Mira, bleeding from a shoulder wound, laughs bitterly. “We’re not humans anymore, Captain. We’re just ghosts with guns.”

“I thought if I didn’t kill him, I’d stay human,” he says, sweat dripping onto the bomb’s casing. “But I just lost more of myself every day after.”

Rooker cuts the last wire.

The dream is always the same.

London, 2016. Rooker wears a suit that doesn’t fit. He drinks coffee that tastes like metal. His job is to assess risk for a private firm—essentially, to tell rich men which parts of the world are currently on fire. He has not fired a weapon in five years.

But there’s no parade. No medals. Price disappears again. The government denies everything.