LUCIAN CASTELLAN

  The conference room doors closed behind me with a soft, decisive click, leaving behind the murmurs of HR and the dull buzz of routine. In the silent corridor of Castellan Steelworks, every step I took resonated like a drumbeat. This 30th-floor sky-rise is not merely an office—it's the nerve center of an empire I built from nothing but grit and steel. Here, I stand at the pinnacle of an industry where every bolt and beam has been honed to perfection under my command.

  As I stride down the sleek, polished hallways, heads bow and whispers quiver in the wake of my presence. The stainless-steel walls and precision-engineered décor speak volumes. The lobby, with its soaring atrium and abstract sculptures of twisted metal, is the face of a business that started from scratch and rose—literally and figuratively—to rule the market.

  I pause beside a panoramic window, glancing at the cityscape below. A dense grid of streets and lights, each a testament to ambition and survival, mirrors the relentless energy of my own ascent. I think, Whoever tampered with my system doesn't just aim to cause damage—they want to be seen. A challenge, perhaps, or an act of arrogance.

  That thought ignites a small, private smile. I step forward, confident in the truth I've built: a company that dominates the steel industry by the sheer force of will and unyielding precision. Castellan Steelworks isn't merely a company; it's a symbol of my rise from the grit of backroom deals to the upper echelons of power, both in the boardroom and the darker corridors of the underworld. They call me the king in both realms—an enigma wrapped in steel and shadow.

  At last, I reach the private elevator. The doors slide open silently, revealing a cabin clad in tinted glass and brushed metal, the very embodiment of control. I step in, the doors closing behind me without a sound. As the elevator begins its smooth descent, I lean back and let my mind churn over the day's events.

  Whoever dared challenge me? I muse. The breach wasn't a crude act of vandalism. It was deliberate. It was as if a craftsman, not a mere intruder, had traced my every digital fingerprint—bold enough to mirror my own defenses. That realization stokes a deeper fire than anger: it provokes both respect and a fierce desire for retribution. I know perfectly well that I can't beat them at their own game—at least, not without calling in my best. That's why I summoned Enzo to sift through the tangled logs and dissect the intrusion, using his unique network to track down any trace of the person behind this. Enzo's expertise lies in the underworld—he's the one who uncovers secrets others think they've hidden. He doesn't dig into code. He digs into people.

  Even now, as the elevator glides between floors, the memory of my humble beginnings surges inside me. I remember nights spent hunched over crude blueprints and days when every screw I turned was a step toward power. Now, every hard-won success has made my presence as undeniable as the steel that bears my name. I've built an empire on the backbone of unwavering discipline, a reputation in both the legitimate and the shadowy corners of this city. I am the king—and in my kingdom, challenges are met with calculated retaliation.

  The elevator doors sealed behind him with a clean hiss, closing off the world below. Lucian adjusted the cuff of his tailored suit, the sharp lines of his silhouette mirrored in the black chrome walls. His expression was unreadable—controlled—but his thoughts moved like a silent current, swift and cold.

  He didn't rush. He never did. But there was a shift in his gait, a subtle edge to the way he moved down the executive corridor. Precision. Focus. Intent.

  Tonight's shipment was a cornerstone—high-value, high-risk, and delivered only under his terms. Weapons, not promises. Precision, not delay. That was the standard his name demanded.

  And then there was the breach—the ghost. No gender, no trace, no signature. But arrogance? That, yes. Enough to circle back into his network and leave a message as if they were untouchable.

  Lucian didn't believe in ghosts.

  But whoever they were, they'd earned his attention.

  .

  .

  .

  Lucian entered his office with calculated calm, the soft hiss of the reinforced steel door sealing behind him like a vault. The space was cold elegance—walls wrapped in matte charcoal, furniture of steel and obsidian, and a silence that thrummed with control. There were no personal effects. No clutter. Just function, built for a man who moved like consequence.

  He approached the sleek desk and activated the console with a touch.

  "Rafael."

  A pause. "Boss."

  "Conference room. Ten minutes. Bring them."

  Click.

  No further instruction. None needed.

  Lucian stood for a moment longer, gaze cutting toward the skyline beyond the glass. The sun was bleeding out, its amber light fading behind rooftops. Another day ending beneath his reign.

  He stepped into the private corridor, footsteps soundless on polished black marble. The weight of his authority echoed ahead of him.

  When he entered the conference room, Rafael was already there—punctual, as always—standing tall at the head of the long table. Not a hair out of place. Not a slouch in his frame. Lucian nodded once.

