Chapter 6: The Hunter is Loose.

A black man with a sharp soldierly appearance strode into the building, his movements, calm and precise, like a blade sheathed in silence. His skin gleamed under the skylights, his closely cut hair was disciplined and stylish, tapering into the edges of his military-trimmed beard. His suit was black, well-tailored, clean as truth—and the holstered weapon at his side didn't show, but the man's presence said it all: he was not someone you crossed.

People moved for him, instinctively. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. There was something carved into his posture—something unshakably noble and terrifying all at once—that demanded respect even from strangers. Heads turned. Hands gestured greetings. Not because they recognized him, but because something about him felt… superior.

James O'Connor Williams walked toward the elevator with the silent grace of a lion. The reinforced steel doors opened automatically as the AI scanned his face. "Welcome, Agent Nine." The soft mechanical voice chimed with veneration. The lift interior was lined with blue-lighted panels, each reacting to his presence. "State destination."

"Security Council," he said with crisp certainty.

"Voice verified. Access granted."

As the elevator descended into the depths of the structure, the lights dimmed slightly and pulsed to life in a soft azure sequence—like the heartbeat of a machine.

Beneath the city, far from the eyes of the public, CISPA existed as a myth turned institution. The Covert Intelligence for Security, Protection and Aggression wasn't tied to any singular government—it was an independent peacekeeping and shadow-response organization that existed in silence, answering only to its three-member executive body known as the Triumvirate Board. Formed after the world wars and perfected in the decades since, CISPA operated through a multi-tiered structure: field operatives (Agents), analysts, tacticians, medics, techs, and a private research division. It held embassies embedded within embassies, satellites no one could trace, prisons no country admitted existed, and a chain of command so secretive that even top-ranking CIA and MI6 agents could only guess at their role. Their motto? "We don't ask permission to stop chaos."

James was not just an agent. He was Agent Nine—a ranking that once meant ninth best in an elite roster of a hundred. Now, with the top eight either dead, missing, or buried beneath betrayal, James stood as the highest field operator in active service. Not by choice. By survival. Codename;'The Hunter'.

And today, the Council had summoned him.

---

The elevator opened into a chamber unlike any other within the CISPA facility. The walls were dark obsidian laced with veins of shimmering tech conduits pulsing in rhythm with a distant generator. At the center of the room sat a curved table, black as onyx and polished to a mirror's gleam. Behind it stood three figures, cloaked in authority, myth and power.

The Triumvirate Board.

To the left: Madeline Soma Rhys, Director of Strategy. A woman with eyes as calculating as a chess grandmaster and a mind that saw ten moves ahead in global policy before breakfast.

To the right: Colonel Alan Brose, Head of Field Operations. Gruff, stoic, and as composed as a blade on a whetstone. He was James' former mentor—and still the only man James ever allowed to call him by his full name.

And in the center: Director Elias Vorelli, the ghost behind CISPA's founding operations. Rumored to have once led black ops across six continents, now older, paler, and rarely seen outside this room. His voice was a scalpel that'll pierce through skins, his gaze enough to make most men confess.

"Agent Nine," Elias said without rising. "Sit."

James moved to the chair at the end of the arc-shaped table, unbuttoned his jacket, and sat. The silence was sharp and tense. Brose gave a nod. Rhys simply watched.

"You've worked the Vex case for nearly two years," Elias continued. "Multiple busts, surveillance, extraction of his lieutenants. Your file on him is the most complete we've ever had. But days ago... the game changed."

Brose slid a holo-pad across the table. On it, grainy footage flickered: Victor Vex, dead in his hotel room. Bullet to the skull and neck. Clean, professional.

"Murdered in his room three nights ago. And not by us," Brose said.

James leaned in, watching the footage. "Assassination?"

"More like vengeance," Rhys said coldly. "No signs of a professional killer. No hired marks. This was someone with motive. And whoever it was... knew how to slip through high-end security like smoke through a crack."

Elias tapped his fingers on the table. "Your mission is simple. Find Vex's killer. Track him, interrogate him, and bring him in alive... Or otherwise. Not to law enforcement. Just bring him... To us. Personally."

James's jaw tightened slightly. "You want me to hunt a man for killing a monster?"

"Justice doesn't belong to monsters or martyrs," Rhys replied. "We don't serve vengeance. We maintain balance."

Brose cut in. "We believe the killer may be connected to a rising network that inherited Vex's empire. His death wasn't the end. It is most possibly the start of something worse."

Elias tapped a button, and several profiles lit up behind him—images, bank accounts, encrypted routes, names erased by red tape. But one image caught James' eyes.

James leaned forward. "Who is he?"

"That's part of your job," Brose said. "We know this much—he was close to Vex's inner circle once. Then he vanished. Our data shows he had no official ties. A ghost. And ghosts don't leave footprints when they bleed."

Rhys added, "You'll work alone. Minimal interference. We don't want noise. No headlines. No mess."

" That's it then. And if I find him?" James asked.

"You bring him in." Elias said. "No matter the story. We need truth before justice."

James stood slowly. "Then I'll find your ghost. And I'll find out why he started this storm."

He turned to leave, but Brose spoke one last time.

"James."

He stopped.

"You might not like what you find. Be ready for that."

James nodded once. "I never like what I find. That's why I'm so damn good at my job."

The doors hissed open, and Agent Nine walked into the darkness of the elevator once more.

... The hunter was loose.