A Few Years Back – Mt. West, Ghost’s Safe House
The rain outside tapped gently against the window, faint thunder rolling in the distance. The safe house was modest—ordinary from the outside—but its walls were reinforced, its windows shielded, and its basent stocked with supplies. For Ghost, it was a fortress hidden in plain sight.
In the small living room, Monica bent down and tucked the blanket tighter around her younger brother, Chase, who was fast asleep on the couch. His fever had broken, and his chest rose and fell peacefully at last. She brushed his hair from his forehead, her expression softening before she turned toward the other figure in the room.
On the opposite couch, Ghost sat shirtless, his body marked with scars, fresh wounds still raw. He held a jar of ointnt in one hand, twisting to reach his back, but every motion was stiff.
Monica frowned. "Don’t struggle. Let do it for you."
Without waiting for his permission, she took the jar, dipped her fingers in the ointnt, and carefully spread it across the angry gashes.
Ghost didn’t flinch. He didn’t even breathe heavier.
Monica huffed. "At least pretend it hurts. You’re not so normal person, but it makes uneasy when you just sit there like a stone."
Ghost’s voice was flat but not unkind. "I’m so used to it, I forgot how to react to pain."
Monica sighed, her hands pausing for a mont. "Fine. Then at least tell your real na. Ghost sounds... weird."
His eyes shifted slightly, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. "Real na? I don’t really have one."
She frowned. "Seriously? You an to say no one has ever called you anything in your entire life?"
"I don’t rember my parents. I barely rember an image of my mother. My na... I can’t recall it." His tone grew quieter, heavier. "Soone once gave a na. I was proud of it. Happy. But that person sacrificed herself to protect and the other kids. After that, I never used it. I didn’t deserve it. I couldn’t save her."
Monica’s eyes lingered on him. He looked so young—just a teenager—but carried himself like a man who had lived through decades of war. His body bore scars like maps, each line a story of battles fought, blood spilled. His expression stayed calm, yet confusingly mature, masking grief too deep for his years.
Breaking the silence, he asked, "How is your brother doing?"
Monica exhaled slowly. "The fever’s gone down. But... losing Dad was a shock. He’s not handling it well."
Ghost’s eyes softened. "Your father sacrificed himself to save his family. He was a great man. My people... we honor those who fall for the sake of their land and their loved ones."
"Your people?" she asked, tilting her head.
His gaze hardened, shutting a door. "You don’t want to know."
Monica decided not to press. Instead, she looked around. "So what is this place? Your house?"
"It’s my safe house," Ghost said simply. "I built it myself. Not even my people know about it."
"You built it?" she asked, surprised.
"I an, it was a normal house. I bought it. Modified it."
She leaned back. "So... what are you planning now?"
Monica’s eyes dimd as she answered. "I don’t want to return to the Island. I hate those rules. I want Chase to have a normal life. So... I think I’ll get a job."
Ghost studied her. "What did you do before?"
"I helped run the family business," she admitted.
He nodded once. "I have a company. I need soone to manage it. I’d like to offer you that job."
She raised a brow, skeptical. "You? You have a company?"
"Yes," Ghost said matter-of-factly. "It’s sothing I built for insurance. Don’t worry—it’s not illegal. A small investnt firm. Reaper Investnts."
Monica blinked, then chuckled. "What’s with the na? Wait..." her eyes widened. "Did you say Reaper Investnts?"
"Yes. Why?"
She set the ointnt down and stared at him. "I’ve heard of that. Everyone in finance has. It’s the firm that made insane profits these past years. No one knows who runs it—it’s just a na on paper, no office, no public face. Are you telling you are behind that?"
Ghost raised a brow. "There are whispers already?"
"Whispers?" she laughed in disbelief. "Try rumors. People say the person running it is so old genius, a man who’s seen the world and knows all its tricks. And now you’re telling it’s you?"
Ghost smirked. "I don’t know about genius. Truth is, I had money lying around. Didn’t know what to do with it. So I registered a company, made a few connections, and invested where I felt like."
Monica squinted. "You an you had so brilliant strategy?"
He shrugged. "Not really. Look at the companies I picked—Zoomy Zappers, Snickerdoodle Studios, Fuzzy Buzzy Softwares. I picked them because I liked their nas."
Her jaw dropped. "Are you serious? You invested in them because their nas sounded funny?"
"Why not?" Ghost asked innocently.
Monica let out a stunned laugh, covering her mouth. "Unbelievable. You’re telling you built the most successful anonymous investnt firm in years because of... naming sches?"
"Seems that way," Ghost said without sha.
Shaking her head, she chuckled again. "You’re ridiculous... but ridiculously lucky."
"That’s why I need soone who actually knows what they’re doing," Ghost said, his tone serious again. "If you manage it, you can take whatever salary you want. And give your brother the normal life you want for him."
