At the Sumlin Memorial Gardens, Devin Stone stood before a headstone of polished black granite; his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

  JAMES STONE PASTOR, LEADER, PROTECTOR

  Devin closed his eyes, and for a second, he wasn't a vigilante or a CEO. He was five years old again, standing on a rain-slicked Tennessee highway, staring at the twisted, smoking wreckage of his parents' car. He remembered the cold and the way the flashing blue lights of the state troopers looked like dying stars. And he remembered the hand that had rested on his shoulder—large, calloused, and trembling with a grief it tried to hide.

  Uncle James was the architect of Devin's soul. He was the man who taught Devin that a man's strength wasn't measured by the weight he could lift, but by the burdens he could carry for others. James had raised him in the pews of 5th Avenue Baptist, balancing the fire of the Gospel with the discipline of a man who knew the world was often a dark, unforgiving place.

  "You have a fire in you, Devin," James used to say while they sat on the porch, the Sumlin heat thick around them. "Just make sure you use it to light the way, not to burn the house down."

  Devin had taken that fire to the Navy SEALs and later brought it back to a Sumlin that was rotting from the inside out.

  The image of James's end flashed across Devin's mind—a jagged, brutal memory he couldn't suppress. Three years ago, the Red Knights hadn't just killed James Stone; they had staged a crucifixion. They had beaten the old man until his ribs were splinters, then hung him on a makeshift cross in his own front yard while his home burned behind him. It was a message to civil rights leaders and whistleblowers: This is what happens when you speak out against the order.

  Because of "insufficient evidence" and "jurisdictional hurdles"—the polished phrases of a corrupt system—no one had ever been charged.

  "Three years, Uncle James," Devin whispered, his voice cracking the stillness. "I'm still here. I'm still fighting."

  He knew the Red Knights were just the symptoms—the rabid dogs of a much larger beast. The cancer was Rob Jones. The Mayor provided the shadow, and the Knights lived within it. To save the city, Devin couldn't just cut off the hand; he had to kill the brain.

  Nolan's Bar and Bistro, or simply "Nolan's," was a staple of the Midtown district, a place where the wood was dark, the bourbon was old, and the lighting was dim enough to let a man disappear. It was Devin's sanctuary. After the weight of the graveyard, he needed the grounding hum of a crowd that didn't know his name was synonymous with a ghost.

  He took his usual stool at the end of the mahogany bar, nodding to the bartender. He was halfway through his first neat pour when he noticed the woman two seats down. She was nursing a local craft beer, her posture too straight for someone just looking to unwind. She moved with the controlled alertness of a predator in a new territory.

  Devin took a sip, then turned slightly. "Hey, what's up?"

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  The woman turned. Her eyes were sharp, scanning him with professional speed that made his skin crawl with recognition. "I'm doing fine," she said, her voice carrying the unmistakable melodic lilt of the Crescent City.

  "Can I get a name?" Devin asked, offering a practiced, disarming smile, the one he used for SDC board meetings.

  "Anna. Anna Harris," she said, setting her glass down. She didn't offer a hand. "I'm a detective."

  Devin didn't let his expression flicker, but internally, his mind surged—the bloodhound. "I'm Devin Stone," he replied. "I'm the owner of Stone Defense Company. You can call it SDC."

  Anna's eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. "You own SDC? The private defense contractor?"

  "Yep, that's me," Devin said with a shrug. "I specialize in private security and a few other things."

  "Interesting," Anna said, her gaze lingering on the faint scar near his temple. "Small world. You never know who's who in a city like this."

  "And about yourself," Devin pushed, leaning back. "You're from Sumlin originally? You've got a bit of an accent."

  "No, I'm originally from New Orleans," she said, her expression softening just a fraction. "But there's a strong chance that I am out here permanently. The Mayor's office requested some... extra eyes on the recent crime spike."

  "Oh, really?" Devin raised his glass in a mock toast. "That would be cool. New Orleans and Sumlin go hand in hand in some respects. We both have the river, the music, and the kind of heat that makes people do crazy things."

  "I know that's right," Anna said, a small, genuine smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "But Sumlin's got a different kind of heat lately. Something a bit more organized than what I'm used to."

  "Well, Detective Harris, welcome to the jungle," Devin said. "Just watch your back. This city has a way of swallowing people who look too closely at the shadows."

  Before she could respond, Devin felt the rhythmic vibration of his phone in his pocket—three short bursts—a priority signal from Wesley.

  "Duty calls," Devin said, sliding a twenty onto the bar. "It was a pleasure, Anna. I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other around."

  "I'd bet on it, Mr. Stone," she replied, her eyes already following him as he walked toward the exit.

  Devin stepped into the humid night air and moved toward his blacked-out SUV. He waited until he was inside the soundproofed cabin before tapping his earpiece.

  "Talk to me, Wes. This better be good."

  "It's not good, Dev. It's expensive," Wesley's voice was tight, the sound of rapid keyboard clicking in the background. "I was digging through the back end of the municipal budget—the stuff Jones keeps in the 'discretionary infrastructure' folders. He just moved four million dollars into a blind account."

  "Four million? For what? More Carlax construction?"

  "No," Wesley said, and Devin could hear the genuine worry in his friend's voice. "The line item is labeled 'Project Aegis.' I traced the hardware requisitions. "They're buying high-frequency scanners, signal interceptors, and thermal drone arrays. It's a counter-vigilante operation."

  Devin gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white. "Jones is building a net."

  "He's not just building it; he's deploying it," Wesley warned. "He's tired of the Black Ghost embarrassing his 'street crime' narrative. This tech is designed to strip away your stealth. If you go out there tonight, you won't be a ghost anymore. You'll be a glowing target on a monitor in City Hall."

  Devin stared out the windshield at the gleaming lights of the Sumlin skyline. The scars on his body seemed to itch in unison. He thought of the cross on his uncle's lawn and of Rob Jones's cold, calculating smile.

  "Let him build his net, Wes," Devin said, his voice dropping into the low, dangerous register of the Ghost. "He thinks he's the fisherman. He hasn't realized yet that he's the one in the water."

  "Devin, be careful. You're not just dealing with the Red Knights. This is the full weight of the city government coming for you."

  "Better men than Rob Jones have hunted me," Devin said, shifting the SUV into gear. "Get the suit ready. If they want to play with scanners, we'll give them something to look at."

  He pulled out into traffic, his mind already calculating the next move. The war for Sumlin had just found its second gear.