  The rest trickled in seconds later.

  The incumbents—each uniquely formidable, chosen for their individual brilliance and unwavering loyalty—walked in with just enough delay to irritate. Not late enough to earn reprimand.

  But late enough to make Lucian's jaw tighten.

  He said nothing.

  Just circled the table, silent as death.

  His gaze swept across each of them, slow and precise, and in that look was the warning they needed: I hate waiting.

  They dropped their eyes. One adjusted his cuffs; another rolled his shoulders as if to shake off tension. The third stayed perfectly still, not daring to breathe too loudly.

  Lucian stopped at the head of the table.

  This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

  He didn't sit.

  He didn't need to.

  With him standing, the room belonged to him.

  As it always had.

  ________

  I didn't take a seat. I didn't need to. Standing felt more... fitting. My gaze swept over them, each one of my incumbents as carefully selected as a weapon in a prized collection.

  I stared at the wall, giving them a moment to settle in. My patience wasn't endless. But it was enough to ensure they understood. This wasn't about courtesy. It was about perfection.

  I spoke before any of them could break the silence.

  "The shipment is arriving tonight," I said, letting the words land like stones. "The location is set. I expect it to be handled with the precision I demand. No mistakes. No delays."

  I didn't wait for them to speak. They already knew what was coming.

  "Here's what we have," I continued, pulling up the encrypted document on the screen behind me. It flashed across the black surface—a list of weapons, quantities, and specific instructions for distribution. "This is more than just a delivery. These are high-value assets. We move them, we do it right."

  The numbers glowed like a game of chess in my head, each weapon a key piece in a larger, dangerous strategy. I watched their faces as they digested the details.

  "We'll be dealing with 30 crates of M9's—each crate holds 200 units. Two dozen crates of RPD rifles, 150 units each. And there's the shipment of cutting-edge automatic grenade launchers—two crates. We cannot afford anything to go wrong with this. I want them in place by dawn tomorrow. No excuses."

  I paused for a beat to let the weight settle.

  "Rafael, you're overseeing the ground crew. I want every step monitored—track the cargo, ensure the route is clear, the guards are ready."

  He nodded sharply. "Understood."

  "Xander," I addressed him next, the man always so calm in these briefings. "What's the status on our hacker?"

  His eyes darkened, the usually cool edge of his demeanor flickering with the memory of frustration.

  "Nothing concrete, boss," Xander began, his voice tight with the weight of the situation. "We're dealing with someone who... They've made it clear this is a game to them. We tried mimicking their code—started from scratch, just like they would. But every time we think we're close, it slips through our fingers."

  I leaned forward, irritation stirring in my chest. "And?"

  "Your firewall's holding up perfectly, boss. No harm to it. It's the code we tried to replicate—we backtracked, but it's like we're chasing shadows. They're always one step ahead. And when we tried to mimic their access, it backfired." He hesitated before continuing, pulling up a screen and showing me the note that had been left behind. The message was brief but dripping with sarcasm.

  "Nice firewall. Tried harder."

  The room fell silent.

  It wasn't just the words. It was the way they stared back—taunting, confident, voice practically dripping from the text. Ghost wasn't hiding. They were mocking.

  My jaw flexed, irritation curling through my chest.

  "They've made it clear this is a game to them," Xander added. "And so far, they're ahead."

  I stood still for a long second, then finally spoke, low and deliberate. "Stop chasing them."

  Xander blinked. "Boss—"

  "I said stop." My voice sliced through the air like a blade. "They're in control of the server now, manipulating the system with surgical precision. We've been reacting. That ends now."

  I stepped forward, gaze locked on his. "Let ghost believe we've stopped hunting. Let them think we're no longer a threat."

  The room stilled, the shift in direction wrapping around the table like a storm cloud.

  "From now on, we don't play catch-up. We let them move, we watch, and when the time is right—we strike. On my terms."

  Xander gave a stiff nod. "Understood."

  A slow smirk tugged at my lips. "You want to outsmart a ghost? You don't chase it. You trap it."

  Rafael spoke next, voice rough. "And when we do?"

  I turned toward him, eyes like ice. "We haunt it back."

  The others had barely risen when I raised a hand, halting movement like a conductor stopping the final note of a symphony.

  "Rafael," I said, voice low but firm. "Stay."

  He didn't question it. He never did. While the rest of them exited with nods and silent footsteps, Rafael remained standing by the long glass table, arms behind his back, eyes sharp.

