The dream was not a memory, but a shattered mosaic of sensation and dread.
Cold. The biting, metallic cold of a warehouse floor against his cheek. The coppery taste of blood filling his mouth. The distant, rhythmic drip of water.
A voice, smooth as oiled silk, cutting through the haze of pain. "...a shame, Karl. Truly. You were the best."
Nightingale. He wasn't a man in the dream, but a presence. A well-dressed shadow, polished shoes stepping silently into his narrowing field of vision. The scent of his cologne—expensive, spicy, with a hint of citrus—was cloying and suffocating.
The feeling of utter betrayal, not hot and angry, but cold and hollow. A fundamental truth of his world cracking apart. He tried to speak, to demand why, but only a wet, ragged breath came out.
A light, glinting off a syringe in Nightingale's gloved hand. Not a weapon. Something else. "This will make it look more authentic," the voice murmured, almost kindly. "A tragic end for a talented operative. They'll never know you were on the wrong side of the deal."
The sharp, impossible sting of the needle in his neck. Not poison. Something that burned through his veins like ice fire, slowing his heart, dragging him down into a deep, cold blackness. The last thing he saw was Nightingale's smile, a thin, cruel curve in the shadows.
Then, nothing. A void. The coma.
...A beeping. Slow, steady. A distant lighthouse in the fog of non-being. The smell of antiseptic. The feeling of rough sheets. A voice, not Nightingale's. A woman's voice, frantic. "He's crashing! Get the—"
The jolt of electricity. His body arching off a bed that wasn't the warehouse floor. A searing pain in his chest. A gasp that was his first breath in a long, long time.
Light. Blinding. Harsh.
He woke with a strangled gasp, his body drenched in a cold sweat that had nothing to do with the motel room's temperature. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped animal, a frantic, panicked rhythm.
For a terrifying second, he didn't know where he was. The floral curtains. The stale smell. The lumpy mattress. The Spruce Haven. Room 11.
He was on his feet before he was fully conscious of moving, the 9mm in his hand, his back pressed against the wall beside the window. His eyes scanned the dark room, every shadow a potential threat, every creak of the settling building a footstep.
But there was nothing. Only the hum of the ancient air conditioner and the frantic pounding of his own heart.
The dream fragments clung to him, vivid and chilling. The cold floor. The syringe. The betrayal. Nightingale. It wasn't a full memory—it was a ghost, a key piece of a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years. He was killed. Officially, Karl Vorlender died that night in the warehouse. But he didn't. He was resuscitated. Someone found him. Someone brought him back.
He slid down the wall until he was sitting on the scratchy carpet, the gun resting on his knee. He dropped his head into his hands, trying to steady his breathing. The pieces were there, just out of reach. Who had called the crash team? Who had saved the Ghost?
But the dream was incomplete, taunting him. It explained the vendetta, the personal, almost intimate nature of the hunt. Nightingale hadn't just wanted him dead; he'd wanted him erased, disgraced. And Karl had cheated him. He had come back.
He stayed there on the floor for a long time, watching the first faint hints of dawn bleed around the edges of the cheap curtains. The peace of the previous evening was gone, shattered by the past. The nightmare was a reminder. This wasn't just about survival. It was about a debt. A debt that needed to be settled in full.
The Ghost was awake. And now, he remembered the man who had tried to bury him.