The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire-Chapter 83: I wish I wasn’t.

Flashback — West Grevil City, Jehan Mullins’s Base

The building was a crumbling fortress, riddled with bullet holes and stained with chaos. Gunfire cracked like thunder across the narrow concrete corridors. Dust and plaster rained from the ceiling as grenades exploded outside.

"Dion! Dion, you alright?" Miles, known only to the mercenaries as Ghost, called out as he ducked behind a steel beam, rounds ricocheting near his head.

Dion flinched, a sharp ringing in his ears. "I’m okay! Just grazed the wall near my head."

Without wasting a second, Dion leaned out from cover and returned fire—controlled, sharp bursts from his compact rifle—taking down two enemies advancing from the opposite hallway.

"Coms, update!" Ghost snapped through his earpiece.

Crackle."Comrade injured at the east gate. Exit is open."

Dion’s eyes narrowed. "I’m going. You hold this side. I’ll get to the evac point and assist."

"Watch your corners. Don’t be a hero." Ghost called out, jamming a fresh mag into his rifle.

"Right back at you." Dion smirked and sprinted off, hugging the walls as more shots echoed behind them.

Miles exhaled slowly, checking his last magazine. Just twelve rounds left. He whispered to himself, "That’ll have to do."

Suddenly, comms sparked again.

"All exits sealed. No visual on Jehan. He’s inside—somewhere."

"Jehan’s on the eastern ground floor window. I saw movement."

"Copy." Ghost’s voice went flat. Focused.

Sliding a smoke grenade from his tactical belt, he yanked the pin and rolled it down the hallway. Thick white plumes erupted in seconds, swallowing the corridor in a fog of war.

"Time to hunt."

Inside the eastern wing

The smoke had settled into a heavy cloud. Shadows flickered. A trio of Jehan’s elite guards flanked the hallway, M4s trained forward, scanning. One gave hand signals to the others: Stay low. Cover angles. Shoot on sight.

Suddenly—CRACK CRACK!One dropped—shot clean through the helmet before he even spotted movement.

"Contact!" another shouted, spraying wildly.

From a different angle, Miles emerged—silent as death.

He fired twice.Pop-pop. Two more fell.

The last man tried to retreat into the doorway behind—but Ghost had already circled behind.

Thunk!A throwing knife embedded in the base of his neck. The man collapsed, gurgling.

Ghost stepped over the bodies like a phantom, checking corners, every movement precise. His boots left no sound on the dusty tile. Blood soaked the walls, trailing behind him like a red ribbon of death.

"Ghost to all units—eastern corridor cleared. Advancing on target."

He ducked behind a door as a fresh round of shooters laid suppressing fire from behind a barricaded kitchen up ahead.

"Four behind heavy cover. Two ARs, one shotgun, one SMG." he whispered, eyes scanning. His mind calculated like a machine.

He reached for a flashbang.

Ping. Clink. BOOM!White light.

Screams.

He stormed in.CRACK! A headshot.BANG! Shotgun guy fired—missed.Ghost slid under the counter, came up beside him, slammed his blade through the side of his ribs, twisted, yanked.

Another guard tried to recover and grab his weapon—too slow.Ghost shot him point-blank in the chest.Boom-boom.

The final merc pulled a sidearm, backed into a corner, shaking—Ghost was already there. A bullet to the knee. The man screamed.

"Jehan. Where is he?" Ghost hissed.

The man coughed blood, pointing weakly toward the main office. "He... he ran. South wing..."

Ghost didn’t wait. He silenced the wounded mercenary with a knife to the throat and sprinted toward the southern hallway, leaving behind a storm of death.

Outside, Dion’s voice echoed in the comms."Exit secured. Injured evac’ed. We need to wrap this up—local enforcers will be here in five."

Ghost responded calmly,"On Jehan’s tail."

And then silence.Only the low rumble of footsteps, the faint beeping of trip sensors, and the shadow of vengeance growing longer by the second.Ghost, was closing in.

Ghost’s boots echoed on the blood-slick corridor floor, his rifle lowered but eyes sharp—searching. The adrenaline in his veins wasn’t from the gunfight anymore. It was instinct. A gnawing, cold instinct clawing at his gut.He paused. "Something’s not right..." he muttered. His gaze darted back toward the southern wing. "I secured the south exit... if Jehan didn’t go through here—"

His mind clicked. There’s only one possibility.

Ghost (on comms): "Dion, be careful. Jehan might be hiding near the eastern exit."

Silence.

"Dion?... Dion, respond."

Ghost (grimly): "Does anyone have eyes on Dion?"

Comms: "Negative, sir. Sniper feeds just went dark."

Ghost didn’t waste another second.

He sprinted. Down the ruined corridor, past the fallen enemies, over shattered glass and smoking casings. Out the eastern exit. The cold night wind slapped him in the face as he burst into the alley—

And then time seemed to freeze.

