A year ago, the World Bank CEO was killed in a plane bombing—an event that shattered more than just lives. It triggered a global chain reaction. Weeks later, Russia descended into a cold civil war, splitting its power structure in two and sending global stock markets into a nosedive.
Then came Operation Fargo—a mission that should've never been greenlit. Marcus Andrews, a globally respected figure, was killed. Vegas burned under the fallout of a failed black auction.
The desert op in Afghanistan—another ghost in the file—ended in silence and blood.
And in the shadows, the true cost became clear.
Every Obsidian agent was wiped out.
Everyone… except a few.
Jack. Obsidian Eight.
And Obsidian Six.
The world saw these events as isolated tragedies.
They weren't.
They were moves on a board no one could see.
Each one tied to something darker.
Something calculated.
Each incident carried a pattern. And that pattern gnawed at Jack Mayors as he sat alone in the dimly lit basement, the flicker of his laptop casting fractured light across his face. Sweat clung to his brow. His jaw was clenched. Fingers danced across the keyboard in a silent fury, chasing ghosts through encrypted pathways. This was his sanctuary—a war room wired with bleeding-edge tech capable of tearing through any firewall. Except one. The Obsidian Files. Locked. Buried. Non-existent. No records. No names. No missions. Just ghosts. Agents with no pasts, no families, no paper trail—only whispers in black corridors. And now… most were dead. The basement hummed with tension. Outside, the world moved unaware. Inside, Jack was spiraling deeper into a maze of dead ends and silent screams. Each event he mapped out on-screen seemed random to the world— But not to him. To him, they whispered. Something's off. Something's connected. The bombing. The cold civil war. Operation Fargo. The black auction. Afghanistan. The wipeouts. All threads. All tied. But to what? He could feel the truth breathing down his neck—close, taunting, just out of reach. Every answer he found only opened a new question. Every trace led to a dead signal. Every signal… silence.
And then—
Buzz.
The phone vibrated against the steel table—sharp, jarring in the silence. Jack's eyes snapped to it. No caller ID. No traceable number. Just a message.
He unlocked it with hesitation, already knowing this wasn't just a text.
It was bait.
Or a warning.
Or worse… an invitation.
One line.
45.4215° N, 75.6972° W
A GPS coordinate. Cold. Clinical.
Ottawa, Canada.
Then, below it—
Another message appeared, typing in real-time:
"No more chasing shadows, Obsidian Seven. Come finish what you started."