A month of study had given him a solid grasp of physics, chemistry, electronics, and IT.
He'd focused especially on IT.
By now, he was a capable computer specialist; if he devoted himself fully, becoming a world-class hacker would only be a matter of time.
Those were just milestones along the way. Ben Shaw enjoyed the process of growth—knowledge was part of that growth.
When you have a goal, everything you do feels purposeful. He knew every piece of knowledge he absorbed fed his ascent, and the process no longer felt dull.
Morning sunlight spilled onto the streets, filtered through the branches, casting shifting shadows. Beautiful.
Ben ran at an easy pace, reveling in the vitality of his strengthened body. It felt wonderful.
He reached Flushing Meadows–Corona Park in Queens, New York's second-largest park—fields, pools, playgrounds, bike trails, a zoo, public art, monuments, great scenery.
After nearly an hour of jogging, he wasn't even sweating. He headed back toward his neighborhood and stopped at a popular breakfast shop.
The place wasn't special—just the local favorite. Sushi, pork sandwiches, egg-and-bacon, avocado-and-egg on whole wheat. Ben liked it. Affordable and decent.
He ordered more than most adults would, but not so much as to draw real attention. With a young face and a strong build, people just chalked it up to a teenage appetite.
Tray in hand, he scanned the room. Only one empty seat by the window. He took it, started eating—and listened. The conversation around him buzzed about the latest serial killer in Queens.
"Did you hear? The Butcher killed over two hundred people. God—he's past five hundred now. Terrifying. I'm thinking of leaving Queens."
"Yeah, he's a butcher—but a hero, too. He only targets the real bad guys: drug dealers, arsonists, killers, looters. They belong in hell."
"He's so cool. Like the Grim Reaper in the night, harvesting sin. My friends and I? Total fans."
"Look at the results. He isn't scaring regular people—he's scaring the scum back into the shadows. Queens is calmer."
"I think he's just crazy."
"Okay, man, but don't say that too loud. That guy's got a lot of fans in Queens—and they won't like it."
Clearly, Ben's killing spree had captured Queens'—and even New York's—attention.
From the chatter, his targeted hits on gangs hadn't panicked the public. Instead, he'd gained a following.
When gang members died and the women and bystanders walked away unharmed, people started calling him a hero and a judge of the wicked.
Mysterious, cold, ruthless—yet with a line he wouldn't cross. The persona was coalescing into a cultural symbol.
If his influence kept growing, he could become an icon—etched into the public mind.
The attention pleased him a little, but he didn't lose himself.
Anyone with a crowd of fans feels a tug of vanity.
But Ben's goal had never been judging sin. It was always to become stronger. Rationality kept his emotions in check.
He ate in peace. A few minutes in, a beautiful woman approached. A husky, mature voice at his shoulder:
"Hey—mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is full."
Ben looked up. A striking, mature woman with a burgundy ponytail, gray sweater, sweatpants, and sneakers. The sweater was damp from a morning run.
"Of course. Be my guest."
"Thanks. I'm Jenny," she said, sliding into the chair as if she'd known he'd say yes.
"John Shaw," he replied with an easy smile, tearing a piece of whole wheat bread. His eyes, however, flickered with meaning.
She was lively and warm, and she struck up a conversation as they ate.
"Do you live nearby?"
"Yeah, not far."
"You look young—and very handsome."
They chatted comfortably, but the longer it went, the stranger it felt to Ben. He'd read his share of psychology and communication books.
Her words sounded casual, but she kept nudging toward personal details.
It was high-level conversation technique—or interrogation.
Most people wouldn't notice. Her openness and cheer lowered defenses. Not something the average woman pulled off.
He also noticed the calluses on her fingers—possibly from years of handling firearms and training. He couldn't be certain, but he was sure of one thing: she'd approached him on purpose.