The cold had transformed the rooftops into a succession of wet traps. The rain had stopped less than an hour earlier, leaving black puddles on the tar, gleaming stone ledges, and fire escapes slippery enough to discourage any reasonable person. Apartment lights reflected in the wet windows, while the sounds of traffic rose between the buildings as a continuous rumble punctuated by horns and distant sirens. I had finished my shift forty-five minutes earlier. The day had been nothing exceptional: two domestic disputes without violence, a traffic accident, a food theft at a convenience store, and nearly an hour spent convincing a landlord that the police could not arrest his tenant simply because the man refused to leave the apartment before the legal expiration of his lease. Donnelly had summarized that final call as "a crash course in why people hate reading contracts."
I could have gone home, changed, and taken the subway to the Grant Gymnasium. I had preferred to run. Since Marcus's death, physical effort did not make the images disappear, but it pushed them far enough away for me to think about something other than three gunshots and a scar above a lip. Gymnastics, boxing, and our rooftop exercises were also beginning to produce something useful. My movements were cleaner, my footing more secure, and my reflexes less dependent on Frank. That mattered. I did not want our fusion to become an excuse for replacing technique with strength or caution with the certainty that he would absorb my mistakes.
Frank stood at the edge of a six-story building, his hands in the pockets of his security guard uniform. The streetlights passed through his translucent legs and outlined the red-brick facade of the neighboring building behind him. He looked at the gap separating us from the next roof, then narrowed his eyes slightly as though the expression could improve an estimate made without measuring instruments.
"A little under five meters," he announced.
I stepped back several paces without taking my eyes off the opposite ledge. "Last time, your 'a little under' represented almost a meter."
Frank turned toward me with offensive calm. "I refined my method."
"You learned to count?"
"I learned not to give you the exact number when I know it will make you hesitate."
I looked down into the gap. The neighboring building was slightly lower, but its ledge was narrow and wet. A ventilation unit occupied part of the landing area, reducing the available space even further. The distance remained manageable. The landing was the real problem. One badly placed sole, one knee too stiff, or one poorly oriented shoulder would be enough to send me back toward the alley.
"Very reassuring," I murmured.
Frank stepped into the air without falling. "I can go check."
"You already did."
"I can check again."
"And lose more cohesion before training."
His silhouette was no longer as fragile as during his first materializations. Weeks of use had strengthened the way he resisted the physical world. He could keep one hand solid for several seconds, push a light object, or trip someone without immediately becoming almost invisible. That did not mean his reserves were infinite. Every contact dispersed him slightly. Every injury reduced his cohesion. I refused to treat that expenditure as a simple tactical cost because it belonged to him as much as it did to me.
I inhaled, lowered my center of gravity slightly, then ran. My shoes struck the wet tar in a steady rhythm. My arms accompanied the acceleration, and I kept my eyes fixed on the exact place where I wanted to land. Ted repeated that the body often followed the eyes. I had no desire to find out whether that rule also applied when looking six stories down.
On the final step, I pushed as hard as I could. Frank fused with me as my feet left the roof. The change remained invisible, but his presence entered my muscles and joints like a second intention layered over my own. He did not double my strength or make my bones more resistant. He could, however, correct an angle, distribute tension, or add his coordination to mine for a fraction of a second.
Higher, right knee, he transmitted.
I adjusted my position in midair. My feet reached the opposite ledge, but my left sole slipped immediately. My hips shifted backward. Frank pushed in the opposite direction from inside me. I turned my shoulder, placed one hand against the stone, and transformed the fall into a roll. My back struck the tar, my legs passed over me, and I finished on one knee, the impact knocking the breath from me.
A dull pain crossed my forearm. I moved my fingers, then my wrist. Nothing broken.
Frank emerged from my body in a cold shiver. He appeared a few steps away, slightly transparent around the shoulders, and observed me like a dissatisfied trainer.
"You hesitated just before pushing."
I stood while rubbing my forearm. "The ledge was wet."
"It was already wet when we looked at it."
"You could have reminded me the landing was that narrow."
Frank tilted his head. "I wanted to see whether you had noticed."
"You turn every training session into an experiment."
"That's how we improve."
"That's also how people end up in the emergency room."
He raised one shoulder. "We know a nurse."
"Evan probably wouldn't appreciate you treating his marriage to Pat as medical insurance."
Frank smiled, and we resumed running. The buildings passed beneath our feet, separated by narrow alleys, ventilation ducts, and rusted fire escapes. Several times, he separated from me to move ahead and check a landing. Our external telepathy remained imperfect. At less than three meters, simple words arrived clearly. At four or five meters, they lost their edges and came with emotions or sensations that were difficult to interpret. Beyond that, I mostly perceived his general direction, concern, or agreement.
He stopped near a metal ladder attached to the rear facade of a building.
Unstable, he transmitted.
The word arrived with a sensation of vibration in my hands. I cautiously placed one foot on the first rung. The ladder groaned beneath my weight.
"You could have been more precise," I whispered.
Frank shrugged. "I transmitted the essential information."
"Is it unstable, or is it going to fall?"
"It is unstable."
I placed my second foot. A bolt snapped with a sharp crack, and the ladder tilted slightly outward. I turned my head toward Frank.
"And now?"
He examined the torn support. "Now it will probably fall."
I jumped onto the lower platform before the entire structure detached from the wall. The metal crashed into the courtyard with enough force to light up several windows. I remained motionless against the facade, my fingers closed around the cold railing. A woman opened a window three floors below and leaned outside.
"What's going on?"
I held my breath. Frank passed his head through the floor of the platform.
"She's looking toward the courtyard."
"Thank you, I understood that."
"I can go down and explain."
I looked at him. "You want to explain to a stranger that her ladder just fell because of a ghost and a police officer running across rooftops?"
Frank thought for a few seconds. "Presented that way, the plan has a few flaws."
We left the building through the interior staircase before anyone decided to call the police. Twenty minutes later, we reached the street containing the Grant Gymnasium. The gym occupied the ground floor of a dark-brick building wedged between an auto-parts store and an old restaurant whose windows had been covered with brown paper. The sign had recently been repainted, but the white letters retained irregular edges: GRANT GYMNASIUM.
Light filtered through the reinforced windows. I checked the time and saw that we had arrived one minute early. Frank looked at my wet jacket and the black marks on my trousers.
"Ted is mostly going to notice that you look like someone who lost a fight with a chimney."
I pushed open the door. The smell of leather, old sweat, chalk, and disinfectant greeted me immediately. The group classes had ended. Most of the fluorescent lights had been switched off, leaving only those above the ring, the counter, and a row of heavy bags. A radio crackled on a shelf. A sports commentator analyzed a boxer's career with the gravity of a man negotiating an international treaty.
Ted stood near the ring. He was not wearing his training clothes, but dark trousers and a gray sweater with the sleeves pushed to his elbows. His arms were crossed over his chest, and his expression was more closed than usual.
Another man stood facing him. He appeared to be over sixty, perhaps older. His pale-blond hair, almost white beneath the fluorescent lights, was carefully brushed back. A short, perfectly maintained beard framed his thin face. He wore a black suit beneath a long sand-colored coat, along with dark leather gloves. A cane rested against the ring, but his straight posture suggested he probably did not need it.
He did not look like a boxer. Nor did he look like a man who had come to watch training.
The stranger turned his head when I entered. His gaze first stopped on my face, then shifted slightly behind my shoulder. Frank had entered through the door after me. He froze.
The man's eyes followed his exact position.
Not vaguely. Not like someone who had simply looked toward a random point. His gaze moved down Frank's dark uniform, lingered on the old bloodstains around his torso, then rose back to his face.
"He can see me," Frank murmured.
I calmly closed the door. My heart rate accelerated, but I did not turn my head toward him. I removed my wet jacket, walked to the bench near the locker rooms, and placed my bag beneath a coat hook.
"Good evening, Ted."
