Ashton Montgomery was a name people avoided saying out loud.
In the criminal underworld, he was known as SPEKTRE—a codename he chose himself. Not for style or intimidation, but because it described exactly how he worked. He appeared without warning, acted without hesitation, and disappeared without leaving a trail. No photos existed. No sightings were ever confirmed. Solid descriptions were non-existent. What remained were stories, passed quietly between criminals who still had a pulse.
Cartels reacted first. Entire routes went silent overnight. Gangs followed, dissolving before retaliation could even be planned. Mafias adapted slower; those who did not learned the lesson once and never got a chance to learn it again. SPEKTRE was not just a man. He was a problem you could not negotiate with.
Ash did not limit himself to one role. He was an assassin when the job required precision, a sniper when distance was safer, and a fixer when problems needed to disappear without noise. He was an infiltrator when intelligence mattered and a spy when information was worth more than bodies. Titles never mattered to him; results did.
What set him apart was not just training. It was speed and strength that did not look natural. He reacted faster than people expected and moved before others finished thinking. When someone aimed at him, he was already gone. To observers, it looked impossible—to Ash, it felt controlled.
That edge was biological efficiency. Carl had pushed him into a rare state of hyper-focus, a neurological condition where Ash processed stimuli far faster than an ordinary man. Sound, movement, and intent were sorted by his brain instantly. When others panicked, time slowed for him. He always knew where to strike first.
SPEKTRE did not work alone. Behind him stood Justicia Sangrienta, an organization that operated where law enforcement could not. Police were too slow. Courts were compromised. Interpol required visibility. Justicia Sangrienta required none of that. They handled what others buried.
Their contracts were not limited to organized crime. Drug traffickers, gang leaders, arms dealers, and corrupt officials were all targets. Sometimes even civilians sought them out—people who had proof but no path to justice. If someone wanted a problem solved permanently and had the evidence to justify it, Justicia Sangrienta listened. They did not claim to be righteous; they claimed to be effective.
The man who built it was Alistair Carlisle the BLACKBIRD. Most people called him Carlisle only once; after that, it was Carl. Carl was older, sharper, and terrifying in a quiet way. He never raised his voice or rushed a decision. Even among killers, his presence was enough to change the room. He had trained dozens of operatives over the years, but only one ever surpassed him: Ash.
Carl noticed Ashton Montgomery when he was sixteen. By then, Ash had already lost his parents. They were murdered, yet there were no arrests and no justice. Ash hunted the man responsible and killed him himself.
What caught Carl's attention was not the killing, but how clean it was. There were no witnesses and no unnecessary movement. There was no emotional fallout, just a contained rage burning inward instead of spilling out. Carl approached him carefully. They talked slowly. Carl told him that violence was a tool and that control mattered more than anger. Ash listened. He did not argue because he already understood.
At seventeen, Ash began training under Carl. The next ten years erased anything ordinary about him. Combat drills, weapons mastery, and psychological conditioning became his life. Missions were designed to push limits until something broke. Mistakes were corrected immediately, and weakness was never tolerated.
Ash adapted.
By twenty-five, SPEKTRE was a name feared more than the BLACKBIRD himself. Carl never said it publicly, but he knew—Ash was better, faster, and deadlier.
And yet, Ash felt nothing. Killing became routine. Faces blurred and names did not matter. Moral numbness settled in quietly, unnoticed.
Until one contract changed everything.
Ash was twenty-four when he tracked a small gang operating near the docks. The job was simple: recover a kidnapped child and eliminate resistance. He found them in a decaying warehouse where guards were spread thin. He entered without triggering alarms. Two men went down before they realized he was inside. Another reached for a weapon and collapsed halfway through the motion. The rest followed quickly.
When the noise stopped, the warehouse went quiet. That was when Ash heard breathing.
He found her behind a stack of crates. She was four years old with her knees pulled to her chest and eyes red from crying. She did not scream when she saw him; she just stared, too scared to move. Ash froze. He had seen fear thousands of times, but this was different—it was smaller and helpless. For the first time in years, something tightened in his chest. It wasn't rage or adrenaline. It was something unfamiliar.
He carried her out himself.
Ash did not hand her over to authorities. He erased her instead. Using his skills as a hunter, he wiped her DNA from every accessible system and fabricated a digital history that placed her birth in a private clinic years earlier. To the world, the kidnapped girl vanished. To the city records, Clara Montgomery had always existed.
He named her Clara and brought her home. Raising her changed him. He learned routines, school schedules, and bedtime stories. Clara never questioned where she came from. To her, Ash was just her father.
At twenty-six, Ash met Thea Rosenfield. She was quiet and observant. She accepted him as he was, even when she sensed there was more beneath the surface. They fell in love slowly and married quietly. Clara adored her.
For a while, Ash lived two lives: SPEKTRE in the shadows and a husband in the light. But lies have weight, and eventually, they collapse. Four years into the marriage, Ash told Thea everything.
It nearly broke them. Thea struggled, but in the end, she gave him a choice. If he wanted a family, he had to leave that life behind.
Ash chose them.
Carl did not stop him, but leaving had a price. Ash handed over a drive containing every encrypted file he had ever stolen—intelligence, names, and contingencies. A silent pact was formed. Ash would stay dead to the world, and Justicia Sangrienta would stay dead to him. If either side surfaced, the other would be forced to finish what they started.
Ash became ordinary. He opened a bakery and wrote novels under his real name. Money was never a concern, but peace was harder than any mission. The smell of yeast and sugar masked the phantom scent of cordite in his lungs. He played the role of a civilian so well that sometimes he believed it.
March 27, 1998. Friday. 7:50 PM.
