The Hunt for the Painting
Erebus Flynn was unraveling.
The painting was gone.
His boss was calling.
And Flynn had no good answers.
From the moment he discovered the theft, he had been scrambling, raging, and threatening anyone who might have a lead. He reached out to every master thief, every heist man, every broker and fence he had ever worked with—directly, or through someone who knew someone. The message was clear:
Find my painting, or I find you.
But nothing came back. No whispers. No leads. The silence was suffocating.
By the end of the third day, Flynn was desperate. That’s when he got the call.
The Voice From the Sphinx
Marcus had been listening.
The bug he planted at Flynn’s penthouse had given him a front-row seat to every curse, every demand, every violent promise Flynn made in his desperate search.
Then, finally—something real.
A phone rang.
Flynn answered, his voice already strained. “Yeah?”
And then—that voice.
Marcus froze.
It was him.
The voice from the Sphinx. The man in the shadows. The whisper behind power.
A phantom Marcus had chased for decades.
“Did you get the painting?” the voice asked.
Marcus leaned in, every nerve on edge.
Flynn swallowed hard. Even through the static, Marcus could hear the tension clawing at his throat. This wasn’t the usual bravado-laced Erebus Flynn.
This was a man afraid.
Flynn hesitated—then, his voice cracked. “It’s gone.”
Silence.
Then, the voice on the other end spoke, low and cold. “That was… unwise.”
Flynn’s breath shuddered. “I—I’m fixing it. I’ve got every contact I know looking—”
“I don’t want excuses.”
“I know, I know,” Flynn stammered. “Look, I’ll have it. I just need time.”
“No, Flynn. You need a miracle.”
And then—the line went dead.
Flynn stood frozen for a second, staring at the phone in his hand as if it had turned to stone.
Then he snapped.
In a fit of rage and panic, he threw the phone across the room, shattering it against the wall. “This is gonna be the death of me! Over a damn painting!”
Marcus exhaled slowly, his mind racing.
Flynn had no idea what he was holding.
But his boss did.
The Smuggler’s Escape Plan
As the night stretched on, Marcus stayed glued to the feed, listening as Flynn spiraled further. He paced. He muttered. He threw back glass after glass of top-shelf scotch.
Then, finally, he made his move.
Flynn picked up another phone—one still intact—and dialed. The line clicked. A gruff voice answered:
Theo Wilder.
A black-market smuggler. One of the best in the game.
Flynn didn’t waste time. “I need out. Discreet, immediate, and safe.”
A pause. Then Wilder chuckled. “Running scared, Flynn?”
“Just business,” Flynn snapped. “Twenty million. Cash.”
That got Wilder’s attention. “Where and when?”
Flynn exhaled. “Port of Hong Kong. Poseidon’s Pride.”
Wilder hummed in thought. “Cargo ship? You really don’t wanna be found, huh?”
“Do we have a deal?”
Another pause. Then—“We have a deal.”
Marcus sat back, smirking.
There it was.
Flynn thought he was escaping. But he was walking straight into a trap.
Poseidon’s Pride — The Infiltration
Flynn had no idea Marcus was already ahead of him.
The day before the meet, Marcus was already on the ship.
Slipping aboard was easy—the hard part was staying hidden. Poseidon’s Pride was more than just a cargo vessel. It was a floating black-market hub for smugglers, traffickers, and mercenaries who wouldn’t hesitate to kill a stranger on sight.
But Marcus? He was no stranger to the shadows.
Moving through the ship’s underbelly, he secured his own soundproof container. The dock crew thought it was just a man shipping some insulation materials.
In reality? It was Flynn’s new home.
The Kidnapping
The plan went semi-smooth—until it didn’t.
Flynn boarded under heavy security, escorted by Wilder’s men—hired guns who knew better than to ask questions. But Marcus was patient. He waited. Stalked from the shadows.
Then, when the moment was right—he struck.
A few silent takedowns. A few bodies dragged into the dark. A few close calls.
And then—Flynn was alone.
Before he could even scream, Marcus had him.
A sharp strike to the neck, and Flynn went limp.
Game over.
The Interrogation
Flynn woke up with a jolt. His head snapped up, eyes wild, darting around the container. His wrists were bound to the chair, ankles tied.
Marcus sat across from him, silent, calm. The single hanging lightbulb cast long shadows across the steel walls.
Flynn’s breath was ragged. “Who the hell are you?” he spat.
Marcus didn’t answer. Instead, he picked up a black duffel bag from the floor, unzipped it, and pulled out bundles of cash. Flynn’s money.
Marcus smirked. “Twenty million dollars. That’s a lot to run with, Flynn.” He tossed a stack of bills onto the floor. “Who are you running from?”
Flynn’s lips tightened. “You already know.”
Marcus leaned forward. “Say it.”
Flynn’s jaw clenched. He was trying to keep control, to play tough. But Marcus had seen real killers. Flynn wasn’t one.
Marcus grabbed another stack of cash, flipped through it, and then tore it in half.
Flynn’s eyes twitched. “Hey! What the—”
Another stack—ripped.
“You think this is about the money?” Marcus said coolly. “I don’t care about your money, Flynn. I care about why you’re running. I care about the man who has you scared enough to pay your way into exile.”
Flynn exhaled sharply. “You don’t understand. You shouldn’t have taken that painting—”
Marcus’s expression darkened. “You mean the painting you stole?”
That broke him.
Flynn’s head snapped up, panic flashing across his face. “I knew it! He sent you, didn’t he? Darkfire! He doesn’t trust me!”
Marcus’s eyes narrowed. He stood up, letting the name settle in the air.
Flynn’s breathing grew rapid. “I swear—I didn’t steal it! I just… I lost track of it. Someone took it before I could secure it.”
Marcus stepped closer, looming over him. “And how does Mr. Darkfire deal with traitors?”
Flynn swallowed hard. His voice cracked. “You know how.”
Marcus nodded slowly. He bent down, picked up the black duffel, zipped it shut, and slung it over his shoulder.
Then, without another word, he walked out.
Flynn screamed after him. “Wait—WAIT! You can’t just leave me here! He’ll find me! He’ll kill me!”
Marcus didn’t stop.
He sealed the container, bolted the door, and disappeared into the night.
Escape Overboard
The sea was cold, biting. But Marcus had done worse.
Slipping past the guards, he reached the deck’s edge, took a final breath of the salt air, and vanished overboard.
By the time the Poseidon’s Pride reached open waters, Marcus was already gone.
And now, he had exactly what he needed.
A name.
A ghost.
Darkfire.
