SSS-Rank Corporate Predator System

Having a conversation with yourself was one thing.

Having yourself stare back at you with a blank, expectant expression was something else entirely.

Miles stood in his living room, locked in a silent staring contest with his own perfect copy.

"Okay," Miles said, breaking the silence.

"First things first."

"We need to establish some ground rules."

The clone just tilted its head, listening.

"Rule number one," Miles continued, pointing a finger at his double.

"No talking about me behind my back."

"I'll know."

"Because, you know, I'm you."

The clone's lips twitched, the barest hint of a shared, sarcastic smile.

This whole dual consciousness thing was deeply, profoundly weird.

He could feel his own amusement and the clone's detached curiosity at the same time.

It was like having two tabs open in his brain.

"Rule number two," he went on.

"You get the dangerous missions."

"I get to stay here and work on my history presentation."

"It's only fair."

"I'm the original."

"I have seniority."

The clone gave a slow, deliberate nod of agreement.

Miles grinned.

"I like the way you think," he said.

"Now, let's get you dressed."

"We can't have you running around looking exactly like me."

"That would be confusing."

"And it would completely ruin my carefully crafted alibi of being a boring, unremarkable loser."

He went to his closet and pulled out a second, identical black hoodie.

He also grabbed a simple black face mask and a pair of dark sunglasses.

It wasn't a master disguise, but it would be enough to obscure his features, to turn him from Miles Vane into just another anonymous shadow on the street.

The clone took the items and put them on without a word.

The effect was immediate.

It was no longer his reflection.

It was a tool.

A weapon.

The Ghost of Northwood, now made manifest.

"Alright," Miles said, his voice turning serious, his playful tone gone.

"Time for a test run."

"There are seventeen bounty hunters in this city looking for us."

"Let's see if we can thin the herd a little."

He sat down at his laptop and pulled up the Echo Chamber forums.

He scrolled through the bounty post, looking at the list of users who had publicly accepted the contract.

His eyes landed on a familiar name.

[>User: ScrapHead]

This was the one who had mocked him, who had called him a "flash-in-the-pan."

The one who had said, "This ghost is already dead."

Miles felt a cold, petty satisfaction.

"You're first," he whispered.

He focused his mind, giving his clone its first series of commands.

*Access the system's network analysis tools.*

*Find a user signature matching 'ScrapHead'.*

*Triangulate his current location.*

He felt the clone's consciousness shift, its focus narrowing.

He saw lines of code and network data flash through his second set of eyes.

It was like watching a movie and playing a video game at the exact same time.

[USER SIGNATURE DETECTED,] the system reported, its voice audible in both his own head and the clone's.

[CROSS-REFERENCING WITH PUBLIC WIFI HOTSPOTS AND CELL TOWER DATA.]

[LOCATION IDENTIFIED: 'THE RUSTY MUG' TAVERN. DOWNTOWN CORE.]

A map of the city appeared in their shared vision, a red dot pulsing over a dive bar a few miles away.

"A bar," Miles thought with a sneer.

"How original."

"He's probably sitting there right now, bragging to anyone who will listen about the ghost he's going to kill."

He stood up and walked over to the clone.

He placed a hand on its shoulder, a strange, surreal sensation.

"Your mission," he said, his voice a low, cold whisper.

"Is to introduce yourself."

"Neutralize the target."

"Non-lethally, if possible."

"We want information, not just a body."

"And most importantly…"

He paused, a predatory glint in his eyes.

"Take his wallet."

The clone gave a single, sharp nod.

It turned, walked to the window, slid it open, and slipped out onto the fire escape without a sound.

Miles watched it go, a phantom disappearing into the night.

Then, he sat down on his couch.

And the world split in two.

He could feel the lumpy springs of his old sofa under him.

He could hear the quiet hum of his refrigerator.

At the same time, he could feel the cold night air on the clone's skin.

He could feel the rough, rusted metal of the fire escape under its feet as it leaped silently from one rooftop to the next.

He was here.

And he was there.

The experience was dizzying, a sensory overload that threatened to overwhelm him.

He closed his real eyes, focusing all of his consciousness on the clone.

He was the ghost now, a passenger in his own body.

The clone moved with a fluid, silent grace, its 75% power level more than enough for this.

