The return
The plane touched down on American soil, and Jeremiah's fingers flexed around the seatbelt, not from nerves, but from discipline. Everything he did was deliberate. Every movement controlled.
He hadn’t been back in five years.
Not until his stepfather called him.
The message was cold and short.
> “Come back. There’s a man threatening the company. Eliminate him.”
No name. No questions. No explanations.
Jeremiah understood the tone. When his stepfather summoned him, it was never optional. He boarded the next flight home without hesitation.
---
He didn’t go home. He went straight to the meeting point — a private elevator hidden in a downtown building. The city buzzed outside like always, unaware that power often moved in silence.
His stepfather was waiting, sitting behind a desk made of black marble. A man whose voice was sharp and presence sharper.
> “He’s building something dangerous,” his stepfather said. “He has information. If he talks, our foundation cracks. He needs to be silenced.”
A folder slid across the table.
Jeremiah didn’t open it yet. He stared at the man who raised him — not with love, but with iron.
> “You’re the only one I trust to do this right,” the man added.
Jeremiah said nothing. He took the folder and left.
---
He didn’t head out for the target. Not yet. His mind was spinning with thoughts.
He walked a few blocks in silence and ducked into a small café, one hidden between a flower shop and an old bookstore. He needed space to breathe, to think, to ground himself before acting on orders he didn’t fully understand.
He sat at a small table in the middle.
That’s when she came.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said firmly. “That’s my seat.”
Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. He looked up and saw her.
Slim frame. Brown eyes. A simple bag over her shoulder. No fear in her tone.
She wasn’t dressed like anyone important, but she stood tall — like someone used to being in charge of her world.
“There are other tables,” Jeremiah replied calmly.
She gave him a small, half-smile. “I like this one.”
Something about her was different. She wasn’t impressed by his coldness. She didn’t look away. She didn’t recognize him — or worse, she did and didn’t care.
Without arguing, he stood and moved to the corner seat near the window.
From there, he watched her.
She opened a notebook and began writing. The waitress brought her a drink, and she nodded her thanks without looking up. Jeremiah couldn’t stop watching. There was something... calm about her. Something real.
She wasn’t afraid of him.
And that disturbed him.
Because everyone feared him — either by reputation or presence.
Not her.
---
He didn’t stay long. He stood up quietly and left the café.
But her image stayed in his mind.
---
That night, back at his apartment — one of the many properties his stepfather owned — Jeremiah finally opened the folder.
Inside were photographs. Surveillance shots of a man.
Businessman. Activist. Founder of a tech start-up with deep connections and deeper secrets.
His name: Victor Hale.
The file said he was leaking information. That he was threatening the legacy built by Jeremiah’s stepfather. That he needed to be taken out quickly and quietly.
But something didn’t sit right.
Jeremiah had destroyed men before. But those men had blood on their hands. Monsters hiding behind masks.
Victor Hale didn’t look like a monster. Not in those photos. Not in his background file.
Still, Jeremiah closed the folder and prepared. A mission was a mission.
