Chapter 3: GROWING PAINS
The first punch dropped me in under a second.
"You're dead."
I blinked up at the fluorescent lights of the Krav Maga gym. The instructor—a woman named Santos who moved like a jungle cat—stood over me with an expression of profound disappointment.
"That's the third time in a row."
"I'm aware." I accepted her offered hand and hauled myself to my feet. The mat was not getting any softer. "What am I doing wrong?"
"Everything." Santos circled me like I was a puzzle she couldn't solve. "You move like someone who's never been hit before."
I have. Just not in this body.
The transmigration had given me Webb's muscle memory for typing and driving. Fighting, apparently, was not included. Every instinct I had was wrong—timing off, positioning bad, reactions delayed by the unfamiliar neural pathways.
"Again."
I reset my stance. Santos launched another attack. This time I managed to block the first strike before the follow-up dropped me on my back.
"Better." She didn't sound convinced. "You're thinking too much. Stop analyzing. React."
Easy for you to say.
The training session lasted two hours. I spent most of it on the mat. By the end, my ribs ached, my pride was thoroughly beaten, and I'd learned exactly one useful thing: I needed a lot more practice.
"Same time tomorrow?" Santos asked as I limped toward the locker room.
"Yeah."
"Good." Something almost like approval flickered across her face. "Most people quit after the first session."
"I don't have that option."
The next three days blurred together.
Mornings: gym. Santos put me through basic drills until my muscles screamed. Combat Readiness, the system called it—a locked function that would open once I demonstrated sufficient physical competence. I was nowhere close.
Afternoons: research. Webb's IT background gave me tools. I studied investigation techniques, surveillance basics, everything I could find about the kind of work I'd need to do. The system fed me fragmentary guidance—hints about pattern recognition, behavioral analysis—but most of it was locked behind level requirements I hadn't reached.
Evenings: wandering. I learned the city in a way I never had when it was just fiction. The subway routes. The dangerous neighborhoods. The places where people disappeared and no one asked questions.
And underneath it all, the system hummed its constant reminder.
[NEXT NUMBER IN: 6 HOURS]
[NEXT NUMBER IN: 2 HOURS]
[NUMBER INCOMING]
David Chen didn't look like someone about to die.
Mid-forties. Accountant at Whitmore Financial. Neat suits, neat hair, neat life. He rode the same subway every morning and ate lunch at the same deli every afternoon.
[NUMBER ANALYSIS: DAVID CHEN]
[ROLE: POTENTIAL VICTIM]
[THREAT SOURCE: INTERNAL]
The system's intel was sparse—my level wasn't high enough for detailed threat breakdowns—but the pattern was clear. Chen had discovered something at work. Something worth killing him over.
Financial crimes. Embezzlement, probably. And someone hired muscle to make sure he never talks.
I spent two days following paper trails. Webb's skills shone here—digging through corporate records, cross-referencing financial statements, building connection webs from fragments. Whatever Chen had found, it involved significant money moving through shell companies to offshore accounts.
Classic laundering structure. Someone high up is dirty.
But knowledge wasn't protection. I could prove Chen was in danger. I couldn't protect him from it.
Different approach. If you can't stop the hit, make the information public first.
The plan crystallized over a sleepless night. I didn't need to save David Chen directly. I needed to make his death pointless. If the embezzlement evidence went public before anyone could silence him, there'd be no reason to kill him.
And if you're wrong, he dies anyway.
I pushed the thought away and started planning.
Whitmore Financial occupied three floors of a glass tower in Midtown. Security was standard corporate—badge readers, cameras, a bored guard at the front desk. Nothing impressive.
I walked in wearing a contractor's uniform I'd bought at a surplus store. Tool bag over my shoulder. Clipboard in hand.
"IT services," I told the guard. "Server maintenance. You should have received a work order."
He hadn't. But the email I'd sent that morning looked legitimate enough. Webb knew how to forge corporate communications—it was literally his job.
"Fourth floor," the guard said, barely glancing at me. "Server room's past the break area."
"Appreciate it."
The elevators were empty at 2 PM. I rode up alone, heart pounding.
This is insane. You're breaking into a building. Actually breaking in.
[BACKDOOR ACCESS: ACTIVE]
[SECURITY SYSTEM: WHITMORE FINANCIAL]
[ACCESS LEVEL: CIVILIAN]
[PROCEEDING...]
The system interface flickered. I felt something shift—like a lock clicking open somewhere in my mind. The building's security network spread out before me, visible in ways it shouldn't be. Camera blind spots. Guard patrol routes. Server room access codes.
What the hell?
[BACKDOOR ACCESS: FUNCTION DESCRIPTION]
[ALLOWS BYPASS OF ELECTRONIC SECURITY SYSTEMS. EFFICACY SCALES WITH TECHNICAL PROFICIENCY AND SYSTEM LEVEL. CURRENT CAPABILITY: CIVILIAN INFRASTRUCTURE ONLY.]
So the system could hack things. Or rather, I could hack things, with the system's help. The technical skills were Webb's. The supernatural boost was... something else.
Questions for later. Move.
The server room was exactly where the guard said it was. I used the access code the system provided—how it knew the code, I didn't want to examine too closely—and slipped inside.
Rows of servers hummed in climate-controlled darkness. Exactly what I needed.
Finding Chen's files took twenty minutes. The embezzlement evidence was buried in financial records—careful, professional, almost invisible. But Webb's forensic skills knew what to look for. I copied everything to an encrypted drive.
Now the tricky part.
I'd prepared an anonymous email to the SEC, complete with a summary of the evidence and instructions for verifying it. One click, and the investigation would go public. Whitmore's dirty executives would have much bigger problems than silencing an accountant.
