Through The Fractured Lens

Silas "Ghost" Moretti

4 years later

The darkness is suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic flashes of crimson that paint the room in a hellish glow. I, Silas Moretti, referred by many as "Ghost" stand frozen, my heart pounding in my ears as I watch the carnage unfold before me.

My men, hardened criminals who've faced down the worst this city has to offer, are falling like dominoes to an unseen force.

Flash. In that split second of red, I catch a glimpse of a dark cloak billowing like smoke. Flash. Darkness. A scream pierces the air, abruptly cut short. Flash. Another of my men crumples to the ground, a look of terror etched on his face.

I blink, and the cloaked figure is suddenly across the room. It's as if he's mocking the very laws of physics, appearing and disappearing between the flashes of blinding red light.

My fingers twitch, longing for the cold comfort of my gun, but I know it's useless. I've seen what this… thing… can do. Bullets might as well be raindrops for all the good they'd do.

Flash. Red light bathes the warehouse, revealing the horror.

Bodies litter the floor, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and disbelief. My remaining men, hardened killers all, huddle in corners or behind crates, reduced to whimpering children in the face of this incoming onslaught.

Another flash before the creeping darkness covers once more, but in that instant, I catch a glimpse of movement.

Shortly after, a scream to my left, followed by a heavy thud.

Flash. Another body on the ground, throat slit with surgical precision. The pool of blood spreading like a flowing river with no end.

The dance of light and shadow continues, a rhythm punctuated by the dying gasps of my men.

I watch, paralyzed, as the cloaked figure moves with inhuman grace, each motion a fluid arc of death.

In that instant, I see him cleave through my last remaining guard. The man's eyes widen in shock, a silent scream trapped in his throat as his body crumples to the ground. The metallic scent of blood fills the air, thick and cloying.

Darkness envelops us once more, and I strain my ears, desperate to catch any sound of movement. But there's nothing besides the thunderous beating of my own heart, along with the ragged sounds of my breathing.

I, Silas "Ghost" Moretti, the infamous terror of destruction in the night, was now, nothing more than a scared boy, wanting nothing else but to run away, as I knew my life would come to an end tonight, right here, in this moment.. when every hair on my skin finally rose.

In the flash of crimson illumination, I see him. The cloaked figure stands before me, a silhouette of darkness against the blood-red light.

His presence is suffocating, an aura of power clinging to his skin. The warehouse feels smaller, as if the shadows themselves are closing in.

My voice, one commanding and feared throughout the city's underworld, comes out as at trembling whisper.

"Who.. who are you? I demand to know your name!"

The figure remains motionless, the silence stretching between us like an eternity. Then, with a deliberate slowness that sends chills down my spine, he raises a hand. Long, pale fingers emerge from the sleeve of his cloak, moving with a calm grace as they push back the hood.

The hood falls back, and I find myself staring into eyes that glow like embers in the darkness. They're not the eyes of a man, no, no they aren't. The eyes don't lie.

The eyes of death itself.

The face that emerges is quite young, with sharp features and pale, dry skin. Black hair, messy and clearly not maintained. How could a boy this young do... all of this? In the pulsing crimson light, I can see the subtle tension around his mouth, the slight furrow of his brow. This is a face that has known pain, that has seen too much. 

Those scarlet eyes bore into me, piercing through the mental layers I've built up through the years. When he speaks, his voice is soft yet carries an undeniable weight, each word carefully chosen.

"My name is Lucian," he says, the words hanging in the air like a death sentence. "But I am not here to exchange formalities, of course."

He takes a step closer, and I find myself unable to move.

I was afraid.

"You've lived your life in the shadows, Ghost," Lucian continues. "You've dealt death to many, but you never understand it, do you?"

He takes a step forward, allowing a choking silence to formulate between us.

"A life, born of blood, yet so quick to spill it. You see life through a fractured lens, only viewing half the picture." he continues.

I swallow hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. Lucian's words cut deeper than any knife, laying bare the hollowness of my existence. I wanted to argue, to defend the empire I've built, but on the brink of death, it all seems so.. insignificant.

My fate was written, etched in stone, and I was now left to suffer the weight of its inevitable end. 

"What do you want from me?" My voice was barely above a whisper.

Lucian's eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something—pity? curiosity?—passing across his face. "Want? No, Silas. This isn't about want. This is about consequence. About balance."

"It was kill or be killed out there. I did what I had to do to survive!" I retorted.

A humorless smile is seen at the corner of Lucian's mouth. "Did you? Or did you simply convince yourself of that to quiet the whispers of your conscience?"

