Chapter 29 – The Ghosted Name
The sound of fists colliding with leather echoed like gunfire across the Liberty Police Department's underground training hall. John Stellman's knuckles slammed into the punching bag with relentless precision—thud, thud, thud. Sweat cascaded from his forehead, dripping onto the padded floor beneath him. Each strike was faster, sharper, heavier than the last. He wasn't training against a bag. He was training against a ghost.
"Careful, Commissioner."
The teasing voice snapped him from his rhythm. Gina leaned casually against the doorway, arms folded, a sly grin playing on her lips. "At this rate, you're going to destroy government property. You know those bags don't grow on trees, right?"
Stellman ignored her at first, throwing one final thunderous punch that sent the bag swinging violently on its chain. He stood there, shoulders rising and falling, chest heaving with the weight of obsession. Slowly, he turned, meeting her gaze.
"If a bag can't handle me," he muttered, voice dry, "it doesn't deserve to be here."
Gina raised an eyebrow. "That's one way to say you're losing sleep."
She tossed him a towel. Stellman caught it but didn't answer. He wiped the sweat from his face, turned back to the bag, and stared at it like it held answers.
"John…" Gina's tone softened. "You've been at this for weeks. I get it. He's in your head. He's in all of ours. But obsessing like this—"
"I'm not obsessed," Stellman cut her off, his tone clipped and sharp. But even as the words left his lips, he knew they were a lie. He was obsessed. H.I.M had burrowed into his mind like a parasite, dragging him deeper with every crime, every clue, every whisper of his shadow.
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The Cold Silence
Hours later, Stellman stood alone beneath the icy torrent of his apartment's shower. Water thundered against his skin, each drop biting like shards of glass. He leaned forward, palms pressed against the tiles, his head bowed as the storm inside him raged.
All his life, Stellman had believed knowledge was his weapon. As a detective, he prided himself on answers—on unraveling puzzles no one else could. But H.I.M was no ordinary puzzle. He was something beyond. A man who had traded his humanity for something darker, more ruthless, and unstoppable.
But he wasn't born that way, Stellman thought, teeth grinding. He had a name. A family. A story. Somewhere along the way, he lost himself. Maybe… just maybe… there's still something human left in him.
The thought felt naïve, dangerous even. But it refused to leave him.
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Into the Archives
The Liberty City Archives were buried deep beneath the city—a labyrinth of old servers, flickering lights, and dust-laden shelves filled with records nobody wanted to remember.
Stellman's boots echoed as he walked the narrow corridors, his coat swaying behind him. He logged into an ancient terminal, its green screen humming to life. Hours bled away as he searched through sealed reports, forgotten files, and digital ghosts.
Names. Dates. Cases unsolved. Faces of victims long since buried. And still, the threads led nowhere.
Until finally… one document caught his eye. Sealed tighter than the rest. A file that had been hidden from every search, every system. Stellman's fingers hesitated over the keyboard before he bypassed the lock.
The file opened.
And there it was.
A name.
His heart stopped. His vision blurred. For a moment, the words on the screen felt unreal, as though he'd conjured them from his own desperation.
So that's who you were… before you became him.
The paper trembled in his hand. His chest tightened, a cold dread creeping into his bones. It wasn't just a name. It was a past. A story that had been erased, only to resurface now.
For the first time in years, John Stellman felt fear—not of H.I.M's power, but of his truth.
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Jack's Guilt
On the other side of the city, Jack sat slouched in his dim-lit living room. His walls were trophies of violence—guns mounted like ornaments, blades lined up like medals, blood-stained mementos of a life soaked in sin.
The fire crackled weakly in the hearth, but Jack didn't see the flames. He saw her.
The woman's terrified eyes. The child's scream. The night when innocence was torn apart, replaced with fire and ash. The night he had killed them.
His hand clenched around a bottle of whiskey until it shattered, glass embedding in his palm. Blood dripped onto the floor, staining the wood. But he didn't flinch. His breath shook as regret gnawed at him, regret he thought he had buried years ago.
For the first time in his wretched life, he felt it—the crushing weight of a single murder. Not because it was one life among many… but because it was the wrong life.
The night he had killed H.I.M's family.
And birthed the ghost that now hunted Liberty.
What have I done?
The thought echoed in his skull like a verdict.
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The Devil in the Rain
The city was drowning under a storm that night. Rain hammered the neon streets, thunder rolled across the skies, and Liberty's restless citizens hurried beneath umbrellas, blind to the shadow watching them.
On the edge of a cathedral spire, a figure stood unmoving, coat flaring in the wind.
H.I.M.
His crimson eyes flickered in the storm, reflecting the flashes of lightning. His presence was a monument of terror—silent, absolute, unshakable.
From the depths of his fractured mind, a voice chuckled. Low. Guttural. Sinister.
"Do you hear it? The storm? The bells? This city sings your song. Stellman digs in dirt, Jack drowns in guilt, but none of it matters. Their strings are already tangled in your hand. The show… has only just begun."
H.I.M's lips curved into a thin, humorless grin.
He whispered back into the void, "…Then let the curtains rise."
The cathedral bells struck midnight, their solemn chimes echoing through the rain-soaked city.
And Liberty trembled beneath the weight of the ghost watching over it.
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