Chapter 163: The Harvest of Ghosts

Words : 1202 Updated : Sep 19th, 2025

Chapter 163: The Harvest of Ghosts"Whatever I say next stays between us." There was a long pause. Not from doubt, but consideration. Then, a calm reply: "Alright." Good. "Do you know who I am?" I asked. A shuffling sound from within the bathroom. Ceramic against skin. Then: "Yes." "Say it." A soft breath. "Reynard Vale. You're the man behind the Masked Syndicate. Or should I say—the Masked Syndicate. All of them. Every face, every name." I stared at the door, silent. My lip twitched. "Which means," I murmured, "you didn't tell us the full truth. Because you remembered the protocol. You just chose not to mention it." She didn't deny it. Didn't hesitate. "You're right." I tilted my head, letting the weight of that honesty sit with me. "Why?" "Because you're hiding things too," Anika replied. "You were trying to convince Elliot that the situation didn't involve the government. You knew they weren't a criminal organization. So, if I had told him the truth, it wouldn't have helped him. It would've just exposed your lie." I exhaled, shoulders easing. "That... was thoughtful." "I wasn't doing it for you," she said quietly. "I was doing it for him. He deserves clarity, not more propaganda." I leaned my head back against the wall, letting my voice return to something that resembled sincerity. "Thank you. Really. It's better if he doesn't dig too deep. He's a fan of Mr. Angel. It's best if he keeps it that way." Searᴄh the NovelFire.net* website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality. "...Fair enough." "So," I asked, "what do you actually remember?" She shifted. "I was living on a farm. Western Europe, on the edge of nowhere. The land had been in my family for generations. Quiet. Simple. Mine." I closed my eyes and pictured it: a small red house, warm bread cooling on a window ledge, an old dog lazing in the grass. "They came for me," she continued. "Government officials. Told me I'd been selected for something called the Cain Protocol. Said I was a perfect fit." "The Cain Protocol..." I echoed. "They took me to a facility. Bright lights. Sterile halls. A room with a number: Subject 9D. That's what they called me. Not Anika. Not Miss Lindsey. Just 9D." She took a shaky breath. "They removed my Farmer job. Tore it out like it was a tumor. And then they did something else. Injected something. I don't know what. But afterward, I started feeling words—skills I never had. Astronaut. Firefighter. Strategist." My stomach twisted. "They force-installed jobs into you." "Yes," she said. "They told me the process was smoother because there was already a foundation." "Novacore," I muttered under my breath. "System enhancement trials." "They made me a sleeper agent," Anika said. "One designed to hate Reynard Vale. Designed to hate you. Whenever I picture your face, there's this... pulse of rage. Like someone flipped a switch." "But you're still sane." "Barely," she said. "I've been fighting it the whole time. Every time you speak, every time you joke, something in me wants to rip your throat out. But it's not mine. That hate isn't mine." I rubbed the bridge of my nose. "I'm assuming you have a code phrase?" She hesitated. "The activation command? It's a 3 word sentence. They said it would only work if the full sentence was said. But it starts with... 'Cain sees.'" "'Cain sees,'" I repeated, grimacing. "And the last word?" "Abel," she said. "If the full sentence is said... I wouldn't be me anymore." I nodded. Let the silence settle. Then she said something I wasn't expecting. "...Can I join you?" My head snapped up. "What?" "I want to join you." "You want to join the man you were literally designed to murder?" I blinked. "That's either brave or the world's most poetic suicide attempt." She laughed—soft and bitter. "I don't have a purpose anymore. You lose your job, and you lose you. They took my Farmer job, Reynard. That wasn't a skill—it was my life. It was my family's legacy. It was home. Now all I have are things they forced into me. I don't belong anywhere." I didn't answer right away. I thought of Camille being a fashion designer, of Sienna's voice cracking over the phone, of Alexis adjusting her glasses as she dissected lies like equations. And I thought of myself. "Alright," I said quietly. "But there are rules. First—until we fix whatever's in you, you wear a blindfold around me. If looking at me could trigger you, we don't risk it. Second—you keep up the act. To Elliot, we're just outrunning and exposing criminals on the run. You find excuses. You maintain the lie. Understood?" She nodded. "Understood." At that precise moment, the front door creaked open. Elliot strode in, holding a bag that smelled like warm toast and budget dignity. "Breakfast delivery," he muttered, eyeing us suspiciously. "She kill you yet?" "Not for lack of trying!" I exclaimed, springing to my feet like a deranged court bard returning from exile. "But alas! I am blessed with bones of titanium and charm of uranium! Your food, my good lad!" I took the bag from his hands with a flourish and plucked my plate like a dainty jewel thief at a royal banquet. "Now, if you'll excuse me—I must retreat! My glorious visage may shock the dear patient's fragile mind." "You mean your face?" Elliot muttered. "Exactly!" I chirped. "A face carved by scandal and chaos—far too handsome for delicate morning consumption!" I bowed, grinning, and slipped into the hallway. The rental came with a laughable excuse for a mini cafeteria. Two sad tables, a vending machine that blinked like it was in hospice care, and a coffee machine that may have been legally dead. Perfect. I sat at the far table, plate in front of me, toast in one hand and thought in the other. Questions. What should I report? Who should I ask? There had to be someone who remembered a government van. People always noticed when unmarked giants rolled through the countryside. Maybe a clerk. A trucker. A local with an ear for gossip. I'd need photos. Locations. Witnesses. That was how you find ghosts—they leave footprints, even when they float. I was halfway through chewing when I noticed a boy. He stood near the vending machine, maybe six or seven, tears rolling down his cheeks as he stared at me. Big eyes. No words. Just staring. I lowered my toast, brow furrowing. And then—just as I was about to ask if he was lost—a shadow fell across my plate. A big one. Slow. Heavy. I looked up. And up. A mountain of a man stood before me, arms like bridge cables, tattoos running across his skin like vines choking a stone wall. He didn't smile. "You," the man growled, voice like gravel in a blender, "ain't welcome here."

Chapter 163: The Harvest of Ghosts

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