Prologue

  For centuries, they have tormented our dreams and nightmares...

  For centuries, we have stigmatized, feared, persecuted, and driven them away with fire and prayers…

  For centuries, we have labeled them as monsters,

  not because they were, but because we needed to believe it.

  Because it is easier to hate what you fear than to look it in the eye...

  Gruesome, aberrant beings,

  Faceless creatures without peace, who exist only to remind us that certain mistakes never die...

  But they have never disappeared...

  On the contrary, they hide where light doesn’t filter through,

  Where whispers drown out noise...

  Feeding on truths hidden from the eyes of most,

  Clinging to the cracks in our world, invisible and inevitable.

  We call them Ghosts,

  Forgetting that we created them ourselves,

  But they never forgot...

  And now, as the world collapses under the weight of its lies,

  they return...

  Not for revenge,

  But to remind us of what we chose to bury...

  Osaka, Nishi District, 02:45 AM

  Here I am, in a city that hardly sleeps, at least not completely. Its inhabitants lead a hectic life, too busy trying to impress others to realize that something around them isn't quite right, or maybe they just don't care.

  At night, the noises change. The laughter dies down, the lights dim, and the incessant rain eats away at the skin, day after day, washing away the dry and rotten paint of graffiti that covers the walls and neon signs. After all, we are still in the monsoon season, and as much as I hate getting my armor and helmet wet, it is inevitable.

  In fact, I could admit to finding a certain peace in those droplets that crash onto the ground and glass. But what they cannot remove are the sins that have plagued this city for too long, I will have to take care of that myself.

  I enjoy the view for a moment; from up here, the lights look like fallen stars, randomly scattered and stuck on top of buildings like cheap stickers. But my stubborn, brooding brain allows me to see beyond that. It's been that way for as long as I can remember.

  I see the dark veins branching out between the buildings, the alleys where the law is only a relative concept, the lit windows where negotiations, and deals that otherwise wouldn’t exist in the light of day take place.

  Here the line between right and wrong is pretty blurry, like a thin, rusty wire, and I've been walking on it for a while. Maybe too long.

  But now it's time to get back to my mission.

  I'm perched on the ledge of the old Nikko Building, a now-abandoned complex that once served as a corporate office and business hub before inflation and the crisis rendered it obsolete. Do you think that those who worked here, busy sorting out paperwork or trying not to miss their yoga classes, could have predicted what's about to happen in a few minutes? Or that this is one of the best vantage points in the city?

  And what's more, sixty meters up, or two hundred feet as that idiot Count Cringe would say, an American special agent I was forced to work with some time ago to foil the trade of an experimental drug that would have thrown the entire planet into turmoil. You have no idea how much I hate Americans, always ready to show off or hide their obvious fanaticism behind the term patriotism. Real jerks.

  But let's focus. In front of me, ninety-eight meters away to be precise, I see a commercial building that, on paper, offers space for a myriad of different occupations, all above-board. On paper.

  I bet you understand where I'm going with this. And if you don't, well, you're more naive than I thought.

  In a few hours, on the thirty-ninth floor, in meeting room 391-B, two corrupt agents will sell to the highest bidder a list containing the names of HPSC agents who were investigating a rather notorious terrorist cell, Kuroba. What pieces of shit.

  The Commission's sleuths followed them for weeks, even using unconventional methods, tracking their every move, every little thing, even using the loo.

  Yes, I know, it's a shitty job, but someone has to do it.

  They gathered enough evidence to throw them into a maximum security prison and leave them to rot for the rest of their lives, without even the luxury of a hole to piss in or see the warm sunlight. Everyone's happy ever after.

  But my higher-ups decided otherwise. It seemed too predictable to me.

  And for them, there will be no trial. No media exposure. No noise.

  Just the sweet embrace of death.

  Who am I? I bet you're dying to know.

  They call me Spectre, and I work for HSPC, commonly known as The Commission.

  I don't have any badges, flashy costumes, or jumpsuits; pins or rosettes are for losers. I don't even appear in the brochures, thank goodness.