  I moved to the bar at the corner of the room and poured two fingers of bourbon into each glass—top shelf, aged just right, the kind that burned slow. I handed him one, and only then did I take a seat. He followed suit. No small talk. Just the hush of power settling between brothers who didn't need to fill silences to understand each other.

  "You'll shadow the transport personally," I began, swirling the amber liquid. "This shipment doesn't move unless I say so. And if anything even breathes wrong near it—I want it silenced before it takes another breath."

  Rafael raised the glass, studying it for a moment before speaking. "Understood. I've already reviewed the blueprint for the port. I'll have a secondary crew on standby in case anything changes last minute. No gaps, no noise."

  Good. That's why it was him. Always him.

  "I'm sending you not just because you're precise," I said, leaning back. "But because this isn't just about weapons anymore. It's a statement. If Ghost is watching, they'll see what perfection looks like when it moves."

  The corner of his mouth twitched in approval.

  I took a slow sip, savoring the heat as it rolled down. "Now... Ghost."

  A beat passed. Just the faint clink of ice against glass.

  "They're in control of the Milan server," I said. "They want us to think we're chasing shadows. Let them."

  Rafael's brow ticked up, interested. I continued.

  "I told Xander to stop chasing. It's clear Ghost wants us to run in circles. So we'll step off the board and let them believe we've folded. Let them dance over that server like they've won."

  "And behind the curtain?" Rafael asked.

  "I'm setting the trap," I said. "Piece by piece. I'm not just baiting Ghost—I'm building the damn arena. I want them to feel safe. Untouchable. That's when I'll strike."

  His eyes narrowed slightly, calculating. "What do you need from me?"

  "Discipline," I said plainly. "No improvisation. While I wait on Enzo to bring me what I need, you'll play the role of loyal soldier. You'll keep the transport flawless and keep our side looking calm, controlled."

  He nodded slowly, gaze thoughtful. "And when Enzo delivers?"

  "Then we begin."

  I finished my bourbon and set the glass down with finality. "This game they're playing—I've decided I'll enjoy it. But it ends on my terms."

  The door clicked softly behind Rafael as he left, the silence that followed as sharp and clean as a blade's edge. I didn't move right away. I simply stood there, staring at the now-empty space he'd filled, the warmth of brotherhood lingering faintly in the air, already cooling.

  He would handle the shipment well—I knew that. Rafael didn't need reminding of what failure meant. Not with me.

  I crossed to the sideboard and poured myself another measure of bourbon. The liquor caught the light like molten amber, but it did little to thaw the slow burn beneath my skin. Ghost.

  That was the name they'd earned, the name whispered behind clenched jaws. I didn't call them a hacker anymore. Hackers left trails. Hackers craved recognition. Ghost was something else entirely.

  I leaned against the edge of my desk, sipping slowly, my gaze fixed on the steel skyline beyond the windows. The city pulsed with life beneath me—unknowing, obedient. Everything down there was either owned by me or fearful of me. Both served me just fine.

  But Ghost? Ghost didn't fear me.

  That was a problem.

  They had made it a game. They believed they were in control. And to an extent, they were. For now.

  But even ghosts cast shadows when the light was aimed right.

  My phone buzzed. I didn't rush to answer it. I knew the name before it lit the screen.

  "Enzo."

  A chuckle filtered through the receiver. "Lucian."

  "I hope this call is worth the wait."

  "You know I don't deal in speculation," he said. "Only certainty. But what you're dealing with? Ghost isn't new. There've been stories—movements across Europe, Southeast Asia. Quiet digital slaughters. Whole servers turned inside out without a single trace left behind. Not even a whisper. Except one thing—security systems that, oddly enough, ended up stronger afterward."

  I said nothing, swirling the bourbon in my glass.

  "I dug through them all," Enzo continued. "It's the same style. Calculated. Surgical. Like it wasn't just about getting in—it was about showing that they could've destroyed it all... but chose not to."

  "So they like control," I said. "They like the power it gives them."

  "Oh, they worship it," Enzo replied. "And from what I've gathered, they don't work for anyone. They never have. I can give you five cases—five high-level breaches with identical precision. I'll send them your way."

  "Do more than send them," I said quietly. "Narrow it down. I want your top five suspects."

  A brief pause followed. "I'll get on it."

  The line clicked dead.

  I stood there for a long moment, the call echoing in the quiet like a final bell.

  Top five, Ghost. Let's see if your shadow knows how to dance in the firelight.