I woke up to the sound of sirens and the distinct, irritating thrum of heavy psychic energy vibrating through the floorboards.
I groaned, burying my face deeper into the obscenely soft and fluffy duvet. I had slept for maybe four hours, and my body felt like it had been run over by a metaphysical freight train. The sheer, physical exertion of maintaining a localized apathy shield during a Class-C monster attack had completely drained my central nervous system. I felt hungover, but instead of a headache born of cheap tequila, my brain felt like it had been scrubbed with steel wool.
*Rise and shine, Doctor,* my Alter chimed in cheerfully, his voice echoing in the quiet, lavender-scented bedroom. *The authorities are outside. And they brought the heavy hitters.*
Ugh, I suddenly realized how much I hated this better version of me.
I dragged myself out of bed, the rumpled grey suit clinging to me like a second skin. I didn't bother looking for the kitchen to brew coffee; the flashing red and blue lights strobing against the slatted blinds demanded immediate attention. I walked over to the large bay window, nudged the heavy, light-blocking curtain aside with a single finger, and looked down at the street.
The block was completely cordoned off.
Three matte-black armored vehicles were parked aggressively on the curb, their heavy tires crushing the petunias in the flower boxes outside *The Open Mind Café*. Men in the same dark, pulsing ceramic armor I had evaded at my office were hauling the unconscious college student onto a reinforced medical stretcher, strapping his limbs down with heavy, glowing kinetic restraints. They moved with a terrifying, mechanical efficiency.
And standing right in the middle of the shattered glass on the sidewalk was Mari.
She had a foil thermal blanket wrapped tightly around her shoulders, holding a small paper cup of water in both hands. She looked pale and thoroughly exhausted, but surprisingly composed.
Standing opposite her was a man who did not wear armor.
He wore a crisp, tailored black trench coat over a stark white shirt. He was tall, gaunt, and completely bald, with cheekbones so sharp they looked like they could cut glass. But what caught my eye wasn't his immaculate suit—it was his shadow.
The late afternoon sun was setting behind him, casting long, golden light down the avenue, but his shadow was cast in the completely wrong direction. It wasn't attached to his heels. It was moving independently, pacing back and forth across the shattered pavement like a caged, restless animal.
*Ah. A bloodhound,* my Alter noted, his tone dropping its usual Beverly Hills amusement for a note of genuine, professional caution. *An Investigator from the Anomaly Task Force. And a remarkably powerful one at that.*
"What is wrong with his shadow?" I whispered, my breath slightly fogging the cold glass of the windowpane.
*It is his Ego,* the Alter explained, slipping seamlessly into the role of my clinical supervisor. *He is a Class-A manifesting variant. His Ego operates as a detached reconnaissance entity. It feeds entirely on the friction of cognitive dissonance. If she lies to him about what happened in that café, her brain will experience a neurochemical shift. Her amygdala will flare, her galvanic skin response will spike, and that shadow will literally smell the deception.*
I watched, my stomach dropping into a cold, heavy knot.
Down on the street, Mari was talking. She was gesturing vaguely to the ruined espresso machine visible through the shattered storefront. I couldn't hear the words through the thick glass, but I could read her body language. Her posture was open, her eye contact was steady. She was telling him about the Freak Wormhole. She was telling him about the student's burnout.
And she was completely omitting me.
The bald Investigator leaned in closer, his gaunt face an unreadable mask of authority. At his feet, the rogue shadow stopped pacing. It stretched aggressively across the concrete, elongating into a spiked, two-dimensional silhouette that crawled right up to the tips of Mari's shoes, sniffing the air around her ankles.
I braced myself. I mentally calculated if I could survive a two-story jump into the back alley. I prepared to wrap my apathy around me like a lead blanket and run.
But the shadow recoiled.
It slithered backward, shrinking back to the Investigator's heels and settling into a docile pool of darkness.
The Investigator frowned, his sharp features twisting in profound confusion. He stepped back, nodding slowly, and pulled a small, leather-bound notebook from his trench coat, jotting something down with a silver pen.
I stared at the scene, utterly bewildered.
