Chapter 25
“El Fantasma,” I say.
Alejandro scoffs. “No. The Guildmaster.”
I flick a crumb off the keyboard, jaw set. “They could be the same person, you know. No one’s ever seen either of them. For all we know, the Guildmaster is just El Fantasma in a different suit.”
He shakes his head, dismissive. “That’s fantasy, Saint. The Guildmaster runs an empire. El Fantasma’s a story you tell when you can’t find the real problem. You’re chasing shadows.”
“Funny for you to say, Sombra*.” I narrow my eyes using his old name. He narrows his back, both of us knowing that name is dead. “Shadows get people killed. Every piece of shit that’s ever come after me in the last two years has dropped Fantasma’s name. You think that’s an accident?”
“Yeah, I do.” His voice is flat. “It’s a smokescreen. Guildmaster’s the power. The rest is noise. You keep looking for ghosts, you’ll miss the shot right in front of you.”
I snap the laptop shut just to break the rhythm of his smug certainty. “You really believe that? You think all these threads—contracts, hits, the money, the politics—they’re all run by some middle manager behind a desk, while the world whispers about a ghost for fun?”
He matches my glare, knuckles white on the table. “You want there to be a ghost,” he says, voice tight. “Because then it’s not your precious Guild turning on you. It’s just some phantom out to get us all.”
“That’s rich, coming from you.” I shoot back, unable to keep the edge from my voice. “How many jobs have you run for them? How many times has your info come from nowhere, like someone’s feeding you the answers?”
He bristles, jaw ticking. “I get my intel from the same places you do. The difference is, I know which leads are worth chasing.”
“Do you?” I lean in. “Or is it just easier not to ask who signs the contracts? Not to think about what happens when the Guild’s done with you?”
He’s in my space now, leaning forward until there’s nothing between us but heat and old scars. “You really want to go there? The only people who survive this job are the ones who understand they’re disposable. The Guild would burn every one of us if it came down to it—and you know it.”
I flinch, just barely, because he’s not wrong.
But he’s not right either. “Don’t mistake cynicism for insight, Alejandro.
You act like I’m na?ve, like I don’t know what this life is.
But you’re just pissed because they exiled you.
Maybe the Guild betrayed you, but that doesn’t make every answer a conspiracy. ”
He laughs—cold, bitter. “You still want to believe in something, Saint. Even if it’s just a myth. That’s your problem.”
“And yours is that you want to believe in nothing. That’s how you end up a ghost yourself.”
For a second, I want to hit him. Or drag him onto the table and let all this violence bleed out the other way.
I take a breath, force my voice steady. “There’s always something in the shadows. And sooner or later, we’re going to find out who’s really pulling the strings.”
“Yeah.” He doesn’t blink. “Just make sure you don’t get yourself killed chasing ghosts first.”
The tension’s a live wire, stretched to snapping—until Grim’s voice crackles through the speaker. “Hate to break up your little lovers’ quarrel, but I think I can solve this one for you.”
I roll my eyes. “Enlighten us, Grim.”
“Found something. A file buried so deep it may as well be in hell.”
He move the mouse and shows us. It’s called “El Fantasma”. I shake my head seeing the words. Not understanding how Alejandro can really keep preaching the ghost is not real.
Grim keeps going. “There’s a voice file—five days old. It’s just labeled Phone call 174 but it’s the only one in here.”
“Play it,” I say, voice flat.
A burst of static. Then two voices—both run through heavy distortion, genderless, originless, every syllable blurred by tech. Impossible to pin which one is which. They speak in measured, professional tones—every word cold, calculated.
The room stills. Alejandro and I both lean in, all that argument collapsing into a single, focused silence.
Grim presses play.
Two voices, both warped by distortion—neither is identifiable, but both are calm, deliberate. The first speaks, a hint of command beneath the tech filter.
“…Everything’s in place. We proceed as discussed.”
A pause, then the second voice. “Where do we meet, once it’s done?”
A cold beat, then: “Kurohana Palace. Main garden entrance. Neutral territory—no weapons. You’ll get your confirmation.”
The file ends. Just like that, the temperature in the room drops.
Alejandro stares at the screen, stone-faced. I keep my breathing steady, but my mind is spinning.
The Kurohana Palace—a garden, a casino, a fortress for the syndicates and Guilds. It’s neutral ground in name only; the kind of place where no one dares bleed unless they’re ready to spark a war. Whoever picked it knew exactly what they were doing.
