The Frame

The roar of an explosion that tore through the city's pre-dawn silence destroyed the tenuous armistice that had been built via whispered discussions and snatched moments. Anya woke up in her flat, miles from the epicenter, the windows vibrating fiercely in their frames. Sleep had clouded her first thought to an earthquake. A loud, guttural boom that echoed off the nearby buildings was the sound that came next, though, and it hinted at something much more frightening. Almost instantly, sirens sounded, a growing scream of fear piercing the darkness.

Before he heard the sound, Rhys was awake in his safe home, studying blueprints for a possible future target. He felt the low-frequency tremor through the floorboards. Senses strained, he went suddenly motionless. He knew from experience that it wasn't a gas main leak or construction noise. It was ordnance. There had just been a bombing somewhere in his city. His stomach clenched into a frigid knot. This was discordant and felt incorrect. It wasn't his approach or his manner.

The OmniCorp Tower, a steel and black glass tower that dominated the financial sector, was the target. Debris rained down onto the empty plaza below as the explosion tore through the lower levels and collapsed a portion of the front. The surrounding skyscrapers were painted in a flashing, demonic light as flames licked higher. As emergency personnel arrived on the scene, they searched the shaky structure and battled the fire. Although there were fewer casualties than in a daytime attack due to the timing (around 3:30 AM), news reports promptly verified one serious injury: a security guard working the night shift who was stuck within the initial blast radius.

The scene was already a tumultuous scene of flashing lights, emergency vehicles, and yellow tape when Anya arrived just after daybreak. The pungent stench of pulverized concrete and smoke filled the air. She was on the first response team guarding the perimeter, and her sense of dread grew. The exact, nearly bloodless incursions ascribed to the Ghost were not like this. This was ruthless, careless devastation.

By mid-morning, the first important hints were emerging from the inquiry within the bomb zone. The explosive ingredients, a complex, high-yield composition, were discovered by bomb technicians. Then came the revelation that rocked the command structure and, shortly after, the city as a whole. Investigators discovered pieces of a sophisticated micro-detonator embedded in debris close to the explosion spot. Materials retrieved from Rhys's prior (non-violent) invasions, such as the Thorne Tower job, were compared to the preliminary study, which revealed a "potential forensic link." Additionally, fragmented data found in a damaged OmniCorp server room appeared to demonstrate encrypted communication attempts made just before the explosion, circumventing security measures with algorithms that had a "strong resemblance" to code signatures previously linked to the Ghost's online activities.

The evidence seemed almost too convenient, too tidy. However, these pieces were swiftly seized onto in the tense and fear-filled environment to identify the guilty. Whispers became leaks.

The first news alert appeared on a nearby screen while Anya was grabbing a quick cup of coffee next to the mobile command post: "BREAKING: Evidence Links OmniCorp Bombing to Infamous 'Ghost' Thief."

Her blood froze. No. The coffee cup broke on the sidewalk after slipping out of her numb fingers. No, he wouldn't. Her thoughts rushed back to their exchanges: his careful preparation, his code that specifically forbade bodily injury, his emphasis on focused disruption rather than widespread devastation. He wasn't a bomber, but he was a thief who worked well outside the law. He wasn't a murderer.

"Can you believe this?" Marcus replied, approaching her side and gazing at the TV with a somber expression. "The Ghost? Reaching the level of bombings? causing harm to civilians? I was aware that he was a horrible guy, but this is terrorism.

Anya was unable to talk. The official story was taking shape at a worrying rate. Montages of Rhys's previous adventures were already airing on news channels, which reframed his boldness as cruelty and his evasiveness as malicious purpose. Experts conjectured about his intentions: escalation brought on by police pressure? A comment about politics? Taking revenge on OmniCorp? He was being turned from a phantom into a monster, word by word, pixel by pixel. Already terrified by his past actions, the people enthusiastically accepted the story, terror readily triumphing over subtleties. The Ghost was now Public Enemy Number One, not merely a skilled thief.

From the relative safety of his flat, Rhys watched the same television reports, a cold, controlled rage growing within of him. The 'expert' studies, the cleverly worded releases concerning the digital signatures and the detonator fragments, and the blurry security footage stills were all visible to him. A frame-up occurred. A clear-cut, horrifyingly successful frame-up.

Someone had researched his techniques, possibly obtaining technical evaluations of his earlier work or access to police files that had been sealed. Someone was smart enough to imitate his digital trace and place tangible proof, which established a believable but flimsy connection. Someone wanted him destroyed, not just apprehended. In order to eliminate any remaining doubt about his intentions and guarantee that the greatest amount of resources would be used to apprehend him, dead or alive, they wanted the city, the police, and everyone else to view him as a vicious terrorist.

Who? The list was lengthy. Elias Thorne, whose pension fund information Rhys still had, was awaiting deployment. Harrison Vance, the C.E.O. of OmniCorp, is renowned for his brutality and extensive political connections; he might have silenced Rhys before he could be targeted. Over the years, Rhys had exposed or irritated other people. It needed access, resources, and a total lack of scruples.

It had nothing to do with the temperature of the room, but he felt cold. Evasion was no longer the only factor here. It was a matter of survival. The guidelines had been modified. He used to be a ghost that slipped through gaps. The entire weight of the city's rage and terror was now focused on him, and he was being pursued like a monster.

He couldn't help but think of Anya. This news would reach her. Would she accept it? Would the brittle understanding they had developed be overshadowed by her training and her devotion to the badge? Would she believe that he was the bomber that the world now declared him to be? The notion made his shoulder hurt more than it had healed. He was shocked to find that her comprehension and belief were more important than he had previously let himself acknowledge.

But he couldn't afford the luxury of feeling. He compelled himself to return to analysis. Although perhaps not flawless, the frame-up was decent. Only someone who is closely acquainted with his real procedures would be able to identify the discrepancies, missed details, and telltale signs. He needed eyes and ears inside the inquiry, as well as information and access.

He glanced at the encrypted telephone he used from time to time, the one that was only used with the most secure, high-risk contacts. He ran his fingers across the controls. It was insane to reach out to her now, when the whole city was looking for him as a terrorist. She was in unthinkable danger because of it. It validated all the suspicions her supervisors or boyfriend might have.

But the memory of her ferocious eyes, her troubled heart, and her unexpected bravery came to the surface while the city outside raged for his blood, fed by cleverly crafted lies. She shared his lack of faith in the official tales. She questioned the system. Perhaps she would be the only person in the city who didn't think he was guilty right away. She could be his only opportunity.