It was almost evening.The sky above the hospital had dimmed into hues of gold and ash. After ensuring Daniel was in safe hands and stable condition, Elena turned to her son, her voice soft but filled with resolve.
"Let's go home, son."
Miles blinked.
Those words still didn't sound real.
Before he could respond, the twins, now wide awake and lively, chimed in with beaming faces: "We wanna play with big bro!"
Miles gave a small, rare smile — fleeting, but honest. He said nothing, simply nodding, and gently placed his hand on Elena's back to guide her as they walked through the hospital gate.
Ethan was already there, leaning on the car like a silent sentinel. He straightened up at the sight of them, opened the doors, and gave Miles a slight, knowing nod.
As the car started rolling, Miles stared out of the window, watching the city blur past.
For the first time in seventeen years…He wasn't being flown to an operation. No hidden comms in his ear. No dossier. No kill orders.
He was going home.
That's what he thought.
Until he noticed the black car.
Tinted windows. Slow, calculated turns. Keeping just enough distance. It had been following them for the last two intersections.
Miles didn't speak, but a subtle glance at Ethan was enough.
Ethan caught it immediately. His jaw clenched. He made a turn off the main road into a narrow, quiet lane flanked by empty buildings. Shadows stretched across the asphalt. A perfect place to disappear.
He stopped the car.
Miles unbuckled his seatbelt without a word. He turned to Elena, his voice calm.
"I'll be back in a minute."
She looked confused. "Miles—"
He was already gone.
Slipping out the passenger side, he melted into the alley's shadow, disappearing like smoke.
The black car slowly approached the lane… and stopped.
Quiet. Still. Too still.
Then, in a blur, Miles emerged behind it like a phantom. He sprinted the last steps, slammed his fist into the driver-side window with such force that the glass cracked instantly, spider-webbing. Before the driver could even scream, Miles yanked the door open and dragged him out like a rag doll.
THUD. The rookie hit the ground hard, groaning.
Young. Slender build. Dark hair. Civilian clothes. He wasn't trained.
Miles pinned him against the car in an instant, forearm across his throat, his voice a growl just above a whisper.
"Who sent you?"
The man was shaking. His words stumbled out like a waterfall of fear.
"Don't kill me! Please—I was just paid to follow you! I-I don't even have a weapon—I swear! I don't know who you are! A woman hired me—my boss... I mean, the Young Miss!"
Miles narrowed his eyes. "Young Miss?"
The rookie nodded frantically, practically in tears.
"She told me to track the car from the hospital… find out where you go… that's it! I swear! She's the only daughter of the Star Harbor Group's chairman! Her name is Celina Wraithbourne, daughter of Victor Wraithbourne—owner of Wraithbourne Dynamics… you know, the weapons and tech conglomerate. I'm just a driver, man. She's… she's loaded and dangerous. I'm just following orders."
Miles's gaze darkened.
"What does she want with my family?"
The rookie shook his head helplessly.
"I don't know… I wasn't told anything. Just to watch. Track. That's it."
Miles took a step back, his hand tense near the side of his hip.
"Call her."
The man fumbled in his pocket, pulling out his phone with trembling fingers.He dialed. The line rang once... twice... then connected.
"H-Hello, Miss—"
Before he could say more, Miles grabbed the phone straight from his hand.
He stared at the screen for a beat — a private number. No ID.
Then he brought it to his ear.
"This is Ghost," he said coldly. "You've been watching me. Now I'm watching you."
Miles held the phone to his ear. Silence lingered on the other end for a second… then a woman's voice cut through.
"Ghost? Who is this? Are you a kid or something?" Her tone was amused, careless. Teasing.
Miles's jaw tightened. "What do you want with my family?" he demanded.
A brief pause.
Then came a soft chuckle, low and silken.
"Ohh… so it is you." "I didn't expect you to catch him that fast, though. He is an idiot." Her voice was laced with amusement, like someone watching a cat toy with a mouse.
"Relax. I don't care about your family," she said lightly." They're not part of the equation. You are."
Miles's eyes narrowed.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. Don't worry, I'm not here to cause chaos—yet," she laughed. "I just want a conversation. A face to face. No games."
She paused, then added with a grin he could hear.
"By the way… does this Ghost have a name? Or should I keep calling you something out of a bedtime story?"
Miles didn't respond right away. He was measuring her. The voice, the pace, the intent. She sounded young. Confident. But behind the laughter, there was calculation.
Still… there was no immediate threat.
Not yet.
Her voice returned, now softer. Almost sing-song.
"How about tomorrow morning? Central Park. Come early, Ghost."
She hung up.
Miles stared at the dark screen for a moment. His reflection looked back at him.
No name. No details. No agenda.
Just three things: She knew who he was. She wanted him alone. And she wasn't afraid.
Not yet.
Miles walked back toward the car, his expression calm, controlled—like nothing had happened.
