I moved back to the rooftops.
The area wasn't dense, but there were enough buildings packed together to give me lines of sight in every direction. I kept moving. No specific plan—just checking intersections, alleys, side yards. Looking for clusters, patterns, anything that stood out.
Most blocks were quiet. A few sketchy cars, some late-night foot traffic. Nothing coordinated.
Then I saw something.
Three guys standing guard outside a fenced-in lot. Burned-out warehouse behind them. One entrance. One exit. The fence had fresh tags sprayed across the front—red paint, same symbol I'd seen on the gang from earlier.
Could be a hangout spot. Could be something more.
I stayed low and circled around, checking the back of the building. No movement. No guards. Just piles of junk, some metal scraps, and two busted skylights up top.
I marked it mentally. Could come back later.
A few blocks down, something else.
One figure moving fast across the street—too fast. Hoodie up, no sound, no wasted motion. Vaulted a five-foot fence like it wasn't there, then disappeared into a maintenance tunnel under a stairwell.
That wasn't normal.
Gang members didn't move like that.
I watched the figure vanish into the tunnel.
I tapped the card.
[Class Card: Assassin – Install]
I dropped from the rooftop and landed behind a parked car without a sound.
The tunnel entrance was half-covered by trash bins and a bent security gate. I passed through without touching anything. Inside, the dust was still unsettled, small bits shifting down from the frame. He hadn't gone far.
I picked up speed.
I kept moving through the tunnel.
The sound ahead was steady—someone who knew where they were going.
After twenty meters, the passage opened into a wider service corridor. Pipes ran along the ceiling, some leaking. The smell of damp concrete and rust was stronger here.
The figure was just at the edge of my vision, turning left at an old maintenance door. No lock, just a chain hooked loosely to keep it closed.
I slowed down, keeping far enough back to avoid being noticed. Pushed the door open just enough to look inside.
Small room. Bare walls. Piles of boxes and broken furniture shoved to the sides. In the middle, a folding table with a few crates stacked underneath. The figure was kneeling, digging through one of them.
No powers on display. No glow, no sparks—just quick, efficient movements, like he knew exactly what he was looking for.
I stayed by the door, watching.
He kept sorting through the crate, pulling out plastic bags and setting them aside. Most looked like food packets, maybe stored for later.
Every so often he glanced toward the far wall, where an old mattress and two backpacks were propped against it. Looked more like a hideout than a base.
He moved fast—too fast for someone just killing time. Could've been training, but it matched what
I'd expect from a mutant keeping things quiet.
After a minute, he pulled a rolled-up hoodie from the crate, shoved it into one of the backpacks, and zipped it shut. Then he stood and slung the bag over one shoulder.
He was getting ready to leave.
He slipped out through a back door and headed down a narrow side street.
Two turns later, we were in a part of the Bronx that looked dead after dark. Stores with their grates down, broken streetlights, only the occasional car passing through.
He crossed to a boarded-up laundromat, checked both ends of the street, then ducked into the alley beside it.
Behind the laundromat was a metal door with peeling paint. He knocked—three short, one long.
The door opened a crack. Someone inside looked him over, then let him in.
I slipped in right after, before the door closed. The door closed behind him. A few heads turned.
Inside, the air was warm and stale. Weak fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. Four, maybe five people in the room—two on mattresses, one digging through a bag, another leaning against the wall.
"Back already?" the man by the wall asked.
"Yeah," the one I'd followed said, dropping his bag near the mattress. "Got what I needed."
The woman with the shimmer nodded toward the bag. "Food run?"
"Mostly. Picked up some clothes too. Won't last long, but better than nothing."
The kid with the yellow eyes leaned forward. "Any trouble?"
"Nothing I couldn't walk past." He sat down, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "Street's quiet today."
The man by the wall smirked. "Quiet's rare lately. People are starting to notice more… folks like us."
The shimmered woman frowned. "Yeah. Brotherhood's fault. They can't go a week without pulling some stunt."
"Stunts get attention," the man said, shaking his head. "And not the good kind. Makes everyone edgy. Makes people start asking who else is out there."
"They've been sniffing around here too," the one I'd followed added. "Trying to recruit. Like we want any part of that mess."
The kid muttered, "We just want to be left alone."
No one disagreed.
I stayed near the edges of the room, moving openly but unnoticed.
Even standing a few steps away from them, none of them looked up.
I crouched by the pile of blankets in the corner, and peeked underneath.
Underneath was a small duffel bag—unzipped. Inside: a folded jacket, a pack of cigarettes, and a wad of cash held together with an elastic band.
No pause in their conversation.
"Hit a couple spots recently," the man by the wall muttered. "Think folks'll just sign up. Like it's that simple."
The kid I'd followed shrugged. "They're getting loud. Won't be long before they come sniffing around here."
The woman rubbed her arm. "They never take a hint. Always coming back."
The man by the wall snorted. "True."
The kid kicked at a loose board. "Why here? There's easier picks than this place."
The man by the wall shrugged. "Close to the street. People talk. They find who's desperate faster."
I kept listening. If they mentioned a specific spot, that would be something I could use.
