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.”
The heavy metal doors of the pool hall were kicked off their hinges with a deafening boom.
Before the punk or his crew could even raise their weapons, six heavily armed men in flawless tactical gear flooded the room, their red laser sights instantly painting the chests of the young gangsters.
At the front of the formation stood Jax, a towering, scar-faced veteran of the old waterfront wars, who stepped forward and racked his shotgun with a chillingly deliberate click.
The room fell into a suffocating, dead silence, broken only by the whimpering of the punk’s heavily armed crew as they slowly raised their hands.
Jax completely ignored the terrified youths, walking straight over to Silas and bowing his head in absolute reverence.
“We’re here, Boss,” Jax said, his deep voice echoing in the cramped space. “How do you want to handle these stray dogs?”
Silas didn’t look up from the table, carefully lining up his shot.
The young gangster who had been screaming seconds ago was now shaking violently, his face entirely drained of color as he looked from the laser dots on his chest to the old man.
“Wait… wait, please,” the punk stammered, his arrogant sneer replaced by a desperate, cracking voice. “We didn’t know! We swear to God, old man, we didn’t know who you were!”
Silas struck the cue ball with a crisp, sharp clack, watching the solid seven-ball sink effortlessly into the corner pocket.
He leaned against his pool cue, finally turning his flint-like eyes toward the trembling youth.
“That is the problem with your generation,” Silas murmured, his voice a low, terrifying purr that cut through the room. “You think respect is something you only give when you’re afraid.”
The punk fell to his knees, his hands clasped together in an undignified plea.
“Please, Mr. Vance… Silas, sir… we’ll leave, we’ll give you everything we have, just let us walk out of here!” he begged, tears cutting through the grime on his face.
Jax stepped forward, the barrel of his shotgun pressing firmly against the back of the punk’s head.
“You spoke to him like he was dirt,” Jax growled, looking to Silas for the execution order. “Give the word, Boss, and we clear the trash out of this room permanently.”
The punk’s crew members immediately dropped their weapons to the floor, the metal clattering loudly against the concrete as they began weeping and pleading for their lives.
Silas took another slow drag of his cigar, letting the thick smoke roll over the terrified group before exhaling.
“No, Jax, don’t waste the ammunition,” Silas said calmly, tapping the ash onto the tattered green felt of the table. “A lesson for boys who want to play at being kings.”
He walked over to the kneeling punk, using the tip of his pool cue to force the young man’s chin up so they were looking eye-to-eye.
“You wanted this table so badly,” Silas whispered, a cold, ruthless smile touching his lips. “You and your friends are going to eat it.”
The punk blinked through his tears, completely bewildered.
“What?” he squeaked.
Silas turned his back, walking over to the rack to select his next ball.
“Jax, have them break this pool table into splinters,” Silas ordered smoothly. “Then, make sure these gentlemen swallow every single piece before they are allowed to leave the alley.”
Jax’s face split into a cruel, sadistic grin.
“With pleasure, Boss,” Jax replied, gesturing to his men.
The tactical team moved in like clockwork, grabbing the screaming, fighting punks and slamming them into the floor as the sounds of breaking wood and desperate apologies filled the air.
Silas went back to his game, completely unbothered by the chaos, and prepared his next shot.