The gas station smelled like stale cigarettes and impending bad decisions.
It was one of those forgotten places on the edge of the industrial park—flickering fluorescent lights that buzzed like angry hornets, pumps that were rusted at the handle.
Daniel hated stopping here. But the needle on his dashboard was buried in the red, and he couldn't risk stalling out on the highway. Not tonight.
Just get the gas. Go home. Elena is waiting.
He stood by the pump, the nozzle vibrating in his hand. The rhythmic thug-thug-thug of the fuel flowing into the tank should have been soothing.
It wasn't.
His skin felt too tight. Itched.
He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to massage away the tension. It was that feeling again. The static in the air. The prickle at the base of his skull that he hadn't felt in three years.
Paranoia, he told himself. You're just rattled because of the tail earlier. Stop it. You're a logistics manager. You worry about spreadsheets, not ambushes.
But his body didn't believe the lie.
His body was already waking up. His pulse wasn't racing from fear; it was thrumming. A low, heavy beat. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.
Like a war drum.
"Hey, corporate."
The voice came from behind him. Close. Too close.
Daniel didn't turn around immediately. He watched the reflection in the dirty glass of the pump's digital display.
Two of them.
One in a hoodie, hands shoved deep in the pockets.
One wider, wearing a leather jacket that creaked when he moved.
Amateurs, Daniel thought. Pros don't announce themselves.
He sighed. A long, weary sound. He just wanted to go home and eat carbonara. He just wanted to smell Elena's vanilla shampoo.
"Can I help you?" Daniel asked, keeping his voice mild. He didn't let go of the gas nozzle.
"Nice car," Leather Jacket said. He stepped closer. The smell of cheap beer and unwashed denim hit Daniel's nose. "Too nice for this part of town."
"It's a rental," Daniel lied. Easy. Automatic.
"Wallet," Hoodie snapped. He pulled his hand out of his pocket.
It wasn't a gun. It was a knife. A serrated hunting blade, maybe six inches. Rusty tip.
Daniel looked at the knife.
Then he looked at the boy holding it. Maybe twenty years old. Shaking slightly.
Don't do it, Daniel begged himself. Give them the wallet. Be the victim. Be Daniel the terrified office drone.
That was the safe play. That was the smart play.
But then Leather Jacket reached out and slapped the trunk of the car. Hard.
"Open it," the man growled. "Or we cut you open right here."
Something snapped in Daniel's chest.
It wasn't anger. It was… relief.
A dark, twisted rush of dopamine flooded his brain. He felt the smile threatening to break across his face, and he had to physically bite the inside of his cheek to stop it.
God, I missed this.
The thought terrified him. It sickened him.
But it was true.
"Okay," Daniel said, his voice trembling—fake trembling. "Okay, please. Just… don't hurt me."
He let go of the gas nozzle.
"Fast," Hoodie said, lunging forward with the knife to emphasize the point.
Mistake.
Daniel didn't step back. He stepped in.
The movement was a blur. Not the frantic scrambling of a victim, but the precise, terrifying geometry of a master.
Daniel's left hand shot out, catching Hoodie's wrist. He didn't just block it; he twisted.
External rotation. Hyperextension.
CRACK.
The sound of the radius bone snapping was loud. Wet.
Hoodie screamed—a high, shrill sound—and dropped the knife.
Daniel didn't stop. He didn't think. He flowed.
He spun, driving his right elbow back into Leather Jacket's solar plexus.
The man folded like wet cardboard, the air exploding from his lungs.
Daniel grabbed the back of Leather Jacket's head and slammed it into the metal frame of the gas pump.
CLANG.
The man dropped to the pavement. Out cold.
Hoodie was on his knees, cradling his broken arm, wailing. Snot ran down his face. "You broke it! You broke my arm!"
Daniel stood over him.
His heart wasn't racing. It was slow. Steady.
He looked at his hands. They weren't shaking.
He felt… good.
He felt alive.
And that scared him more than the knife ever could.
Monster, a voice in his head whispered. You enjoyed that. You wanted him to fight back so you could hurt him.
He crouched down in front of the crying boy. The boy looked up, eyes wide with terror. He wasn't looking at a logistics manager anymore. He was looking at something ancient and hungry.
"Who sent you?" Daniel asked. His voice was soft. conversational.
"Nobody!" the boy sobbed. "We just… we just wanted the car! I swear!"
Daniel studied him. Pupil dilation. Sweat pattern.
He was telling the truth. Just a random mugging. Just bad luck.
"Get out of here," Daniel whispered.
The boy scrambled up, stumbling, clutching his arm, and ran into the dark.
Daniel looked down at the unconscious man—Leather Jacket.
He shouldn't search him. He should get in the car and leave.
But habit was a hard chain to break.
Daniel quickly patted the man's pockets.
Dirty tissues. A lighter. A crumpled pack of smokes.
And one other thing.
In the breast pocket of the jacket, heavy and smooth.
Daniel pulled it out.
It was a chess piece.
Carved from heavy, matte-black obsidian.
A Black King.
Daniel stared at it under the flickering fluorescent light. The rain started to fall, cold drops hitting his hand, but he didn't move.
This wasn't a mugging.
Random thugs didn't carry hand-carved obsidian chess pieces worth more than their car.
This was a message.
Or a marker.
Check, Daniel thought. Someone is putting me in check.
He shoved the piece into his pocket. His hand brushed against his keys. His knuckles were bruised. Just slightly. A faint purple discoloration where he had impacted the man's chest.
Elena will see.
He cursed.
"Damn it."
He finished pumping the gas. His hands were moving fast now, agitated. Not because of the fight, but because of the lie he would have to construct.
Gym accident? No, too cliché.
Tripped on the curb? Maybe.
He got back into the car. The interior was quiet. The vanilla air freshener smelled like home. Like her.
He gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white.
He looked in the rearview mirror.
The man in the reflection looked terrified. Not of the thugs. Of himself.
"Just go home," he whispered to the empty car. "Just be Daniel."
He put the car in drive and pulled away, leaving the unconscious man in the rain.
But as he drove, he couldn't stop his thumb from rubbing against the cold stone of the Black King in his pocket.
The game had started.
And for the first time in three years, the Ghost was ready to play.