Ted examined my trousers. "Did you fall into a chimney?"
"A ladder."
"The ladder won?"
"It fell first."
Frank approached the stranger while I sat to untie my shoes. The man followed every one of his movements. Frank raised one hand a few centimeters from his face. The stranger's pupils shifted slightly.
"No doubt," Frank whispered. "He really can see me."
I removed my right shoe.
"You're not going to do anything?"
I took my boxing shoes from the bag without answering.
"Malcolm."
I continued tying my laces.
The stranger finally looked away and adjusted one of his gloves. "We will continue tomorrow."
Ted slowly uncrossed his arms. "Kent."
That was the only indication given of his identity. The man inclined his head slightly.
"Tomorrow."
He picked up his cane, passed beside me, and went to the exit. I felt his attention return one final time toward Frank, then toward me. Perhaps he was waiting for me to react, to look at the space he had been observing, or to ask for an explanation.
I continued tying my laces.
The door closed. Frank remained turned toward it.
"You aren't even going to ask who he was?"
I stood. "No."
"He can see me."
"Exactly."
Frank frowned. "I don't understand your logic."
"A stranger just noticed something we have hidden for years. I am not going to confirm his observation by running after him and asking how he did it."
Ted grabbed a pair of gloves from a shelf and threw them toward me. I caught them against my chest.
"Finished daydreaming, Beaumont?"
"Yes."
His gaze briefly passed behind me. He saw nothing. At least, I thought he did not.
Ted pointed toward the ring. "Then get in."
I asked no questions about Kent. Ted offered no explanation. Throughout the entire training session, I behaved as though nothing had happened. That did not stop me from watching the door whenever Ted looked away.
∗ ∗ ∗
The following evening, Ted apparently decided the best way to prepare for a difficult conversation was to exhaust me enough to reduce my ability to protest. He began with twenty minutes of jump rope, continued with footwork around the ring, then made me repeat the same combination until my shoulders burned and my legs became too heavy to conceal my mistakes.
Left jab. Side step. Hook to the body. Pivot. Retreat.
Ted wore black focus mitts marked by years of use. He moved them with almost insulting precision. Every time I thought I understood his rhythm, he changed the angle of one mitt or shifted his weight by half a step.
"You're looking at my hands too much," he said after deflecting my jab.
I reset my guard. "They're what hit me."
"They arrive last."
He tapped my hip with the edge of the left mitt.
"The feet, hips, shoulders. Fists can lie. The rest of the body is less talented."
I started again. He avoided my first blow, absorbed the second, and lightly struck my forehead with the right mitt.
"Dead."
I stepped back while adjusting my guard. "Do you use that word often in an insured establishment?"
A brief smile appeared on his face. "Insurance does not cover stupidity."
Frank sat on one of the ring posts. Since the beginning of the session, his gaze had repeatedly returned toward the door of the small office behind the counter.
"He's here," he murmured.
I continued watching Ted.
I know.
The air near the office seemed denser. I did not perceive any presence in the way I sensed Frank, but an almost physical pressure spread through the room, like the air before a storm.
Ted raised the mitts. "Again."
Training continued for nearly another hour. When the final members left the gym, Ted greeted them one by one. A teenage girl carefully put her wraps into a locker. Two men continued arguing near the showers until Ted ordered them to finish their debate outside.
The front door closed. Ted locked it, then looked in my direction while I slowly removed my gloves.
"You stay."
I placed the gloves on the bench. "I understood when you locked the door."
"Good."
The office door opened. Kent came out without his coat or cane. His black suit fit perfectly. A gold chain descended from his neck and disappeared beneath his shirt. In one hand, he held a small object wrapped in white cloth.
Frank climbed down from the post. "I preferred when he left without speaking."
Kent turned his face directly toward him. "You are still present."
Frank stopped. Ted looked toward the space Kent was watching, but his eyes found nothing. I placed my wraps on the bench.
"Who are you speaking to?"
Kent turned his head toward me. "The spirit attached to your soul."
I kept my expression neutral. "I don't know what you're talking about."
Ted slowly exhaled through his nose.
Kent unfolded the cloth. Inside lay a bronze disk the size of a palm, covered in concentric lines and tiny symbols. Its surface appeared dull until he took it between his thumb and forefinger. Golden light immediately moved through the engravings.
Frank stepped back.
"Malcolm."
I felt his fear through the link before he even said my name.
Kent raised the disk. "How long has this entity accompanied you?"
I straightened. "There is no entity."
"You are lying."
"You entered a boxing gym carrying a glowing piece of metal and speaking to empty space. I am not certain I am the person whose statements require evaluation."
Ted placed his hands on his hips. "Kent, you said you were going to observe."
"I have observed."
The disk's light grew brighter. A current of air crossed the room without the door or windows opening. The ring ropes vibrated, and the radio switched off in the middle of a sentence.
Frank looked at the luminous lines appearing across the wooden floor. "He's preparing something."
I stepped toward Kent. "Turn that off."
"The dead must not anchor themselves to the living. The longer the attachment lasts, the more dangerous the separation becomes."
"You don't know what you are looking at."
"I see a dead soul still bearing the injuries of its death, connected to a living person through a bond of dependency."
His tone contained no anger, only cold certainty.
"I have seen victims defend the presence consuming them before. Your denial therefore does not constitute an argument."
Light burst from the disk. It spread across the floor as thin lines, running between the boards before forming a circle around me. Frank tried to move away. A chain of light appeared around his wrist.
He screamed.
The chain tightened and violently pulled him toward the center of the circle. Pain struck my chest, not like a transmitted emotion or a wound perceived from a distance. Something caught directly behind my sternum and pulled. My knees bent.
Ted stepped toward Kent. "Stop."
Kent did not look away. More chains appeared around Frank's arms and torso. Their light revealed his silhouette to Ted for the first time. A translucent human form appeared in the room, wrapped in golden restraints. The security uniform was torn across the torso, marked by the shots that had killed him.
Ted froze. "Good God."
Frank grabbed one chain with a materialized hand. The light passed through his fingers and opened a glowing crack along his forearm. I dropped to one knee. The same burning sensation traveled up my own arm.
Kent watched me. "The entity is using your nervous system to impose its pain upon you."
"No," I breathed.
The main chain pulled harder. Frank was jerked backward, and I felt his movement as though someone were stretching my nerves from inside.
Ted placed himself between Kent and me. "That is enough."
"Not yet."
Kent's eyes turned golden. His face no longer seemed entirely human. All hesitation vanished. His features became perfectly still, stripped of compassion, fear, or uncertainty. Only an ancient will remained, applying a rule.
An anomaly had been identified.
Order required its removal.
Frank screamed again. My own cry merged with his. Ted grabbed Kent's wrist.
"You're hurting him."
Kent did not move. "Separation causes a dependency response."
"He's suffering at the same time as the other one."
"The entity may project its sensations."
"And if you're wrong?"
Kent tightened his fingers around the disk. The chains grew brighter, and Frank was lifted from the floor. The dark bullet holes in his chest illuminated like openings cut into his very structure.
Pain flooded my entire body. I lost my balance and placed one hand against the floor. Frank turned his head toward me, his face distorted by suffering.
"Don't tell him anything," he managed.
Even now, he was trying to protect our secret.
Kent pulled again. Something gave way inside my chest.
"He is part of me!" I shouted.
The light stopped advancing. The chains did not disappear, but they became motionless. Kent looked down toward me.
"Clarify."
I struggled to breathe. "Release him."
"Clarify."
His tone contained no negotiation. Frank weakly shook his head.
"Malcolm, no."
I looked at him suspended in the chains, golden cracks running across his arms and torso. I knew a bullet could not destroy him. I did not know what this magic could do.
"I died before becoming Malcolm Beaumont," I said.
Ted abruptly turned his head toward me. Kent remained motionless.
"My name was Frank. I was a security guard. I died during a robbery. Then I woke in a new life, in this body, with all of my memories."
