The city never truly slept—only changed masks. By night, Gravesend wore its true face. Strip clubs lit like crime scenes, politicians gliding past bloodstains in black sedans, and alleyway whispers that bled more truth than the news ever dared.
Adrian Kane navigated that world like a ghost with unfinished business.
The Silver Crown had given him a thread. Now he needed to pull.
He stood outside Mercer's apartment, a rundown high-rise in Old Trenton. The security guard was asleep, slumped in a chair with a radio buzzing static. Adrian slipped past without a word. Fourth floor. Room 402. Same creaky hallway, same peeling wallpaper that reeked of mildew and secrets.
He picked the lock in seconds. Years of practice—most of it after his badge stopped meaning anything.
Inside, Mercer's place was a chaotic mess—but not the random kind. It was the storm of a paranoid man. Notes papered the walls, lines of string connecting articles, photos, and names like a deranged spider's web.
In the center was the symbol: a serpent swallowing its own tail.
The Ouroboros.
Adrian approached slowly, scanning the red-ink scrawl beside the emblem:
> "They watch everything. They own everything. And no one remembers their names."
He flipped through the papers. Police reports marked confidential. Coroner's files from deaths ruled "natural." Property ledgers leading to shell corporations. Every document pointed to one conclusion:
Mercer had stumbled onto something massive.
But that wasn't what made Adrian pause. It was the photograph pinned in the middle.
A young woman—brunette, pale—smiling.
He pulled it down gently. A name was scrawled on the back:
> "Eliza Kane. 2007."
Adrian's heart sank.
Eliza. His sister. Dead for over a decade. Suicide, they said. Case closed.
But if Mercer had her picture…
He opened the filing cabinet. Mercer had a file titled:
"EK-7: Suppressed Case - Suicide or Silenced?"
A chill crawled up Adrian's spine.
He remembered the night like a dream twisted into a nightmare. Her body found hanging in her dorm. No signs of struggle. But she'd been terrified the week before. Kept talking about someone following her.
He hadn't believed her.
Adrian's fingers trembled as he turned the pages. Mercer had dug deeper than he ever had. Had even found an old professor who disappeared after giving a testimony on Eliza's last research paper—on powerful figures funding underground mind-control experiments in Gravesend's universities.
Adrian stumbled back. The room spun.
Was she trying to expose them? Had her death been covered up?
His hands clenched into fists. The society Mercer was chasing… they had ties going back years. Maybe decades.
And now they were circling Adrian, too.
---
Adrian left Mercer's apartment just before midnight. The streets were quieter now. No cops. No press. Only the silence that followed secrets too heavy to speak.
He didn't notice the figure watching from across the street.
A man in a tailored black coat, eyes hidden behind silver-framed glasses. A ring on his finger shimmered in the streetlight—the serpent swallowing its tail.
The man raised a phone to his ear.
> "He's taken the bait. Just like Mercer."
---
Adrian didn't go home.
He went to The Catacombs—a bar hidden beneath the old train station, where informants, hackers, ex-cops, and criminals drank from the same bottle. The kind of place where sins were currency and truth came at a cost.
Inside, it smelled of whiskey, wet stone, and desperation. Jazz played low. Shadows stretched long.
"Still breathing, Kane?" asked a raspy voice from behind the bar. Eddie Graves—former crime scene photographer turned bartender and information broker.
"Barely," Adrian said. He slid Mercer's photo across the counter. "You ever see this guy?"
Eddie took a drag of his cigarette, squinting at the image.
"Came in two weeks ago. Said he needed a name. Something about a 'Ghost Network' that launders favors for power."
"Did he get it?"
Eddie nodded grimly. "I warned him not to go near it. Said he'd end up in a ditch. Guess I was right."
Adrian leaned in. "Who runs the Ghost Network?"
Eddie hesitated. Then whispered, "No one knows. Just that messages pass through something called the Whisper Hub—digital dead drops across the darknet. I heard they're using old radio towers as signal piggybacks."
"Coordinates?"
"There's a busted tower up in Blackridge Hills. Supposed to be decommissioned. Might be a shot in the dark."
Adrian tossed him a folded fifty and finished his drink in silence.
---
Two hours later, Adrian parked beneath the rusted carcass of the Blackridge Communications Tower.
The night air buzzed with static, like the tower itself was whispering in a tongue only ghosts understood.
He climbed the steps carefully. Halfway up, he found what he didn't expect: a small transmitter wired to a solar cell and a blinking light.
Still active.
He connected his portable decryptor. The screen flickered. Lines of code unfurled like unraveling secrets.
Then a message appeared:
> "Echo Zero-Three engaged. Kane is live. Proceed with Phase 2."
Before Adrian could react, a sharp click echoed behind him.
A voice—cold, calm—spoke from the shadows.
"You're not supposed to be here, Detective."
Adrian turned slowly. A man in a black coat and gloves pointed a silenced pistol at his chest. Another agent stepped out of the shadows behind him.
"Who sent you?" Adrian asked, pulse steady.
"Does it matter?"
"No," Adrian said, as his hand slid to the knife strapped to his back.
Lightning cracked across the sky.
Adrian moved first.