Astoria Apartments
The building stood in a quiet corner of Queens, unassuming yet immaculate.
As Joren stepped into the lobby, the polished marble floor mirrored the grand crystal chandelier overhead, scattering light like scattered stars.
A uniformed doorman moved to intercept him, questions already forming on his lips.
Joren silenced him with a single glance—sharp, calm, final. Without a word, he strode past and veered toward the residents' mailbox alcove along the wall.
A bluish-purple blur flickered at the edge of his vision.
Star Platinum.
The figure's fingers—gleaming faintly—slid into the lock mechanism of one particular mailbox as if it were made of mist.
Click.
The door labeled "3B – Felicia Hardy" sprang open.
Empty.
The doorman hovered several paces behind, muttering something about resident registration and protocol.
Joren turned.
The man snapped his mouth shut and froze mid-step.
Without hesitation, Joren headed for the elevator.
Third floor. Unit B.
Star Platinum phased through the apartment door, bypassing the deadbolt with eerie precision.
The moment the door swung inward, a dry, stale scent of undisturbed dust rushed out.
The unit was completely bare—no furniture, no personal effects, not even a curtain on the floor-to-ceiling windows. Sunlight streamed in, painting dappled patterns across the hardwood, dust motes swirling lazily in the golden beams.
No one had lived here in a long time.
Joren stepped inside, scanning the space. No footprints. No stray hairs in the corners. Not even the faintest trace of biological residue in the air—no skin cells, no scent, nothing.
The pet shop owner had lied…
Or she'd been lied to herself.
Yale yale.
He tapped his temple lightly.
Not that easy, huh?
He closed the door behind him and left as silently as he'd arrived—like a shadow that never truly touched the ground.
Back in the lobby, the doorman was still loitering near the front desk, eyes darting nervously. When he spotted Joren exiting the elevator, he exhaled sharply—a visible, relieved sigh—as if he'd been holding his breath the whole time.
---
The Next Day
Joren spent the entire day crisscrossing Queens, visiting every registered pet store on record.
"Caracals? What even are those? We only carry Ragdolls and British Shorthairs."
"Son, you can't just keep protected wildlife as a pet—that's federal offense territory."
"Twenty thousand dollars? Are you out of your mind? If I had that kind of cash, I wouldn't be running a pet store!"
Nothing. Not a lead. Not a whisper.
Felicia Hardy—Black Cat, if his hunch was right—was meticulous. She hadn't just covered her tracks; she'd vaporized them. More likely, she'd never used legal channels to acquire the caracal at all.
---
That Night
Joren returned home with a paper bag of groceries—fresh basil, garlic, ground beef, tomatoes. Dinner was simple: pasta with a rich tomato-meat sauce, simmered just long enough to deepen the flavor.
He ate in silence. No book. No TV. Just the quiet hum of the city outside.
After a glass of warm milk, he stood, rinsed his dish, and walked out the door again.
The Citibank Tower loomed as Queens' tallest structure—but its security was too tight, too monitored.
Instead, he chose a ten-story construction site, unfinished and forgotten.
He vaulted the chain-link fence with practiced ease and climbed the fire escape to the rooftop.
The wind up there was fierce, snapping at his coat like an impatient spirit.
Below, Queens glittered—a sea of amber and white, endless and alive.
Joren walked to the roof's edge, sat cross-legged, and closed his eyes.
Inhale.
Exhale.
His breath settled into a slow, rhythmic cadence—deep, controlled, ancient.
His blood quickened. From his heart, a strange energy pulsed outward, threading through muscle, bone, and sinew.
This was the foundation of the Ripple:
Breath. Blood. Life.
Oxygen flowed from lung to cell, and in that exchange, power stirred—quiet, coiled, waiting.
Using a specialized breathing technique, Joren generated subtle internal ripples—vibrations that coiled through his body and condensed into potent energy.
Transmitting that power through the ground would significantly dampen its reach… but not enough to render it useless.
From his perch, the ripples radiated outward—rippling through the concrete beneath his boots, coursing up steel frames, threading through Queens like invisible veins.
Joren had chosen his position well.
That female thief wouldn't dare venture into the run-down blocks of the poor neighborhood.
No, she favored wealthier hunting grounds.
So it was enough.
Enough to blanket the middle-class and affluent districts in his sensory net. He couldn't monitor all of Queens—but his power didn't need to. It only needed to be precise.
He waited.
For a single, discordant note in the city's quiet hum.
Seconds ticked by.
Then—exactly at nine o'clock—a faint but rhythmic vibration shivered through the rooftop to the northeast.
Not Peter Parker.
That bookworm swung through the skyline like a one-man orchestra of chaos—webs snapping, bricks cracking, pigeons squawking in protest.
But this… this was different.
Silent. Controlled.
Running. Jumping.
Each footfall light and exact—like a cat stalking prey through moonlit alleys.
Found you.
Joren opened his eyes, settled his hat back onto his head, and tugged the brim low over his face.
He rose, rolled his shoulders, took one step forward—and leapt off the edge of the ten-story rooftop.
Wind screamed in his ears.
The ground rushed up to meet him.
Just before impact, a towering figure materialized above him—ethereal, muscular, glowing with violet resolve.
"ORA!"
Star Platinum seized Joren's outstretched arm and yanked upward, arresting his fall with impossible grace.
The landing was soft. Silent. Perfect.
Without pause, Joren melted into the alley's shadows, vanishing like smoke.
---
Felicia Hardy loved this feeling.
Like a shadow given feline form, she prowled the city's rooftops—her domain.
The evening breeze tousled her short silver hair. Below, the city slept, oblivious.
Freedom. Thrill. The sweet hum of danger.
Tonight's prize? A penthouse on Park Avenue—home to a private collection of rare gems.
Infrared grids?
Pressure-sensitive floors?
State-of-the-art alarms?
To her, they were just seasoning—spicing up the game.
She leapt across a ten-foot gap, landing on the opposite rooftop without a whisper.
But just as she prepared to move on—
A chill prickled the back of her neck.
Instinct flared.
She spun around.
Nothing.
Only distant neon flickering through the haze.
An illusion?
Felicia frowned. Her intuition had saved her life more times than she could count—honed on rooftops, in vaults, in the split-second gaps between life and capture.
She didn't hesitate. She ran.
Two rooftops later, the sensation returned—sharper now.
Not just being watched.
Hunted.
It felt like cold eyes boring into her spine—predatory, patient, utterly inhuman.
She froze.
Muscles coiled. Heart hammering.
From her belt, she drew a retractable baton, its metal segments clicking into place.
"Who's there?" Her voice cut through the night—steady, but edged with tension.
Silence answered. Only the sigh of wind between vents.
She edged backward until her back met the cool metal of a ventilation duct, scanning every shadow, every rooftop lip.
Then—
A tall figure peeled itself from the darkness behind the water tower.
Delinquent-style uniform. Hat pulled low. Hands buried in pockets.
He walked toward her—slow, unhurried… yet each step carried the weight of a closing trap.
Felicia's pulse spiked.
When had he gotten this close?
"Who are you?" she demanded. "Cops? Competitor?"
Joren stopped five meters away.
"Give back my things."
Felicia blinked—then laughed, low and sharp.
"Your things?" She tilted her head, grip tightening on her baton. "Kid, do you even know what you're talking about?"
She shifted her weight forward, ready to strike.
"Because I don't recall stealing any school supplies."