They met beneath the Atlantic.
Buried deep below the sea, where no surveillance drone, satellite, or stray human error could stumble upon it, a silent fortress known only as Vault Seraphim pulsed with energy. Not a military base. Not a data hub. It was something worse.
A nexus of power.
Inside the vault's central chamber, a long obsidian table glistened under cool white light. Twelve seats, all occupied. Not by politicians or CEOs, but by the hidden architects behind Edenfall—the faceless overseers who answered to no law, no flag, no God. They were referred to, simply, as The Council.
At the head of the table sat Dr. Ilsa Revenant.
Tall. Silver hair, pulled tightly back. Her eyes glinted like ice. Her voice was calm, but it held the weight of command that could end nations.
She tapped the digital surface before her.
The lights dimmed.
The table lit up.
The face of Matherson Jayson appeared in the center of the projection.
"Gentlemen," she began, her tone sharp as a scalpel, "our ghost has become a flame."
An older man in a white suit leaned forward, hands steepled. His name was Marek Volstrum, the financial spine of Edenfall. "Brussels was expensive. Lisbon was an embarrassment. The boy is tearing through our chain."
"Not just the boy," said Director Amari, the youngest at the table and head of psychological operations. "He's not alone. We've confirmed he's working with Ghostbyte."
A low murmur followed. Ghostbyte.
The name lingered like smoke in the air.
"No confirmed image," Amari continued. "But we have traces data pulses from inside Sector Nine's firewall. Whoever he is, he's operating two steps ahead of our AI defenses."
Marek scowled. "This is what happens when you let a dead journalist's son slip through the cracks."
Ilsa's lips curled into a faint smile.
"Matherson didn't slip. He survived."
She tapped the table again. A new image appeared: a blurred surveillance shot of Ghostbyte's last known proxy signal, bouncing from a bunker system beneath old Detroit.
"We ran facial AI on ambient camera reflection. Nothing conclusive," Amari said. "But the frequency signature was tagged..."
She paused, then flicked her eyes to the far end of the table.
"...by Kravitch."
The lights shifted as the final member of the Council appeared, stepping out of the shadows. Dressed in a charcoal-gray tactical coat, Mikhail Kravitch didn't speak right away. He simply watched the image of Matherson burn in the projection.
When he finally spoke, his voice was gravel wrapped in velvet.
"Jayson's son is no longer just a fugitive," he said. "He's a symbol. One that could unravel everything we've built."
Ilsa nodded. "Then we don't just silence him. We rewrite him."
The room quieted.
From the table, she pulled up Edenfall's new campaign: "Sons of Anarchy: Domestic Terrorism in the Digital Age." Images of doctored footage rolled Matherson's face blurred into acts he hadn't committed. Children crying. Fires. Dead agents.
False.
All of it.
But powerful.
Amari smirked. "In two weeks, he'll be a household name. A name mothers fear. A name governments demand we erase."
"And then?" Marek asked.
Ilsa answered coolly.
"Then we let him try to kill another of our men. And when he shows up we'll be waiting."
Kravitch leaned forward. "Let me handle it. Personally."
A beat of silence. Then the council approved.
"Proceed with Operation False Prophet," Ilsa said. "Activate sleeper agents inside Ghostbyte's signal net. Leak them an opening."
"And if Ghostbyte doesn't take the bait?" Amari asked.
Kravitch smiled, slow and wolf-like.
"He will. That boy still trusts someone. We'll find out who."
Elsewhere A Flickering Screen
In a decaying building outside Bucharest, Ghostbyte sat in the glow of ten monitors, headphones on, face bathed in green static.
His fingers froze on the keyboard.
He was watching Edenfall's boardroom feed.
He'd tapped them hours ago.
But this was different.
They had used a name.
His.
For the first time in five years, Edenfall had said "Ghostbyte" aloud.
And they had smiled.
He whispered, almost involuntarily, "They know."