Chapter 15 : The Collector's Hunger
The notes covered every surface of Daniel's apartment.
Species classifications. Ability extraction parameters. Theoretical compatibility matrices. I'd been at it for six hours, the coffee going cold beside me, the System's quiet hum of approval a constant companion.
[COLLECTION PROGRESS: 2/50 ABILITIES]
[RARE SPECIMENS AVAILABLE IN REGION:]
[- SIEGBARSTE (ENHANCED DURABILITY)]
[- SKALENGECK (REGENERATION - PARTIAL)]
[- HUNDJÄGER (TRACKING INSTINCT)]
[RECOMMEND: SYSTEMATIC ACQUISITION]
Each entry came with tactical assessments. How to locate the species. How to defeat them. How to extract their abilities for my own use.
Monroe's file sat near the top of the stack. Blutbad senses—already acquired. His entry was marked complete, his utility catalogued and categorized.
"Utility."
The word felt wrong. Monroe wasn't utility. He was—
I stared at the page, trying to remember when I'd started thinking of him as a resource rather than an ally.
The knock at my door made me jump.
"Cross?" Monroe's voice, muffled by the wood. "You haven't answered your phone in two days. Rosalee said you came by for a pheromone blocker. I wanted to make sure you weren't dead in a ditch somewhere."
I gathered the notes hastily, stacking them on the desk, trying to hide the scope of what I'd been doing. "Coming."
The door opened to reveal Monroe carrying takeout containers. His nose wrinkled immediately.
"You smell like goat and burnt metal. And your apartment looks like a serial killer's research station."
"I've been working."
He pushed past me, setting the containers on the kitchen counter. The motion was casual, friendly, the kind of thing people who cared about each other did without thinking. I watched him move and found myself calculating: how fast he could woge, what vulnerabilities he might have, whether his senses would detect a threat before—
"Stop."
Monroe froze. "What?"
I hadn't realized I'd spoken aloud.
"Nothing. I just—" The words stuck in my throat. "I've been inside my own head too long."
Monroe turned slowly. His eyes moved across the apartment—the scattered papers, the empty coffee cups, the weapons laid out for cleaning and maintenance. And then to me, studying my face with the intensity of someone who'd survived by learning to read threats.
"You're looking at me like you're calculating my parts."
The accusation landed like a physical blow. Because he was right. I had been. The System's assessment of his capabilities had overlaid my actual perception of him as a person.
"Monroe—"
"No, don't. Don't try to explain it away." He stepped back, creating distance. "I've seen that look before. On Grimms. On hunters. The look that says 'what can I get from you' instead of 'who are you.'"
[RELATIONSHIP WARNING: MONROE - TENSION DETECTED]
[RECOMMEND: DE-ESCALATION PROTOCOL]
I dismissed the notification. The System's advice was part of the problem.
"You're right." The admission came harder than expected. "I've been... cataloguing. Everything. Everyone. The System encourages it—rewards me for treating every encounter as an extraction opportunity." I forced myself to meet his eyes. "Somewhere in the last few days, I started seeing you as a Bestiary entry instead of a friend."
Monroe's jaw tightened. "That's how Grimms have always justified hunting us. 'It's not murder, it's research. It's not killing, it's collecting.' I thought you were different."
"I am trying to be different. But this thing in my head—" I tapped my temple. "It doesn't think in terms of relationships. It thinks in terms of optimization. And I've been letting it."
"Then stop letting it."
Simple words. Impossible execution.
"I don't know where the System ends and I begin sometimes." The confession felt like peeling back skin. "That's an explanation, not an excuse. But I need you to understand—I'm not doing this on purpose. I'm just... struggling to remember what purpose actually means."
Monroe was quiet for a long moment. The takeout containers sat forgotten on the counter. Outside, Portland traffic hummed its endless rhythm.
"When I first went clean," he finally said, "I used to wake up every morning calculating how to hunt my neighbors. The instincts didn't just go away because I decided to stop giving in to them. I had to learn how to be a person again. Every day. Actively choosing not to be the monster my biology wanted me to be."
"How long did it take?"
"Years." He moved to the desk, picked up one of my notes at random. His expression flickered as he read the contents. "This is detailed. Really detailed. You've been tracking extraction parameters for species you haven't even encountered yet."
"The System provides the framework. I fill in the specifics."
"And what happens when you run out of monsters to extract abilities from? When everyone around you is either collected or discarded?"
The question hung in the air. I didn't have an answer.
"Monroe. I don't want to become that."
"Then figure out how not to." He set the note down. "Because if you start treating us all as collectibles—me, Rosalee, even the Hexenbiest you're working with—you'll end up alone. And alone is how Grimms die."
[RELATIONSHIP STATUS: MONROE - TESTED]
[INTERNAL FLAG: COLLECTOR'S OBSESSION - ACKNOWLEDGED]
[RECOMMENDATION: BEHAVIORAL ADJUSTMENT]
I closed the System notifications manually. Pushed them to the back of my consciousness where they hummed without demanding attention.
"Coffee," I said. "Let me make fresh coffee. We can talk about something that isn't Wesen politics or ability extraction."
Monroe's posture relaxed slightly. Not forgiveness—not yet—but willingness to try.
"Your coffee's terrible."
"I know. But it's the thought that counts."
A small laugh escaped him. "Fine. But I'm picking the conversation topic."
I moved to the kitchen, filling the kettle with water that ran slightly rusty before clearing. The motions were mundane, human, the kind of ordinary task that didn't require optimization or strategic assessment.
"What's the topic?"
"Clocks." Monroe settled onto the couch, pushing aside a stack of Bestiary printouts to make room. "I've been restoring a 1890s German grandfather clock. The mechanism is fascinating—they used a deadbeat escapement design that was revolutionary for its time."
I had no idea what a deadbeat escapement was. The System offered to provide an overview.
I ignored it.
"Tell me about it."
Monroe talked for an hour about gears and pendulums and the precision engineering of nineteenth-century clockmakers. His enthusiasm was genuine, unguarded, the passion of someone sharing something they loved with someone they trusted.
The System hummed quietly in the background, suggesting optimal conversation responses, noting potential leverage points for future negotiations. I let the suggestions wash past without engaging.
Some things shouldn't be optimized. Some relationships were more valuable than their strategic components.
Twenty-three days remained on the Reaper deadline. But for one evening, that countdown didn't matter.
I listened to my friend talk about clocks, and I remembered what it felt like to be a person.
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