Two days afterward, Bellows rang up. It wasn't about the contract. It was about the boxing bracket.
"You're in," Bellows announced, no introduction needed. "Don't question how it happened or who greenlit it. You're in and your first match is in twelve days - the quarterfinal."
Rof was outside in the driveway, in the middle of his push-ups. He transitioned to a one-handed push-up so he could answer the phone. "Who's my opponent?"
"A gentleman by the name of Dara Okon," Bellows replied after a pause. "He's Nigerian, aged twenty-seven. He started his professional boxing career at sixteen. Not some underground fight club, but actual professional boxing. He's undefeated, twelve wins, no losses. He suddenly retired last year for reasons that are unspoken." He paused again. "He returned specifically for this bracket."
"Why did he retire?"
"I already told you, no one discusses it."
"But you're discussing it with me right now."
Bellows was silent for a moment. "He injured another man severely in a legitimate match. It was all above board - sanctioned, refereed, the works. The other man is still wheelchair-bound." His voice became cautious. "It wasn't due to the punches, but something neurological happened to the man. It's unexplained. Doctors said the impact shouldn't have caused what it did."
Rof slowly rose from the push-ups.
"How severe was the impact?" he asked.
"Moderate," Bellows replied. "That's the part that's hushed up. Moderate impact, but catastrophic consequence. The commission cleared Okon of any wrongdoing. He retired the following day and didn't return to boxing for fourteen months." He lowered his voice. "Leon, I'm telling you this because I've got a stake in you now. If you step into that ring without knowing what Okon is capable of, I lose money. I'm tired of losing money because of you."
With that, he hung up.
Rof stood alone in the cold driveway, phone still in hand. Moderate impact. Catastrophic result. Twelve children. Twelve different installations.
He went back inside and dialed Vera. She was already aware of Okon. Of course she was.
They met at a diner on Washington Avenue, one of those old-school places with laminate counters and terrible, quick-serve coffee. Vera looked like she hadn't slept in days, but on her, it seemed more like alertness than fatigue.
She slid a photograph across the table. Dara Okon was a big man. Not bulky like Tank, but leaner, longer, his physique designed for power through leverage, not mass. His face in the photo was almost gentle. Wide-set eyes, relaxed jaw, the demeanor of a man who was comfortable in his own skin.
"He doesn't look threatening," Rof said.
"That's the issue," Vera replied.
She wrapped both hands around her coffee cup. "After the fight where his opponent ended up in a wheelchair, I did my usual. I dug up all I could on Okon. Medical records - challenging to get, but not impossible if you know who to bribe. His neurological scans from his professional licensing physicals." She glanced at the photo. "His brain activity during fights is unlike anything recorded in medical literature. There are moments when his output spikes in a way that should require three times his body mass to generate."
"He's one of the twelve," Rof said.
"I'm inclined to agree, but I can't prove it yet," Vera responded. "His enhancement, if that's what it is, seems to work through force amplification. His punches land harder than they should. Significantly harder. The commission's equipment measured them within normal limits because it gauges velocity and mass. It doesn't take into account whatever Okon adds to it."
Rof looked at Okon's photograph, at the serene face.
"He's aware of what he is?" Rof asked.
"I believe so. I think his retirement wasn't out of guilt, or at least not just guilt," she paused. "I think he retired because he was scared of himself. And I think he returned because he found someone who gave him a reason to overcome his fear."
Rof glanced at her. "Who?"
Vera's expression changed ever so slightly.
"That's the part that concerns me more than Okon's fists," she replied.
She reached into her bag and placed a second photograph on the table.
An older man, perhaps in his late fifties, with graying hair at the temples, wearing an expensive coat. He had a face that once was handsome, but had solidified into something beyond mere good looks. He was photographed from afar, oblivious to the camera, standing outside a building that Rof didn't recognize.
"His name is Conrad Rael," Vera said. "He has been present at every major underground event on the eastern seaboard for the last eighteen months. He never fights. He never bets. He just observes." She tapped the photograph. "He was at your match against Tank. Against Silas. He was in the crowd both times, and I didn't spot him until I went through the footage."
Rof looked at the photograph, at Conrad Rael's profile. At his composed stance, standing slightly apart from those around him, observing the ring with an expression that Rof recognized because he'd seen it before.
The same expression the man in the lab coat had in the photograph from his childhood.
The assessing look.
"He's connected to Nullpoint," Rof concluded.
"I think he's more than just connected," Vera said. "I think when E. Voss signed off on the final report and shut it down, Conrad Rael is the reason why." She looked at Rof squarely. "I think Nullpoint didn't end. I think it changed hands."
They were in a warm, bustling diner. Regular people having their regular morning routines around them - coffee and eggs and casual chit-chat, blissfully ignorant of the gravity of their conversation.
Rof looked at Okon's photograph, then at Rael's. He thought about twelve children in twelve sterile rooms. About a five-year-old who came home and slept for two days. About a man named E. Voss, whose last name lived in Rof's blood on his mother's side.
He picked up his coffee cup and took a sip, despite the terrible taste.
"Twelve days," he said.
"Twelve days," Vera confirmed.
"I need to understand the enhancement. My own, before I fight Okon. If he can amplify force and I can't control speed..."
"You'll lose," Vera interjected, straightforward, no sugar-coating it.
"Or worse," Rof added.
He placed some money on the table for the coffee and rose to his feet.
"There's a priest," he said. "At the church on Morris Street. My father used to take me when I was little. Before all this." He picked up his jacket. "I'm going there today."
Vera looked up at him, a fleeting expression crossing her face. "Why?"
Rof pondered her question seriously, as it deserved.
"Because I just found out that my uncle is the architect of whatever's inside me," he said. "And I need to sit in a place that existed before he did that. A place that's still untainted."
With that, he left.
Vera sat alone at the laminate counter, with two photographs and a dreadful cup of coffee. She stared at Conrad Rael's profile for a long while. Then she stowed away the photographs, paid for her coffee, and stepped out into the chilly Philadelphia morning, standing motionless on the sidewalk for a moment.
A nearby church bell began tolling the hour. She glanced in its direction, then walked the other way.