I stayed quiet, waiting to see if they'd name a spot.
Nothing yet. Just vague complaints.
If they didn't talk soon, I'd have to make them. And I wouldn't be asking nicely.
The one I'd followed unzipped his bag. "Heard a couple of them were down by Pier 14 last week. Hanging around the old freight offices. Same as always—waiting for someone desperate enough to listen."
That was all I needed.
I walked to the door and pulled it open. The hinges creaked.
Every head in the room turned toward me.
"Don't mind me—just passing through," I said, and stepped out.
Yeah… give it five minutes and they'll be arguing over who forgot to lock the door while they pack like the building's on fire.
I ran toward Pier 14. Mana wasn't low yet, but I'd been in that hideout long enough for the Class Card drain to add up.
Half a block later, I spotted someone leaning against a lamppost—red bandana, same colors as the group from earlier. Alone.
Two seconds and I was behind him. Neck twisted, body dropped. A faint blue glow spilled out—mana orbs fading into me. Fifty total.
Farther down the street, I spotted a couple of cracked clay pots by a dumpster. Smashed them quick—shards on the ground, more mana drifting in. Pulled one from my inventory, broke it in an alley for good measure.
Enough to keep the bar steady for now.
Pier 14 came into view—a stretch of cracked pavement, rusting freight containers, and an old warehouse with half the windows boarded up.
Three men stood by the main doors, leaning like they owned the place. Another sat on a stack of pallets, keeping his eyes on the street. Farther down, two figures passed something between them, then headed inside.
I closed the distance to the doors. Presence Concealment kept me off their senses completely.
The gap was wide enough for voices to spill out.
"…third time this week they've come here," one said. "Always looking for new blood."
"Yeah. Brotherhood's turning this place into a revolving door. Anyone who looks tough enough, they try to pull in."
Another voice, closer to the door: "Boss says keep letting them use the back room. They move quick, they're gone before anyone asks questions."
I waited by the side of the main doors until two men stepped out for a smoke.
When they pushed the door wider, I walked in right behind them.
Inside, the warehouse smelled like old wood and engine oil. Stacks of crates made narrow paths between the walls and the open floor.
I moved through them, counting faces. Most in small groups—talking, smoking, or just waiting. A few more stood near the back, by a half-open door. Probably the "recruiters."
Toward the far side, I found one man alone, sitting on a crate with a clipboard in hand. No one near him.
I stepped in close, just behind his shoulder. My hand touched the back of his neck—mana flicked out as Hypnosis took hold. His posture slackened.
"Who's in the back room? Anyone with powers?"
His eyes stayed unfocused. "Couple of recruiters. One's a tall guy, shaved head, leather coat… not normal. He's fast. Strong. Doesn't hide it much."
"Strong how?"
"Like… can lift a car. Not all the time, but easy if he's trying. Seen him throw a guy twenty feet."
Good enough. I eased my hand back, cutting the Hypnosis thread. His head tilted forward, like someone just turned the volume down on his brain. Clipboard slipped a little in his grip, but he didn't drop it.
Back room it was.
I crossed the floor, weaving between stacks of crates and idle conversations. Nobody moved to stop me. Presence Concealment wrapped tight—just another shadow slipping past.
At the half-open door, a strip of brighter light cut across the dusty floor. Voices carried—low, fast. Recruitment pitch. Not the "join us for the cause" type. More like an offer you take because saying no means a trip to the ER.
I stepped through.
Two men. One fit the description—tall, shaved head, leather coat. The other, thinner, sharp-eyed, holding a folder. Table between them. On it: cash, cigarettes, and a cheap revolver with the serial filed off.
The strong one leaned back in his chair, watching a jittery kid across from him. "You want protection? We can give it. You want work? We can give that too. All it costs is loyalty."
The kid nodded too fast. He'd already made up his mind.
Not my problem.
My problem was the guy in the coat.
I let my hand settle lightly on the back of his neck—same pulse of mana as before. Hypnosis caught fast. His posture eased, eyes losing focus. The thin one noticed nothing; a second flick of magic took care of him too. The kid barely had time to blink before the third thread pulled him under.
Three minds. Quiet. Waiting.
I leaned in just enough for my voice to hit the tall one's ear.
"Now that you've got him, where are you taking him?"
His answer came flat, automatic. "Back to the safehouse first. Tomorrow night, transport to the warehouse in Jersey. Meet the others."
"Others," I repeated. "You mean other mutants?"
"Yeah. Some already with the Brotherhood, some just joined."
I let that sit a beat before asking, "Any of them with mental abilities? Telepathy, mind control—anything like that?"
He shook his head slowly. "Not in this batch. Last one we had like that… got moved. Canada."
"How long are you staying here tonight?" I asked.
"Hour and a half," he said without hesitation.
Perfect.
"You'll stay the full time. No early exits, no sudden changes. You'll act like it's your idea."
Three slow nods. The hooks were in.
"Good. Here's what happens next. You're going to remember me as someone you just recruited. Same as the kid. Mutant, useful, already cleared. You'll vouch for me if anyone asks."
Three nods answered.
The command sank in.