But first I needed to get out.
The door opened.
Two men stood in the hallway. Suits. Earpieces. The professional kind of muscle that corporate criminals hired when they needed problems to disappear.
"Who are you?"
Oh fuck.
I raised my hands. "IT contractor. Just finishing up here."
The first man stepped forward. "Building security says you're not scheduled."
"There must be a mix-up. I've got the work order right here—"
"Save it."
He moved fast. I didn't.
The first punch caught me in the ribs. The second found my face. I went down hard, vision spinning, and tasted blood.
Fight back. Do something.
I tried. Santos' training surfaced in fragments—block, redirect, find an angle. But these weren't training dummies. They were professionals, and they knew exactly what they were doing.
A kick to my stomach. Another to my ribs. I curled up, trying to protect my head, and distantly heard them talking.
"Search him."
Hands going through my pockets. Finding the drive.
"What's this?"
No. No no no—
Fire alarm.
The shriek split the air like a scream. Red lights strobed. Automated voice: "Please evacuate the building immediately."
The men hesitated. One of them spoke into his earpiece. The other kept his eyes on me.
Now or never.
I rolled, grabbed a server rack, and hauled myself upright. The movement sent lightning bolts of pain through my ribs. Didn't matter. I ran.
The stairwell was chaos. Employees flooding down from upper floors. Nobody noticed one more stumbling figure in the crowd.
I made it to the street. Lost myself in the evacuation. Kept moving until I found an alley three blocks away and collapsed against a dumpster.
[COVER INTEGRITY: -8]
[THREAT: ELEVATED]
[NUMBER STATUS: UNRESOLVED]
The drive was gone. The evidence was gone. Chen was still in danger.
Think. What else do you have?
The email. I'd drafted it before going in. Uploaded it to a cloud server. All I needed was to send it.
My phone was cracked but functional. I logged in with shaking fingers, found the draft, and hit send.
Please work. Please let this be enough.
The SEC would receive anonymous evidence of financial crimes at Whitmore Financial. Investigators would come. The dirty executives would panic. And David Chen, the accountant who knew too much, would suddenly become very valuable as a witness.
Not dead. Valuable.
[INTERVENTION STRATEGY: INDIRECT RESOLUTION]
[CALCULATING OUTCOME...]
I waited. Breathed. Tried not to pass out from the pain in my ribs.
[NUMBER RESOLVED]
[RESOLUTION METHOD: INFORMATION WARFARE]
[XP GAINED: +175]
[BONUS: CLEAN RESOLUTION (NO CIVILIAN CASUALTIES)]
[SYSTEM LEVEL 4 → 5]
Relief hit like a wave. Chen was safe. Not because I'd fought off the killers—I'd failed spectacularly at that—but because I'd changed the game. Made the hit pointless before it could happen.
Social engineering. Information warfare. Use what you're good at.
The lesson burned itself into my mind.
But the relief came with a cost. My ribs screamed. My eye was swelling shut. And somewhere, two professionals were looking for the IT contractor who'd stolen their evidence.
Time to disappear.
Webb's apartment had never felt safe. Now it felt like a trap.
I cleaned my wounds as best I could—split lip, black eye, bruised ribs that might be cracked. The system provided damage assessment.
[PHYSICAL STATUS: INJURED]
[BRUISED RIBS (MODERATE) — 7 DAYS RECOVERY]
[FACIAL CONTUSIONS (MINOR) — 3 DAYS RECOVERY]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: REST AND RECOVERY]
Can't afford rest. Can't afford to stay still.
The hired muscle hadn't gotten my name. The work order was fake, the badge was fake, everything was fake. But they had my face. And in a city of eight million cameras, that might be enough.
I packed a bag. Essentials only. Laptop, phone, cash, clothes. Everything else stayed behind.
Find a new place. Establish a safer cover. Train harder.
The system pulsed with something that might have been approval.
[COMBAT READINESS SUB-FUNCTION: LOCKED]
[REQUIREMENTS: PC 25, DEMONSTRATE COMBAT COMPETENCE]
[CURRENT PC: 19]
Six points. The difference between surviving a fight and losing one.
I looked at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Swollen eye. Split lip. Bruises spreading across my jaw.
This is what inadequate looks like. This is what happens when you're not ready.
The face in the mirror was still Webb's. But the eyes—the eyes were starting to look like someone else.
Training. More training. Better contacts. Actual resources.
The path forward was clear. Painful, but clear.
I grabbed my bag and walked out of the apartment. The subway would take me to a cheap motel in Jersey where no one asked questions. Tomorrow, I'd start over.
New location. New approach. Same mission.
[NEXT NUMBER IN: 36 HOURS]
[SYSTEM MESSAGE: ADAPT OR FAIL]
The words hung in my vision as I descended into the subway station.
Adapt or fail.
Simple. Brutal. True.
I could do this. I could learn. I could become the kind of person who actually made a difference instead of stumbling through lucky breaks.
The platform was empty at this hour. I waited for the train, cataloging my injuries, planning my next moves.
Gym membership somewhere new. Research into surveillance techniques. Maybe reach out to some of Webb's old contacts—people who could teach me things the system couldn't.
The train arrived. I stepped aboard.
Somewhere in the city, Harold Finch was watching numbers appear. Somewhere, John Reese was drinking himself to death, unaware his life was about to change. Somewhere, the Machine was learning to care about irrelevant people.
And somewhere between all of them, I was trying to become worthy of the mission I'd been given.
The train lurched into motion. I pressed frozen peas from a bodega against my swelling eye and stared at my reflection in the dark window.
Requirements not met.
Fine. Then I'd meet them.
The train carried me into the night, toward whatever came next.
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