The light around the disk pulsed.
"Reincarnation," Kent stated.
"Yes."
I pressed my fingers against the floor. "For years, Frank did not exist separately. He was only my memory, my former identity, part of what I had been before."
Ted looked at the figure trapped in the chains. "Then what?"
"He began appearing. Speaking. Thinking without me."
Kent studied the restraints. "An individuation occurring after reincarnation."
"I don't care what you call it."
My voice shook with anger.
"He is not a foreign soul that attached itself to me. We come from the same place. If you tear him out, you are not freeing me. You are ripping the same soul in two."
Silence returned. Only the vibration of the chains remained. Kent looked at my arm. No injury was visible on my skin, but my muscles trembled in rhythm with the cracks running across Frank.
The light in his eyes faded. He slowly loosened his fingers.
The chains vanished.
Frank fell to his knees. I felt the impact as a dull pain. He tried to stand, wavered, and moved toward me. When he fused, the cold entered my body with enough violence to knock the breath from me.
I ended up with both hands on the floor, divided between my own pain and his. Ted crouched beside me.
"Malcolm. Look at me."
I raised my head with difficulty. His face was tense.
"Can you breathe?"
"Yes."
"Is anything broken?"
My dignity, Frank weakly transmitted.
I closed my eyes for a second. "I don't think so."
Ted placed one hand on my shoulder, then looked up at Kent. "You said this was an examination."
Kent wrapped the disk in the white cloth again. The light completely left his gaze, and he became an elderly man in a dark suit once more.
"My initial diagnosis was incomplete."
Ted straightened. "That is not an apology."
"It was not presented as one."
Kent approached me and raised two fingers toward my forehead. I caught his wrist before he touched me. The movement was faster than I would have thought possible in my condition.
He looked down at my hand. "I must examine the structure of the bond."
"You do not touch me again without asking."
"Your ability to prevent me is nonexistent."
I tightened my grip. "That is not the point."
Ted moved beside me. "In my gym, it is."
Kent looked successively at Ted, my hand, and my face. Slight irritation crossed his calm.
"May I examine the bond?"
I did not release him immediately. "Will it hurt Frank?"
"No."
Do you believe him? I asked mentally.
Frank took several seconds to respond.
He mostly looks offended that he had to ask.
I released Kent's wrist. "Once."
He placed two fingers against my forehead. The contact was cold. For a fraction of a second, the room disappeared. I saw no true image, only a vast darkness crossed by two luminous lines originating from the same point. They had separated and moved away from each other but remained connected by thousands of finer filaments. Some appeared ancient. Others continued forming.
Kent withdrew his hand. His expression had changed. Absolute certainty was gone.
"You spoke the truth," he admitted.
Ted crossed his arms. "Another particularly generous way of apologizing."
Kent ignored the remark. "A single spiritual origin developed into two distinct identities. The second should not be capable of maintaining this autonomy."
"Yet I am here," Frank murmured from inside me.
Kent inclined his head slightly. He had heard him.
"Yes. You exist. The question is what you have become."
I slowly stood with the help of the ring ropes. "I believe we have participated enough in your examination."
"No."
The answer was immediate.
I stared at him. Kent recovered his coat from the office.
"I confirmed that the spirit is not foreign to your soul. I have not confirmed that it is stable, autonomous, or incapable of absorbing you over time."
Frank shifted inside my mind.
I am beginning to hate his vocabulary.
"You are finished," I said.
Kent put on his coat. "A child is in danger."
The sentence immediately changed the atmosphere in the room. Ted stopped looking at him angrily.
"That's why you came yesterday?"
"In part."
"And the other part involved preparing an exorcism inside my gym?"
"The presence of this spirit altered the parameters."
Ted passed one hand over his face. "I hate when you speak like that."
I remained leaning against the ropes. "What child?"
Kent placed his gloves on the counter. "Eli Hale. Nine years old. His father died six months ago in a subway accident. For three weeks, a voice has been calling him from the attic of his home. It uses the dead man's memories and is attempting to obtain an invitation."
"An invitation to what?"
"To enter the child."
Frank straightened slightly inside me. Kent continued:
"The mother initially believed they were dreams. Then doors began opening by themselves. Objects change position. A figure appears in mirrors."
Ted looked toward the place where Frank had been visible. "You want to use him to approach the entity."
"The dead perceive certain structures that the living alter merely by their presence."
I felt my anger return. "You just tried to destroy him, and now you want his help."
"I attempted to remove what I had identified as a threat. The information changed."
"The facts did not change. You merely decided to examine them after acting."
Kent did not answer. I picked up my jacket from the bench.
"Find someone else."
"I can contain the entity," he stated. "But its connection to the child is already advanced. A direct attack may force the presence to take refuge inside him. Frank can reach it before that happens."
I stopped.
He had used his name.
Frank remained silent for several seconds.
He may be telling the truth.
He almost destroyed you.
And if a child hears his dead father, you already know we are not going home.
I closed my eyes. Unfortunately, he knew me very well.
Ted put on his coat. Kent turned his head toward him.
"Your presence is unnecessary."
"I'm not coming for the entity."
Ted pointed his chin toward Kent. "I'm coming to make sure you do not decide to tear out another soul without warning."
Kent did not object.
I checked the time. "I need five minutes."
"Three will be sufficient," Kent answered.
I stared at him.
Ted opened the locker-room door. "Take five. Waiting will be good for him."
∗ ∗ ∗
Ted drove an old Ford pickup whose heater produced more noise than warmth. I sat in the passenger seat. Kent was behind us, perfectly straight despite the limited space. Frank remained fused with me to recover. The marks left by the chains did not close like his ordinary injuries. Every movement of his right arm caused cold pain through my shoulder.
The vehicle crossed Manhattan, passed over the Brooklyn Bridge, and continued toward a residential street in Park Slope. The tall buildings gradually gave way to rows of brownstones, narrow staircases, and nearly bare trees whose branches stood out beneath the streetlamps.
Ted drove with both hands on the wheel. "How long before he recovers?"
"I don't know."
"Usually?"
"Physical injuries reduce his cohesion. When he returns inside me, he recovers using my energy."
"And this?"
Frank tried moving his arm. Pain crossed my shoulder.
"This isn't the same."
Kent spoke from the back seat. "Ordinary violence disperses his form. Magic reaches the structure producing it."
I looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. "Can it kill him?"
"Yes."
Silence settled inside the vehicle.
Frank made no remark. The possibility had always existed in theory. We knew something aimed directly at the soul could represent a threat. Until tonight, the danger had remained abstract. Bullets could pass through Frank. Blows dispersed his cohesion. Even when he had absorbed my wound, I had never truly believed he might cease to exist.
Kent had just proved otherwise.
"You could have warned us before using that magic," I said.
"You denied his existence."
"Because you were a stranger."
"Caution was reasonable. The lie less so."
Ted looked in the rearview mirror. "Kent."
"Yes?"
"Be quiet for a few minutes."
Kent did not answer. That small victory appeared to improve Ted's mood slightly.
The Hale house stood in the middle of a row of brownstones built almost a century earlier. Its facade was darker than its neighbors. Dead wisteria still wound around the iron railing. Three steps led to a red door whose paint peeled near the handle. A light burned on the ground floor. Every upper-story window was dark.
Yet the curtain in the upper dormer moved.
There was no wind.
Ted parked the pickup across the street. Kent got out first. When he stepped onto the sidewalk, he immediately raised his eyes toward the roof.
"It is more active than this afternoon."
I got out in turn. Frank slowly separated from me. His silhouette appeared near the vehicle, more transparent than usual. Golden cracks still ran along his right arm and vanished beneath his shirt sleeve.
He looked at the house. "I feel something."
"What?" I asked quietly.
Ted looked at me, understanding I was speaking to Frank.
"A presence," he answered. "But it does not resemble a person. It is hollow."