  I’m simply an unofficial resource, the one you don’t want to bother contacting and the one who is breaking their back while you’re sipping martinis with the secretary or colleague you told your wife she didn’t need to worry about.

  Black ops; infiltration; controlling information leaks; eliminating undesirable elements.

  When things get too dirty and smelly for the real heroes, they send me in to clean up.

  The world is a tank full of sharks, and I've been splashing around in it for too long to remember why.

  Silence. I breathe. My fingers move along the side of the helmet, activating the encrypted channel.

  “Spectre to Sentinel. Target Black Ledger located. Two secondary entrances, both covered, no opportunity for suppression. Six armed men on the roof. Light assault rifles plus one with a light machine gun. Passive stance. No signs of active or visible quirks. Requesting authorization to engage.”

  A pause. Silence crackles in the earpiece built into my helmet. Then, a voice, as neutral as an autopsy report. “Received, Spectre, engagement authorized. Mission objective: infiltration and data recovery. No witnesses.”

  “Received, over and out.”

  Now you know what I do. I don't rescue kittens from trees or help old ladies cross the street, no, I eliminate the targets the Commission gives me. I'm more efficient than a common hitman and, what's more, I work exclusively for them. I'd say my superiors couldn't ask for anything better.

  The world stops for a moment.

  It's always like this. That suspended second before all hell breaks loose, like the calm before the storm. My stomach tightens, my jaw locks, my breathing becomes deeper, heavier.

  It's not fear. It's something more mechanical. A conditioned response, carved into every fiber of my being. Adrenaline is an old friend, toxic and faithful. Thirst-quenching.

  I flex my legs, and the armor and fabric of my nanosuit seem to squeak every time they are touched by the tears of the sky.

  “Dipole”

  A single word, a small gesture of my hands, and the world around me is swallowed up by silence, every sound now muffled by something unreal, artificial.

  Now I can act like a phantom, and I will be relentless.

  I move quickly, like a shadow, leaping towards the terrace. As I do, I take a micro sound charge from the compartment inside my leg, a flat disc as thin as a fingernail.

  I activate it with a click.

  I take the sound of the rain beating down on the metal sheet beneath me... and move it.

  I transfer it to a side section of the roof, six meters away from the machine gun position. But most importantly, I amplify it, which is what I was aiming for.

  A sudden crash, as if the storm had concentrated all its fury there.

  The six guards turn around immediately, talking over each other.

  “What the hell was that?”

  “Go check it out. See if it's a drone or just an anomaly.”

  What clever puppets. They march out of position and now the roof is mine.

  I frame the air duct that gives access to the 38th floor. I see it. I measure it.

  “Shambles.”

  A moment later, my body dissolves and replaces the duct. A sudden but precise impact. I adapt. The center of mass is aligned. No noise.

  The world turns. I'm inside. A stench of mold and dust invades my senses, and metal vibrates around me.

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  I breathe slowly and continue to crawl, sliding inside the duct like a parasite. What a wonderful life.

  Once I emerge into the corridor, I spot three ugly faces: one presiding over the entrance to the hall, two pacing back and forth as if they were taking a stroll in the park. What amateurs.

  All three are fully armed, as if they expect to be attacked at any moment. What they didn't count on was that I would be sent, and guess what, I'm about to kick their asses.

  As I advance slowly, one catches my eye. They seem to have a mutation quirk, what appears to be the result of an ill-fated affair between a human and a crustacean.

  Chitinous exoskeleton, elongated limbs, mandibles visible even under the helmet. People have certainly developed some rather strange paraphilias.

  But it doesn't impress me. Really, I've seen better. And besides, it's no problem for what I'm about to do.

  “Ion”

  I raise two fingers and the air around me gets warmer. Slightly, but imperceptibly. These idiots have no idea what's about to hit them.

  Electricity slips between the ionized particles I create around my glove. A low hum, like a muffled moan.

  I move faster than lightning.

  The first one falls. A sharp shock at the base of his neck. His eyes wide open, his body limp.

  No scream.

  The other two don't even have time to process what just happened. One tries to aim, the other to run.

  Both useless.

  They're dropping like flies.

