The road to Valemont Ridge was long and silent, winding through cold forests and forgotten towns.
Matherson drove an old matte-black muscle car—borrowed, stolen, it didn't matter. The engine growled like a caged beast, tires eating up the cracked highway. In the passenger seat sat the tracker Ghostbyte had given him, pulsing with a faint blue light.
Ahead, nestled deep in the ridge like a sleeping monster, was Cerberus Group HQ—Vincent Raye's hideout, hidden behind fake names, legal shells, and armed walls.
Matherson's fingers gripped the wheel tighter.
This was no longer reconnaissance. It was war.
The day before, he'd prepared.
He returned to the underground den where he'd trained for years—where scars were earned and weakness was bled out. There, in a crate beneath the floorboards, he retrieved what he had saved for this very moment:
A compact assault rifle with a suppressor.
A custom blade, short and curved, engraved with his father's initials: J.J.
EMP grenades.
Smoke canisters.
Lightweight body armor, black as regret.
And most importantly, a photo—faded, weathered by time. His family. Smiling. Whole. Innocent.
He stared at it for a long time, then folded it into the chest pocket of his vest.
"You'll see justice," he whispered. "I swear it."
As he neared Valemont Ridge, the trees grew taller, the air thinner. Civilization faded behind him. What lay ahead was a compound camouflaged by forests, patrolled by private soldiers trained to erase people without a sound.
Matherson pulled over at a cliffside overlook. From here, he could see the faint outlines of the compound through a scope—guard towers, armored trucks, and a heli-pad that buzzed with activity.
Ghostbyte's voice came through his earpiece, sharp and distorted.
"You're close. Compound runs on a hybrid grid—part AI, part analog. I can disrupt their sensors and cameras for about two minutes once you plant the signal node. But that's all. After that, you're on your own."
Matherson smirked. "Two minutes is all I need."
"You say that now. Just remember—Vincent Raye doesn't play fair. He built that place for ghosts. You walk in there, and there's no guarantee you walk out."
"I didn't come to walk out."
He killed the engine.
Checked his gear.
Breathed in.
Then disappeared into the trees.
Night fell hard on the compound.
Matherson moved like a shadow, low and fast. His body was a machine now—every movement calculated, practiced. He scaled the outer wall using an old storm drain Ghostbyte had marked. Slipped past the first patrol. Avoided the surveillance blind spots.
He reached the main perimeter and pulled out the signal node—a black disc the size of a coin. With a quick glance, he stuck it beneath the central tower's base.
The device blinked once.
"Go," Ghostbyte said in his ear. "Two minutes start now."
Instantly, the cameras glitched. Alarms went silent. Lights flickered.
Matherson bolted across the lot like a shadow reawakened.
Up ahead—steel doors, guarded by two soldiers.
One moved left. One right.
He didn't hesitate.
Two shots. Silencers whispered. The bodies crumpled.
He slipped inside.
The interior was cold, clinical—white walls, polished floors, no windows. A maze of hallways and biometric doors. But Matherson had studied blueprints. He knew exactly where to go.
Down the elevator.
Third sub-level.
Room marked "Command".
He kicked the door open.
Empty.
Except for a single monitor—playing a video.
His father, tied to a chair.
Bruised. Bleeding. Defiant.
Vincent Raye stood across from him.
"You think you're noble, Jayson," Vincent said in the recording. "But the truth isn't for the world. It's a weapon. And you gave it to the wrong hands."
Jayson spat blood. "You're afraid of the truth."
Vincent smiled. "No. I'm afraid of what your son will become."
The screen went dark.
Then flickered.
Now Vincent Raye's face filled the monitor—live.
Older. Colder. Eyes like obsidian.
"Hello, Matherson."
Matherson stood still. Breathing heavy.
"I knew you'd come," Vincent said. "You've been writing your revenge story for years. But this isn't your ending. It's mine."
The building shook.
Explosions.
Ghostbyte's voice screamed in his ear.
"It's a trap! The whole place is rigged—he's burning it down!"
Matherson turned, sprinting down the hallway.
The floors began to collapse. Fire bloomed from below. Sirens wailed.
But Matherson wasn't leaving empty-handed.
Vincent Raye had shown his face.
And now, he had a trace.
Outside, as the compound burned, Matherson emerged—wounded, coughing, but alive.
He dropped to his knees at the edge of the forest, staring at the blaze.
Ghostbyte's voice crackled again.
"We got him. Traced the broadcast. He's not here—but we know where he is now."
Matherson stood.
Face burned.
Eyes calm.
"Then this isn't the end," he said. "It's the beginning."