I piece it together in my head, cold and methodical.
The accountant found the plot—maybe even before it was set in motion.
He knew where they were meeting, and when.
He was desperate to reach El Fantasma. It was practically screaming from his files, the panic, the urgency, the last-ditch messages to every burner account he could find.
And now he’s dead and I’m framed for it.
But it doesn’t end there. I’m not just collateral—they’re setting me up as the trigger for the next kill.
I’m supposed to take the blame for assassinating the golden boy senator.
They aren’t building an alibi—they’re constructing an entire narrative, brick by bloody brick. The kind that will outlast my corpse.
The accountant had a file on the ghost—just like everyone else. Only this one was buried deeper, harder to crack. Paranoia or survival instinct, hard to say.
One of those voices has to be El Fantasma. I just don’t know which.
Grim’s voice cuts through my thoughts, harried now. “Gotta go—Mamá’s screaming at me. I’ll keep digging, text if I find anything.” In the background, a woman’s voice rattles off a list of sins and groceries, rapid-fire Spanish. Grim curses, then disconnects. The cursor goes still.
The laptop’s mine again. I click around, restless, half hoping for some magic bullet. There’s a folder—Pictures. I open it.
Nothing. Black and white images, out of focus, as if the camera was shaking or the photographer was moving fast, too fast. One is blurry, like whoever took it had to duck away.
Based on the count in the corner of the folder there are forty six pictures like that, all the same. Fragments. Ghosts of a bigger picture, and nobody has all the pieces.
It’s almost funny. This is what the world’s deadliest men look like up close—blurs, shadows, a single foot on a helicopter rail. No faces. No names. Only proof that someone was close enough to take the shot, but never close enough to see the whole thing.
That’s the point, isn’t it? None of us ever see the whole thing. Not until it’s too late.
I shut the laptop, turn to Alejandro. “We need to get to Dubai. Kurohana Palace. Scope out the senator. Watch for whoever’s sent to take the shot.”
He nods, eyes narrowed. “And if we can’t stop it?”
“We kill the assassin ourselves. Take the body, take the story, take the last move away from the ghosts who think they can script every ending.”
He cocks his head, studying me. “You sure you’re up for this?”
I meet his gaze, unflinching. “What other choice do we have?”
He grins, sharp and mean. “None at all.”
That’s settled. The plan is ugly, but it’s ours.
And it’s the only way to burn down a lie this big.
I need air. Real air—not the iron-thick stench of rot and bleach that passes for oxygen in this flesh-eating basement. I shove the laptop away and mutter to Alejandro, “Bathroom.” He doesn’t argue, just gives me that unreadable look as I slip out.
Inside, I close the door and lean hard against it. I turn the tap, splash cool water over my face, letting it drip down my neck. The mirror is cracked at the corner, but I can still see my own eyes—tired, wired, too alive. I study the reflection, searching for cracks.
Where does Alejandro fit in all this? What’s his angle, really?
He says he came back because the bounty on my head was too high to ignore, but I know him.
There’s always more than one reason. Always another layer.
He’s in deeper than he admits, and I’m going to make him tell me what the hell he’s after.
I towel my face dry, steady my breath, and step back into the main room.
He’s gone.
Alejandro—gone. Just vanished, no sound, no shadow on the wall. The absence slams into me harder than it should. Instead, Dr. Doom is hunched at the stove, flicking a kettle on, lost in his own world with headphones jammed deep.
I scan the space, heart racing. My eyes dart to the table. The laptop.
Relief cools me down when it’s there. Right where I left it. Still closed.
I force myself not to run, not to look like prey. “Frank,” I call, but he doesn’t even flinch, too lost in whatever carnage he’s brewing. “Do you know where Alejandro—”
The kettle hisses. Dr. Doom shuffles away, deeper into his lair. I don’t follow. There’s no fucking way I’m walking back there to end up stuffed into a barrel of acid or something.
Instead, I grab the laptop and retreat down the hall to my room, shutting the door with a snap.
Sitting on the bed, I flip the laptop open. The screen wakes up in the same folder—pictures, blurred, black and white. My gaze drifts to the corner. My chest goes tight.
There were forty-six files when I left.
Now—there are only forty-four.
Alejandro is gone. And so are two pictures.
* Shadow