  The last one tries to speak, but the sound sticks in his throat. Perhaps out of fear. Or perhaps because I silenced him through Dipole.

  Shambles, Ion, and Dipole. These are just three of the quirks I have access to.

  You know that I live in a world where 80 percent of the global population has access to special abilities, as you saw with that seafood I just annihilated.

  Some have only one, others have a hybrid evolution of the maternal and paternal lines.

  But you noticed something, didn't you?

  Three quirks. Three different ones .

  And I bet you're wondering... How the hell is that possible?

  In time, you will have your answer, but I warn you now, it's not for the weak of heart. Or stomach..

  I'm the first. . . And the last of my kind.

  One in eight billion.

  And I assure you, I'm just fine with that.

  But enough dithering.

  I cautiously approach the door of room 391-B, glancing left and right to make sure no other Rambos have survived and are waiting to surprise me from behind.

  That's impossible because I never leave survivors,more lethal than a hawk.

  Behind that frosted glass, the two cronies will sell the future of the whole of Japan for a few more dirty yen.

  And you're wrong if you think I'm worried about those on that list or their families.

  I don't give a shit. I just follow the orders they give me like a well-trained dog.

  Inside the room, I can make out two silhouettes, two targets. Only two.

  Why the fuck aren't there any buyers? Something's wrong, but I try to glean more information that will help me understand why things aren't what they seem.

  One is sitting, the other is pacing back and forth, as if nervous.

  And soon he will be even more so.

  I take a breath, then activate the encrypted line.

  “Spectre to Sentinel. Situation update.”

  A brief pause. Then the voice of Command, flat as ever.

  “This is Sentinel, go ahead, Spectre.”

  “The information provided to me indicated a transaction with foreign buyers. Only the two former HPSC agents were present on site. No third parties were visible. I repeat: no external presence was detected inside the room.”

  Where the fuck is the buyer?

  I pause for a second, then add: “I need confirmation of the source.”

  This time, the response is slow in coming. Then, those brainiacs respond as if they want me to understand that I'm talking to robots, when I'm supposed to be the real android.

  “Source deemed reliable. Possible change to plan implemented in the field. Proceed per protocol. Data recovery, target elimination. No witnesses. Awaiting confirmation.”

  Change the plan, a pair de cojones.

  It doesn't add up.

  Either someone lied... or someone wanted me to come in here blindfolded and risk making some mistake that would have turned my immaculate resume into waste paper.

  Sons of bitches.

  But it's too late to dwell on it now, and I'm just a machine that carries out orders.

  “Received, Sentinel. Confirmed and proceeding.”

  I close communications, allowing silence to return and fill the room.

  I can recognize when directives stink to high heaven, but I certainly can't doubt the Commission. No, sir.

  I could opt for an indirect approach, using Shambles to surprise them and take them out in no time, but since the procedure has now gone to hell, I'll hit them like the damn walls of Jericho. Why am I quoting the Bible?

  I try to turn the handle as calmly as I can. It's stuck. So they're not as stupid as I thought. I could almost spare them.

  Obviously, I'm kidding.

  I activate Ion again, and the magnetic discharge passes through the lock and silently melts it, opening it is like cutting warm butter.

  I enter, and with the same calmness I activate my favorite quirk, Dipole . Every sound I make remains trapped in my personal space, as if I removed the melody of the universe itself. I'm not naive, there could be alarms and I don't want to waste any more time than necessary.

  If you ask, they don't pay me enough for this shit.

  The taller one turns, a dandy bundled up in a gray suit that probably cost more than a neighborhood hero’s annual salary.

  Glassy eyes, pale skin, shaking hands. Panic rises like a surging wave, but he can’t scream, can't make a sound. I stopped him as I slid up behind him and grabbed him by the neck, thumb under his jaw. Crack.

  The other one steps back. He's shorter, with greased hair, one of those who thinks he can buy impunity with yen and connections.

  And now, he's looking directly at my opaque visor, as if he wanted to peer right into my soul. Too bad I don't have one.

  But he doesn't run away, or try to do any of the instinctive reactions that are inherent to humans.