Monica thought deeply. Her family back on the Island still had wealth, but returning ant bending to her grandfather’s rules—rules she hated. Here, though, she had a chance to carve sothing for herself and Chase. Sothing quieter, safer.
Finally, she nodded. "I’ll do it."
Ghost’s lips curved in the faintest smile. "Good decision. I’ll arrange everything. Tell —how much capital would it take to build a business empire?"
Monica’s eyes lit up with determination. "We’d need... more than you’ve ever invested before. Far more."
Ghost leaned back, smirking. "I have hundreds of tis more than that."
Her jaw dropped. "Where on earth would you get that kind of money?"
His smirk widened. "I have... El Dorado."
The words hung in the air like a secret too big for the room.
Present – Star Harbor
Three days slipped by in quiet rhythm. Silvey had already returned to Citadel City after spending a bittersweet day at the beach, her smile shadowed with thoughts she hadn’t shared. Chase and his friends, on the other hand, chose to extend their stay—they wanted to be part of Dion and Flora’s wedding, now only two days away.
The Pearl Villa was bustling with preparations. Invitations had gone out, decorations and catering were being finalized. For Elena and Daniel, the house echoed with laughter and warmth; for Miles, it was another reminder of the family he was building around him.
Late that morning, Miles steered his car through the busy avenues and into the quieter streets of the southern district—toward his newest acquisition.
The Subzero Center.
From the outside, the complex stood out like a shard of crystal against the concrete around it. A sleek glass façade caught the sunlight, shimring faintly, while the na Subzero glowed in icy blue across the entrance. Inside, cool air imdiately wrapped around him, carrying the crisp scent of treated ice and faint traces of hot chocolate drifting from the concession stands.
The rink’s heart was an enormous ice oval, polished to a mirror sheen. Above it hung a massive electronic scoreboard and wide LED screens cycling through highlights of past matches—hockey players colliding in bursts of speed, figure skaters spinning like silver streaks. Tiered seating wrapped around the rink, rows of lights set to cast a clean white glow over the ice.
To one side was a glass corridor leading to the skating club, where families and amateurs rented skates, laughter echoing as children clung to the rails. On the far end stood the Subzero Academy, a facility where trainers shouted encouragent at players in practice gear. Beyond that, glass doors opened into a café overlooking the rink, a place designed for both parents and fans to watch comfortably.
As Miles stepped inside, the subtle chill of the place contrasted with his warm suit. His eyes wandered across the rink, noting its design—modern, efficient, alive with potential.
"Welco, Boss."
The voice ca from behind him. Miles turned to see a man approaching—tall, in his mid-forties, with neatly combed dark hair touched with gray at the temples. His posture was disciplined, his suit crisp, but his smile was open and practiced.
"My na is Arnaud," the man continued, extending a hand. "I’m the manager of Subzero Center. We spoke on the phone earlier."
Miles accepted the handshake, firm but calm. "Hello, Arnaud."
The sound of skates scraping the ice echoed faintly across the cold arena as Arnaud walked alongside Miles, pointing out various sections of the facility. Trainers waved as they passed, pausing their instructions to young hockey players. Staff mbers nodded respectfully, their faces curious but eager to et the new owner.
Arnaud gestured proudly to the glass-walled academy hall. "We’ve got so of the best trainers in the region. Our players compete in state-level tournants every year. Even the skating club here runs at full capacity on weekends."
Miles listened quietly, his gaze sweeping the facility. The hum of conversation from the café, the faint whistle of a referee from a training match, the crisp scent of ice—it was a lively, genuine environnt.
"This place is fun," Miles said finally, a faint smile curving his lips. "I’ll bring my siblings here sotis. They’ll love it."
Arnaud’s expression softened. "They will. Even my kids co here often just for fun. They study at St. Patrick’s University, so it’s close for them."
Miles chuckled, his eyes narrowing with amusent. "St. Patrick’s? I graduated from there a few months ago."
"Then I suppose that makes them your juniors, boss," Arnaud said, grinning.
Miles shook his head lightly, a rare mont of warmth slipping past his usual calm.
As they stepped back toward the main rink, Miles glanced around again. "Everything here is well and good. We’re not going to change anything." His tone grew firr, more businesslike. "Just one thing—every employee will go through background checks. No exceptions."
Arnaud nodded without hesitation. "Thank you for assuring , boss. I’ll fully cooperate. Security and legality matters more than anything."
Satisfied, Miles exhaled. His eyes lingered on the smooth expanse of ice. mories stirred—faint, distant—but his composure remained.
"It’s been a while since I skated," he said suddenly, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Let enter the rink."
Arnaud’s eyes widened with surprise, then lit up with enthusiasm. "Of course, boss. I’ll have skates prepared right away."
Miles stepped closer to the rink edge, his reflection faint in the glimring ice, ready to test himself against a pasti he hadn’t touched in years.
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