The news broke at dawn.
"CEO John Raymond presumed dead after car explosion in The Imperial Crest parking lot."
The headline flashed across every major network, accompanied by shaky footage of emergency vehicles and smoke. The camera caught only fragments — a scorched vehicle, flashing sirens, and stretchers disappearing into the night.
By noon, the world had already buried him.
Inside The Crest tower, the air was thick with grief and speculation. Employees spoke in whispers. Board members moved like vultures through the corridors, pretending to mourn while counting opportunities.
Rita stood before the glass wall of her office, watching rain slide down the surface. Her phone buzzed for the hundredth time — reporters, investors, government agents. She ignored them all.
Behind her, Morgan entered quietly. His eyes were red from exhaustion, but his voice was calm. "It's done. The footage has been wiped from every system. No trace that John survived."
Rita turned, her face pale. "And the paramedics?"
"They're under Crest payroll," Morgan said. "They moved him to the private facility under The Solace Foundation. No one outside our network knows he's alive."
Rita exhaled shakily, gripping the edge of her desk. "How bad is he?"
"Broken ribs, mild concussion, burns on his arm," Morgan replied. "But he's alive. Barely."
Her eyes glistened. "He'll come back stronger."
Morgan nodded, though he didn't sound convinced. "He always does."
Three days later, the board convened under emergency protocol. Prosper Mercy had flown in from London to "oversee the transition."
He entered the boardroom dressed in a black suit, his smile thin and polite. "Gentlemen, ladies," he began, "I know today is difficult. We've lost a visionary. But The Imperial Crest must continue."
Ms. Patel, pale and tense, spoke first. "We haven't confirmed his death."
Prosper gave a sympathetic tilt of his head. "The body was unrecognisable. DNA testing confirms it's Raymond."
Rita, seated near the end of the table, said nothing. Her hands clenched beneath the tablecloth.
Prosper continued smoothly. "Until further notice, the board will appoint an interim chair. Someone capable of maintaining stability during this… tragic period."
Linton cleared his throat. "You're suggesting yourself."
Prosper's smile widened slightly. "Only until the markets settle."
Morgan, standing by the wall as a "technical consultant," caught Rita's glance. Both of them knew exactly what this was — a coup dressed in condolence.
Before the vote began, Prosper's phone buzzed. He glanced at the message, and for a fraction of a second, his composure faltered. Then he slipped it back into his pocket and continued.
No one else noticed.
Hundreds of miles away, hidden deep within The Solace Foundation's underground recovery unit, John Raymond opened his eyes.
The room was dark except for a soft blue glow from the medical monitors. His left arm was bandaged, his ribs wrapped tight. Pain radiated through his body like fire, but his mind was clear.
Rita's voice played faintly from the speaker beside his bed — a recording Morgan had arranged.
"They think you're dead. The Benefactor will make his move soon. Rest while you can. The world will see you again when it's time."
John exhaled slowly. His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass wall opposite him — pale, tired, but alive.
"Dead men can't fight," he whispered. "But ghosts can."
He reached for the tablet beside his bed, accessing a secure network Morgan had built. The screen displayed The Crest's current financial movements — massive withdrawals from subsidiary accounts, corporate takeovers, and new signatories appearing overnight.
Prosper Mercy's name was everywhere.
John began typing, his fingers steady despite the pain. He initiated a silent command chain under an anonymous encryption signature. Within minutes, his digital echo spread through The Crest's system like smoke — untraceable, invisible.
He called it Project Lionheart.
That evening, at The Crest's tech division, Morgan was staring at his monitors when the lights flickered.
"What now?" he muttered.
A line of code scrolled across the screen on its own. His fingers froze as he read it:
"The ghost walks. Phase one begins."
He stood abruptly, eyes wide. "He's awake."
Rita appeared behind him. "What's going on?"
He turned the monitor toward her. The signature was clear — the encryption key belonged to John Raymond.
Rita covered her mouth, tears welling. "He's moving already."
Morgan's tone was a mix of awe and fear. "He's in the system. You can't imagine what that means."
In Dubai, inside a private penthouse overlooking the Persian Gulf, Prince Abdul Musa reviewed the upcoming "summit" schedule. The air smelled of expensive cigars and oil money.
His assistant approached. "Sir, Prosper Mercy confirmed his arrival. The Benefactor will join via secure line."
Abdul nodded, then frowned as another notification blinked on his laptop. A new email, untraceable, no sender, no subject.
He clicked it.
The screen went black. Then a single sentence appeared in white text.
"The lion remembers."
The message vanished. The laptop rebooted.
Abdul stared at the empty screen, the colour draining from his face.
"Find out where that came from," he snapped.
His assistant looked terrified. "Sir, the trace leads to—"
"To what?"
"The Imperial Crest's main server."
Abdul slammed his hand on the desk. "That's impossible. He's dead."
The assistant hesitated. "Then maybe death doesn't mean what it used to."
Meanwhile, in London, Prosper Mercy sat in his hotel suite, pouring himself a drink. The board vote had gone exactly as planned. The company was his — at least on paper.
He raised his glass to the city skyline. "To new beginnings," he murmured.
His phone buzzed. A message. Unknown number.
He opened it.
It was a photograph — his own face reflected in a cracked mirror, taken moments ago from inside his room.
His heart froze.
He turned sharply. The suite was empty, silent, pristine. But on the mirror across from him, written in condensation, were three words.
"I'm not gone."
The glass shattered a second later as a bullet ripped through it — narrowly missing his head. Prosper dropped to the floor, heart hammering, as security stormed the suite.
No shooter. No sign of entry. Only the whisper of the wind through broken glass.
He picked up his phone again. The message had changed.
"Tell your Benefactor the hunt has begun."
Back at The Crest, Rita, and Morgan watched as digital maps lit up across their monitors — international feeds, encrypted networks, offshore accounts, all going dark one by one.
Morgan stared, speechless. "He's shutting them down. Every link connected to Musa's network is collapsing."
Rita's eyes shone with a mixture of awe and dread. "He's not just fighting back. He's dismantling them."
Morgan's voice dropped. "He's not Raymond anymore. He's become something else."
She nodded slowly. "A ghost."
In a private bunker somewhere outside the city, The Benefactor watched the same digital chaos unfold on his screens. Every attempt to trace the interference failed.
One of his analysts turned nervously. "Sir, we're losing access to Musa's assets. It's like someone's cutting us out of our own network."
The Benefactor's fingers tapped the desk slowly. "He's alive."
"Impossible," the analyst said.
The Benefactor stood, his tone calm but venomous. "Nothing about Raymond has ever been impossible."
He walked toward the window, his reflection merging with the storm outside.
"Tell Prosper Mercy to vanish," he said quietly. "And send a message to Musa."
"What should it say?"
The Benefactor's faint smile never reached his eyes.
"The lion may hunt, but every hunter bleeds."
Far beneath The Solace Foundation, John Raymond closed the last encrypted window on his tablet. His reflection stared back from the screen — cold, resolute, alive.
He whispered to himself. "They think I'm a ghost. Let's see how long they survive believing that."
Outside, thunder rolled through the night as The Crest's forgotten king prepared to reclaim his throne — one secret at a time.