Chapter 19: The Blood That Stays
The room had fallen into a silence that felt both heavy and sacred.
Miles sat beside Daniel’s hospital bed. The remnants of the brutal confrontation still clung to his clothes—blood on his hands, smears on his jacket, bruises on his knuckles. The faint beep of the monitor was the only sound.
Daniel watched him.
This wasn’t the boy Elena had once described. This was something else. Something forged in fire and violence. And yet... something heartbreakingly human remained.
Miles didn’t look up. He spoke softly, as if reciting a confession to the walls.
"I was seven," he said. "When I first got blood on my hands."
Daniel blinked.
"I tried to wash it off for days. Weeks maybe. It wouldn’t go. Not with water. Not with soap. I could still see it... still smell it. I was terrified."
His fingers curled into fists slowly, the blood cracking around his knuckles.
"I took a life, Daniel. A man. They said he had killed families. Bombed villages. Left children like me with no homes, no parents. But that didn’t make it easier back then. I cried every night."
He finally looked up. There were no tears—but there was pain.
"And then I realized something. The men I was taking down... they weren’t just enemies. They were monsters. No regrets. No mercy. I started keeping the blood. Metaphorically. I stopped trying to wash it off."
Daniel’s eyes didn’t flinch. He listened. Not as a patient, not as a civilian—but as a man seeing the soul of someone far younger carry the burden of wars.
"Maybe I’ll go to hell," Miles said, with a small bitter smile. "But if my family’s safe... then I’m fine with that."
Silence.
Then, slowly—Daniel reached out. His hand trembled, but his touch was firm as it landed on Miles’s shoulder.
"It’s okay, son," Daniel said gently.
Miles’s eyes twitched. But he didn’t respond. Not yet.
"No one’s blaming you. Not me. Not Elena. You came back. That’s all that matters."
Daniel smiled softly.
"I know I’m not your father. But ever since Elena told me about you... showed me your picture... the way she spoke about you—I felt like I already had a son."
Miles looked at him, still, stunned for a beat.
"You’re still a good kid, Miles. Just one who walked through hell."
The young man blinked—and something cracked in his chest.
Not pain.
Not rage.
But... warmth. Foreign. Fragile. Like a long-lost memory.
He didn’t say anything in return. He didn’t have to.
He just stayed there... sitting beside the man his mother loved, the man who called him son , his bloodied hands now still in his lap.
Miles stood up slowly, brushing off the blood-streaked fabric of his shirt.
Then he spoke—soft, but clear.
"Let’s go home, Father."
Daniel looked up, confused. "What...?"
Miles offered a half-smile.
"Mom wouldn’t be happy if I kept calling you Daniel."
For a moment, Daniel didn’t speak. But the warmth in his eyes said everything.
He smiled—genuinely, deeply—and nodded.
Outside, a hospital attendant arrived with a wheelchair. Dr. Reyes waited at a respectful distance, giving them privacy. Miles helped Daniel into the seat.
Together, they passed through the freshly cleaned corridors. The chaos from earlier felt like a distant memory now—erased by time and silence.
Then—Miles’s phone buzzed.
Unknown Number.
He answered.
A familiar voice came through—timid and strained.
"Ghost... I just received a confirmation mail. From that man. The one who hired us. He wants a status update."
Merlin.
Miles’s expression didn’t change. But his voice sharpened with intent.
"Merlin... all you want is money, right?"
There was hesitation. "Y-yeah..."
"I’ll fill your house with it. But you’re going to do two things for me."
"...What?"
Miles stepped aside from Daniel and leaned against the corridor wall.
"First—mail that man back. Tell him the mission got complicated. Say Daniel Keller died... during transport. Make it believable."
Daniel, still nearby, looked up with a startled expression—but Miles raised a hand calmly, signaling trust me .
Merlin stammered, "But... that’s a risky lie—"
"But?" Miles cut in, his voice just above a whisper.
Silence on the line.
"...Okay, Ghost. I’ll do it. What’s the second thing?"
Miles’s tone dropped lower.
"Shut down Blackfield."
"...What?"
"You heard me. Burn it. All of it. You want money? You’ll work for me now."
Merlin scoffed nervously. "But Graveyard doesn’t let outsiders in."
"Who told you you’d be working for Graveyard?"
Another pause.
"You’ll work for me , Merlin. My team. My rules."
"W-what do you mean—"
"You’ll understand. I’m sending you a contact. A woman. Be respectful to her. She’ll arrange your operations, your payments, your next steps."
"...And if I say no?"
"You won’t," Miles replied. "Because you know I always keep my promises. Even the deadly ones."
Silence.
Then—
"...Okay, boss. I’m in."
Miles smiled faintly. "Good. Welcome to the new world, Merlin."
He hung up.
Daniel watched him quietly as Miles walked back.
"That sounded... serious," he said with a wry smile.
Miles looked down at him, finally letting the tension roll off his shoulders.
"It’s handled."
They moved toward the hospital exit.
An attendant arrived with a set of fresh clothes folded neatly in his hands.
