Chapter 7 : The Approach
Caitlin Snow's public profile read like an overachiever's fever dream.
Stanford Medical School, graduated top of her class at twenty-four. Recruited by STAR Labs before she'd finished her residency. Published papers on cryogenic cellular preservation that I didn't understand but could tell were impressive. Engaged to Ronnie Raymond, structural engineer, killed in the particle accelerator explosion.
I scrolled through the articles on my laptop, building a picture of the woman I needed to reach.
The photos told a story. Pre-explosion Caitlin smiled easily—conference photos showed her laughing with colleagues, standing close to a handsome man with kind eyes. Ronnie, presumably. Post-explosion coverage was different. Fewer photos. When they existed, her smiles looked practiced. Professional. The kind you learned to wear when real ones hurt too much.
She still worked at STAR Labs despite everything. The place that killed her fiancé. That spoke to either remarkable dedication or profound avoidance.
Probably both.
[OBJECTIVE REMINDER: STAR LABS ACCESS - PRIORITY TARGET]
I didn't need the system's prodding. I understood the value of what STAR Labs represented. Technology. Information. Proximity to metahumans. Everything I needed to accelerate my progression sat behind those doors.
Caitlin Snow was my key.
The research took most of day ten. I compiled everything publicly available—academic records, social media presence, news coverage. Her Instagram hadn't been updated since the explosion, but the older posts revealed patterns. She liked chai lattes. Preferred reading to socializing. Had a dry sense of humor that emerged in comment threads with close friends.
Those friends had mostly stopped commenting after Ronnie died.
Isolation. Grief. Routine as coping mechanism.
I could work with that.
Day eleven brought the practical challenges.
A direct approach would fail. Cold-calling STAR Labs with "I'm interested in metahuman security" would trigger every alarm. The facility was technically closed to the public—the explosion had destroyed their reputation and most of their funding. Whatever they were doing now, they weren't advertising it.
Corporate channels were out. Personal connection was in.
I needed to meet Caitlin somewhere neutral. Somewhere that felt organic. Somewhere she wouldn't have her guard up.
My research pointed to Jitters.
The coffee shop appeared in three of her older Instagram posts. Always the same table by the window. Always alone after the engagement ended. If she maintained any pre-explosion habits, that was the most likely candidate.
I spent the afternoon creating supporting materials. Business cards—Harry Griffin, Independent Security Consulting. A website I'd built from a template, professional enough to pass cursory inspection. LinkedIn profile updated with Harrison Griffin's legitimate credentials.
The cover story wrote itself. Security consultant, coma survivor, interested in the new metahuman landscape. Professional curiosity, not personal agenda. Enough truth to sound genuine, enough vagueness to avoid scrutiny.
By evening, I was ready for reconnaissance.
Jitters at 6 PM was controlled chaos.
The after-work crowd packed every table. Baristas worked in synchronized motion, churning out drinks with mechanical efficiency. The noise level hovered somewhere between lively and overwhelming.
I ordered a medium roast—different from last time, expanding my rating system—and found a spot near the counter with a clear sightline to the window tables.
6:08 PM. No Caitlin.
6:12 PM. Still nothing.
6:17 PM. The door opened.
She looked different in person than in photographs. Smaller, somehow. The brown hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail. Dark circles under her eyes suggested long nights and inadequate sleep. She wore a STAR Labs lanyard tucked into her jacket—either forgot to remove it or didn't care.
Caitlin walked to the counter, ordered without looking at the menu, and took her drink to the window table. Exactly as predicted.
She pulled a medical journal from her bag and started reading. Nobody approached her. Nobody even looked her way. In a room full of people, she was completely alone.
I watched for twenty minutes without moving. Catalogued her body language. The way she held her cup with both hands, seeking warmth. The slight frown when she encountered something in her reading she disagreed with. The absolute stillness when her phone buzzed and she chose to ignore it.
Disciplined. Focused. Armored.
The armor would be the challenge.
I didn't approach that night. Too soon. Too obvious. The target needed to feel natural, and natural meant patience.
Day twelve brought the same pattern.
6:15 PM. Same table. Same order. Same isolation.
I positioned myself at the counter again, nursing a different drink—an Americano this time, 5/10, too bitter—and refined my observations.
She read faster when stressed. Her jaw tightened when the phone buzzed. She checked her watch exactly four times in an hour, always with the same expression of resignation.
Someone expecting her somewhere. Someone she didn't want to see.
Work, most likely. STAR Labs keeping her on a short leash even during off-hours.
That meant her free time was genuinely valuable to her. Anyone who invaded it without cause would face immediate rejection. But someone who shared the space respectfully? Who demonstrated understanding of boundaries?