He takes another step forward, and I stumble back, my heel catching on something soft—one of my fallen men. I nearly lose my balance, but manage to stay upright, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"We all have choices, Silas," Lucian continues, his voice practically reverberating through my skull. "You chose death, you chose to be the Ghost."

Something inside me rebels against this judgement, against the inevitability of my fate. A surge of desperate energy courses through my veins, and before I can think better of it, I'm moving.

My hand reaches for the gun at my hip, fingers closing around the familiar grip. The metal is cool against my palm, a stark contrast to the feverish heat of my skin.

Time seems to slow as I draw the weapon, the weight of it comforting in its familiarity.

I raise the gun, aiming it at Lucian's heart—if he even has one. My arm extends, muscles taut with tension, but I can't stop the trembling. My finger hovers over the trigger, ready to fire.

Lucian doesn't move. He stands there, unfazed, as those scarlet eyes burn into my soul, as if putting me out for final judgement on the guillotine. 

In that instant, as my finger tightens on the trigger, Lucian moves. It's not a human movement—it's a blur, a fading ripple of what once was. One moment he's standing before me, the next he's beside me, his presence a cold void that seems to suck the very air from my lungs.

A flash of silver catches the crimson light, and for a split second, I see it—a blade unlike any I've ever encountered. Not for it's design, but for it's grace. Dripping in the blood of my men, its edge gleams with an outstanding sharpness.

At this moment, I felt true despair. Helpless at deaths door, as Lucian sheathes the blade in elegant fashion, almost taunting me.

The pain doesn't register immediately. There's a whisper of movement, a sensation of pressure, and then—

My arm, from the elbow down, simply isn't there anymore.

I stare in disbelief, unable to register what just happened. There's no blood, no torn flesh—just a clean, cauterized cut that ends abruptly below my elbow. The severed limb lies on the floor, fingers still curled around the useless gun.

A scream builds in my throat, but it comes out as a choked whimper. The pain hits then, a white-hot agony that threatens to overwhelm my senses. I stumble backward, my remaining hand clutching at the wound as if I could somehow reattach the lost limb through sheer force of will.

Lucian watches impassively, those burning eyes never leaving my face. His expression tinged with heavy disappointment.

I finally gather enough energy to speak. "Pl-please, what do you want? Money? I have money! I can get you whatever you want! Just n-name the price… and I can get it for you!" I snapped, a desperate and obvious attempt at saving my life.

Lucian stays silent for only just a moment before finally speaking. "The great Silas Moretti, the ghost of the underworld, murderer of a thousand souls. The leader of one of the biggest mobs in known history… is now begging for their life."

Lucian's words hit me like a physical blow, shattering any last shred of hope I had clung to. I stumble back, my legs giving out beneath me as I collapse to the blood-soaked floor. The pain in my severed arm is a constant reminder, but it pales in comparison to the terror that plagues me.

Lucian crouches down, like a predator savoring its final moments with wounded prey. The warehouse seems to darken further, as I felt the end drawing near.

"Goodbye, Ghost." Lucian shouts with a menacing smile, his voice resonating with a power that shakes me to my core.

I try to scramble back, but my body refuses to respond. It's too late.

I slowly look down, watching as a cut opens across my stomach, blood rushing out. Despite my best efforts, all I could manage was a desperate cry. I look back up, watching as Lucian stands, walking away from me.

As his shadow fades into the distance, he shot back one last glare, like this wasn't the last time we would meet—but I didn't understand it all that well.

I fall over, unable to hold myself up any longer, accepting my death, as the only thing I could register at this moment is the slowly fading sound of Lucian's footsteps as he continues to walk away.

Then, my eyes close, for the last time, as everything fades to black.

***

Lucian

I make it to the other end of the warehouse, noticing the cries from Silas coming to an abrupt close, as he has finally met his end. I stop in front of a door to an office, which I open. Instantly bathed in luxury, as wads of cash cover the floor, with impeccable art plastered over the walls.

Anger begins to boil up inside me. These killers enjoying the luxuries of life as they torture the innocent. However angry I felt, I have a mission, and I need to complete it. I've already eliminated the entire mob, so there was no point in feeling this way for any longer.

I step into the office, my feet sinking into plush carpet stained with droplets of blood. The air is thick and the scent of expensive cigars and fear. My gaze sweeps across the room, taking in the gaudy displays of wealth.

It's all so… meaningless.

I move to the large desk dominating the room, my fingers trailing across its polished surface. This is where Silas sat, where he plotted the death of countless innocents, where he counted his blood money. I can almost feel the echoes of his presence.

