Chapter 10 : First Contact
The coffee shop was called Grounded, which seemed like a joke someone had made in 2003 and never bothered to update. Exposed brick, mismatched furniture, a chalkboard menu that changed daily based on whatever beans the owner had managed to source. The kind of place that survived on regulars and word-of-mouth, invisible to anyone who didn't already know it existed.
Perfect for my purposes.
I'd been coming here for four days now, always ordering the same thing—double espresso, black—and always sitting by the window that faced the corner of East 4th and Avenue B. The spot gave me a clear view of the intersection where three streets met, including the one that led to Shayla's building.
"Pattern recognition suggests target passes this intersection three times weekly," GHOST reported. "Tuesday afternoon, Thursday evening, Saturday morning. Current day is Sunday. Probability of visual contact today: low."
"I know. That's not why I'm here."
Today was about being seen, not seeing. About becoming part of the background noise of this neighborhood, just another face that belonged. The staff already knew my order. The woman who worked Sundays—mid-twenties, tattoo sleeve, perpetually tired expression—had started making my espresso when she saw me walk in.
"The usual?"
"Thanks, Maya."
Her name was on the tip jar. I'd made a point of using it the second time I came in. Small things. Human things. The details that turned a stranger into a regular.
I took my usual seat and pulled out my laptop, pretending to work while actually reviewing the progress of the last three weeks.
[Current Status: Level 5. XP: 0/500. SP: 67]
The level-ups had come faster than expected. Not because I'd done anything dramatic—just consistent work, night after night, building skills through repetition. The system rewarded dedication, it turned out. Every successful intrusion, every clean exit, every new technique mastered added to the total.
[Skills Acquired: Basic Port Scanning Lv.2, Default Credential Check Lv.1, Log Reading Lv.1, Alias Creation Lv.1]
The new skills had cost SP, but they were worth it. Log Reading let me understand system activity patterns, spotting anomalies that might indicate security monitoring. Alias Creation helped me build convincing cover identities for online work. Together, they made me significantly more effective than the amateur who'd struggled with his first hack back in early February.
"One month," I thought, watching steam rise from my espresso. "One month since I woke up in a stranger's body."
It felt longer. The confused panic of those first days seemed distant now, like something that had happened to someone else. I'd adapted. Accepted. Started building toward something that might actually matter.
The bell over the door chimed, and an older man walked in—sixties, gray beard, paint-spattered jeans. I'd seen him before; he lived in the building next to Shayla's, took his dog for walks at predictable times, spent his evenings working on something in what looked like a converted garage studio.
He ordered a drip coffee and sat down two tables away, pulling out a battered paperback.
"Excuse me," I said, keeping my voice friendly but not pushy. "That's a nice edition. First printing?"
He looked up, surprised but not unfriendly. The book was some old science fiction novel—Asimov, maybe. "Yeah, picked it up at a yard sale in '89. You a collector?"
"More of an appreciator. My grandmother had a shelf full of those old paperbacks." The lie came easily now. I'd told it before, variations on a theme, building the persona of Marcus Cole: friendly IT guy, casual reader, harmless neighbor.
We talked for ten minutes about books, then about the neighborhood. He was a painter—abstract stuff, didn't sell much but kept at it anyway. His name was Howard. He mentioned the building next door in passing, complained about the landlord, said something vague about "the young people who come and go at all hours."
I didn't ask follow-up questions. Didn't need to. The information filed itself away automatically: Howard the painter, building adjacent to target, observant but not suspicious.
"GHOST, add to neighborhood profile."
"Logged. Howard Chen, approximately 65, artist, resident of 217 East 4th. No apparent connection to target beyond proximity."
After Howard left, I finished my espresso and stared out the window. The rain had started—February in New York, gray and cold and relentless. People hurried past with umbrellas and hunched shoulders, anonymous shapes moving through their lives.
For a moment, I let myself just be here. Not planning, not calculating, not running threat assessments in my head. Just a guy in a coffee shop, watching the rain.
The espresso was actually decent. Rich and bitter, the way I'd learned to like it back in my old life, sitting in hospital waiting rooms during my mother's treatments. Some preferences carried across universes, apparently.
The moment passed. It always did.
I packed up my laptop and headed for the door, leaving a good tip. Outside, the rain had let up to a drizzle. I pulled my hood up and started walking, taking the long route home.
The thing about surveillance is that it works both ways. You watch someone long enough, and eventually someone might watch you. GHOST had taught me that—basic operational security, the kind of paranoia that kept people alive in this world.
So I paid attention to my surroundings. Noted the cars that passed, the faces in windows, the rhythm of foot traffic on a Sunday afternoon. Most of it was nothing. Background noise, the random chaos of city life.
But as I turned onto Avenue C, something prickled at the edge of my awareness.
A reflection in a storefront window. Someone behind me, maybe fifty feet back, matching my pace just a little too precisely.
I didn't turn around. Didn't speed up or slow down. Just kept walking, watching through peripheral vision and reflections, trying to get a better look.
Male. Average height. Dark jacket. Nothing distinctive, nothing memorable—which was itself a kind of tell. People who wanted to blend in usually did something that made them stand out to anyone actually paying attention.
"GHOST, surveillance check."
"Insufficient data for confirmation. Behavior pattern consistent with coincidental pedestrian movement. Recommend evasive maneuver to test hypothesis."
I turned into a convenience store, browsed the snacks for two minutes, then exited through the same door. The dark jacket was gone—or hidden. I couldn't tell which.
The rest of the walk home was uneventful, but I took three unnecessary turns anyway. By the time I reached my building, the sun was setting and my paranoia was running at full throttle.
"Analysis?"
"Inconclusive. If surveillance was present, it was either amateur or deliberately discontinued. Recommend heightened awareness in coming days."
I climbed the stairs to my apartment, checking corners out of habit. Inside, Byte was circling his bowl with the same eternal patience he'd shown since the day I'd arrived. I fed him, poured myself a glass of water, and stood at the window watching the street below.
One month in this world. Level 5. A foundation built, skills developing, resources slowly accumulating. And now, maybe, someone was watching.
"Or maybe I'm just paranoid."
But paranoid people lived longer than trusting ones, in this universe especially. I'd keep watching. Keep building. Keep moving toward the moment when I could actually do something that mattered.
My reflection stared back from the dark window, and for just a second, I thought I saw movement in the street below. When I looked directly, there was nothing.
Tomorrow, I'd go back to the coffee shop. Keep being seen. Keep building the foundation.
And if someone was watching, I'd find out who—and why.
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