Chapter 9: The Hunt is on.

James O'Connor Williams cradled a steaming mug of coffee in one hand, its earthy aroma curling up into the quiet air. He walked calmly through the dim hallway of his home, the polished wooden floor whispering beneath his feet. Dressed in a plain T-shirt and black joggers, he looked like any man enjoying a lazy morning. But behind those calculating eyes burned the sharp fire of a man never truly off-duty.

He reached the staircase just beyond the kitchen—a wide, elegant spiral that led to the rest of the house above. But he didn't climb it. Instead, he paused at the foot of the stairs, his footsteps seeming to cease for a moment or two.

Without a word, he extended his hand toward the wooden frame that glued to the wall across from him—a nearly unnoticed piece of modern decor most guests would overlook. His fingers pressed gently against it.

A low mechanical hum responded.

With an almost inaudible hiss, the entire staircase shifted—rising and folding into itself like a mechanical origami. Beneath it, a staircase descended into darkness, revealing a hidden passage that led deep beneath the house. A rush of cool air and silence escaped from below.

James took a sip of his coffee, as if this secret entrance was part of his morning routine.

Then he descended.

As he stepped onto the first stair, the mechanism above reversed. The upper staircase folded back down, returning to its pristine, untouched appearance. No visible cracks. No lights. No shadows. Just wood and silence. Completely unnoticeable.

Gone. Hidden. Perfect.

The deeper James walked, the more the faint whir of technology came alive around him. Motion sensors activated subtle LED strips along the walls. Floor panels vibrated faintly under his weight, scanning for biometric confirmation.

By the time he reached the bottom, the room lit up with a smooth, luminous pulse.

The underground lair was nothing short of elite.

An expansive command center graced before him—equal parts bunker and luxury tech haven. A sleek, black wall dominated the far end, where a massive curved screen flickered to life, displaying a rotating 3D globe marked with encrypted grids. On either side of it, two smaller monitors illuminated with data streams, mission logs, and intel briefings. A touchscreen keyboard rested before them, glowing softly on a panel table. Two ergonomic black chairs stood at attention, like soldiers awaiting orders.

The room had style—James's style. It was clean, cold, and efficient, yet comfortable in a way only a former field agent could appreciate.

Opposite the command setup was a lounge area designed for calm after chaos. A plush, oversized leather recliner sat against the rear wall, perfectly angled to face the screens. A polished wooden alcove occupied the left corner, containing a decanter of whiskey, a set of files, and a pair of aged books—one of them bookmarked. On the other end stood a compact kitchenette, stocked with protein bars, instant meals, and imported teas. Between both corners hung a solitary punching bag—waiting to get punished again.

"Stella," James said quietly, his voice slicing through the humming quiet.

A moment passed, then the room answered—not with clanks or clicks, but with a soft, almost human tone.

"Welcome back, sir," replied a calm, melodious female voice, filtered through an invisible speaker system. "It's been approximately six hours and eighteen minutes since your last activity here. Would you like the usual updates?"

"Yes," James replied, setting his coffee on the panel table. "And... did I receive any new files while I was gone?"

A brief silence. Then Stella answered.

"Affirmative. One high-priority file was delivered through the Tri-Encrypted Network. Subject: Vex. Source: Redacted."

James's eyes narrowed. He pulled up the chair and sat, fingers already flying across the touchscreen. The screen adjusted to his profile and pulled up the classified envelope marked with CISPA's golden seal.

"Stella," he muttered, jaw tightening. "Run a deep scan on this. Decrypt priority one."

"Yes, sir," Stella replied. "Decrypting now."

As the screen began processing the encrypted package, James leaned back in his chair, his gaze fixed on the spinning seal.

Something in him stirred—an old instinct honed in war zones and back alleys.

James leaned forward, resting his coffee mug beside the glowing touchscreen. His brow furrowed.

"I didn't receive anything official," he muttered, voice low and skeptical.

"That is incorrect," Stella replied. "An encrypted data packet was received at 03:16 hours through a dead CISPA relay channel in Berlin. Routing signature points to a source with Triumvirate clearance."

