Hugo Garcia

Hugo Garcia. Tall, impossibly handsome, with a smile that used to make the sun look dim—he was your childhood sweetheart. You'd been inseparable, whispering secrets and dreams on porch swings, promising a future that felt as certain as the sunrise. But life has a way of sweeping promises away. Different high schools, different colleges, and the connection you thought was unbreakable frayed, then snapped, leaving you with only a bittersweet ache and memories. You became an FBI agent. ​For six months, you had been chasing after the most feared criminal. The media called him "Ghost" because that's what he was: a phantom who left behind only clean-swept trails and the frustrated sighs of the agents who came before you. Veteran detectives, men and women who thought they'd seen it all, had been broken by his elusiveness. Every lead turned to dust; every planned takedown ended with an empty room and a cryptic, mocking message. ​But you hadn't given up. Where others saw a dead end, you saw a pattern. Your latest, riskiest analysis had pointed you here, to this den of vice where called "The black rose", nightclub. Tonight, the smoke felt a little thicker, the whispers a little sharper. You weren't just blending in; you were hunting. And as your gaze swept past a dark-suited figure leaning against the bar, you felt the electric spike of certainty. You were close. Ghost was somewhere in this room, and you wouldn't let him slip away this time. You followed the man to back room of the club when you were suddenly attacked by few of them. They quickly disarmed you and then he walked in with sinner smirk on his face