Kent turned toward him. "Do not attempt contact before I instruct you."
Frank raised an eyebrow. "He is already giving orders."
"Would you prefer chains?"
"I would prefer a third option."
The door opened before we reached the steps. A woman appeared in the doorway. She had to be in her thirties, but lack of sleep had carved deep shadows beneath her eyes. Her brown hair was tied in a hurried bun, several strands escaping. She wore a blue cardigan over a white T-shirt and held a kitchen knife in her right hand.
When she recognized Kent, her arm lowered slightly.
"Mr. Nelson."
"Mrs. Hale."
Her gaze moved toward Ted, then me. "I thought you were coming alone."
"The situation requires additional assistance."
Miriam Hale examined my jacket, running shoes, and hands still marked by boxing wraps.
"Are you a police officer?"
"Not tonight."
The answer did not seem to reassure her. A light sound echoed inside the house.
Three knocks against the ceiling.
Miriam abruptly turned around. "Eli is in the living room."
Kent climbed the steps. "Invite us inside."
She hesitated.
The sound came again.
Three knocks.
Then a man's voice descended from upstairs.
"Miriam?"
The woman went pale. The knife trembled in her hand.
"That is his voice," she whispered.
Kent remained on the threshold. "You must invite us."
"Come in," she breathed. "Please."
The invisible pressure surrounding the house yielded.
We crossed the doorway. The interior was warmer than the street, but a smell of cold dust remained beneath the scent of coffee and furniture polish. The hallway was narrow. Family photographs covered the wall beside the staircase. Daniel Hale appeared in almost all of them. A thin man with brown hair, a slightly awkward smile, and rectangular glasses. In one photograph, he carried Eli on his shoulders in front of a carousel. In another, he held a birthday cake covered with nine candles.
The boy sat on the living-room couch. He wore green pajamas beneath a gray sweatshirt far too large for him. Brown hair fell across his forehead, and his hands gripped a small plastic subway car. He looked at Kent, then Ted and me.
"Dad came back," he announced.
Miriam closed her eyes.
Ted crouched several steps from the boy. His broad body and marked face could have intimidated him, but his voice immediately became gentler.
"What's your name, champ?"
"Eli."
"I'm Ted."
He pointed toward the car between his hands. "Is it fast?"
Eli lowered his eyes toward the toy. "My father gave it to me."
"Then it must be sturdy."
The boy nodded. Kent moved toward the center of the room and took a small wooden box from his pocket. He opened it, revealing white powder and several fragments of golden stone.
I remained near Miriam. "When did the voice begin?"
She rubbed her hands against her cardigan. "Three weeks ago. Eli told me he heard Daniel in the attic. I thought he was dreaming."
"Does it speak only to your son?"
"At first."
A creak sounded in the staircase. Miriam looked toward the ceiling.
"Now it calls me too."
"Does it answer questions?"
She frowned. "I don't understand."
"When you speak to it, does it respond to what you just said, or does it always repeat the same sentences?"
Miriam thought. "It says it is upstairs. That we should not be afraid. It asks Eli to come see it."
"Anything else?"
She looked at her son. "It tells him not to wake me. Daniel sometimes said that when they went to build things early in the morning."
Kent drew a line of powder in front of the living-room door. "A memory repeats. A consciousness responds."
I looked at him. "You think it isn't her husband."
"It is not her husband."
Miriam tensed. "You cannot know that."
Kent straightened. "The dead do not return using only the phrases expected of them."
His bluntness was brutal. Ted turned his head toward him.
"You could try speaking like a human being."
Kent ignored the remark. I turned toward Miriam.
"Did you move anything into the attic before the phenomena began?"
She quickly wiped her eyes. "I put away Daniel's things. His clothes, his tools. I could not keep seeing them in our bedroom."
"Anything from the accident?"
Her gaze settled on the car Eli held. "His bag was returned by the transit police. It was damaged. I put its contents in a crate."
Kent raised his eyes toward the ceiling. "Where is the crate?"
"In the attic."
The voice echoed above us.
"Eli."
The boy stiffened. Ted gently placed one hand in front of him without touching.
The voice continued:
"Come see."
Eli stood. His mother grabbed his arm.
"No."
"It's Dad."
"It is not him."
The boy's face twisted. "You don't know!"
The lamps went out.
The house fell into darkness. Miriam screamed. Golden light appeared in Kent's hand, illuminating his face from below.
"Theodore, remain with them."
Ted stood. "Where are you going?"
"To the attic."
Kent looked at Frank. "Frank is coming with me."
Frank crossed his arms. "That is at least progress. He is using my name."
I placed myself slightly in front of him. "He is not going anywhere alone with you."
"His nature will allow him to cross the defenses without providing the entity with a living body. Yours will not."
"I'm accompanying him to the top floor."
"You will slow the operation."
"That is the price of beginning our relationship with an attempted exorcism."
A shadow crossed the hallway above us. Kent turned away.
"Remain within range of your bond."
He climbed the stairs. I followed him. Frank passed ahead through the railing.
On the first floor, the cold intensified. Kent's golden light reflected on the frames hanging on the wall. In every photograph, Daniel's face seemed turned slightly toward the staircase. I knew it was probably an impression. That did not make it more pleasant.
The second floor contained two bedrooms and a bathroom. Every door stood open except the one at the end of the hallway. Scratches marked the wood near the handle.
Frank approached. "That isn't the attic."
Kent passed one hand above the door. Golden symbols briefly appeared in the air.
"An accumulation of fear. Not the source."
I looked at the distance separating us from Frank. Around three meters.
Can you hear me?
He turned his head slightly.
Yes.
Do not exceed the range without warning.
I will do my best.
Kent reached the narrow staircase leading to the third floor. There was no longer any carpet. The wooden steps creaked beneath our weight. The ceiling gradually lowered, and the walls were covered with floral wallpaper yellowed by time.
Frank climbed through the ceiling. Pressure immediately formed in my chest.
Cold.
The word came with an impression of emptiness.
Kent stopped beneath a square hatch. A cord hung from the panel.
"He is above us," I murmured.
Kent looked at me. "You perceive him?"
"His direction. Not his senses."
"Not his vision?"
"No."
Kent caught the cord. The hatch opened in a cloud of dust. A folding ladder descended violently and stopped a few centimeters from his face, held by an invisible force.
Golden light rose through the opening. The attic was filled with crates, furniture covered in sheets, and dark beams. An old oval mirror leaned against one wall, its surface crossed by a vertical crack.
Frank stood near an open trunk. His silhouette appeared almost absorbed by the darkness.
"The crate is here," he said.
I heard his voice only through the hatch. He moved farther away, and the link stretched.
Kent began climbing. I placed one foot on the ladder.
Then Frank's thought crossed my mind.
Someone.
I stopped.
The thought was weak and distorted.
Where?
No answer.
Frank leaned over the trunk. Inside were a work jacket, broken glasses, a wallet, several tools, and a canvas bag stained dark brown.
A form appeared in the mirror.
Daniel Hale stood behind Frank.
Or something used his face.
The figure had the height and clothing of the man photographed beside the staircase, but his features remained slightly blurred. His smile was too still. His eyes reflected no light.
Frank turned around. "You are not Daniel."
The apparition opened its mouth. The voice that emerged was Frank's.
"And you are not Frank."
The mental link suddenly filled with fear.
I climbed faster. Kent reached the attic before me.
The apparition moved out of the mirror. Its form tore into black filaments, then reassembled behind Frank.
"You are a memory," it said in his voice. "A habit the living man has not yet abandoned."
Frank stepped back. His heel passed through a crate.
Kent raised one hand. "Close it."
Golden lines burst from his fingers and struck the mirror. Symbols covered the surface. The apparition turned toward him, and its face became that of a man wearing a golden helmet.
Kent froze for a fraction of a second.
The figure smiled. "You are only a man beneath another's mask."