James froze. His hand instinctively slid toward his holster even though he was safe underground. Someone had accessed a ghosted channel—one only the top echelon of CISPA could use. It was supposed to be scrubbed clean after the Black Lancer incident three years ago.

"Who sent it?" he asked.

"Sender unknown. Identification was masked behind CISPA's internal maze encryption. High-level cloaking. However, sender credentials match parameters historically associated with Director Alan Brose."

James's jaw tightened. Brose.

It would make sense. But if it was really from the Director, why didn't he send it directly? Why the cloak and dagger?

"Open the file."

The screen dimmed for a heartbeat. Then a sharp chime.

A folder opened with a soft digital hiss.

Subject File: Shadow Walker

James's eyes narrowed as pages loaded. The header flickered in the corner:

Clearance Level: Eyes Only – Compiled Archives, Years 2015–Present

A flurry of images, reports, satellite captures, autopsy files, crime scene stills—all bound together by a single thread: the myth of a man who didn't officially exist. A man CISPA and the world had long deemed "rogue-dead."

Yet here it was—ten years' worth of data on global incidents where organized crime units, warlords, private militias, and cartel wings were systematically wiped off the map. And at the center of nearly every site, in the background, barely visible—a shadowy figure. Same posture. Same walk. Different escape pattern.

A ghost walking through fire, leaving bodies behind but no fingerprints.

"Stella… is this all legit?" James asked, flipping through a subsection of the file detailing an entire paramilitary convoy reduced to ash in 2021.

"Affirmative. These files were compiled from redacted CISPA operations, cleanup missions, and third-party contract footage. All unauthorized. All dismissed publicly as internal disputes or insurgent raids."

James stood, slowly pacing the room, the glow from the monitors casting sharp lines across his face.

"Why now… why send me this now?"

"Insufficient data."

He stopped at a report—an incident involving the destruction of an underground black-market auction house. Every known buyer and seller from the Eastern crime ring had been annihilated. Same pattern. No leads. No trace.

Until now.

"This isn't just random," James muttered, mind racing. "He's not just hitting these people—he's erasing legacies. Vex's allies… his suppliers… his strongholds."

The pattern was almost surgical. Like a surgeon removing a tumor, bit by bit, without the body realizing until it collapsed.

"This is personal," James said aloud.

His thoughts returned to the Mystery Man, Vex's murderer. Young, obviously. Then this mysterious vigilante firebombs a Vex-related weapons deal in Somalia?

Coincidence wasn't a thing in James's world.

He turned back to the screen and enlarged a short video clip embedded deep in the file. It was from last night. Infrared drone footage. A fire raging in a warehouse in the Somali desert. Gunfire. Explosions. Bodies.

And amid it all—him.

The Shadow Walker. Clearer than ever before.

He moved like smoke. Moved like a man who had nothing left to lose.

James's expression hardened.

"Whoever this guy is, he's not just hunting Vex's corpse. He's hunting everything Vex ever touched. That means the killer I'm after… he might not be far behind. Or far ahead."

He reached for his mug. It had gone cold. He didn't care.

"Sir," Stella chimed again, "would you like me to cross-reference these incidents with known associates of Victor Vex and potential targets within the continental?"

James paused. That wasn't a bad idea.

"Yes. Do that. Start with the Lannigan Syndicate and Crosswave Tech Industries. Both were in Vex's pocket years ago."

"Understood. Processing now."

He took a breath, let it out slowly. A part of him hated it—being dragged back into shadows. But there was something different about this case.

This wasn't just a cleanup job.

It was a message.

Someone—most possibly, Brose —had sent him that file—cloaked, encrypted, and dangerously illegal. That meant someone up there wanted him on this path… and wanted the rest of the Council to stay blind to it.

James looked up at the largest monitor, where the Shadow Walker's blurry image lingered like a bad omen.

"Alright, ghost," he muttered, voice low. "Let's see what you're really after."

He walked over to the armory wall, pulled open a drawer, and removed a sleek black case.

He snapped it open. His custom CISPA tactical sidearm. Modified trigger pull. Built-in pulse tracer.

The hunt was on.

And somewhere out there, in fire and silence…

The Shadow Walker was already moving.