresh layer of deception cloaked the ruins.

Jehan stepped out first, adjusting the cuffs of his black coat, casual and calm. Dion followed, hesitating for half a second as his eyes scanned the lifeless surroundings. Something felt off. The wind blew stale and heavy.

"This is the place?" Dion asked, watching the cracked glass door creak open.

Jehan smiled. "Of course. It’s private, discreet... perfect for toasting to your freedom."

Inside, the dim interior pretended to be a functioning bar. Dust still clung to the shelves despite the effort to disguise it. A long counter stretched at the back, lined with aged bottles—most unopened for years. There were no customers, no music, just the hum of an ancient fridge and the faint smell of disinfectant masking something far fouler.

Dion frowned. "Strange spot for a celebration."

Jehan chuckled as they moved to a table near the center. "Midday, Dion. Nobody drinks at noon. Besides, this place is... exclusive. They serve more than just whiskey. You’ll see."

A tap on the wooden surface summoned a bartender from behind the counter. No words exchanged. The man placed two glasses on the table, filled and ready. Dion looked down at his drink, then back at Jehan.

Jehan raised his glass without waiting. "To your retirement."

Dion clinked it hesitantly. "Cheers."

He sipped. Immediately, a sharp numbness crawled down his throat, blooming across his chest and curling around his limbs. He blinked, heart racing, stomach twisting.

"What... What the hell did you put in this?"

Jehan’s smile remained, cold and triumphant. "Just something mild. Makes your arms and legs feel like they’re sinking in sand. Boss’s orders."

Dion’s fingers trembled as he tried to push the glass away. His knees buckled slightly under the table. "You bastard..."

Jehan leaned in, eyes gleaming. "You should’ve stayed. Given more. Maybe you’d have earned his trust. But quitting? Walking away from him? That’s not how this world works."

From his coat, he drew a sleek pistol, suppressor already fitted. Its barrel lined up with Dion’s chest. The sound of it leaving the holster was louder than the silence between them.

Dion’s breaths came sharp and uneven, the drug pulling his muscles like strings being snipped one by one. "You never intended to let me go."

"No one leaves this business, Dion," Jehan said, finger tightening on the trigger. "You know too much."

Just then, the bartender quietly locked the front door. The trap had been set long before Dion even stepped out of the car.

The room reeked of spilled liquor, sweat, and smoke. Flickering neon signs buzzed weakly behind dirty windows. Dion sat bound to a chair, struggling . Opposite him, Jehan loaded a matte-black pistol with a slow, deliberate click.

"Don’t worry," Jehan said, slipping the slide into place, "I’ll send you to the same place I sent her. What was her name... oh right—Flora."

Dion’s eyes froze. The name struck deeper than any bullet. His voice came low, shaky.

"What do you mean...?"

Jehan leaned in, smiling with gleeful malice.

"I’m just honoring your last wish, Dion. I told you the truth."

A pause. Then the words dropped like lead.

"I pushed her. Off the cliff. With my own hands."

Dion jerked against the chair, chest heaving as rage and guilt battled behind his eyes. But he was helpless. He could do nothing. He had done nothing.

Jehan watched, amused.

"Laughing at yourself for being a fool?" he sneered.

But Dion... laughed.

It was a faint, broken sound—gravel caught in a storm. Not mocking. Inevitable.

"No," Dion said through gritted teeth. "I’m just picturing what he will do to you."

Jehan raised a brow.

"He?"

Dion looked him dead in the eye.

"My brother."

"You think that scares me?"

"You should be terrified. You can shoot me, gut me, burn my body—but if he finds you..." Dion smiled, "...death will be a mercy."

Jehan scowled and raised his gun.

"I’ll see that for myself—"

Before he could pull the trigger, the bar window shattered with a deafening crash. Glass exploded inward. A shadow dropped through the broken frame with surgical precision.

Jehan turned sharply, gun in hand—but a fork whistled through the air and impaled his wrist.

He screamed. The weapon clattered to the floor.

The room fell silent for a beat, broken only by the sound of boots on wood.

Out of the shadows, he stepped forward.

Black jacket. Calm steps.

Ghost.

Jehan backed away instinctively.

"Who the hell are you?"

Ghost didn’t answer. He glanced at Dion—bound, injured. The rage in his eyes was ice-cold. Focused. Controlled.

Three armed thugs charged forward, metal bats and pipes raised.

Dion’s head tilted slightly.

Here it comes...

What followed was silent brutality.

One blow. One parry. One takedown. Bones cracked. Bodies fell. In four seconds, all three lay twitching or moaning on the ground, broken and bleeding.

Jehan tried to process what just happened—but fear drowned logic. He scrambled for his dropped pistol.

Too late.

Ghost kicked the weapon away, then stepped on Jehan’s wrist—crunching the bones—and stabbed another fork into his other arm.

Jehan howled in pain, dropping to his knees.

At that moment, a side door burst open—five figures in black tactical gear stormed in with rifles raised. They swept the room in seconds.

"Boss!" one of them called. "Miss Monica sent backup. Not that you needed it."

Ghost didn’t look up.

"Take Forkman here and show him the best hospitality."

"Copy that," the man nodded, hauling Jehan up.

Jehan spat blood, glaring at Ghost.

"You’re making a grave mistake. My boss—he’ll kill you for this."

Ghost walked close. The room seemed to shrink.

"You mean the Old Master?"

Jehan’s expression broke. His eyes widened. The name twisted his spine.

Ghost smirked.

"So you do know him."

Jehan said nothing. But his silence screamed louder than words.

Then he spoke "Let me talk to your boss, we can make a good deal".

Ghost leaned in one last time.

"You think I have a boss?" He chuckled coldly. "The Ghost... doesn’t take orders anymore"

Jehan froze.

Ghost.The Graveyard’s myth.The monster they whispered about.

Reality set in.

Jehan’s voice vanished.

The team dragged him out, his bravado gone with the sound of his boots scraping the floor.

Now, only two remained.

Ghost walked to Dion. The man who once walked beside him as a brother. A traitor. A comrade of the past.

Miles pulled up a stool and sat in front of him, elbows on his knees. His voice was quiet.

"It’s good I don’t drink. This place makes it tempting."

Dion chuckled, weak but real.

"You never change, do you?"

Miles stared at him.

"You’re a real piece of shit. You know that?"

"Yeah."

"You’re going back to the Graveyard. Commander Ray wants answers."

Dion raised an eyebrow.

"Ray’s a commander now?"

"He became commander the moment you betrayed us."

Miles stood. His shadow fell over Dion.

"Your little stunt? That mission—first under Ray’s command? It failed. Because of you."

He paused, voice dropping lower.

"You saved Jehan back then. For what? What was it worth?"

Dion didn’t answer.

Miles stared harder.

"Before you answer to the Graveyard... You answer to me."