The light around Kent wavered. Then his expression became cold again.
"Insufficient imitation."
He closed his fist.
The mirror shattered.
The apparition dispersed into black smoke. One second later, Daniel's voice sounded from the ground floor.
"Eli, come."
The floor vibrated. Miriam screamed from the living room. Ted shouted the boy's name.
I turned toward the hatch.
It slammed shut. The ladder folded away. The entire house seemed to breathe.
Frank passed through the floor. "It went downstairs!"
Kent drew a circle in the air. A golden opening briefly appeared on the hatch before vanishing.
"The passage is blocked."
"Then open it."
He placed one hand against the wood. Black symbols appeared beneath his fingers.
"The entity is using the grief within the house as an anchor. Destroying the barrier directly could open every room to it."
I looked around. A small window overlooked the rear roof.
"There is another way out."
Kent followed my gaze. "The fall is more than nine meters."
"I don't intend to fall."
I opened the window. Cold entered the attic. A drainpipe descended along the rear facade. A small service balcony stood one floor below, separated by a narrow roof projection.
Frank reappeared beside me. "I can pass directly through."
"Go."
"And you?"
"I'm going down."
Kent caught my shoulder. "Your life is not necessary to this operation."
I removed his hand. "Neither is the child's."
I climbed through the window.
The ledge was wet. Frank fused as my feet left the stone. Together, we caught the drainpipe. The metal bent under my weight. I swung toward the lower projection and let go.
My shoes struck the tiles. I slipped.
Frank corrected the angle of my hips and shoulder. We rolled toward the edge, where my hand closed around a cornice. Empty space opened beneath my legs.
Left.
I swung my body and placed one foot on the service balcony. The window was locked. Frank emerged from me, passed his arm through the glass, and materialized his fingers around the interior handle.
The window opened.
We entered a dark bedroom. Downstairs, Eli screamed.
I ran into the hallway. The landing door slammed against the wall. A black form descended the staircase, stretching between the railings like liquid smoke.
Ted stood at the foot of the stairs. He held Miriam behind him with one arm and searched for Eli. The small door beneath the staircase was open.
"He went under there!" Miriam shouted.
I jumped down four steps.
The black smoke folded toward me. Frank tried to grab it. His materialized hand touched the mass, and the golden crack along his arm immediately reopened.
He screamed. Pain crossed my shoulder.
The entity closed around him. It took his face.
"He only wants you because he is afraid of being alone," it whispered in his voice. "The day he no longer needs you, what will remain?"
Frank's cohesion wavered. I felt his doubt through the link.
That fear already existed within him.
The entity had not created it. It had only given it a voice.
"Frank."
The smoke dragged him toward the wall. The distance increased. I tried to follow, but a chair flew across the hallway and struck the railing in front of me. The wood shattered.
Ted caught the back of a second chair thrown toward Miriam and deflected it with his forearm.
"Take care of your friend!" he shouted.
Frank disappeared through the wall with the entity.
The link stretched until it hurt. I closed my eyes.
Frank.
No answer.
I saw nothing through him. I did not hear what he heard. I perceived only cold emptiness, fear that was not mine, and the general direction of his presence somewhere behind the wall and beneath the staircase.
Listen to me.
The entity used Frank's doubts to answer.
You are dead.
I clenched my teeth.
Frank.
He took your life.
My vision blurred. The distance exceeded anything we had maintained voluntarily. Yet something remained open.
You are not only my memories.
A weak reaction crossed the link.
I continued.
You chose to come to the gym. You chose to help Darius. You chose to take the bullet.
Cold tightened around my chest.
All of that could have been his choice, the echo answered through Frank's doubts.
I placed one hand against the wall.
You disagree with me every day.
A confused emotion appeared.
You mock my clothes. You criticize my food. You hate when I read reports aloud, and you tell jokes I do not find funny.
The fear changed.
A point of irritation crossed the link.
I held onto it.
You are annoying in a completely independent way.
A weak thought reached my mind.
What an insulting argument.
I released a breath.
But you are here.
The pressure retreated.
Frank suddenly passed through the wall. The black smoke tore around him. His silhouette stabilized, his teeth clenched.
"I am here."
The entity screamed. Daniel's voice, Frank's voice, and Eli's voice merged into the same sound.
Beneath the stairs, a small door slammed. Ted opened it with his shoulder. A narrow passage descended toward the basement.
Eli walked in the middle of the steps, his eyes open without seeming to see anything around him. A figure waited below. Daniel Hale held out his arms.
"Come, Eli."
The boy descended one step.
Ted rushed forward. The wood beneath his feet broke. He caught the railing with one hand and Eli's wrist with the other. Half the staircase collapsed into the darkness.
Miriam screamed her son's name.
Ted remained suspended above the gap, the muscles in his arm taut beneath his sleeve.
"Malcolm!"
I dove into the passage and caught Eli beneath the shoulders. The boy struggled.
"Let me go! Dad is there!"
The figure at the bottom of the basement raised its head. Its face split vertically. Behind Daniel's features was only a black hollow.
Frank descended through the broken steps. The entity rushed toward him.
Golden light suddenly filled the passage. Kent stood in the hallway with one hand raised. Symbols turned around his arm like rings.
"Move aside."
Ted pulled himself onto the landing while I held Eli against me. Kent brought his hand down. A circle of light appeared in the basement. The entity was thrown into its center, but its smoke immediately spread toward the walls.
"It is seeking a body," Kent stated. "Remove the child from the house."
Miriam took Eli into her arms. Ted guided them toward the front door.
I remained at the top of the passage. Frank watched the entity.
Kent raised the bronze disk. "It does not possess a sufficiently stable structure to be banished while remaining connected to this family's memories."
"How do we detach it?"
"It must choose a form and maintain it."
Frank understood before I did.
"You want me to hold it."
Kent inclined his head. "Your cohesion can provide spiritual opposition without offering it a living organism."
I descended one intact step. "No."
Frank turned toward me. "Malcolm."
"You're already injured."
"The child is outside. If we let it escape, it will follow him."
"Kent will find something else."
Frank looked at the old man. "He has nothing else."
Kent's silence confirmed his conclusion.
The smoke struck the boundary of the circle. Cracks appeared in the light. Kent raised his second hand.
"The decision must be immediate."
"You are not ordering him," I said.
"I am not."
His gaze settled on Frank.
"If he is autonomous, he will choose."
I understood then that the test had never truly ended.
Frank did too.
Brief anger crossed his face. Then he looked toward the door through which Eli had just left.
"I choose anyway."
He descended into the basement.
"Frank."
He stopped at the edge of the circle without looking at me.
"You spent twenty years deciding for both of us. Let me take this one."
I wanted to answer.
I could not find the right.
Frank entered the circle. The entity threw itself at him. He materialized both arms and closed his hands around the black form. Smoke immediately wrapped around his torso. The cracks left by the exorcism reopened.
I felt his pain through the link.
He fell to one knee.
"Now," he growled.
Kent spoke words in a language I did not know. The light around the circle turned white. The entity successively took Daniel's face, Frank's, Miriam's, then mine.
"You cannot save him," it said in my voice.
Frank tightened his grip. "He is extremely annoying to save, but I have practice."
The smoke tried to pass through his body.
Frank screamed.
I descended to the edge of the circle. "Hold on."
Easy to say.
The thought was weak but clear despite the distance and magic.
I kept the link open.
Not to absorb his pain.
Only to remind him he was not alone.
Kent closed his hands. The symbols contracted around the entity. Light passed through Frank without pushing him away. The smoke compressed.
Daniel's face appeared one final time.
It no longer looked threatening.
Only sad.
Then it tore apart in silence.
The cold left the house.
Frank collapsed.
I crossed the boundary of the circle as soon as it disappeared. He weakly raised one hand. I passed through it at first, then his fingers materialized around my wrist.
He fused.
Pain entered me like liquid ice.
I fell to my knees.