I rush over to his desk, shuffling through the mountain of paper scattered throughout, scanning for the specific document I came here for. I couldn't leave without it.

My hands move swiftly through the papers, discarding irrelevant documents and contracts. Then, I finally saw it. A worn leather-bound journal. My fingers tremble slightly as I lift it, feeling the unexpected weight of its contents.

I open the journal, its leather cover creaking softly. The pages are filled with meticulous handwriting, a stark contrast to the chaos of Silas's final moments. As I flip through, the true scope of his operation unfolds before me.

The first few pages contain a list of contacts—names, numbers, and cryptic notes about their specialties. Some are marked with stars, other with question marks. I recognize a few names—corrupt politicians, dirty cops, international arms dealers. It's a a veritable who's who of the criminal underworld.

While that information alone is already a handful, it's not what matters to me. It's the later pages that truly capture my attention, what I came here for. Dates, times, and locations are carefully noted, each entry surrounded by additional notes and symbols. These are the planned meetings with other mob leaders—a summit of sorts for the titans of the criminal world.

I take a few extra moments to inspect it, before closing the journal and putting it away. I've overstayed my welcome, and it would be unwise for me to stick around any longer.

Retracing my steps through the warehouse, the silence hangs heavy in the air, unnaturally thick like a suffocating blanket. This place that once thrummed with chaos and menace now has an eerie calmness to it. Shadows stretch across the concrete floors where bodies lie sprawled, deceptively peaceful in death's embrace.

The metallic scent of blood lingers pungently, mingling with the smell of gunpowder—a reminder of recent violence. Splashing beneath my feet is sticky as I tread carefully over the crimson pools of spilled blood.

There was no time to keep thinking about what had happened, just to keep moving. 

***

I finally make my way out of the warehouse, as I continue to sprint down the rain-soaked concrete sidewalk. After a few minutes, I cut through the roads, now bustling with cars as we finally reached downtown, into different side alleys, taking any sort of detour possible, to avoid being seen.

I finally slow my pace as I reach a more secluded area, my breath coming in gasps. I lean against a brick wall as the adrenaline from the warehouse begins to wear off, leaving me feeling hollow and drained.

However, I couldn't stop myself from cracking a smile.

A cold breeze whips through the alley, carrying with it the scent of rain and decay. I push off from the wall I was previously leaning on, continuing my journey.

After a long venture back, I finally made it, stopping in front of the sketchy apartment building. It wasn't home, nothing ever will be. But it was a place to stay, so I had to endure it another day.

Taking a step in, I felt the heated air wrap around my body like a warm hug. I took a second to enjoy it.

Finally, I heard someone speak, snapping my eyes open.

"Good to see you again Lucian-Dear, had a long day?" The familiar voice came from the counter to my right.

"I suppose you could say that," I responded.

"Well get some rest dear. You look like you need it," she said with a tired tone, clearly exhausted herself.

"You should also get some rest, Edith. I'll see you around." I replied in an energetic mood.

After seeing off Edith, my landlord, I make my way up the stairs. Edith was a bright soul in a world of darkness—she'd lost her husband years ago, and has been quite lonely since. I'd always make sure to greet her whenever I could, just to converse.

I trudge up the creaking stairs, my body heavy with exhaustion. The events of the night replay in my mind—the terror in Silas's eyes, the metallic scent of blood, the weight of the journal now tucked safely in my coat.

Reaching my door, I fumble with the keys, my hands still trembling slightly. As I step inside, the familiar musty scent of my small apartment washes over me. It's sparse and worn, but it's a sanctuary of sorts.

I take out the journal and place it neatly on the counter, and then I peel off my blood-stained coat and shirt, tossing them in a corner to be dealt with later, ready to clean myself up.

The hot water of the shower stings my skin, but I welcome the pain. It grounds me, washes away the nights horrors along with the grime and blood

Clean and dressed in fresh clothes, I settle at my rickety desk. The leather-bound journal sits before me, as I flip it back to where I had left off, ready to properly dissect what was written, and hopefully get some useful information out of it.

I search through all the written info, trying to see anything stick out. These we're mostly planned meetings with other mob leaders, important contacts, or other factors. And finally, after a few minutes, I found the one I needed.

Meeting with Dante Vitali, tomorrow, 6 PM.

I knew this was the one that I was searching for. I scrounged up whatever else I could get from the journal, before throwing it off to the side.

It was time to get some rest. After all, tomorrow is the big day.