CHAPTER 102: STERLING

The room held its breath as a voice drifted from the doorway. "Wife you say."

Boots thudded in measured rhythm. A woman stepped in, black coat skimming her knees, a small army of operatives in tactical gear fanning behind her, muzzles lowered but not lazy. Steel clicked, safeties snicked, the air tasted of oil and ozone.

The Old Master craned toward the light. His eyes widened, pupils pinpricks. "L... Lady Mona, how come you are here."

She moved like a verdict, cool gaze washing over the bodies on the floor, over Miles standing easy, over the Old Master trussed to his chair. The men at her back spread into the corners, angles covered, lines drawn.

"I am here to give you a message from your wife."

Color surged and fled in the Old Master’s face. His voice cracked, hope clawing through panic. "She sent you here to save me right, please help me this person just killed my men from the Island. According to the rules if someone lays hands on Islands people there will be a blood shed."

Miles watched, hands loose at his sides, a ghost of a smile tugging one corner of his mouth. He let the words roll, eyes never leaving Mona.

"Those were the old rules that my great grandfather made time has changed Charlie and you do not belong to the Crimson Island."

"But Lady Mona I have a wife. Do you think she will keep quiet about this."

"Shh." Mona’s palm sliced the air. "I totally forgot. Look at these."

A folder spun across the concrete, papers fanning like white knives. They slid to a stop at the Old Master’s boots. He bent his head, hands bound, eyes consuming every line, every seal.

"No no this cannot be how is this possible let me talk to her."

"You poor," Mona said, voice soft as glass. "These are the papers that state you are no longer husband and wife and they carry the Crimson seal. With your wife I mean the real member of the Island this is all it takes and this declares you are abandoned."

She tilted her head, a half smile without warmth. "If you ask me she is already having an affair behind your back."

"This is not the truth let me talk to the Grandmaster I have given decades working for the Island."

Mona laughed and the sound was elegant and merciless. "And you have also given decades working for the outsider. We know you were using the Island’s influence for someone else. And for your information the Grandmaster’s decisions are not valid in front of the Ruler of the Crimson Island."

The Old Master stared between them both, sweat beading, voice lurching. "Did this man tell you these things about me Lady Mona do not believe the outsiders," he jerked his chin toward Miles, "and also Lady Mona I know you have power but you are not the Ruler so please let me out and talk to the Grandmaster."

Mona’s laugh came again, lower now, the room leaning toward it. "I know I am not the Ruler. But he is."

She lifted a finger and pointed at Miles.

"Right boss."

Miles’ smile finally bloomed, sharp and warm at once. "It is good to see you Monica."

Old Master’s eyes bulged, the chair creaking under the weight of his panic. He stammered, voice brittle as glass."Don’t tell me... he is the Traveler... the person behind the family... It can’t be real..."

Monica stepped closer, paper edges still whispering on the floor. Her face was all cold, the kind of calm that scares people. She did not spare him kindness."Things are different now on the Island," she said. "You heard about the Traveler, but you ran away from the Island fifteen years ago with your wife. You kept the influence. You know my name and identity.

But you know why I came here personally. My grandfather found evidence about who was behind what happened to my family that year. I had my doubts. Now I am sure. You were the one who led my family’s downfall. I couldn’t catch you then. But now you are finished."

There was a silence for a while.

The Old Master laughed, a ragged, cracked sound, equal parts fury and denial. He stared at Monica as if claws would form."So you found out," he spat. "Does it matter now? The Ruler will die tonight with you anyway. You are going to have a terrific, painful ending."

He relaxed into a hideous composure and reached for theatrics, savoring the moment. "The moment you stepped into this facility you were all contaminated with the drug. The drug will slowly eat your body. Your organs will weaken and fail."

Miles felt the room tilt for a breath, the Old Master’s voice feeding on his own hatred. The man crowed, drunk on the thought of disaster."Enough of your bluff," Miles cut in, voice flat.

The Old Master leapt at the chance to gloat. "Did you not find those drug vials before burning the Paradise Club? I believe you studied them. Thanks to your dead father’s failed experiment project, it was produced. Now the world will suffer. We developed an airborne version. Shipments are already gone. The world will witness our power soon enough."

He laughed and the sound crawled across concrete. Then, with the same suddenness that had made him dangerous for years, he bargained."So if you want to live, let me go. I will give you the antidote."

Miles glanced at Monica. She met his look, a ghost of a shared grin passing between them. Confidence hardened in Miles’ jaw. He answered without theatrics."Are you really thinking that a failed product will work on us? You forgot something. I already showed you a victim of that drug standing at my window. Did you think we could not make an antidote for it ? You are not walking out of here tonight."

The Old Master’s face finally cracked, a fissure of real fear. He was working his hands against the zip ties, rubbing at the nylon until something gave. He lurched, freed one wrist, then the other. Before anyone could close distance he scrambled from the chair, seized a pistol from the floor and fired.