That person might earn a conversation.
Day thirteen. The evening rush hit harder than usual.
I arrived early, claiming a two-person table near Caitlin's usual spot. Laptop open, work spread out, the picture of a professional using public space productively. When the crowd swelled at 6 PM, every seat filled except the one across from me.
Caitlin entered at 6:14. Scanned the room. Saw her usual table occupied by a pair of college students sharing notes.
Her eyes found mine. Specifically, the empty chair across from me.
I kept my attention on my laptop. Didn't wave. Didn't smile. Just a man working, oblivious to her dilemma.
She hesitated for twelve seconds—I counted—then approached.
"Excuse me. Is anyone sitting here?"
I looked up with the appropriate amount of surprise. Closed my laptop halfway. "No, please. It's brutal in here tonight."
She sat. Arranged her things with precise, economical movements. Pulled out her journal.
We existed in parallel silence for five minutes.
My coffee ran low. I stood to get a refill, accidentally caught her eye. "Can I get you anything? Seems like the line's calmed down."
"Chai latte. Extra foam." A pause. "Thank you."
The barista remembered my face from previous visits but said nothing. Two drinks later, I returned to the table and set Caitlin's order in front of her.
"One chai latte, extra foam. The barista looked personally offended when I asked for foam, so I assume that means it's good."
The corner of her mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close.
"They take their foam seriously here."
"Noticed that." I settled back into my seat. Opened my laptop again. Gave her space.
Three more minutes of silence. Then her phone buzzed and she grimaced at whatever she read.
"Everything okay?"
She looked up, startled by the question. For a moment I thought she'd deflect—the armor was thick—but something in my tone must have registered as genuine concern rather than intrusion.
"Work." She set the phone face-down. "Always work."
"I know that feeling. Clients don't understand the concept of 'after hours.'"
"What kind of clients?"
The opening I'd been waiting for. I kept my answer casual, like it didn't matter.
"Security consulting. Risk assessment, threat analysis, that sort of thing. Businesses worried about liability mostly." I shrugged. "Not exciting work, but it pays the bills."
"Security." She considered that. "Physical security? Cybersecurity?"
"Depends on the client. I do a lot of facility assessments. Identifying vulnerabilities before they become problems." I closed my laptop fully, giving her my attention. "What about you? The medical journals suggest something specialized."
"Bioengineering. I work at..." She hesitated. Watched my face for a reaction. "STAR Labs."
I kept my expression neutral. Interested but not hungry.
"The particle accelerator place? I heard that changed the city pretty significantly."
The armor flickered. A shadow crossed her features.
"It changed everything."
"Sorry." I said it immediately, instinctively. "That sounded like a sensitive topic."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. Filing something away.
Too fast. I read her too fast.
"I lost someone in the explosion." Her voice was carefully controlled. "My fiancé."
"I'm sorry for your loss." The words came out genuine because, in a way, they were. I understood loss now. I'd lost an entire world. "I can't imagine working there after something like that."
"Some days neither can I." She picked up her chai latte, wrapping both hands around the cup. The gesture was defensive. Protective. "But the work matters. More than ever, actually. Someone has to understand what happened."
"The metahumans."
"Among other things."
We talked for another twenty minutes. Lighter topics—the challenge of finding good coffee, the absurdity of Central City traffic, the particular chaos of post-explosion insurance claims. She mentioned a friend named Barry who apparently had strong opinions about documentary films. I mentioned my physical therapy recovery without explaining the coma.
She laughed once. A real laugh, surprised out of her by a terrible joke I made about hospital food. The sound was unexpected—warmer than her professional demeanor suggested.
Something shifted in my chest. An unfamiliar sensation.
That's dangerous, I thought. Genuine reactions are dangerous.
At 7:30, her phone buzzed again. This time she checked it and winced.
"I have to go. Work emergency."
"Of course." I stood as she did. "I'm Harry, by the way. Harry Griffin."
"Caitlin. Caitlin Snow." She gathered her things with efficient speed. "Thank you for the company. And the latte."
"Anytime. And I mean that—I'm here most evenings. The coffee's acceptable and the people-watching is excellent."
Another almost-smile. She pulled a business card from somewhere—her own, Dr. Caitlin Snow, STAR Labs Biological Research—and handed it over.
"In case you ever need bioengineering consultation for your security work."
I gave her one of mine in exchange. Even trade. Professional networking. Completely innocent.
She left. Glanced back once from the door. Not suspicious, I decided. Curious.
The hook was set.
Now came the hard part: waiting.
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