  He knows who I am.

  And he knows he couldn't win anyway.

  "Spectre..."

  His tone is more resigned than surprised.

  "I knew the Commission would send its hitman to do the dirty work."

  And what the fuck did you expect? I point the energy blade that sticks out from above my glove at his throat, and at the same time I point my head down, towards a metallic gray briefcase that he clutches as if his life depended on it.

  That wasn't in the report. And I hate surprises.

  “And yet, you decided to do it anyway, knowing the fate you were going to meet. Tell me why? Just for information.” My voice seems almost too calm, perhaps driven for the first time by curiosity to understand where this piece of rotten meat is going.

  “Do you have any idea what crimes your masters commit every day?” He asks me, as if I knew the answer. “The fact that the Commission controls everything and decides who lives and who dies? Take me, for example, or him.” He points to his companion, lying on the floor as if he were relaxing after a stressful day at work. “They sent you to silence us, to bury their dirty secrets. And look how it went, poor Takashi will never be able to hug his two beautiful daughters again tonight.”

  He sighs, as if it were the inevitable conclusion of a long discussion he’s had a thousand times before with himself. Or with someone he’s never listened to.

  I remain silent. For a fraction of a second.

  Because yes, what he said isn’t entirely wrong. But it’s not entirely right either.

  I glance at the body on the floor again, though my movements are checking that this one doesn't do something irremediably stupid. But I know he won't, in fact, he's trying the parlay route to trick me, save his life.

  Then he smiles at me. With those crooked teeth, white as receipt paper. He understands he can't escape, but he thinks he can still fool me with two well-placed sentences.

  It almost makes me feel tender.

  Almost.

  “It’s just business, isn’t that what your kind say?” I retort, tilting my head slightly as the energy blade pulses slowly, close to his throat. “And if you’re hoping to stall or soften me up with sob stories, you’ve missed the mark. I have zero regard for the lives of others. Still I want to ask you one question. You think I’m a monster, a dirty murderer. And yet, you two wanted to deliver a list containing the identities of spies and agents who work for the state, just for a handful of yen. How much, two, maybe three million? Didn’t you think about their loved ones and their families here? What fucking hypocrisy.”

  “This isn’t what you should be worrying about, Spectre…” he murmurs. His eyes flicker to the briefcase. He clutches it again. “It’s about you.” Another half-sneer, this time more bitter. “About-”

  He doesn't have time to finish speaking when I cut his jugular clean, with the blood now spraying me like a fountain. His glassy eyes look at me once again, as if he were cursing me or wanting to hurl the worst insults at me.

  I hate it when they don't get straight to the point.

  But now I have something else to turn my attention to: the briefcase. He didn't let go of it, in fact, he held it tightly as if it were the last thing that gave him any meaning.

  Now it's just a piece of inert metal, stained with his own blood.

  I pick it up slowly, careful not to activate any strange mechanisms. I wonder what goes on in these people's cerebellums.

  It's heavier than it looks, so it's definitely not a bomb. It's closed on the sides by two combination locks. I turn to that colander, did you really think this would make a difference?

  But that's neither a problem nor an obstacle. There are worse ways to violate privacy.

  Ion

  A spark screech, a small cold click and they jump.

  I open it.

  It surprises me, and it's happened several times today. I expected to find some USB, hard disk or strange decryption gadget.

  But there was none of that. What the fuck?

  Just a file.

  Old, heavy, the kind of file that should no longer exist in the digital age.

  The cover is black, ruined, yet it seems like something from the future or another world.

  In the center, engraved like a brand, a distorted geometric shape, a lotus fused with an eye.

  The writing underneath is short, but on me, it has an immediate effect.

  PROJECT DURGA

  My heart jumps in my chest like a misfired bullet.

  That name…

  I feel a sharp pain in my skull, as if a blade was passing through it.

  Some memories try to emerge from the jumble that is my mind.

  It's vague, shrouded in the thickest fog. It's a real mess in there.

  But I know I've heard it before.

  In a dream?

  In a torn report?

  On a night I can't remember?

  But try as I might, I can't figure it out.

