Home After a Decade of Battle, My Daughter Lay Abandoned in Rubbish

When the plane landed, my watch showed 2 a.m.

My name is Ethan Cross. Ten years ago, I was a despised outsider son-in-law in the Bronx. Ten years later , in the dark side of this world, they call me "Ghost."

Ten years of secret service. I quelled the wars in the Middle East, cleaned up the drug dens in South America, and destroyed the human trafficking network in Eastern Europe. The organization I personally built—the Phantom Legion—controls military power and wealth sufficient to make a small country tremble.

None of that matters now.

There are only two reasons I came back. Elena, and Lily.

Elena Martinez. Ten years ago, she was the youngest resident in the emergency department. When I was being treated like trash, trampled into the mud, she walked up to me in that white coat. She said, "I'll marry you."

Lily was my daughter, whom I had never met; she was just a blurry figure I'd seen in photographs. I didn't know she existed when I left, and Elena only discovered she was pregnant after I disappeared. That photograph was the only thing she sent me; I kept it in the inner pocket of my bulletproof vest, and it was soaked through with blood three times.

I was able to grit my teeth and persevere on the battlefield for ten years, all for them.

Outside the airport, a man in a black suit waited by the car.

"Boss, accommodation and transportation are ready—"

"Need not."

I walked past him and ventured alone into the New York night.

I haven't been back for ten years. There are more skyscrapers now, and the lights are brighter. But the address I need to go to is on one of the worst streets in the Bronx.

Following the navigation, a 30-minute walk took me an hour.

Because I can't walk fast.

By the time I reached the apartment building, it was almost dawn. Graffiti on the exterior walls, a rusted fire escape ladder, and piles of garbage at the alley entrance. Just as awful as I'd imagined.

I went around to the back alley.

Then I stopped.

At the end of the alley, next to a trash can, is a tent made of cardboard and tattered plastic sheeting.

A little girl was curled up inside the tent.

Five years old. Hair tangled. Bruises on her face. Wearing an oversized, tattered T-shirt that could be worn as a dress, and barefoot.

She was holding half a piece of moldy bread in her hand.

This face, and the blurry outline of the photo I hid in my bulletproof vest—overlapped together.

I stood still, without moving.

Then I swallowed all my emotions.

She needs a father, not a madman who breaks down in front of her.

“Lily.” I knelt down. “I’m your father.”

She shrank back slightly. She hid the piece of bread behind her back.

I understand this action now—she's protecting her food. It's not that she's afraid someone will steal it, but that she's afraid someone will discover what she's eating.

The back door was suddenly pushed open from the inside.

An obese woman stood in the doorway, her robe slouching and her hair greasy. Sofia De Luca, a distant relative of Elena's. Ten years ago, she fawned over Elena, hoping to squeeze money out of her inheritance; now she had seized Elena's mother's fortune.

"Who do we have here—" A disdainful smile appeared on her face, "That good-for-nothing son-in-law who died out there, actually came back to life?"

"You still have the nerve to come back?" She stood with her hands on her hips, spitting as she spoke. "You stinking, rotten soldier! Ten years gone, nobody knows if you're alive or dead! Now you run back, hoping our family will—"

“I’m asking you.”

I interrupted her.

Why does she live in a garbage dump?

“Her?” Sophia glanced at Lily, her disgust undisguised. “That little bastard! Just like her mother, a good-for-nothing! Her mother ran off with some random guy, and we get to live in the house! We’re already doing her a huge favor by letting her sleep outside! What more do you want?”

She put her hands on her hips, which startled Lily, who shrank back into the tent.

"Her mother ran away?" I squinted.

"Impossible," I told myself.

Elena would never abandon her daughter and elope with someone else.

If Sofia meant "ran away"—there's only one possibility for a mother to disappear from her daughter's world.

Someone is controlling her.

And this old man is living off hush money.

As long as Lily is alive, she can get one more day's worth of money from that person.

My daughter thus became her tool for making money.

A young man peeked out from the back door, carrying a bottle of liquor. Marco De Luca. Sofia's nephew. His eyes were cloudy, and his face was sallow.

"Who's making noise outside—" He saw me, froze, then recognized me, "Damn? You're not dead?!"

"You haven't been back for ten years, and now you're causing trouble?" Marco walked towards me, bottle in hand. "Get lost!"

He swung the bottle at my head.

I grabbed his wrist.

Click.

His wrist was broken. The bottle fell to the ground, but didn't break. Marco knelt down, clutching his arms and howling.

Sofia screamed, "Help—"

"roll."

I glared at her.

Her mouth was open, but she dared not make a sound.

Lily cowered in the corner of the tent, but I saw something else in her eyes.

It wasn't fear. It was that she had never seen anyone stand up to the person who bullied her.

I crouched back down and reached out my hand to her, palm up.

"Lily, come with Daddy."

She stared at my hand. Five seconds. Ten seconds.

Then she put the bread down and placed her right hand—a cold, bony little hand—in my palm.

I picked her up. She was so light. So light that it felt like air made up part of her weight.

I carried her through the alley. Behind us, Sofia's curses echoed.

"Where are you taking that little bastard?! I'm telling you—"

I didn't turn around.

Two blocks away, Lily fell asleep in my arms. Not relaxed. It was a shock-like sleep, the kind that comes after being terrified to the extreme and having all the strength in your body completely exhausted.

I walked into an inconspicuous hotel. The receptionist saw my black token, his expression changed several times, and then invited me into the top-floor suite.

The suite was very spacious. The heating was excellent.

I put Lily on the bed, took off her t-shirt which was so dirty that its original color was no longer visible, and wrapped her in a blanket.

Her body was covered in scars.

Cigarette burns. Pinching with fingernails. Long bruises from being whipped with a belt. Chilblains on the soles of the feet, two toenails rolled back halfway and covered with black scabs.

I rubbed the bruise on her face with the back of my hand.

Then I went to the bathroom and got some warm water.

I used a towel to carefully wipe away the mud from her face, the oil stains from her arms, and the repeatedly rubbed and scabbed wounds on her knees. She didn't wake up. When I wiped her hands, her fingers twitched, and she gripped my thumb.

I took out my phone with my other hand and dialed a number.

The phone rang only once.

"A ghost?" A deep male voice came from the other end, a mixture of confirmation and disbelief.

“Hawk.” I looked at Lily’s hand gripping my thumb. “I need to investigate two people. Elena Martinez. Marcus Kane.”

"Three minutes."

"In three minutes, I want to know—who destroyed my home."