Ash locked the bakery door and pulled the shutter down. He paused for a second, his eyes scanning the reflection in the glass—the street behind him, the parked cars, the shadows. Nothing out of place. He wiped his hands on a cloth, satisfied, and walked toward the nearby restaurant.
He ordered takeout. He knew what they liked.
By the time he reached home, the lights were on. Ash unlocked the door, his gaze automatically sweeping the living room before he stepped fully inside. Old habits didn't die; they just got quieter.
Thea was on the sofa, a book resting against her stomach. Four months along, she was barely showing, but Ash treated her like she was made of glass. Clara was on the floor, sketching in a notebook. She looked up the moment the latch clicked.
"Dad." Ash smiled. It was the only time his face truly relaxed. "Wash your hands," he said. "Dinner's here."
They gathered at the table. No phones. No distractions. Just food and conversation. Ash served Clara first, then Thea. He sat last, facing the hallway entrance. It was a small habit, one Thea noticed but never mentioned.
Clara talked about school—a quiz she aced, a friend who copied her notes. She was ten now. Sharp, honest, and curious. Too smart for her age. Ash listened, but a part of him was always listening to the street outside, filtering the sounds of passing cars from the sounds of approaching danger.
Thea watched them both. Every now and then, Ash caught her eyes on him. Studying him. Loving him. Knowing exactly what he was and choosing him anyway.
After eating, Clara cleared her plate. It was Friday, so homework was ignored in favor of sketching. She kissed Thea's cheek, hugged Ash tight—squeezing hard enough to remind him he was real—and disappeared down the hallway.
Ash turned to Thea. He offered a hand to help her up. She laughed, swatting it away gently. "Ash, I'm pregnant, not broken. I can walk."
"I know," he said softly, keeping his hand there anyway. "Humor me."
She took it. He guided her to the bedroom, checking the window lock as he drew the curtains. He helped her lie down, adjusting the pillows until she sighed in comfort.
"You're spoiling me," she whispered.
"Good," he replied. "That's my job."
Tomorrow was a day off. He had promised Clara a trip to the coast. Somewhere beautiful. Thea rested her hand over her stomach. Ash placed his over hers. They stayed like that for a while, listening to the quiet of the house. No sirens. No knocks. No ghosts.
When the lights went out, Ash lay awake. He waited ten minutes. Twenty. Only when he was certain the rhythm of their breathing was deep and steady did he allow his own eyes to close.
The house fell asleep together.
March 28, 1998. Saturday. 2:20 AM.
The silence of the house broke with a loud crash. Glass shattered against tile.
Ash snapped awake. He didn't think. He moved before his mind caught up, feet hitting the floor, hands sweeping the empty space beside him. Thea was gone.
"Thea?" His voice was sharp, low, filled with panic.
He ran toward the kitchen. The fridge door stood open, spilling cold, harsh light across the floor. Water had pooled, shards of glass glinting.
She was there, slumped against the fridge, head tilted unnaturally. A smear of blood spread across the white tile, dark and wet.
"Thea!"
Ash slid across the floor, ignoring the pain in his knees from the glass. He scooped her into his arms, holding her close, trying to feel her pulse. Her body trembled violently, skin cold against his chest.
"Thea, wake up! Look at me!" His voice cracked. "What happened? Talk to me!"
Her eyes fluttered, struggling against some invisible weight. When they opened, they were tiny pinpricks. She parted her lips, and blood spilled.
Ash's heart slammed against his ribs. "No. No. Don't… just breathe." He wiped at her mouth, but more came. It wasn't just a wound; it was inside her.
"A-Ash…" Her voice was wet, broken. Trembling. Her teeth chattered, a frantic rhythm he couldn't stop. "I… I felt… so thirsty…"
"Don't explain. Don't talk." Ash's hands shook as he tried to find the source, to fix something, anything. But nothing made sense. "I've got you. We're going. Now."
She grasped his forearm weakly, shaking her head.
"Ash… p-please…" Her cough cut the words into ragged gasps. Blood coated his hands. He held her tighter. "I… didn't… want to wake you…"
"Thea, stop! Stay with me!" Ash pressed his forehead to hers, desperate to lend his strength. "Look at me. You're not leaving. Not now. Not like this."
Her hand moved, trembling, trying to touch his face. He caught it, pressing it against his cheek, tasting the metallic warmth. Tears ran through the blood on her skin.
"I… I'm… so happy…" she whispered. Weak, gasping, fading. "With you… and C-Clara… I wanted… more… I wanted…"
"You'll have more. Years more." Ash lied, voice raw. "Just hold on. One more minute."
She tried to smile—the same quiet, knowing smile that had saved him six years ago. Her lips moved, almost forming words, but her voice failed. Her body shuddered violently one last time, then went limp.
"Thea?"
He searched for breath, for movement, for any sign. Shaking her, holding her tighter. "Thea! Wake up! Say it! Please!"
But there was only silence. The pulse vanished under his thumb.
Ash let out a low, ragged sound. Not a scream. Not a cry. A broken, helpless sound. He buried his face in her neck, arms clinging to her as if holding her could stop her from leaving.
He didn't know about the poison. He didn't know the shadows watching. There was only the warm weight of her body in his arms, the blood soaking through his shirt, the sharp scent of copper.
For the first time, SPEKTRE—the ghost, the weapon—was gone. Only a husband remained, trembling on the floor, holding the only thing he had ever truly loved.
"I've got you," he whispered, over and over, pressing her closer. "Stay warm. Stay warm."
The house was silent. Thea was gone. And in that quiet, Ash realized he had never been afraid of the dark—until now.