  No big deal, the mission is complete.

  Or so I thought.

  A gurgling sound.

  A rattle.

  A cough.

  I turn around abruptly.

  One of the targets is still alive, the one called Takashi.

  Still conscious.

  I could venture to say that it was the strength of seeing his daughters again or some similar nonsense. Nah.

  He still lies on the ground like a broken toy, his body bent in an unnatural position, his neck broken—or so I thought. But he is breathing. Poorly. Jerky.

  As if every single breath were an act of pure will, and I know that from the efforts he is trying to make, he wants to do something.

  His eyes were filled with something I cannot decipher. It isn’t fear, it is almost as if it were awareness.

  “Now... you know...” That's all.

  A faint whisper that sticks in my mind like a thorn under my skin.

  I s he talking about the contents of the briefcase?

  He spits blood. A red thread drips from his split mouth.

  But I stare intently at his resigned face, and from the expression now painting his face, he must have done the same.

  Then I raise my arm.

  A few milliseconds of silence. No comment.

  ZAP.

  An electric dart explodes in his chest, shutting everything down.

  A jolt. A tremor. Stillness.

  Final.

  I stand still for a few more moments. That name continues to bounce around in my mind.

  Project Durga

  What the fuck is happening? And more importantly, what the fuck is happening to me?

  I slip the file into the magnetic pocket of my suit. I don't want it to end up in the hands of the Commission, or they might decide to take me out too.

  I know how paranoid they are about these things, and I want to pretend that nothing happened today that goes beyond the directives imposed on me.

  I head for the exit without showing any doubt or emotion, and above all without looking back.

  Protocol would say this mission was completed successfully. My gut screams that something has started to move .

  I kneel beside the corpse of the man who was once known as Fukagi Yuto, although in our circles he was known as... Well, it doesn't matter now. His blood flows slowly along the floor's grooves.

  I let my thoughts return to normal, then run my hand over my helmet in an almost mechanical gesture. Then I press the earpiece

  “Spectre to Sentinel. Mission accomplished. Targets neutralized. No survivors. No sign of buyers.”

  Pause.

  My gaze lingers once again on the briefcase, still open on the table. Was I right to take that file and not destroy it?

  Project Durga.

  “No anomalous data to report.”

  The voice of Command comes through as always, neutral, without inflection.“Roger that, Spectre. Proceed to the extraction point in sector 3-B.”

  I turn off the communication.

  Then, I look at the sky beyond the glass, the rain slowly resuming, drumming like frantic fingers, as if it wanted to cleanse what just happened in this room.

  For the first time, the ghost of doubt seems to settle on me like a shroud.

  But it won't succeed.

  Not tonight…

  ***

  Three days later, Nagoya, Atsuta district. 10:49 p.m.

  The rain has just stopped. The sky is black, but the manholes are steaming, and the asphalt reflects the orange lights of the street lamps, as if the city were sweating.

  A solitary figure crosses the street, walking slowly, knowing that no one is watching him. Or at least, that's what he thinks.

  He wears a long, wet coat and a hat that covers part of his face.

  He carries a bag in his hands. He walks with his head down, as if he wants to disappear into the darkness.

  He climbs the steps to the front door, inserts the keys, and enters.

  Inside, the silence is almost unnatural.

  He takes off his coat and hat, revealing a face marked by age but not yet tamed by it. Thick glasses. Short beard. The tired eyes of someone who has seen too much and would finally like a moment of rest.

  Then he stops. Something seems wrong.

  A shiver runs down his spine and his heart skips a beat.

  In the corner of the room, there is a dim light and a figure is sitting comfortably in a leather armchair.

  His legs are crossed. His hands are wrapped in gloves and his face is half-hidden in the shadows.

  “Who... who are you?” He asked in a trembling voice.

  Then that voice.

  “Good evening, professor. It's been a long time.”

  The man's eyes widen, perhaps in amazement, or perhaps in terror.

  He tries to move his mouth, but no sound comes out.

  Then...

  DARKNESS FALLS

  Somewhere, the past has awakened…

  And the world has just taken another step toward the abyss…