"You should change," Daniel said, glancing at the bloodied fabric still clinging to Miles’s frame.
Miles nodded, taking the bundle without a word. Minutes later, he stepped out from the restroom—clean, composed, the blood washed away. Dressed in a simple hoodie and jeans, he looked like any other 21-year-old young man.
But Daniel knew the truth now.
Beneath that quiet face, behind those calm eyes—was Ghost .
Outside, the black car was already waiting at the hospital gate.
Miles gently helped Daniel into the passenger seat, careful with his legs. Then he circled around, slid into the driver’s seat, and turned the engine on.
Dr. Reyes stood at the entrance, watching them leave.
Miles looked at him through the open window. "Goodbye, Doctor. You should leave this place too. Go home. You’ve seen enough bloodshed."
Reyes gave a respectful nod. "Yes, Boss. I’ll settle everything here and head back. Take care."
Miles gave one in return, then pressed the accelerator.
The car eased into the street.
For a moment, the only sounds were the engine hum and the city outside, unaware of the war that almost broke inside its walls.
Daniel looked over at Miles.
"You arranged Dr. Reyes too?"
"Yup."
"He calls you Boss . Why?"
Miles smirked faintly. "He works for me. Kind of a... family doctor, you could say."
Daniel blinked, still adjusting to everything he was learning. "And the hospital? What about the authorities? Won’t they find out?"
Miles glanced at him, then back to the road.
"They won’t find out."
"How can you be so sure?"
Miles reached into the side pocket of his jacket and handed over a red military ID card—sleek, official, lined with golden edges and the Army insignia embossed at the top.
Miles Sterling
Rank: General
Presidential Complex Authorization
Daniel stared at the card.
His mouth opened slowly. "You’re... serious."
Miles gave a casual shrug. "They call it Honorary General . It was issued by the President himself."
Daniel stared at him, stunned.
The young man beside him wasn’t just someone who had survived the shadows—he had the backing of the highest power in the nation. He was no longer just a missing boy.
He was something else entirely.
They drove on.
And in the distance—just past the city’s edge—the warm glow of home finally appeared on the horizon.
As the tires rolled into the driveway, the weight of seventeen years seemed to lift from both their shoulders.
It was nearly evening. A soft orange hue stretched across the sky, and the golden hour light bathed the house in warmth as Miles parked by the gate.
He stepped out, calmly walked around, and opened the passenger side. Gently, he helped Daniel into the wheelchair and adjusted it with care.
Then, with steady hands and a faint smile, he pushed the chair up to the door.
He knocked.
A few seconds later, the door opened—and there she was.
Elena.
She gasped the moment she saw him.
Daniel looked up, his eyes glassy with emotion. "I’m home, my dear."
Elena’s hand flew to her mouth as tears welled in her eyes. Her lips trembled, unable to speak, overwhelmed by a dream come true.
Miles quietly pushed the chair forward, into the home.
Then he called out loudly, with a grin, "Little ones—come here! Look who I brought!"
Thundering footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Hope and Asher burst out from their room like little rockets—Asher dragging a plush toy, Hope with crayons still in hand.
They skidded to a stop at the edge of the living room.
Then—
Their eyes widened. Their jaws dropped.
"DAD!!!" Hope shrieked.
"PAPA!!" Asher followed, his voice high with disbelief.
In an instant, they sprinted forward, arms outstretched like they were flying.
Hope launched herself, wrapping her arms around Daniel’s neck, almost knocking the wheelchair off balance. Asher hugged his waist, burying his face into Daniel’s stomach, sobbing.
Daniel reached out, trembling, and placed a hand on both their heads, eyes streaming.
"I missed you... so much," he whispered, voice cracking.
"I knew you’d come back! I knew it!" Hope cried.
Miles stepped back silently, watching the family embrace—his face unreadable, but his eyes glassed with quiet warmth.
For once, the war was outside the door.
Inside—
There was only home.
And healing.
.....
Somewhere in the country...
In a secluded, dimly lit room surrounded by aged books and maps, an old man sat in a leather chair, a steaming cup of tea untouched on the table beside him. The windows were shuttered. A single desk lamp cast his silhouette sharply against the wall.
His phone buzzed.
He answered without greeting.
A voice on the other end spoke calmly. "Sir... Daniel Keller is dead."
The old man’s eyes narrowed.
"What? How?" he asked, his voice rough like gravel.
"He was too sick to be transported. Died during the abduction. Blackfield confirmed it."
A long silence.
Then, slowly, the old man leaned back in his chair.
"It’s fine... It works in our favor either way. Dead men don’t talk. Now he won’t reveal anything."
He reached for the teacup, paused.
"Keep watching Elena. Just in case. She’s smarter than she looks."
A faint tapping echoed as he drummed his fingers on the armrest.
"And tell those Paradise Club shitheads to finally do some work. I’m tired of waiting on their incompetence."
The call ended.
And in the stillness that followed, the old man’s lips curled into a slight smile.
The game had only just begun.