Chapter 12
The kid blinks at me like I’ve insulted his entire bloodline.
“I’m nearly a man,” he insists, lifting his chin. “I have a mustache.”
Before I can respond, the other boy hops off the coffee table and barrels toward us. “Same. Look.”
He tilts his face up proudly, presenting the faintest whisper of fuzz above his lip like it’s proof he fought in a war.
“Who are you?” I ask, because reality is bending in ways I’m not prepared for.
“I’m his cousin. Theo.” He keeps pointing at the fluff, waiting for validation.
“That’s peach fuzz,” I say.
Both boys look gutted—like I’ve denied them their rites of passage. They start talking over each other, arguing about growth patterns and hormones and how some people mature later but still count as men, which is apparently directed at me.
While they defend their tragic lip hair, the two women—definitely sisters, same sharp cheekbones and efficient energy—start clearing the long dining table.
They move with the kind of wordless coordination shared by women who’ve survived several children, three jobs, and a hundred emergencies before breakfast. Masa tubs, notebooks, a cracked vase, a pile of laundry—gone in seconds.
Then they unroll a giant plastic sheet and gesture at the corpse like they’re inviting us to set down groceries.
This entire apartment is its own brand of insane.
Saint doesn’t miss a beat. “We need help identifying him.”
A notification chimes from a computer in the corner. Grim walks toward it without looking away from Saint, fingers already flying across the keys.
He grins like Christmas came early. “Yeah, I heard about your little predicament.”
Lines of code cascade across the screen. A digital swoosh flashes across the display, followed by the Grim Reapers infamous ASCII skull—the one that has tanked firewalls on four continents.
The one who rerouted a mercenary convoy in Syria by hacking their GPS and sending them in circles until they ran out of fuel.
The pixels dissolve, and the screen settles back into its idle pattern of a screensaver.
“Holy shit,” I feel the weight of it settle in my chest. “It’s really him,” I murmur, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
Saint glances sideways at me, the edge of a smile tugging at her mouth. She’s enjoying this—watching me process the Grim Reaper in the form of a sixteen-year-old with a headset, a curfew, and opinions about algebra.
“We’ve gotta be quick,” she says, voice low but certain. “I’m being framed for his murder, and I don’t want the world’s assassins tracking us here.”
Grim nods, already rising from his chair. “I got you, senora apocalíptica.”
He steps up to the table and—God help me—takes a selfie with the corpse.
Theo darts in, flashing peace signs like this is a vacation photo for social media.
Then Grim angles his phone over Skippy’s face for a close-up. He reaches for the sunglasses.
“I wouldn’t take those off,” I warn, too late, my hand reaching out.
He lifts them and both boys’ recoil instantly, faces twisting.
“Oooh!” Theo steps back, holding a closed fist over his mouth.
“Dude—gross,” Grim mutters, keeping his arms locked straight and taking another picture. “The scans will get a better hit without the glasses.”
The images upload in seconds. Screens bloom across the monitor—surveillance archives, DMV records, social feeds, blurred crowd shots—everything flashing past too quickly to absorb.
I drift a little closer to her, voice low. “He’s a kid. And you just… trust him?”
Her mouth curves, subtle and sharp. “Not all of us have trust issues.”
“Oh, that’s fucking rich from you,” I mutter.
She tilts her head, finally looking at me. “Only with some people.”
The implication stings more than I want to admit. “Grim has never failed me.”
As if waiting for its cue, the computer chimes—a bright, decisive ping that slices through the room.
Grim leans back in his chair, grinning like he just solved world hunger. “Got him.”
The monitors flare to life, every screen in the room vomiting images, files, and clipped bits of security footage.
Our dead man appears in a dozen angles—walking through lobbies, tapping on his phone at train stations, sipping coffee in an elevator.
He looked a hell of a lot healthier in those than he does on the plastic-lined table behind us.
Grim starts typing again, fast enough that the keys blur. More windows open. Then more. Every new one stacks over the last as he drills deeper.
“There we go…” he mutters, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Name: Owen Liang.”
I squint at the picture—nerdy, stiff posture, wire-rim glasses. The kind of guy who apologizes when someone else bumps into him.
Grim keeps going, narrating like a sports commentator.
“Accountant. And not the fun kind. He does numbers for the Guild and a few freelance merc groups on the side.” His lips twist. “Neutral territory, gray-market stuff. Paperwork for people who hate paperwork.”
Saint leans in a little. “So why does he matter?”