He slid into the passenger seat beside Ethan, casually dusting off his hands.
Elena turned slightly in her seat, concern in her eyes. "Where were you, Miles?"
Miles shrugged, offering a faint smile. "Just went to buy something."
From inside his coat pocket, he pulled out a small paper bag and turned to the backseat where Hope and Asher sat wide-eyed.
He reached in—and held out two colorful, slightly old-fashioned candy bars.
"Figured you two might like these."
The twins gasped.
"Whoa! Candy!" Asher snatched his like a dragon claiming treasure. "This one's got caramel!" Hope squealed, already tearing the wrapper with eager fingers.
"Thanks, Big Bro!" they chimed in unison, their voices full of joy.
Miles watched them, lips curling into a quiet smile. "I was just wondering if they still sold those…" he murmured.
Elena glanced down at the wrapper, recognition dawning instantly.
She looked up, her voice soft. "Those were your favorite when you were little…"
Miles didn't say anything—just gave a quiet nod as the laughter of the twins filled the car like music.
Outside, the last rays of the evening sun filtered through the windshield.
Home didn't seem so far away anymore.
The car rolled into a quiet residential street lined with trees, the golden hue of the evening sky casting long shadows across the pavement. At the far end stood a modest two-story house, painted in soft beige with ivy crawling gently up one of its sides. A small garden bordered the front porch, where a wooden swing creaked slightly in the breeze.
Ethan parked the car by the curb.
"We're home," Elena said softly.
The twins burst out of the car, laughing and racing each other up the path to the front door. Miles stepped out last, standing still for a moment as he looked at the house—his mother's home. Not a fortress, not a compound, not a covert base. Just… home.
The front door opened with a gentle creak, and warm light spilled out onto the porch.
Inside, the house was cozy but well-kept. A cream-colored couch sat in the living room, slightly worn but clearly loved. Throw pillows in soft tones of blue and grey rested neatly. A bookshelf stood tall in one corner, filled with novels, framed photographs, and two ceramic unicorns—likely picked by the twins. Family drawings were pinned with magnets on the fridge, and the faint smell of vanilla lingered in the air.
A small wooden staircase curved upward from the living area, leading to the bedrooms.
"Welcome home, son," Elena said with a smile, her voice breaking just a little with emotion. "Get comfortable. I'll go clean the guest room… Actually—no, let's make it your room."
Miles looked around, still quiet, absorbing the feeling of the space. It was so different from anything he had known in the past seventeen years.
"Where's your luggage?" she asked as she walked toward the hallway.
He gave a slight chuckle. "I didn't bring any, Mom."
She paused, her gaze drifting for a second—somewhere far beyond the room—before she turned and disappeared down the hallway.
When she returned, she held a folded set of clothes in her hands: a black T-shirt and grey sweatpants, simple but neatly pressed.
Her voice was soft, almost hesitant. "These were Daniel's. He won't mind… They're about your size. "You can change in my room. I'll go get yours ready."
The twins were now circling the coffee table in chaotic delight—one with a toy airplane making engine noises, the other trailing behind waving a plastic sword.
Miles nodded gently and stepped toward the hallway, the clothes in his hand feeling heavier than they should.
Elena's room greeted him with a quiet stillness. The walls were painted in soft lavender, and a delicate scent lingered—something floral, warm, comforting. The bed was carefully made. A photo frame rested beside the lamp: Elena, Daniel, and the twins—smiling.
He stood before the mirror, slowly pulling off his shirt. The room reflected back a body forged in shadows: scars across his chest and shoulders like war stories no one asked to hear.
His gaze drifted down to the shirt in his hand—silent, steady—when the door creaked slightly.
He turned instinctively.
Elena stood there.
She had come back quietly to drop off a towel she forgot to give him, but now she stood frozen in the doorway, eyes wide.
For a second, neither of them spoke.
Her eyes fell on his bare torso—on the countless scars that marred his chest, shoulders, and back. Old wounds. Bullet grazes. Burn marks. Knife slashes. A brutal history carved into his skin.
Her breath caught in her throat.
"Miles…" she whispered—his name more like a prayer than a word.
He flinched slightly, realizing too late that he hadn't put the shirt on yet. His hands clenched around the fabric, suddenly unsure, but he didn't move. There was nowhere to hide from her gaze.
Her hand gripped the towel tighter.
"Who… did this to you?" she asked, voice shaking.
But Miles didn't answer. He couldn't. His eyes dropped, shame flickering across his face like a shadow. Not because of the scars—but because this was the first time someone had seen them. Not as trophies. Not as evidence. But as pain.
Elena slowly stepped inside.
She didn't reach out, didn't touch him, just stood there—tears welling in her eyes.
"You were just a child…" she murmured. "And they turned you into this…"
The towel slipped from her hand and landed softly on the floor.
Miles finally lifted the shirt and pulled it over his head.
