The coffee shop where Vincent reappeared had five security cameras. Two covered the register, one watched the alley, another framed the front door. The last aimed toward the staff-only exit, its view half-obscured by a poster that had faded into uselessness.
Vincent sat beneath it. The coat he wore had belonged to a longshoreman who no longer needed it. A paper cup steamed quietly between his hands. He didn't drink it. The heat was a disguise, the ritual of the living.
The system pulsed faintly beneath thought. His last kill still lingered in the glyph beneath his skin, faint as a bruise. Yet no new mission arrived. That silence unnerved him more than noise.
He reached inside his coat and unfolded the layers of identity he'd stitched together. A janitor's laminate, a guard's lanyard, a tech badge stripped from a rusted locker. They formed a man named John Marks. Sanitation. Maintenance subcontractor. Dockside North. Level D access.
The system stirred again. There was no sound. Only direction.
Observation complete. Target selection underway.
A face surfaced. It was not a dossier. It was a memory. Female. Mid-thirties. Her badge once read: Manager, Internal Services. Her habit, according to the system, included daily visits to the boiler corridor. Unlogged. Always alone.
Vincent stood. The cup remained on the table, untouched. The steam had stopped rising.
No one noticed him leave. That was intentional.
Fifteen minutes later, he walked the service floor of the adjacent tower. The lighting buzzed in rhythmic failure. The air smelled of coolant, burned dust, and something older. Machine wax, maybe. Or resignation.
She was already there. A cigarette rested between her fingers the way some people held vices they no longer believed in. Her coat was thin. Her shoulders didn't hide how tired she was.
Vincent approached until her outline grew distinct through the misted light. No weapon. No prompt. This was not a kill.
"Do you ever feel like the walls remember more than we do?" he asked.
She flinched, turned. Her laugh was small and unsure. "Jesus. That's creepy."
"Strange architecture calms me," he said. His voice stayed level.
She looked him over. Her expression shifted between caution and curiosity. "You work here?"
He nodded. "Long enough to know where the forgotten vents lead."
That earned him a second chuckle, quiet and involuntary. The system responded.
Influence potential detected. No kill required.
Vincent said nothing else. He turned and walked back into shadow, footsteps absorbed by concrete and the low thrum of old pipes. Behind him, she hesitated, then looked away.
The system did not reward him. But it recorded the moment.
A thought arrived later, not spoken but placed. It had no edges, no urgency, no heat. It settled behind the eyes like a memory misplaced on purpose.
She laughed, Vincent. That used to mean something to you.
Sometimes the NexScripture remembered more than blood.
And sometimes, restraint was a louder scream than murder.
Lesson three: Influence leaves no fingerprints.