The first rule of Project Knife was simple:
If Aham Armstrong survives, everyone loses.
The men seated around the table did not speak. They didn't need to. Silence was agreement.
At the far end of the room, a wide screen glowed softly, cycling through surveillance images of Aham—entering buildings, stepping out of armored vehicles, standing beside Clara.
"He's rebuilding faster than expected," one voice said. "Public sympathy is turning in his favor."
"That won't last," another replied calmly. "It never does."
A third voice cut through the room—measured, controlled, final.
"Begin Phase One."
Phase One arrived disguised as hope.
Aham received the call early the next morning.
"Several of your frozen assets are being restored," his former financial manager said, barely containing his excitement. "A special review cleared multiple properties. This could be your comeback."
Aham's expression didn't change.
"Send the documentation," he replied.
When the call ended, he turned to Clara.
"It's bait."
She nodded. "But bait tells us who's holding the hook."
Jane Smith arrived an hour later, already reading through the files.
"The signatures are authentic," she said. "But the timing is wrong."
Aham leaned back slightly. "Someone wants me visible again."
"And predictable," Clara added.
Jane closed the folder. "Which means they're confident."
The betrayal didn't come with gunfire or warnings.
It came quietly.
That afternoon, Aham's secure location was compromised—not violently, not dramatically, but efficiently. A system override. A door left unlocked. A camera looped for exactly three minutes.
Enough time.
Enough access.
Aham stopped mid-step in the hallway, instinct screaming.
"Everyone out," he ordered calmly.
Clara grabbed his arm. "Aham—"
"Now."
They moved.
The explosion tore through the building seconds after they cleared the perimeter.
Glass shattered outward. Fire surged upward. The ground trembled like it was alive.
Aham didn't look back.
He had learned in prison that fire was never the enemy.
It was the warning.
By the time the smoke cleared, news cameras were already arriving.
ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF WRONGFULLY IMPRISONED HEIR
the headlines read.
Across the city, a man watched the broadcast and smiled.
"Phase One complete," he said.
At the hospital, Clara sat beside Aham's bed, her fingers tightly interlaced with his.
"They wanted you dead," she said quietly. "But they wanted you seen first."
Aham met her gaze.
"Then they've miscalculated."
Jane Smith arrived before nightfall, her expression grim.
"It was an inside job," she said. "Someone close. Trusted."
Aham closed his eyes briefly.
"Names," he said.
"We're working on it."
Elsewhere, protection quietly vanished.
Kelly's security detail was reassigned without notice. No explanation. No replacement.
That night, her hospital room was found empty.
No struggle.
No witnesses.
Only a broken phone and a cold bed.
Don Pedro learned about the explosion from his prison cell.
"They're moving without me," he muttered.
For the first time, panic crept into his voice.
Aham stood before a wall of maps, photographs, and names—threads of a conspiracy tightening around him.
"This isn't about revenge anymore," he said quietly. "It's about survival."
Clara met his gaze. "Then we stop reacting."
Jane nodded. "And start hunting."
In a dark room far from the city, Kelly was tied to a chair.
Her wrists burned. Her head throbbed.
A man stepped into the light.
"You should have stayed loyal," he said calmly.
Kelly's breath caught as she recognized the voice.
Her blood ran cold.
"You," she whispered.
He smiled.
On the table beside him lay a knife—clean, unmarked, waiting.
"I'm Project Knife."
now.