Chapter 10 – The First Blow
The world narrowed to a single point: survive.
Nate stood up slowly, wiping blood from his hands.
Vale was gone — but his warning echoed in Nate's mind like a siren:
> Not who you think she is...
Not Eira.
Not the Syndicate.
Maybe not even Nate himself.
He could no longer run.
He had to strike back — before they buried him.
---
He knew he couldn't do it alone.
Digging into his memory, Nate recalled an old name:
Malik — the Phantom.
A fixer.
A ghost.
Someone who owed Nate's father a debt no one else remembered.
If anyone could help him disappear — or fight — it was Malik.
---
Finding him, though, would be suicide.
Malik lived behind layers of security: encrypted lines, rotating hideouts, false identities.
And Nate had one thread to pull: a burned-out payphone downtown, still wired into the old network.
If he dialed the right number, if he used the right passphrase... Malik might answer.
Or the Syndicate might.
---
Nate moved like a shadow through the ruins, avoiding patrols, cameras, and searchlights.
At last, he found the booth — shattered glass, a rusted receiver dangling by a wire.
He picked it up, heart pounding, and punched in the number:
7-7-9-1-3-5-5.
It rang once.
Twice.
Three times.
---
> "Speak," a voice rasped through the static.
Nate swallowed.
> "The tide washes the forgotten," he said, repeating the passphrase his father once taught him.
A long pause.
Then:
> "Underpass. Fifth and Main. Midnight. Come alone."
The line went dead.
---
Nate smashed the phone to pieces and walked away without looking back.
He had a plan now.
But plans meant nothing without execution.
And blood.
---
Midnight.
The underpass smelled like mildew and rot.
A single figure waited in the shadows — wrapped in a long coat, face hidden behind mirrored glasses.
Malik.
Or a trap.
Nate kept his pistol close.
The figure raised an empty hand in greeting.
> "You're late," the man said in a voice like crushed gravel.
> "Had to lose some friends," Nate replied.
A humorless chuckle.
> "You're your father's son, alright."
---
They talked quickly, urgently.
Malik laid it out:
The Syndicate had labeled Nate a Class Red — kill on sight.
There was no "bringing him in" anymore.
They feared something Nate didn't even know he possessed.
Something Vale had died protecting.
And Eira?
She was the Syndicate's favorite weapon: charm them, confuse them, then cut them down.
But she wasn't the only one.
There were others.
More agents already hunting him.
Some hidden.
Some waiting for the right moment to strike.
---
> "You want to live?" Malik said, lighting a cigarette with shaking hands.
"You need to hit back. Hard."
> "How?"
Malik smiled — a slow, dangerous smile.
> "We start by burning down one of their safehouses."
> "Tonight."
---
Nate hesitated — but only for a breath.
He was done running.
He was done doubting.
If the Syndicate wanted war —
He would bring it to their doorstep.
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