"I'm sorry you had to see that," he said quietly, eyes not meeting hers.
Elena stepped closer.
"Don't be." Her voice was firm now, her strength returning. "I just wish I had been there… to stop it."
They stood in silence for a moment longer—mother and son—bridging seventeen years of separation in a single, shattered breath.
Elena sat on the edge of the bed, holding the folded clothes in her lap, her eyes lingering on the faint scars that lined her son's back and shoulders. They weren't just marks—they were stories. Ones she hadn't been there to stop.
Her voice trembled slightly."What was that red ID card, Miles? Why did the police call you… General?"
Miles looked at her, caught off guard—not by the question, but by the soft pain in her voice.
He turned away, slowly pulling on the T-shirt she'd handed him—Daniel's shirt—before answering.
"It's nothing, Mom."
Elena's brow creased.
"Miles."
He exhaled quietly, sitting down on the corner of the bed beside her.
"When I was taken… I didn't remember anything. Not home. Not even my name. I was just a scared kid.""Some people found me, saved me. A group—they were like a private army. Good people, strict, but… they raised me. Trained me. And I served the country under them. For years."
He didn't mention the shadows. The missions. The name "Ghost."He didn't mention Graveyard.
"That rank…" he continued, looking down at his hands, "it's honorary. Just something they gave me before I left."
There was a long pause.
Then Elena's voice broke.
"My son… how much you've suffered at such a young age…"
Tears welled in her eyes. She reached out and touched his hand, her fingers trembling.
Miles turned, gently cupping her cheek, wiping away a tear with his thumb.
His voice was calm. Reassuring.
"It's okay, Mom. I'm here now. That's all that matters."
For a moment, nothing else existed.
Just a mother, her long-lost child, and the weight of seventeen lost years hanging between them—beginning to fall away.
Then she turned, voice barely above a whisper, wiping her eyes.
"I'll… go finish your room."
And she walked out, leaving behind the words she no longer needed to say.
Later that evening, the house was filled with the warmth of home-cooked food and the sound of happy feet tapping across the floor.
"Dinner's ready!" Elena called from the kitchen, her voice bright with excitement.
The dining table was already set—clean but cozy, and loaded with food that smelled like the kind you dream of after a long, hard day.
The house was filled with a warm, nostalgic aroma—the kind that wrapped around the heart before it ever reached the nose. The scent of buttery mashed potatoes, smooth and steaming, rose up from the table, carrying with it the familiar comfort of home. Beside it, a tray of mac and cheese baked to perfection sat proudly, its golden breadcrumb topping crisp and inviting, the edges still bubbling slightly from the oven. Crispy chicken tenders, fresh from the pan, lay on a plate lined with paper towels, their golden crust crackling softly as the oil settled. Grilled cheese sandwiches, sliced perfectly diagonal, oozed cheddar at the seams, the smell of toasted bread and melted cheese drifting through the air like a childhood memory reborn. A small bowl of sweet corn, lightly seasoned with salt and pepper, sat beside a dish of gravy—just enough to fill the little well Elena had lovingly made in the center of the mashed potatoes, like she used to. Near the window, on a simple plate, were warm chocolate chip cookies—the chips still soft, the dough slightly crisp on the outside, sweetening the entire room. And next to all of it, catching a soft glint from the fading evening light, was a cold glass of chocolate milk. The same kind Miles used to beg for. The same kind that now, without a word, waited quietly at his place at the table.
Elena was beaming, apron dusted with flour, a bit of cheese on her sleeve.
"I wasn't sure I'd remember all the little things," she said, adjusting a dish, "but this... this was what you always wanted when you were little. You used to sit legs swinging, demanding 'extra cheese, please!'"
"FOOOOD!" Hope yelled, already hopping into her seat with a toy tucked under her arm."I call the first chicken!" Asher shouted, nearly climbing onto the table."Mommy made cookies!"
Miles walked slowly to the table, his expression unreadable at first.
He sat down and looked over everything. The smells, the textures, even the way the cheese browned just right on the edges of the sandwiches—it all pulled at something long buried.
He bit into a grilled cheese.
It hit him instantly.
Memories.
Late evenings in a cramped apartment. Rain on the window. His small hands holding this same sandwich. His mother rushing between the stove and the table with tired eyes and a soft smile.
He closed his eyes, chewing slowly.
The warmth in his chest was unfamiliar.
Not pain. Not loss.Just… warmth.
"This… tastes like a Sunday," he said quietly, almost to himself.
Elena froze mid-step. Her eyes softened, misting just a little.
The twins, unaware of the quiet emotion in the air, were giggling and stuffing their mouths with mashed potatoes.
Hope pushed a cookie toward Miles."Big bro! Eat! These make your heart happy!"
He let out a small laugh, taking the cookie from her hand.
And for the first time in years—he wasn't just eating.
He was home.