Flashbacksowhere in the country.
The old warehouse slled like rust and stale tobacco.
A single hanging bulb flickered above the tal table, throwing shifting shadows across the cracked floor. Dust hung in the air, catching in the thin light like drifting ghosts.
At one end of the table sat a man dressed too flamboyantly for the gloom.
He wore a long charcoal coat lined with violet silk, polished boots that never saw dirt, and a bowler hat tipped just slightly to one side.
A porcelain-white mask hid half his face, painted with a permanent red grin that never reached the eyes behind it.
Those eyes—cold, yellow-brown, sharp as broken glass—watched everyone like he was already calculating how much they were worth.
They called him Clown.
Not because he was funny, but because people who underestimated him ended up dead with a smile carved on their faces.
He was the underworld’s bridge—the deal broker, the whisperer, the one you called when no one else could stand in the sa room without shooting each other first.
And today, at eleven years old, the boy who would one day be known as Ghost was sitting across from him.
The child’s legs didn’t even touch the floor.
He sat still, almost unnaturally composed, his small hands folded on his lap. But his eyes—those dark, calm eyes—didn’t belong to a child. They belonged to soone who had already seen too much.
Beside him sat Hades, tall and broad, his posture clean and precise, suit unwrinkled despite the long drive. His tone was low, respectful but firm.
"Good evening, Mr. Clown," Hades said. "My na is John. I’m here on behalf of my client, Mr. Clark, who was abducted yesterday by a drug gang."
The Clown tilted his head, the painted grin gleaming under the bulb.
"Clark," he echoed. "Yes... I heard sothing about that. ssy people, that gang. They don’t negotiate—they butcher."
Hades gestured toward the boy beside him.
"This is Clark’s son, Mike. The only heir, and his only family."
For a mont, the Clown’s gaze slid from Hades to the child.
It lingered.
Then, slowly, a grin tugged at the corner of his real mouth beneath the mask.
"And why not the police, John? You think I have a badge hiding under this coat?"
Hades gave a small, practiced smile.
"The police will move too slow. My client’s ti is limited. You, however, can reach the right people faster."
The Clown leaned back, tapping one gloved finger on the table.
"Flattery doesn’t buy favors."
Before Hades could reply, the boy spoke up.
"I want my father back," Ghost said. His small voice was steady, his words crisp. "I can pay. I’ll give money to them. I’ll give money to you. Just... please. I can’t live without him."
The Clown stopped tapping.
He looked at the child again, really looked this ti.
No trembling lip. No begging eyes. Just calm desperation, a strange, controlled fire for soone so young.
"Hm," the Clown murmured. "So the boy can talk."
Hades nodded. "He ans it. And we know you can help, Mr. Clown."
The Clown’s grin stretched wider behind the mask. "One million dollars as brokerage."
Hades frowned. "That’s—"
Before he could finish, the boy interrupted again.
"Done."
Hades turned sharply. "Mike—"
Ghost’s eyes didn’t move from the Clown.
"I’ll give you one million dollars if you bring him back. Safely."
For the first ti, the Clown laughed—a real laugh, rough and unsettling, echoing through the empty warehouse.
"Well, well," he said, wiping a fake tear from his good eye. "That’s a great deal coming from a child who doesn’t blink at numbers that make grown n stutter."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small burner phone, old but clean. He slid it across the table.
"Take this. I’ll call you on it when there’s news. Don’t call first."
Hades stood and nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Clown."
The Clown rose too, tucking his gloves tighter, hat angled low.
He turned toward the exit, boots echoing against the tal floor, and paused once near the doorway.
He didn’t look back when he said, almost casually,
"Keep that boy close, John. The world eats children like him... or crowns them."
Then the door swung shut behind him, the light flickered again, and the warehouse fell silent but for the faint hum of the hanging bulb.
Ghost sat still, fingers touching the burner phone.
His reflection stared back in the screen—small, sharp, and already learning how to beco sothing else.
Ghost sat still for a mont, the phone cold and heavy in his small hand.
His voice was soft, almost too calm for a boy that age.
" What do we do now?..."
Hades didn’t answer imdiately.
He simply raised a finger to his lips — silence — then pointed at the burner phone in Ghost’s hand.
A subtle warning.
Ghost’s eyes sharpened in understanding.
The phone might be tapped.
The Clown may already be listening.
So the boy exhaled, slow and obedient.
Hades spoke aloud, tone deliberately steady, almost rehearsed.
"Do not worry. He will help us."
Ghost nodded, as if reassured.
"I hope so, Uncle John."
But behind those innocent words, his gaze remained wary, calculating.
Outside, the Clown stepped into the night, boots crunching gravel.
Under the streetlamp his masked grin glead, and he tilted his head as though listening to an invisible whisper.
"Heh..."