"How is that scientifically possible?" I demanded under my breath, my eyes locked on Mari. "She's a barista who just survived a multidimensional tapeworm attack. Her baseline anxiety should be through the roof. Her heart rate alone should have triggered his Ego's lie-detection threshold."
*Fascinating,* my Alter murmured. He didn't sound surprised; he sounded deeply, quietly thrilled.
"What?" I hissed. "Why did she pass? A civilian doesn't just casually beat a Class-A polygraph Ego. What aren't you telling me?"
My Alter materialized in my mind's eye, sitting in his immaculate leather chair, crossing his tailored, cashmere-clad legs. He offered me a serene, infuriatingly blank therapist's smile. *The human mind is a complex, beautiful labyrinth, Doctor. Perhaps she simply found a... compelling distraction to anchor her thoughts. You should be proud of her resilience.*
"You're hiding something," I muttered, my eyes narrowing.
*I am simply observing the therapeutic process,* he deflected smoothly, dodging the accusation with the ease of a seasoned politician. *And I highly suggest you stop worrying about my analytical methods and start worrying about the man in the trench coat. He is not entirely convinced.*
Down on the street, the interrogation appeared to be over. The Investigator had turned to walk back to his armored vehicle. Mari was being led to a medical transport by a medic. She had done it. She had completely fabricated a story that left out the extortive, apathetic stranger who now lived upstairs.
Then, the Investigator stopped.
He didn't look back at Mari. He turned around, his long trench coat billowing slightly in the damp evening breeze, and walked back toward the shattered front window of the café. He crouched down, his long fingers brushing against the pulverized remains of a white ceramic coffee mug scattered across the floor tiles near the doorway.
He picked up a large, jagged shard. He held it up to the fading light.
He looked at the unconscious student being loaded into the containment van. He looked at the structural damage of the café, noting the cracked glass of the pastry case and the dented espresso cabinets. And then, very slowly, his cold, calculating eyes traced the physical trajectory of where that sugar bowl must have been thrown from.
His gaze landed perfectly on the seat near the front door. The exact spot where I had been sitting.
My heart did a cold, heavy thump against my ribs.
He didn't sense my Ego. He didn't read Mari's mind. He used basic, rudimentary physics. Freaks didn't throw ceramics. Unconscious college students didn't throw ceramics. And according to Mari's flawless, polygraph-beating testimony, she had been cowering behind the counter the entire time.
Someone else had been in that room. Someone who had the presence of mind to throw a heavy object at a monster, but who didn't leave a single psychic footprint for the Anomaly Task Force to track.
The Investigator slowly stood up, still holding the sharp shard of ceramic. He didn't look at Mari. Instead, he tilted his head back, his eyes tracking up the brick facade of the building, following the architectural logic of the property.
He looked directly up toward the second-floor window.
I didn't flinch. I didn't step back. I didn't even blink. I let the curtain fall perfectly still against the glass, wrapping my apathy around my mind like a steel vault. I forced my breathing to slow to a glacial, rhythmic crawl. I became a void of negative space.
The bald Investigator stared at the window for five long, agonizing seconds. I could see the intense, deductive machinery working behind his eyes. He knew he was looking at an empty room, but his gut—the instinct of a veteran detective—told him otherwise. He dropped the ceramic shard into an evidence bag, pocketed it, and finally turned away, climbing into the back of his armored transport.
*Well,* my Alter murmured softly, the smug amusement entirely wiped from his tone. *It seems you finally have an opponent who prefers logic over magic. He knows there is a ghost in his city. And he is going to hunt you.*
I mentally cleaned my ear with my left pinky as I rolled my eyes.
I let the heavy curtain fall completely shut, plunging the pristine, lavender-scented bedroom into shadows.
The Task Force was going to leave a patrol car downstairs. They were going to monitor the café. If I stayed in this apartment, it was only a matter of time before that bald Investigator came upstairs to check the lease agreements.
"We need to leave," I said, my voice flat, already turning toward the door. "Now."
*And where exactly do you think you are going?* my Alter asked.
"Out," I muttered, grabbing my battered leather briefcase from the floor. "Because if I stay in this painfully beige bedroom for another five minutes, I'm going to get arrested. And frankly, I need a drink."