It reached the downtown core in less than ten minutes, a shadow flowing over the city.

It perched on a rooftop across from 'The Rusty Mug' tavern.

The place was a dump, a flickering neon sign casting a sickly green glow on the grimy windows.

The clone's enhanced senses focused, its hearing zeroing in on the noise spilling out of the bar.

[ACTIVATING: AUDIO FOCUS LVL 1,] it thought, the command a shared echo in Miles's mind.

The jumble of drunken shouts and bad music filtered out, replaced by a single, clear conversation from a booth near the window.

"…and I'm telling you, this ghost kid is a joke," a loud, gravelly voice was boasting.

"He got lucky once with the Serpents."

"He won't be so lucky when he runs into a real professional."

"Like me."

Miles felt a surge of pure, unadulterated annoyance.

This guy was insufferable.

Through the clone's eyes, he saw the target.

ScrapHead was a big, burly man with a thick beard and a tattoo of a metal skull on his neck.

He was laughing, taking a long drink from a beer mug.

He looked like he didn't have a care in the world.

The clone slipped off the roof, landing in the dark alley behind the bar.

It walked to the back door, a rusted metal thing with a single, grimy window.

It didn't bother picking the lock.

It just gave the door a slight push.

[PULSE BREAK: 5% POWER.]

The lock shattered internally with a quiet snap.

The clone slipped inside.

It was in a small, disgusting kitchen that smelled of stale beer and old grease.

A single, sweaty cook was hunched over a stove, not noticing a thing.

The clone moved past him, a silent specter, and pushed through the swinging doors into the main bar.

The place was loud and crowded.

ScrapHead was still in his booth, his back to the kitchen.

The clone walked up behind him.

It tapped him on the shoulder.

ScrapHead turned, a drunken, annoyed look on his face.

"What do you want?" he slurred.

He looked at the clone's masked face, and a flicker of confusion crossed his features.

"The Ghost of Northwood," the clone said, its voice a perfect, cold imitation of Miles's own.

"Sends his regards."

Before ScrapHead could even process the words, the clone's hand shot out.

It grabbed the front of the man's shirt and yanked him out of the booth with impossible strength.

The clone moved with a speed that the drunken patrons could barely follow.

It dragged the bounty hunter back through the kitchen and into the alley, slamming the back door shut behind them.

ScrapHead, finally realizing the danger he was in, let out a roar of rage.

His body began to glow with a faint, metallic sheen.

[SYSTEM DETECTED: TIER-2 DERMAL ARMORING.]

"So, you're a walking brick," the clone thought, its mind and Miles's working in perfect sync.

"Let's see how tough you really are."

ScrapHead threw a wild, clumsy punch.

The clone sidestepped it with contemptuous ease.

It drove its own fist into the man's stomach.

[PULSE BREAK: 30% POWER.]

THUMP.

The impact was like hitting a sheet of steel with a sledgehammer.

ScrapHead's metal skin dented inward.

He let out a strangled gasp, all the air rushing out of his lungs.

He stumbled backward, his eyes wide with shock and pain.

The clone didn't give him time to recover.

It blurred forward, a flurry of precise, brutal strikes.

A chop to the neck.

A kick to the back of the knee.

An elbow to the temple.

Each blow landed with the dull, resonant thud of the [Pulse Break], shattering the man's dermal armor, breaking the bone beneath.

The fight was over in less than fifteen seconds.

ScrapHead lay crumpled on the greasy pavement of the alley, groaning, a broken and bleeding mess.

The clone stood over him.

It reached down and pulled the man's wallet from his back pocket.

It also took his phone.

[ASSET ACQUISITION COMPLETE,] the system noted calmly.

The clone leaned down, its masked face just inches from the bounty hunter's.

"Tell your friends," it whispered, its voice a cold promise.

"The hunt is off."

"I'm the one hunting now."

Then, it turned and melted back into the shadows of the alley, leaving the broken bounty hunter to his pain.

Miles opened his real eyes, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face.

The test was a resounding success.

He felt the clone dissolve, its consciousness and energy flowing back into him.

He was whole again.

He held the stolen phone in his hand, a new treasure trove of information.

He had a new weapon in his arsenal.

And he had just sent his first, terrifying message to the hunters of the Echo Chamber.

The ghost was real.

And he was coming for them all.