CHAPTER 9: FIRST BLOOD
Three days after Karen's attack, they came for me.
I'd started keeping an apartment in Hell's Kitchen—nothing fancy, just a two-bedroom walk-up on 48th Street. Close to the office, close to the neighborhood, close to the people I was trying to help. The penthouse in Manhattan felt wrong somehow. Too far from the action.
The first day I'd walked these streets, photographing safe house locations, the Russians had noticed me. I'd known that, filed it away, moved on.
I hadn't considered that other people might be watching too.
The key stuck in the lock. I jiggled it, shouldered the door open, and stepped inside.
The lights didn't come on.
I flipped the switch. Nothing. The breaker, maybe—old building, old wiring. I pulled out my phone, using the screen for light, and took two steps toward the fuse box.
Movement in the dark. The creak of weight shifting.
My body reacted before my brain caught up. I spun, phone clattering to the floor, as a shape lunged from the shadows.
Three of them. Big. Professional. Not the sloppy muscle you'd hire for a mugging—these guys moved like they knew what they were doing.
The first one grabbed my collar. I swung at his face, a wild haymaker that shouldn't have connected.
It connected.
The impact traveled up my arm like lightning. The man's head snapped back, and he crumpled like someone had cut his strings. I stared at my fist, not understanding.
The second one came in low, going for a tackle. Something surged through me—hot, electric, wrong. I sidestepped faster than I'd ever moved, my body flowing around his attack like water. My elbow came down on the back of his neck with a crunch.
He didn't get up.
The third one had a knife. I saw it glint in the streetlight coming through the window. He lunged. I caught his wrist—heard bones grind—and twisted until he screamed.
The blade dropped. I hit him once, twice, three times. Each blow landed with a sound that made my stomach turn. He went down hard, blood bubbling from his broken nose.
Silence.
I stood in my dark apartment, surrounded by three unconscious men, breathing like I'd run a marathon. My hands were shaking. My knuckles were split, blood dripping onto the hardwood floor.
What just happened?
I looked at the first man—the one I'd punched. His jaw was wrong. Dislocated, maybe broken. I'd done that. With one punch.
I couldn't have done that.
The adrenaline started to fade. Something else took its place—a wave of exhaustion so profound it almost brought me to my knees. My vision blurred. My legs turned to rubber.
The crash.
I didn't know where the word came from, but I knew it was right. Whatever had just happened—whatever power had surged through me—it was taking something back.
I stumbled to the wall, sliding down until I was sitting on the floor. The shaking in my hands spread to my whole body. My teeth chattered. Cold sweat soaked through my shirt.
Phone. I need my phone.
It took three tries to crawl to where I'd dropped it. The screen was cracked, but it still worked. I pulled up contacts, scrolling with numb fingers.
Who could I call? Not the police—three unconscious attackers in my apartment, all of them bearing injuries that didn't match a fair fight. Not Matt or Foggy—they'd have questions I couldn't answer.
My thumb stopped on a name I'd saved weeks ago, during my research into Hell's Kitchen's underground.
Claire Temple. Night nurse. The woman who patched up the vigilantes no one else would treat.
I hit call.
"Hello?" Her voice was tired, suspicious. Reasonable, given that it was almost midnight.
"Ms. Temple?" My voice came out rough. Weak. "My name is Roy Smith. I was given your number as someone who... helps people with unusual problems."
A pause. "Who gave you this number?"
"A friend of a friend." I closed my eyes, fighting the fog creeping through my brain. "I was attacked. In my apartment. Three men. They're unconscious. I'm... I don't know what's wrong with me. Something happened during the fight. Something I can't explain."
Another pause. Longer this time.
"Where are you?"
I gave her the address. She said fifteen minutes. I hung up and sat in the dark, watching my hands shake.
The men were still breathing. I could hear them—ragged, wet, but alive. Whatever I'd done, I hadn't killed them. That was something. That was enough.
My mind kept circling back to the fight. The speed. The strength. The way my body had moved without my conscious input, flowing through combat like I'd been trained for years.
I hadn't been trained. I'd never been in a real fight in either of my lives. And yet...
Something surges through him—his punch lands harder than it should, he moves faster than possible.
The memory floated up from nowhere. Words I'd never thought before. A description that fit perfectly.
Enhancement that scales with opposition.
I didn't know what that meant. I didn't know where the knowledge came from. But I knew it was true—something inside me had woken up when those three men attacked, something that had kept me alive when I should have been killed.
Sirens in the distance. Getting closer.
I forced myself to stand. Swayed. Caught myself on the wall.
Ten minutes. Maybe less. I need to be gone before someone investigates the noise.
The phone showed Claire's text: Coming. Don't move.
I looked at the three unconscious men. Then at the door. Then at my bloody hands.
Moving was the only option.
I grabbed my jacket, stepped over the bodies, and stumbled into the hallway. The stairs were a nightmare—each step sent fresh waves of exhaustion crashing through me. By the time I reached the street, I was holding onto the railing with both hands, vision tunneling.
A car pulled up. A woman got out—dark hair, practical clothes, a bag over her shoulder.
"Roy Smith?"
"Claire Temple?"
She took one look at me and grabbed my arm. "You look like hell."
"Feel like it too."
She guided me into the passenger seat. The car smelled like antiseptic and coffee. I slumped against the headrest as she pulled away from the curb.
"Those men in your apartment," she said. "What happened to them?"
"I don't know." The honest answer. "I hit them, and they went down. But it wasn't—I've never hit anyone like that before. I didn't know I could."
Claire was quiet for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful.
"I've seen people like you before. People who do things they shouldn't be able to do." She glanced at me. "You're not alone."
The words should have been comforting. Instead, they terrified me.
Because if there were others—if this was something that happened to people—then whatever had woken up inside me was just the beginning.
The exhaustion pulled me under. My last thought, as the streetlights blurred into streaks of gold, was that nothing would ever be the same.
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