Grim starts typing again, fast enough that the keys blur. More windows open. Then more. Every new one stacks over the last as he drills deeper.
“There we go…” he mutters, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “Name: Owen Liang.”
I squint at the picture—nerdy, stiff posture, wire-rim glasses. The kind of guy who apologizes when someone else bumps into him.
Grim keeps going, narrating like a sports commentator.
“Accountant. And not the fun kind. He does numbers for the Guild and a few freelance merc groups on the side.” His lips twist. “Neutral territory, gray-market stuff. Paperwork for people who hate paperwork.”
Saint leans in a little. “So why does he matter?”
Grim shrugs, pulling up another file. “Pretty low profile. No socials. Pays taxes on time. Owns a sad little one-bedroom in Chicago. Office is there too.” He gestures vaguely. “The human equivalent of a beige cardigan.”
He clicks into another thread—some kind of encrypted message chain—and frowns.
“Okay… here’s something,” he says. “Chatter on a dark net board. Looks like he was trying to trade information.”
My interest sharpens. “What kind of information?”
“Not sure,” Grim says, eyes scanning rapidly. “The posts are vague. But he was asking around. Looking for someone.”
“Who?”
Grim sits back, expression flattening into something more serious than I’ve seen from him so far.
“He was looking for a ghost,” he says quietly.
Then, after a beat:
“Literally.El Fantasma?*.”
He scrolls. Scrolls again.
“Nothing past that. The trail stops. Last activity was a few days ago.”
Grim says the name like it’s a bomb he’s dropping on the table.
El Fantasma.
The word hits hard enough that I almost forget how to breathe. Not visibly. Not outwardly. Just the quiet, controlled clench behind my ribs that I’ve mastered over a lifetime.
Saint stiffens beside me. Not fear—recognition.
Theo turns toward her. “What’s the big deal? Who’s that supposed to be?”
Grim swivels lazily in his chair, tapping his fingers against the armrest. “Untraceable,” he says, shrugging. “Which is saying something, considering I can find everyone.But this one? Nothing. No chatter, no footprint. Could be a guy. Could be a woman. Could be a fifty year old. Could be no one.”
Theo whistles low, impressed.
Saint speaks without taking her eyes off the dead man. “Most assassins like leaving a mark—something flashy. A tell. But this one doesn’t. No calling card. The absence is the signature.” Her voice drops. “A ghost.”
Grim adds, “Whoever it is made an impossible shot once. One-in-a-billion physics-defying shit. People still argue about whether it was luck.”
I swallow that. Don’t react. Don’t show even a flicker.
“So what about the takeout receipt in his pocket?” I ask, steady, neutral. “Anything from that?”
Grim spins back to the screen. “Looks like he got intel Fantasma was in Japan. Liang must’ve come here first, flown out, and then—well.” He glances at Saint. “Had the misfortune of running intoher.”