Grim shrugs, pulling up another file. “Pretty low profile. No socials. Pays taxes on time. Owns a sad little one-bedroom in Chicago. Office is there too.” He gestures vaguely. “The human equivalent of a beige cardigan.”
He clicks into another thread—some kind of encrypted message chain—and frowns.
“Okay… here’s something,” he says. “Chatter on a dark net board. Looks like he was trying to trade information.”
My interest sharpens. “What kind of information?”
“Not sure,” Grim says, eyes scanning rapidly. “The posts are vague. But he was asking around. Looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Grim sits back, expression flattening into something more serious than I’ve seen from him so far.
“He was looking for a ghost,” he says quietly.
Then, after a beat:
“Literally. El Fantasma*.”
He scrolls. Scrolls again.
“Nothing past that. The trail stops. Last activity was a few days ago.”
Grim says the name like it’s a bomb he’s dropping on the table.
El Fantasma.
The word hits hard enough that I almost forget how to breathe. Not visibly. Not outwardly. Just the quiet, controlled clench behind my ribs that I’ve mastered over a lifetime.
Saint stiffens beside me. Not fear—recognition.
Theo turns toward her. “What’s the big deal? Who’s that supposed to be?”
Grim swivels lazily in his chair, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “Untraceable,” he says, shrugging. “Which is saying something, considering I can find everyone. But this one? Nothing. No chatter, no footprint. Could be a guy. Could be a woman. Could be a fifty year old. Could be no one.”
Theo whistles low, impressed.
Saint speaks without taking her eyes off the dead man. “Most assassins like leaving a mark—something flashy. A tell. But this one doesn’t. No calling card. The absence is the signature.” Her voice drops. “A ghost.”
Grim adds, “Whoever it is made an impossible shot once. One-in-a-billion physics-defying shit. People still argue about whether it was luck.”
I swallow that. Don’t react. Don’t show even a flicker.
“So what about the takeout receipt in his pocket?” I ask, steady, neutral. “Anything from that?”
Grim spins back to the screen. “Looks like he got intel Fantasma was in Japan. Liang must’ve come here first, flown out, and then—well.” He glances at Saint. “Had the misfortune of running into her.”
She ignores the jab, frowning down at the body. “He’s got something under his skin.”
She pushes up his dirty sleeve. His forearm is swollen—fat, tight, mottled purple-green.
“Gross,” she mutters.
She presses lightly, and the skin gives beneath her thumb. Grim steps in and pokes it too.
“Wicked,” he says. “Theo—come feel this.”
Theo rushes over, poking the swelling like it’s a science fair project.
I snap. “Focus. Can you get it out without damaging whatever it is? It was probably implanted a few days before he died.”
Grim opens his mouth—but doesn’t answer.
Because every alarm in the apartment detonates at once.
Sirens. Buzzers. Harsh digital shrieks.
All the monitors flicker, Owen Liang’s files evaporating in a blink and reforming into grids of security feeds—dozens of angles from around the building.
Figures move across several screens. Shadows. Shapes. Too coordinated to be random.
Assassins.
“Shit,” Grim mutters.
“?Nino!” his mother snaps.
“Sorry, Ma!” He’s already typing, screens flashing, windows stacking. He brings up motion trackers, heat signatures—every tool in his arsenal lighting up at once.
Saint steps forward, steady as ever, her eyes scanning the images. “Does the body have a tracer on it?”
Grim shakes his head, fingers still flying. “If he did, I’d see it. Or at least get interference.” He clicks through three diagnostic windows, all clean. “If there’s anything, it’s running on such a low frequency it slipped under my baseline filters.” A beat. “So probably not.”
“Fuck,” Saint says.
He looks up sharply at her, something hard and older flickering through his face that makes him look much older than sixteen. “You need to go. Now.”
No argument. No questions.
Saint moves first. “Get Skippy.”
Grim yanks open a desk drawer, digs through tech clutter, and pulls out a cheap burner phone. He presses it into Saint’s hand. “Use this if you need me again.”
She nods, tucking it into her jacket while I lift the corpse carefully—his dead weight more noticeable now that urgency is eating through the room.
One of the women—Grim’s mother—already has the apartment door open, her body blocking as much of the hallway as she can.
Another alarm screeches.
One of the security feeds on the monitor jumps to the forefront—enlarging automatically.
Grim sees it first. His face goes tight.
“Go now,” he says. “They’re here.”
* The Ghost