A low chuckle escaped him — amused, sinister.
"So cautious already. Good... good..."
He disappeared into the dark, laughter fading like smoke.
A few minutes later.
A black sedan rolled down an empty road.
Hades drove with one hand, face unreadable, city lights streaking across the windshield.
Ghost sat silent beside him, legs dangling slightly off the seat, expression small yet storm-still.
They stopped at a red light.
Just then, a motorcycle eased to a halt beside the car — helted rider, face fully hidden.
No words exchanged.
No gestures beyond a single glance.
Ghost rolled the window down.
He stretched his arm out and placed the burner phone gently into the rider’s palm.
The rider nodded once, silent, almost reverent — then sped off into the night, tires whispering against asphalt.
The traffic light flicked green.
Hades resud driving without a word.
Ghost leaned back in his seat, eyes dark and thoughtful.
Even as a child, he did not trust a devil to keep his bargain.
That Night
The night was thick with fog — the kind that clung to the skin and swallowed sound.
By the ti the burner phone vibrated, the clock had already crossed midnight.
Its dim red screen blinked alive with a single ssage:
"Co to the old market. Casino. 1:10 AM. Bring 5 million for the gang."
The ssage was short, impersonal — exactly the kind of bait the underworld used to test desperation.
Within minutes, it was forwarded across secure lines.
Silent alarms triggered.
The Graveyard moved.
Unmarked vehicles rolled out into the dark.
Agents disguised as vagrants, vendors, and drunkards quietly lted into the corners of the old market.
In less than twenty minutes, the entire area was wrapped in invisible eyes.
The Old Market wasn’t what it used to be.
Once a bustling trading hub decades ago, it now stood as a ghost of itself — a labyrinth of shuttered shops, half-broken signboards, and crumbling stone archways.
Every alley reeked faintly of rain, rust, and tobacco.
A stray dog barked in the distance; a broken streetlight flickered over a faded sign that read "Casino Royale" — a joke of a na for what it had beco.
Inside, the casino was a different world entirely.
Neon lights slashed through the haze of cigar smoke, reflecting off roulette tables and half-empty whiskey glasses.
Dealers in ill-fitting tuxedos shuffled cards for n with eyes like wolves — so laughing too loud, others silent as death.
Behind the music and chatter, there was tension — the kind that sat heavy in the air, humming under every flick of a coin.
Outside, Hades tightened his gloves.
He turned to the small figure standing beside him — the boy with the steady eyes.
"I’ll go in," Hades said, voice low. "You’ll stay with the team outside."
Ghost frowned. "But, Hades—"
"It’s an order, little bud."
His tone softened only slightly. "You’ll be with the team. Keep your comm on."
Ghost’s jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Yes, sir."
Hades gave him one last glance — proud, almost paternal — before grabbing the silver briefcase and walking toward the casino’s flickering doorway.
A shadow stepped out from under the arch.
"Good evening, John," the voice said, smooth as oil.
Hades stopped.
The mask ca first — the sa porcelain smile under the dim light.
The violet silk collar next, and the unmistakable grin.
"Mr. Clown," Hades greeted.
Clown’s gaze dropped to the suitcase. "And my brokerage?"
Without hesitation, Hades pulled a small card from his coat and handed it over.
Clown raised an eyebrow. "What is this?"
"A debit card," Hades said. "Account’s active for a year. One million inside, as requested. Withdraw whenever you like."
Clown chuckled, flipping it between his gloved fingers. "Hmm. How do I know there’s actually money in it?"
Hades exhaled through his nose. "You can test it right now. Buy a million-dollar chip from the counter."
The Clown stared for a beat, then smirked. "No need. That child—" his voice twisted slightly, almost fondly, "—he doesn’t lie does he? Where is he, anyway, John?"
Hades didn’t flinch. "He’s outside. This isn’t a place for children. Even you wouldn’t let a teenager walk into a pit like this."
Clown laughed, deep and sharp, echoing through the empty archway. "You’ve got a point. He is the lottery for the gamblers, Let’s go in, then. Let’s see what the devils are playing tonight."
"Lets see," Hades said quietly.
"We do this my way." Clown said
The Clown gestured with a sweep of his hand. "This way, lawyer."
They stepped through the neon-lit doorway.
Inside the casino, the noise swelled — jazz playing over the sound of dice, clinking glasses, and murmured deals.
Hades’ eyes scanned everything — exits, guards, hidden caras — as they moved past the tables.
Clown adjusted his mask slightly, his voice dripping with amusent.
"Nice place, isn’t it, John? The sll of greed and desperation — like a symphony."
Hades didn’t look at him. "I’ve never gambled in my life."
The Clown grinned wider, flashing white teeth through the shadows.
"Then tonight," he said, "you’re in for your first real ga."
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