The gunshot split the air. Time split too. Instinct folded fast—Miles moved, everything else blurred for the fraction of a second when muscle outraced reaction. He pulled Monica; her back hit the floor as the bullet skimmed past Miles’ torso with a hot whisper. Pain bloomed white, shock flaring at the edge of sensation, but the strike did not take him down.

Miles’ hand found a knife on the tactical vest of one of the men in the chaos. He threw it with a perfect, brutal arc. The blade found its mark mid-sentence, burying clean into the Old Master’s forehead. The man crumpled, eyes wide with a last, dumb sentence on his lips.

"Miles Sterling, how will you survive the real Sterlings who ruined your..." The words sagged into nothing as blood spread dark and quick.

Monica’s voice snapped, raw and efficient. "Boss are you alright?" She shouted at the team. "Call medical now."

Hands moved like choreography. Men rushed in, radios squawked. Aid arrived with the precision of rehearsed crisis. Lights flashed. Someone unfastened Miles’ shirt to check the grazed skin. He shook his head once, dismissing the worry with a ghost of a grin, the old habit of understatement folded into steel.

"I am fine, Monica," he said. "No bullet has ever killed Ghost. That only touched me. That is all."

He watched the Old Master’s body slacken. For an instant the room tasted like old iron and new resolve. The words the dying man had spat out hovered in the space between breaths. Miles’ mind stitched them into a new map.

"Seems my revenge is not over yet," Miles said quietly, almost to himself.

Monica stayed close, eyes sharp. "What do you mean boss?"

He turned, cold flame in his gaze. The dying man’s final syllables had been a confession and a map. "He said it was the real Sterlings who ruined us," Miles said. "That means the man he worked for is tied to the ACE group."

The room narrowed to the syllables as they fell. Connections clicked like tumblers. Grandfather vanished, Sterling enterprises toppled, Edward’s death—these were not isolated blows. A pattern showed its teeth.

"My grandfather’s disappearance," Miles murmured. "The fall of the Sterling empire. My dad’s accident. This wasn’t just a vendetta. It was orchestrated. All this time I only thought he was behind him"

Monica’s fingers tightened on a radio, but she didn’t speak. Everyone in the room understood the gravity. Old grudges, hidden puppeteers, family names used as weapons—this had teeth.

"The ACE group has a stake in this," Miles said slowly, letting the words land. "They are deeper than we thought. They helped orchestrate the ruin. Whoever sits behind them thought they could hide behind fronts, but they miscalculated."

He stepped forward, the early pain a bright pinprick under an ice-cold resolve. His voice dropped low, every syllable a promise honed to a blade."I will find out who did this. I will make them regret being born."

The room held that moment like a held breath. Outside, the city continued, oblivious. Inside, plans unfurled. The war had just peeled back another layer, and somewhere behind familiar names a darker enemy flexed its claws. Miles watched the ceiling, then the faces around him, and the calm in his expression hardened into purpose.

Monica’s voice steadied the hum of the room. "I will start looking into the ACE group boss."

She hesitated a breath. "Before that, I have a message for you."

Miles tilted his head, curiosity sharpening his eyes. "A message for me?"

"Yes boss," Monica said. "I was talking with Grandpa. We talked about you for a while, and there is something he wants to tell you. He said it is very important."

Miles narrowed his gaze, half wary, half amused. "Do you know what it is about?"

"I do not," Monica said, then allowed a small smile. "But I might have a clue. If my assumption is right, it will be a big surprise for both of us."

Miles exhaled, a tired laugh under his breath. "Just tell me what it is. Is he taking back what he gave me? Tell him I really do not need the Island. Back then I only helped because he treated me to good food when I was so hungry."

Monica shook her head. "Boss, it is not like that. I do not want to make claims that embarrass me later. I am not sure."

She straightened, professional again. "Grandpa himself is coming to see you. He said he will come to your home."

Miles rubbed his brow, thinking of dinner tables and guard posts. "Alright. That old man is a good man. I know it." He glanced at the clock. "So when is he coming?"

"Tomorrow," Monica said.

"So early," Miles murmured. "I have to ask my mom about it. Can we meet somewhere else?"

"He said he wants to meet your family as well," Monica replied.

Miles went still, then gave a sidelong look. "Do not tell me he wants to make me his grandson in law or something."

Monica’s laugh slipped out soft and bright. "We will both know soon enough."

"Fine," Miles said, the corner of his mouth lifting. "Tell him I will be waiting. And you are coming home with me. I already texted Mom to make some extra dishes."

Monica’s eyes lit. "Really. I can finally taste your mom’s cooking. Thanks boss. It is an offer I cannot deny."

Silence settled for a beat, broken only by the distant hiss of radios and the low thrum of city night. On the floor, the Old Master lay still, the last echo of his cruelty fading into the concrete. Miles looked once, long enough to seal the memory, then turned away.

The Old Master is dead, But the revenge remains.