Kent remained standing above the extinguished circle. His face was pale, but his posture remained perfectly straight.
"He chose," he stated.
I raised my head. "You still doubted it?"
"Yes."
His honesty made me want to hit him more than a lie would have.
Kent put away the disk. "An echo does not sacrifice itself to preserve a will distinct from its own. A parasite does not protect its host at the cost of its own existence when escape remains possible."
Frank moved weakly inside me.
He just called me a person in the tone of an administrative report.
I placed one hand against the wall to stand.
"Then what is he?"
Kent looked toward the place where Frank now rested inside me.
"Someone."
The word was simple.
Yet it carried more weight than all his previous diagnoses.
∗ ∗ ∗
Miriam and Eli waited on the sidewalk, wrapped in blankets Ted had found in his pickup. The boy had fallen asleep against his mother. His small subway car still protruded from his closed fist.
The facade of the house looked different. The dead wisteria still surrounded the railing. The dormer curtain remained visible. Paint continued peeling from the door. Yet the windows no longer seemed to be watching the street.
Miriam stood when we came out.
"Is it over?"
Kent descended the steps. "Yes."
She looked at her son. "Was it Daniel?"
Kent remained silent for a moment. His voice, when he answered, was less harsh than it had been in the gym.
"No. Something formed around your grief and the memories preserved in this house. It knew what you expected to hear, but possessed nothing of your husband beyond those traces."
Miriam lowered her eyes. "Then Daniel wasn't there."
"I cannot tell you where your husband is. Only what was not him."
She slowly nodded. The answer hurt her, but Kent did not offer a comfortable lie.
Ted adjusted the blanket around Eli's shoulders. "Do you have family you can stay with?"
"My sister lives in Queens."
"Call her. Do not stay here tonight."
Miriam looked toward the door. "Is the house still dangerous?"
Kent turned toward the windows. "Not anymore. But your son should not wake in the same place."
She nodded. Ted helped her place Eli inside a taxi while Kent drew a small symbol on the inner doorframe. The mark glowed for one second before disappearing into the wood.
I remained on the sidewalk. Frank emerged from me with difficulty. His silhouette was more transparent than after the bullet. Golden cracks now ran across his arm, shoulder, and part of his torso. They were barely closing.
He examined his hands. "This is going to take a while."
"Go back inside me."
"In a minute. I need air."
I looked around us. "You do not breathe."
"Habits are persistent."
Kent descended the steps. His eyes settled on Frank.
"Remain connected to Malcolm for several days. Your structure will repair more easily from its source."
Frank raised his eyes. "You could also say you are sorry."
Kent remained motionless. Ted joined us.
"For once, I agree with the ghost."
Kent looked at Frank, then me. "My initial intervention was premature."
Frank waited.
"That's it?"
Slight tension appeared in Kent's jaw.
"I identified you as an anomaly before determining whether you were a person. That error caused unnecessary damage."
Frank crossed his arms, then grimaced as the cracks reacted.
"That is almost an apology."
"Do not mistake the acknowledgment of an error for general approval of your behavior."
"There. You ruined the moment."
Kent removed a small object from his pocket. It was a disk thinner than the one used in the gym, suspended from a black cord. A simple symbol had been engraved on its surface.
He held it out to me.
I did not take it immediately. "What is it?"
"A warning device. If the spiritual injury spreads, the metal will heat. Break it, and I will know."
"You will be monitoring us?"
"No."
Frank tilted his head. "He answered very quickly."
Kent ignored him.
I took the disk. The metal was cold.
"Thank you."
Kent put his gloves back on. "Your bond will probably continue evolving. Communication is only one expression of that evolution."
I slipped the disk into my pocket. "Do you know what it will become?"
"No."
The answer almost seemed to displease him.
"Two identities from a single spiritual origin should not be capable of maintaining this separation indefinitely. Your shared existence falls outside the structures I know."
Frank looked at his translucent hands. "So I am illegal according to the laws of the universe."
"Unclassifiable," Kent corrected.
"That is more polite."
Kent turned toward me. "Any pathway opened between two spirits may also become an entrance. Learn to close your bond as surely as you open it."
I thought of the entity using Frank's doubts.
"Can you teach us?"
Kent looked at the time on an old watch. "Not tonight."
He went down toward the street.
Ted followed him with his gaze. "You're just leaving?"
Kent stopped. "The threat is removed."
"You attacked one of my students, used his ghost to contain something that ate memories, and now you're leaving without helping clean."
Kent observed the house's windows. "Cleaning is a human task."
Ted rolled his eyes.
Kent walked away. His silhouette disappeared around the corner without any vehicle waiting for him.
Frank watched where he had vanished. "I hate him slightly less than before."
"Only slightly?"
"He tried to erase me three hours ago. I am reasonable, not amnesiac."
Ted opened the pickup door. "Get in."
I looked at Frank. He fused without protest. Cold crossed my body again.
Beneath the pain, I felt something else.
Calm relief.
Someone, he transmitted.
The word arrived clearly.
Yes, I answered.
∗ ∗ ∗
It was almost two in the morning when we returned to the Grant Gymnasium. Ted parked the pickup in front of the entrance and turned off the engine. The streets were almost empty. A car passed through the intersection, its tires producing a wet sound against the road.
"You can go home," Ted said. "We'll talk tomorrow."
I opened the door, then closed it again without getting out.
Ted looked at me. "What?"
"No."
He placed one hand on the steering wheel. "No what?"
"No, we are not talking tomorrow. We are talking now."
His face closed. "You're injured."
"Frank is injured. I am tired. Neither of those things prevents me from asking questions."
Ted looked toward the gym's facade. "You already received many answers tonight."
"Kent tried to tear out part of my soul. I told you something my parents, friends, and partner do not know. Then I followed you into a haunted house to stop a child from being possessed."
I turned my face toward him.
"You are not going to start pretending again that you are only a remarkably well-preserved former boxer."
Ted stared at me for several seconds, then removed the key from the ignition.
"You know how to be difficult."
Frank moved weakly inside my mind.
He likes you.
I don't think so.
For him, it is probably the same thing.
Ted got out. We entered the gym. The room was cold. The main fluorescent lights remained off. Ted switched on only the lamps above the counter and ring, leaving the heavy bags and weight machines in shadow.
He placed his keys beside the register. I removed my jacket.
Frank emerged from me and sat on the edge of the ring. His cohesion had slightly improved during the drive, but the golden cracks remained visible.
Ted followed my gaze. He could no longer see Frank now that Kent's magic was no longer revealing him.
"He's here?"
"Yes."
Ted nodded. "Can he hear me?"
"Yes."
Frank raised one hand. "Tell him I accept apologies in cash."
I ignored him.
Ted went behind the counter and took out a bottle of water. He threw it to me.
"What do you want to know?"
I opened the bottle. "Who is Kent Nelson?"
"He is still alive."
"You know what I mean."
Ted leaned against the counter. "Kent Nelson is an archaeologist. A scholar. A man who spent more time arguing with ancient powers than with ordinary people."
"And the rest?"
Ted looked toward the office door. "The rest wears a golden helmet and calls itself Doctor Fate."
The name caused a weak reaction in Frank. Not a precise story, only a fragmented image of a golden helmet, a cape, and a figure floating in immense darkness. He said nothing. I kept my face neutral.
"A magician?"
"That is the simplest word."
"And the most accurate?"
Ted gave a humorless smile. "Not really. Kent serves something he calls Order. Sometimes he wears the power. Sometimes the power wears him."
I thought of the golden eyes and the voice stripped of hesitation.
"Was that still Kent in the room?"
Ted considered before answering. "Enough of him to make the decision. Enough of something else not to wonder how it would be received."
"Do you trust him?"
Ted looked at his own hands. "With the end of the world, sometimes. With other people's personal boundaries, much less."
I drank some water. "And you?"
He looked up. "Me what?"
"Who were you?"
