A Ghost With No Name- Bl- Officer and Thief

The night was colder than usual. The kind that sank into Zev's bones and made his nerves hum with unease.

He shifted on the bench outside the convenience store, his hoodie pulled tight, his pocket knife resting in his palm, thumb brushing over the worn handle. He had slept like this before—knife in hand, muscles tense, ears straining for anything out of place—but tonight was different.

Tonight, he felt watched.

He tried to push the thought away. Maybe it was just Elias getting in his head. The commander had a way of making him feel seen in a way Zev wasn't used to.

But this wasn't that. This wasn't Elias.

But exhaustion won out before paranoia did. His body, wired from a lifetime of being on edge, eventually gave in. His grip on the knife loosened, his eyelids grew heavier, and despite every instinct screaming at him to stay alert, sleep crept in.

It wasn't restful. It never was.

He dozed in shallow, fractured moments, half-aware of the sounds around him—cars passing in the distance, muffled voices, the hum of a streetlight overhead. But then—

A noise.

His body jolted upright before he was even fully awake. His fingers clenched around the knife, heart hammering against his ribs. His breath came in sharp, shallow bursts as his eyes flicked around. The exhaustion was still there. He had only slept for an hour or so.

Then he saw it.

A shadow.

A man.

Standing just a few feet away.

Zev's grip on the knife tightened. "Who the hell are you?"

The man tilted his head, eyes gleaming under the dim streetlight. "I could ask you the same."

His voice was smooth. Too smooth. No immediate aggression, no raised fists. Just calm, measured words. He didn't look threatening—plain clothes, relaxed stance—but Zev knew better. He was smaller than most men, and that meant everyone was a threat until proven otherwise.

Slowly, he shifted to his feet, muscles coiled to move.

The man stepped forward.

Zev took a step back.

Another step. Another.

But something was wrong. The way the man moved, the way his eyes never left Zev's face—it sent ice down his spine. He wasn't here to steal. And this wasn't going to end well.

That's when Zev knew.

König was right.

This was him. The Midnight Phantom.

People in the Lower West Side had been talking. About bodies turning up. About how they weren't just overdoses or gang hits. How people on the streets—people like Zev—were disappearing. The whispers had been growing, the tension creeping into the air like a sickness.

Zev had tried to ignore it. He had his own problems.

But now, he was in it.

His mind raced. He had to get out of this, had to think fast.

He forced a smile, casual, like he wasn't already planning an escape. "Hey, man. Look, if you're lost or somethin', I can point you somewhere."

No reaction. The man kept walking toward him.