Chapter 11 : Divided Attention
The fence's operation ran out of a converted warehouse three blocks from the docks.
I'd been watching for two nights, cataloguing patterns from a rooftop across the street. The location was smart—industrial neighborhood, minimal foot traffic after dark, multiple exit routes for someone who could walk through walls.
The meta who worked there couldn't walk through walls. But he could phase through locks.
[METAHUMAN DETECTED] [CLASSIFICATION: PHASING (MINOR) — ESTIMATED E-TIER] [EXTRACTION COMPATIBILITY: MODERATE]
I'd designated him "Ghost" in my notes. Young—early twenties at most. Twitchy, nervous, the body language of someone new to criminal enterprise. He arrived between midnight and one, worked for two to three hours, left through varying exits.
His power let him bypass any lock, any door, any barrier thin enough to phase through. The fence—Murphy, according to street gossip—paid well for that particular skill.
Tonight was reconnaissance. Tomorrow might be different.
The days had developed a rhythm.
Mornings belonged to training. The gym opened at 6 AM, and I was there when the doors unlocked. Sync rate climbing—forty percent, forty-two, forty-five. The strength enhancement responded to focused practice, becoming more reliable with each session.
[SYNC RATE: 45%] [CONTROL ASSESSMENT: MODERATE-HIGH]
At forty-five percent, I could modulate output with reasonable precision. Heavy lifts without drawing attention. Controlled strikes without accidental lethality. The power was becoming a tool rather than a liability.
Afternoons belonged to STAR Labs.
Cisco had me reviewing containment protocols, suggesting modifications based on legitimate security expertise. The work was actually engaging—real problems requiring real solutions. I found myself invested in the improvements beyond their value as cover.
"This junction point," I said, tapping the schematic, "creates a single point of failure. If someone disrupts power here, your entire east wing goes dark."
"Huh." Cisco leaned closer, studying the diagram. "That's actually a good catch. How would you fix it?"
"Redundant power routing. Separate circuit from the main grid, battery backup, manual override access from at least two points." I traced alternative paths on the display. "Costs maybe fifteen thousand to implement. Prevents catastrophic failure from a single well-placed attack."
"You're kind of scary, you know that?" Cisco grinned. "In a good way. The 'I'm glad he's on our side' way."
"Professional paranoia. It's what clients pay for."
Barry appeared sporadically—always distracted, always apologetic, always rushing off to mysterious appointments that everyone pretended not to notice. The Flash had business that a forensic consultant couldn't explain.
I didn't ask questions. Neither did anyone else.
And Wells watched. Always watching. From his wheelchair by the console, from doorways I passed, from reflections in screens I pretended not to notice. Our mutual observation had become a silent conversation, each of us cataloguing the other's patterns.
He's dangerous, I reminded myself. More dangerous than anyone else in this building. Don't forget that.
Evenings belonged to Caitlin.
Our first official date happened on day twenty-two—Big Belly Burger, her choice, because she'd admitted to a secret fast food weakness that contradicted her scientific precision.
"Don't tell anyone at the lab," she said, dipping a fry in what appeared to be a custom sauce mixture. "I have a reputation for healthy eating to maintain."
"Your secret is safe with me."
We talked about things that weren't work. She had a sister somewhere—estranged, it sounded like, though she didn't elaborate. I invented childhood memories that felt half-true, borrowing from Harrison Griffin's documented history and filling gaps with plausible fiction.
The lies tasted wrong.
Not because they were lies—I'd been lying since I woke up in this body—but because I wanted to tell her the truth. Wanted to explain what I was, where I'd come from, what I was building toward.
That's dangerous, the rational part of my mind insisted. Genuine attachment creates vulnerabilities. Exploitable weaknesses.
The rational part was right. The feeling didn't care.
"You're quiet," Caitlin observed.
"Processing." I took a bite of burger to buy time. "It's been a long time since I did... this."
"Dating?"
"Existing normally. The coma changed my perspective on a lot of things." True enough, even if the coma wasn't the change she thought it was. "I'm still figuring out who I am in this new context."
She studied me for a moment. Whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her.
"That makes two of us."
Night three of Ghost surveillance confirmed the pattern.
He arrived at 12:47 AM—later than usual, but consistent with his general window. Murphy let him in through the back door. Fifteen minutes later, Ghost emerged with a duffel bag and disappeared into the maze of shipping containers.
His route varied, but his destination didn't. A apartment building in the Glades, sixth floor, window facing the alley. Home.
I had everything I needed.
The extraction would happen tomorrow. In the basement, where brick walls and concrete floor would prevent any escape through phasing. Quick. Clean. Controlled.
My second hunt.
I walked home through empty streets, mind already planning logistics. Taser charged. Zip ties ready. The approach rehearsed.
Behind me, somewhere in the darkness, the city slept without knowing what walked among them.
What I was becoming.
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