CHAPTER 47 – The Ghost That Won’t Die

The wind howled through the empty streets, carrying the scent of decay and rusted iron. The safe house stood in the heart of nowhere, a crumbling relic of past secrets. Alexander had been in places like this before—temporary hideouts, graves for those who had outlived their usefulness. But this one was different. This one was personal.

He pushed the door open, the creak echoing through the hollow space. Dust danced in the air as he stepped inside, the dim moonlight filtering through broken windows. The room was stripped bare, save for a single desk in the center, papers scattered across its surface. His instincts screamed a warning, but he moved forward anyway. There were answers here, and he needed them.

His fingers grazed the yellowed pages. Familiar names. Old locations. And then—his own. A detailed record of his movements over the years. Places he had thought were safe. Times when he had believed he was invisible. Yet, his father had been watching all along.

A chill crept up his spine, anger simmering beneath his skin. This wasn't just surveillance—it was possession. A way of reminding him that no matter how far he ran, he was never truly free.

Then he saw it.

A single sheet of paper, placed deliberately in the center. A message written in a hand he knew too well:

You should have stayed dead.

The words burned into him, as sharp as a blade to the throat. His father wasn't just watching. He was waiting.

A bitter smirk tugged at Alexander's lips. "If I'm a ghost, why does he still see me?"

The answer was clear—his father knew he was a threat. And ghosts didn't rest until they finished what they came back for.

The hunt had begun.

Alexander clenched the paper in his fist, his knuckles turning white. Every fiber of his being screamed at him to burn it, to destroy the proof that he had never truly escaped. But he forced himself to stay still. This was no longer about running. It was about finishing what had started years ago.

He sifted through the rest of the files, each one more unsettling than the last. Photographs of him from the past decade, grainy but unmistakable. Some from street cameras, others from angles that suggested someone had been following him. The timestamps stretched back to the very night he had faked his death.

His father had known. All this time, he had known.

The realization settled like a lead weight in his chest. Every move Alexander had made, every fight he had won, every person he had trusted—it had all been under watchful eyes. Was it amusement? A game? Or was his father waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

A sudden noise snapped him out of his thoughts. A rustle from the back of the room. He stilled, instincts sharpening, and reached for the knife tucked inside his boot. Slowly, he turned, eyes scanning the darkness.

A shadow moved.

Alexander lunged, blade flashing. His grip closed around something solid—a wrist. A grunt of surprise followed, and then they were struggling, bodies slamming into the rickety furniture. The intruder fought back hard, but Alexander was stronger, fueled by the fury boiling inside him. He twisted their arm, forcing them down onto the desk, his knife pressed to their throat.

"Who sent you?" he growled, his breath ragged.

The figure stilled. Then, in the dim light, Alexander finally saw their face.

It wasn't a stranger.

It was someone he had thought long dead.

"Took you long enough to find this place," the man rasped, a smirk tugging at his bruised lips. "Your old man isn't the only one who's been watching."

Alexander's grip tightened, confusion warring with suspicion. "Who the hell are you?"

The man chuckled, wincing as he shifted under Alexander's weight. "Someone who knows what's coming. And trust me—you're not ready for it."

The hunt had begun. But Alexander wasn't the only one hunting.