A sleek black car purred softly at the edge of the alley. The rear door swung shut.

On the passenger side—Dion.

Across from him, sliding into the back—Jehan Mullins, still alive. Grinning.

Ghost’s stomach twisted. His grip on the rifle tightened, knuckles pale beneath his gloves.

Ghost: "Dion!" he shouted, leveling the gun. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Dion looked up, meeting his eyes.

His expression... wasn’t guilt. It wasn’t shame.

It was peace. Calm. Like this betrayal had been decided a long time ago.

Dion (softly, with a smile): "Goodbye... my brother."

He raised one hand—half wave, half farewell.

Then he stepped into the car. The door slammed shut.

The engine revved.

Ghost took a step forward, finger brushing the trigger—

The car disappeared into the night.

Ghost (clenching his fists, voice shaking): "Dion... what the hell did you do?!"

He stood there in stunned silence. His heart thundered. A hundred questions exploded in his mind—but the gunfire had ceased, and reality came crashing back.

Comms: "Sir! We’ve located the sniper team—they’re alive, but unconscious. Someone got to them."

Ghost (low growl): "Abort. Mission failed. Evacuate immediately. Authorities en route. ETA—two minutes."

The Graveyard team’s black vans rolled in seconds later. No sirens. No headlights. Quick, surgical, practiced.

They boarded in silence. Faces grim. No one asked questions—they saw Ghost’s expression and knew this op had gone bad. Very bad.

Inside the van, Ghost snatched the comms unit off the wall.

Ghost: "Base, this is Ghost. Come in."

A brief pause. Then static gave way to a firm, commanding voice.

Commander Ray: "Ghost. This is Commander Ray. Report."

Ghost didn’t flinch. But behind his mask, something was cracking.

Ghost: "Sir... the mission was a failure. Jehan escaped."

Ray: "What? How?!"

Ghost (a deep breath): "Dion... Dion betrayed us. He personally escorted Jehan to the getaway vehicle."

Silence.

The kind of silence that didn’t just echo—it roared.

Ray (cold, slow): "...Are you sure?"

Ghost looked down, his reflection catching in the metal floor.

He saw blood. Ash. His own eyes, hollow.

Ghost (quietly): "I wish I wasn’t."

The van drove into the night, Graveyard melting into shadows.

Behind them, Jehan Mullins had vanished.And so had a brother.

Present — Brightvale City

The morning haze clung low over the sleek streets of Brightvale. Neon signs from late-night diners still flickered, giving way to the soft amber light of dawn. The city was quiet, still caught between the end of the night and the beginning of the day.

A low hum echoed down the street as a matte-black sports car glided through the lanes, engine purring beneath the hood. Behind the wheel, Miles sat in silence, eyes sharp and steady, expression unreadable. The city passed in a blur around him, but his focus was fixed only on the glowing blue dot on his dashboard—Monica’s coordinates.

She had arranged everything. No questions asked.

The route led him away from the busy heart of the city, toward a quiet upscale district lined with townhouses hidden behind security gates and trimmed hedges. Discreet. Unremarkable. Perfect.

He pulled up in front of one such house—two floors, tinted windows, no visible security, but Miles could tell: the place was wired tight. Monica didn’t do sloppy.

The lock recognized him the moment he stepped onto the porch. One soft beep, and the door unlocked with a quiet click.

Miles stepped inside.

The air was cool and still. Clean hardwood floors, minimal furniture, everything arranged with clinical precision. No clutter. No warmth. Just a safe space—neutral, temporary, quiet.

He dropped his duffel bag by the door and walked into the living room. For a moment, he stood still, letting the silence wrap around him.

Then, he sat.

Pulling out his phone, he unlocked it and scrolled through his gallery until he found the picture.

There it was.

Faded and slightly blurred —but full of memory.

Three kids, standing under a rusted training structure. Dirt on their faces, bruises on their arms, but smiles wide and real. Miles in the middle, Dion on his left throwing a mock punch, Flora on his right with her arms crossed and a playful smirk.

The three kids who had found home in a place called Graveyard.

For a moment, the cold walls of the safehouse didn’t feel so empty.

Miles stared at the photo for a long time, his thumb gently brushing over the faces on the screen.

A breath escaped his lips—quiet, steady, but heavy with resolve.

"Dion... my brother," he murmured, eyes locked onto the boy beside him in the picture."I will find you this time."

He leaned back against the couch, the weight of years pressing down on his shoulders. The memories, the silence, the scars—they all led here.

"There are some answers I need to get...And there’s a truth you deserve to know."

He locked the phone, tucked it into his pocket, and closed his eyes for a second.

Just one.

Then, he stood.The past was calling.And Miles was ready to answer.