Ted did not immediately answer.
"I am not asking for Kent's secrets," I continued. "I am not asking for the child's or his family's. I am asking what you did."
"Why?"
"Because I just discovered that men capable of exorcising souls and stopping monsters have existed long enough to retire. Because Frank can be killed by this world, and I do not know what rules it follows."
I placed the bottle on the bench.
"And because you now know one of the only things I have never told anyone."
Ted looked toward the place where Frank sat.
"I will tell my story. Other people's secrets do not belong to me. You will get some names, certain facts, and many answers you will not like."
"Start with what belongs to you."
Ted walked toward the ring. He passed between the ropes and sat on the edge, his forearms resting on his thighs. For several seconds, he contemplated the empty gym.
"I did not plan to become a hero," he began. "I wanted to be champion."
His voice had lost the usual dryness he used during training.
"Boxing was the only thing I truly understood. You work. You enter the ring. You hit the man in front of you. If he stays standing longer than you, he wins. It is not always fair, but at least the rules are visible."
He passed one hand along the lower rope.
"My managers were named Flint and Skinner. Two men capable of smiling as if they were doing you a favor while calculating how much they would earn from your funeral."
Ted explained that they had begun by manipulating bets. Nothing obvious enough to cause an immediate scandal. A few pieces of information sold, schedules changed, opponents chosen at the right time.
Then they wanted to fix one of his fights.
His opponent was named "Socker" Smith. A solid, experienced man, good enough to represent a danger and not famous enough for his fall to immediately trigger a national investigation.
Flint and Skinner had paid someone to pour something into his bottle.
"They wanted him slow," Ted said. "Not unconscious. Just weakened enough to secure the bets."
His face hardened.
"They miscalculated the dose."
Socker Smith had begun the fight. He lasted two rounds. In the third, his legs stopped responding. Ted saw him raise his guard too late, struggle to breathe, and still attempt to continue.
Then Smith collapsed.
He died before reaching the hospital.
"I thought I had killed him," Ted said while looking at the floor. "Even after the autopsy, part of me continued believing it. My fist had been the last thing to touch him. Logic does not always erase that."
I saw Marcus lying against the metal door again, the scar above his lip, and blood between my fingers. I said nothing.
Flint and Skinner had feared the substance would be found and their involvement discovered. So they manufactured another story. Ted had bought the drug. Ted had wanted to weaken his opponent. Ted had panicked after causing his death. The two managers produced witnesses, moved money, and prepared documents convincing enough for the police to arrest their own boxer.
"I was in a cell when they realized I could still talk," Ted continued.
Flint and Skinner ordered his murder. Two men attacked the vehicle transporting him. Ted survived. The officers guarding him did not.
When he woke beside the crashed car, wounded and covered in the blood of the two officers, with no living witness to explain the attack, he became the perfect suspect.
Accused of Socker Smith's death.
Accused of murdering the police officers.
On the run.
"I should have surrendered," Ted said. "That was what the intelligent part of my mind said."
Frank leaned slightly forward. "He already had one?"
I kept my expression neutral.
"The part that knew Flint and Skinner understood I would not survive long enough to reach trial," Ted continued.
He left the city for several days, slept in warehouses, and searched for a way to obtain confessions. That was when he met a boy in an alley. Two older teenagers had just stolen a comic book from him.
The boy had a bloody nose, a torn sleeve, and more anger than fear. Ted asked why he had fought over a few printed pages. The child told him about Green Lantern. Not the real man, whom he obviously did not know, but the hero from the comics. A masked vigilante armed with green light who confronted criminals without waiting for them to become polite enough to confess.
"He told me a mask allowed someone to become greater than his name," Ted explained. "I don't think he really understood what he was saying. He mainly wanted his comic book back."
"You got it back?"
Ted looked at me as though the answer were obvious. "Of course."
"And then?"
"Then I stole a child's idea."
Wildcat's first costume had been made from whatever he could find: thick black fabric, reinforced gloves, boots, and a crude mask whose ears were supposed to suggest a large feline.
"It was ridiculous," Ted admitted.
Frank raised an eyebrow. "At last, a fact everyone can agree on."
"But nobody was looking for Wildcat," Ted continued. "The police were looking for Ted Grant. Flint and Skinner were watching Ted Grant. A man in a black costume could ask questions a fugitive could not."
Ted found the men involved in the vehicle attack, followed the chain back to his former managers, and forced Flint and Skinner to confess. He did not specify exactly how. His expression suggested the method had probably involved several fractures.
The evidence cleared him. Socker Smith's death was attributed to those truly responsible. The murdered officers received justice.
Ted could have abandoned the costume then.
He had not.
"Once you see how many people are crushed because they do not have the right witnesses, the right lawyer, or the right name, it becomes difficult to return to the gym and pretend you learned nothing."
He looked toward the old bags hanging in the shadows.
"Wildcat began because Ted Grant needed to survive. He continued because other people needed someone to enter the room before the rules were written against them."
I remained silent. Frank already knew Wildcat's name and a few broad details. A boxer. A vigilante. An exceptional fighter who had belonged to an old team. He knew nothing of Socker Smith, Flint, Skinner, the murdered officers, or the boy in the alley.
Ted's account was no longer vague information preserved in the memories of another life. It now carried the weight of real deaths.
"Green Lantern truly existed?" I asked.
Ted raised his head slightly. "Yes."
"And the comic?"
"It was based on him. Very loosely."
Ted stood and climbed out of the ring.
"Stories were already circulating back then. Witnesses saw green light in the sky. Criminals said a man passed through walls or created objects with a ring. It was impossible to suppress everything."
He retrieved another bottle of water from behind the counter.
"So some people decided it was better to turn facts into fiction. They changed faces, cities, origins. They invented adventures simpler than the real ones. Enough truth to sell comic books, enough lies that no one could find the man beneath the mask."
A weak impression of recognition passed through the link. Green color. A figure. Power contained within something tiny. Frank possessed nothing more precise.
I showed nothing.
"You met him after becoming Wildcat?"
Ted gave a slight smile. "Not long after. I had managed to clear Ted Grant, but Wildcat had attracted attention. Not only from criminals."
He put down the bottle.
"I discovered I was not the only idiot wearing a costume to get shot at for free."
"Were there many of you?"
"It depended on the week."
Ted leaned against the counter.
"Alan Scott, Green Lantern. Jay Garrick, the Flash. Carter Hall, Hawkman. Rex Tyler, Hourman. Wesley Dodds, Sandman. Kent Nelson beneath Doctor Fate's helmet."
Each name produced a different reaction in Frank. A winged helmet glimpsed in a blurred image. A red streak. A dark cape. An hourglass. Fragments too vague to serve any purpose, but familiar enough to awaken something in his memory.
I kept my eyes on Ted. He continued without noticing our silent exchange.
"There were others. Some stayed a few months. Others returned only when things became too serious to ignore. And then there was Hippolyta."
The name surprised me more than the others. I did not react.
Ted looked at a point above my shoulder, lost in an old memory.
"Queen of the Amazons. The best fighter I ever met, though I probably would not have given her that title at the time. I was too young, too proud, and still convinced boxing answered almost every question."
A tired smile appeared on his face.
"She used the name Wonder Woman when she fought beside us."
Frank's surprise crossed our link with enough clarity to have been a word.
Hippolyta.
Not Diana.
I controlled my breathing.
"She was not American, and she did not particularly appreciate our group's full name," Ted continued. "But she believed the war concerned more than the borders of men."
"What was your group called?"
Ted observed me for several seconds, evaluating how much truth he was still willing to offer.
"The Justice Society of America."
The name remained suspended in the silent gym.
Frank knew it too. Not its complete history or exact membership, only the general image of an old group of heroes that had existed long before those his memories held more clearly.
Ted looked toward the photographs hanging on the wall.
