The Ghost of the Commission
Silas “The Ghost” Vance was once the absolute ruler of the city’s waterfront, a man whose word could end lives or build empires overnight. Ten years ago, after a bloody betrayal that claimed his family, he burned his own operations to the ground and vanished into the shadows, leaving behind a terrifying myth. Tonight, seeking isolation from his memories, he sat in a grimy, flickering underground pool hall, exhaling a thick cloud of cigar smoke as he prepared a shot. He didn’t look like a god of the underworld; he looked like an old man out of time.
Suddenly, a loud crash shattered his peace. A young, heavily tattooed gangster slammed his pool cue onto the tattered green felt, his face contorted in an arrogant sneer.
“Old man, you deaf? We said this table is ours!”
Silas didn’t even blink. He calmly adjusted his grip on his own cue, his eyes hard as flint.
“Then you should have asked nicer.”
The punk laughed, a high, mocking sound, gesturing to his heavily armed crew standing right behind him.
“You think you’re funny?”
Silas took a slow drag from his cigar, the neon sign reflecting coldly in his gray eyes.
“No, I think you’re loud.”
The gangster’s smile vanished, his hand reaching toward his waistband as he stepped into Silas’s space.
“You got five seconds to walk out.”
Instead of running, Silas calmly pulled a vintage flip phone from his pocket, pressed a single speed-dial button, and held it to his ear. His voice was a terrifyingly calm whisper.
“Front door. Now.”
Outside, two armored black sedans screamed around the corner, their tires screeching violently through the pouring rain as heavily armed men in tactical gear poured into the alley. Back inside, the punk’s jaw dropped in absolute terror as the realization hit him. The old man wasn’t a victim; he was the apex predator they had all been warned about. Silas went back to his game, completely unbothered.