D.H. The two letters burned onto the screen. Allen removed his thumb from the reply button and locked the screen.
He brought up the management panel, accessed the GWA public personnel database, and typed in the search bar: Daniel Hawk.
Loading took a second and a half.
Daniel Hawk. Fifty-three years old. Director of the GWA New York branch.
The man in the photo had gray hair and a soft jawline. His eye sockets behind his glasses were deep, and the wrinkles were the result of frequent smiling. His appearance was more like that of a tenured professor at an Ivy League university than a military commander in charge of all Awakened affairs in a city.
Rank field: blank.
Occupation field: blank.
Not "Confidential," not "Encrypted," just blank. In GWA's public files, the rank and occupation of all official employees are marked with at least a vague range. Ranks D to B are marked "Intermediate," and Rank A and above are marked "Advanced." Hawk's field didn't even have a vague label.
Access Level: Omega-3.
Allen had seen this code in Appendix C of the GWA ordinance PDF. Omega-3 was the highest single-person authorization level for the New York branch. He had signed the S-level investigation order, Robert Chen's investigation team reported to him, and Claire DuPont's rapid response force was under his command.
When the registration approval process for the Brooklyn ruins reached its final stage, the last person to stamp it was Daniel Hawke.
This man approved Allen's legal operations and also had the authority to revoke it at any time.
Allen closed the file page. A small patch of frost on the ice wall melted under the warmth of his back, seeping into the fabric of his hoodie.
The text message was still lit on his phone screen.
"About your parents. About the real reason for the Manhattan outbreak. About the siren that was turned off." The order of the three sentences was not random. Emotional leverage, informational bait, evidentiary clues—precisely arranged from highest to lowest precision in their impact on Allen. Hawke had placed the most personal blow first.
If he wanted to arrest someone, he wouldn't need to send a text message at all. An S-level investigation warrant, coupled with Omega-3 access, sent an A-level action team to break down the door of the bunker before Allen could even access his management panel.
He chose to send a text message, choosing to lay his cards on the table.
He said, "We need to talk," not "You're under arrest."
Hawk needed Allen to voluntarily sit across the table. Either the information itself was only valuable with Allen's cooperation, or Hawke's position within GWA prevented him from using official channels.
Robert had signed that "spontaneous outbreak" investigation report—the most disgusting thing he'd ever done. And above Robert was another signatory.
Daniel Hawke.
The man who ordered the sealing and stamping three years ago was now proactively seeking out the victim's family to discuss the real reasons. Whether he was a core member involved in the cover-up needing to clean up the mess, or someone forced to sign back then and now needed a variable to unlock an old case, it wasn't safe.
But Hawke had something Allen couldn't access. The USB drive Robert gave him only had A-level access; the contents above B-level were still sealed. Only an Omega-3 could unlock it. Allen flipped his phone over. Screen up, light illuminating the scratches on his left lens.
He began typing a reply.
"I know who you are, Director Hawk. A meeting is fine, I'll choose the place. Tonight. Number of people—you alone." His thumb paused for a moment, then he deleted the message and retyped.
"Coffey Street Community Center. Back door. Eleven o'clock. If you bring anyone, I'll know. Your knowledge of the dungeon should be enough for you to understand this." He tapped send.
The phone screen went dark for two seconds, then lit up again. Hawk's reply was a single word.
"Accepted." The GWA New York branch director had accepted the time, location, and number of people specified by a Class C Awakened.
Allen placed his phone face down on his lap. The blue light faded, and the bunker returned to its original darkness, with only the faint glow of the management panel against his face.
Coffey Street Community Center, directly above Coffin Fortress. The dungeon entrance was deployed beneath the floor of the community center's storage room. If anything goes wrong, the diamond-shaped opening will open within two seconds, swallow the person, and then close again.
Hawk is outside the dungeon; Allen is inside. Administrator privileges are active. This is his territory.
He composed a second text message and sent it to Robert Chen.
"I'm going to do something that might be stupid tonight. If I don't post on the forum by tomorrow morning, check at the Coffin Street Community Center." Robert's reply arrived forty seconds later.
"You're meeting Hawk." Allen stared at those four words and typed back, "How did you know?"
"Because I didn't know he contacted you. That means he bypassed me. In GWA, only the Director can bypass the Investigation Team Leader and contact the target directly." A second message popped up immediately after.
"Be careful. Hawk is not what he seems." Allen didn't reply again. He put his phone in his pocket and stood up. The outline of his back melted into a faint human-shaped mark on the ice wall, the edges of which were re-frostling.
— 10:42 PM. Coffin Street Community Center.
Allen entered through the fire escape at the back door. Two emergency lights in the corridor were broken; the remaining one cast a green glow on the peeling paint of the walls. He had changed the lock on the storage room door himself three days ago; the only key was in his left pocket.
The management panel scanned out, covering a 300-meter radius. Zero energy signal inside the community center. Four civilian-level Awakened individuals, levels F to E, were on the outer streets, all in residential buildings. No GWA personnel, nor any Black Serpent organization.
Allen opened the back door of the community center a crack. The night wind squeezed in, carrying the smell of diesel from the Red Hook District and the salty tang of the sea. He leaned against the wall inside the door frame, the management panel's scan continuously updating.
10:58 PM.
A new point of light appeared at the edge of the scan, approaching at walking speed from the north end of Coffin Street.
Allen's shadow perception extended outwards. 300 meters. 200 meters. 100 meters.
When the signal reached 50 meters, he confirmed the scan result.
Only one person. No stalkers, no drones, no electromagnetic signatures from remote monitoring devices.
The point of light moved to the other end of the back corridor. The soles of leather shoes clicked rhythmically on the broken tiles.
Daniel Hawke appeared at the end of the corridor.
He wore a dark blue trench coat, without a GWA uniform or badge. The edge of a gray sweater peeked out from the collar, his hands in his coat pockets.
He walked under the broken emergency lights of the corridor, his face flickering in and out. The gray hair in the photograph was slightly paler in reality, his facial features maintaining the gentle, old-school scholar's air.
Allen's shadow perception returned data when Hawke entered within ten meters.
Blank.
Not a low signal, not shielding, not interference.
It was zero.
There were no energy fluctuations on Hawke's body. Body temperature, heartbeat, breathing—all biological signals were normal, but the extraordinary energy membrane that covered the bodies of every Awakened One was completely absent in him.
Not an Awakened One.
Or perhaps his level is so high that even a C-level Shadow Perception is completely unable to analyze it.