"The name made us sound more organized than we were. Some wanted meetings. Others arrived after the fight had already begun. Kent spoke as if every sentence should be carved into a temple. Carter gave orders even when no one asked him."
"And you?"
"I hit people who seemed to deserve it."
"A highly sophisticated organization."
"It worked surprisingly often."
Ted's smile gradually disappeared.
"Then the war began swallowing everything else. Spies, saboteurs, and occult groups stopped being separate problems. They worked together. So we learned to do the same."
I allowed a silence to pass.
"You operated in Europe?"
Ted rubbed the back of his neck. "Less than we would have liked."
He walked toward the wall behind the counter and removed an old photograph protected by a dark wooden frame. He did not show it to me. He looked at it for several seconds before placing it face down on the counter.
"The Nazis obtained the Spear of Destiny."
I knew the name from my Catholic upbringing. That knowledge revealed nothing unusual.
"The weapon said to have pierced Christ."
"That one."
Ted placed both hands on the counter.
"The legends did not tell everything. The Spear could dominate the will, especially that of beings connected to magic, supernatural forces, or something beyond ordinary humanity."
I thought of Kent and the cold presence I had seen take possession of his gaze.
"It could have turned Doctor Fate against you."
Ted stared at me. "We never wanted to test it."
"And the others?"
"Green Lantern was vulnerable. Hippolyta too, at least in theory. Several of us could have become weapons for the enemy at the exact moment we thought we were stopping him."
His tone contained no pride. Only the memory of a limitation they had never been able to forget.
"So we worked around its influence. Sabotage, intelligence, convoy protection, operations against occult networks. Some missions in Europe, but never without precautions."
"Who had the Spear?"
Ted gave me a flat look. "That is one answer you will not receive."
"Where is it now?"
"Same answer."
I did not push further. He was respecting the limit he had announced. He told his own story and shared only the necessary elements concerning others.
"What happened after the war?"
Ted looked at the overturned photograph.
"We discovered that winning a war does not mean people stop being afraid. They only change targets."
He spoke of government committees, demands for identification, and officials who wanted the names beneath the masks, the families, homes, origins of powers, and ways to neutralize each of them.
"They called it accountability," Ted explained. "Some mostly wanted to be certain they could control us."
"You refused."
"Several of us did."
"And the others?"
"Some tried to cooperate. Some left before anyone could force the choice. Others were already too tired to continue."
Ted placed his hands on the counter.
"The Society was not destroyed during some great battle. There was no final enemy. We simply stopped meeting."
"Why did the public forget?"
"It did not completely forget."
He gestured toward the walls around us.
"There are still comic books, newspapers, a few photographs, and many stories told by people no one wanted to believe. War produces propaganda. The following years produce people who prefer to call anything disturbing propaganda."
Files had been classified. Testimony had been discredited. Photographs had been declared fake. Some traces had disappeared for perfectly human reasons. Others, Ted added without elaborating, had been altered by less ordinary means.
"Are any members left?"
"There are people left."
"That is not the same thing as a team."
"No."
Ted stared at me.
"And you are not going to look for them."
I did not answer immediately.
He raised one finger. "That was not an invitation to debate."
"You cannot tell me an old organization of heroes and magicians exists and then expect me not to try learning more."
"I can expect it perfectly well. I'm simply not naïve enough to believe it."
Frank smiled weakly from the ring.
"Those who want to be found know where I am," Ted continued. "Those who do not usually have a good reason."
"Kent found you."
"Kent finds everyone. It is one of his most unbearable qualities."
I picked up my jacket.
"You omitted a great deal."
"Yes."
"You admit that easily."
"I promised my story. I gave you enough information about the Society to understand what you just walked into. The rest concerns people who never gave you permission."
I thought of the exorcism. Ted probably followed my reasoning.
"I am not Kent," he added.
"No."
I looked toward the ring. "But you allowed him back into your gym."
Guilt crossed his face before he concealed it.
"I thought he was going to observe. Not act immediately."
"You could have warned me."
"Yes."
The answer was simple. Ted did not try to justify himself.
"I'm sorry."
They were the first direct apologies of the evening.
Frank turned toward him, though Ted could not see his expression.
"Accepted," he murmured.
I passed on the response.
"Frank says he accepts."
Ted slowly nodded. "Did he speak much while I could not hear him?"
"Almost constantly."
"I was beginning to suspect it."
Frank placed one hand against his chest. "That is hurtful."
I put on my jacket.
Before I left, Ted spoke again.
"Malcolm."
I turned around. His gaze was serious.
"Tonight was not an initiation. You are not part of a team. I am not going to send you to fight sorcerers."
"Good."
"But the things in this world tend to notice those who notice them. Kent saw you. The entity sensed both of you. Your friend exists in a way even Kent does not understand."
He pointed toward my pocket, where Nelson's disk rested.
"You can no longer pretend all of this will remain outside your life."
I looked toward the gym door. "I never believed the world would leave me entirely alone."
"No."
Ted gave a slight smile.
"You mostly look like the kind of person who would disturb it first."
∗ ∗ ∗
I returned home shortly before dawn. Frank remained fused throughout the journey. His presence was weaker but stable. Every step cost me more energy than usual, as though my body had to power two separate healing processes.
The apartment was silent. I removed my shoes near the door, drank a glass of water, and sat at the small desk in my bedroom. The lamp illuminated the notebooks stacked against the wall.
I took a new one.
The cover was black, without a picture or inscription.
Frank emerged long enough to lean against the desk. His silhouette wavered, but he refused to immediately return inside me.
"You should sleep."
"In five minutes."
"You always say that before filling three pages."
I opened the notebook and wrote on the first line:
JUSTICE SOCIETY OF AMERICA
Below it, I added:
Existence confirmed. Organization active before and during the Second World War.
I left a space, then recorded the information Ted had just given me.
Ted Grant: Wildcat.
Kent Nelson: Doctor Fate. Connected to a power or entity associated with Order.
Named members: Alan Scott, Green Lantern; Jay Garrick, Flash; Carter Hall, Hawkman; Rex Tyler, Hourman; Wesley Dodds, Sandman.
I paused before adding:
Justice Society's Wonder Woman: Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons. Diana is her daughter.
Frank read over my shoulder. "That is truly different."
"Yes."
I then added:
Spear of Destiny: real artifact. Used by the Nazi regime. Possible influence over the will of supernatural or empowered individuals. Current location unknown.
I turned the pen between my fingers.
For years, my memories had represented an advantage. Not an exact map, but a general direction. Names, cities, and possible events. That night had transformed that advantage into a danger. Partially correct information could be more deceptive than complete ignorance.
I wrote:
Frank's memories do not constitute the history of this world.
Frank studied the sentence.
"They are not all false."
"That is precisely the problem."
"Some are close enough."
"Close enough to make us careless."
He lowered his eyes toward the golden cracks still running along his arm.
"Kent was right about one thing."
"Only one?"
"We need to learn how to close the link."
I put down the pen. "Did you hear the entity inside my head?"
Frank thought. "Not exactly. It used my own thoughts. It took my doubts and gave them a voice."
"I felt part of what it was saying."
"Because I was afraid."
He looked at his hands.
"Emotions pass more easily than words now."
"And the distance was greater."
"Eight meters. Maybe ten with the floors and walls."
"With a migraine and an entity between us."
"Progress sometimes lacks elegance."
I closed the notebook. Frank remained beside the desk instead of returning inside me.
"Malcolm."
"What?"
He hesitated.
"Did you mean it?"
I immediately understood what he meant.
"That you are someone?"
He nodded.
"Yes."
"Even if we come from the same soul?"
"We may come from the same origin. That does not mean we are still the same person."
Frank looked toward the window, where the first traces of gray light appeared between the buildings.
"Kent seemed certain."
"Kent was also certain you needed to be exorcised. His error rate is therefore greater than zero."
A tired smile appeared on his face.
"That is a very police-like way of reassuring me."
"It is the best I have at this hour."
He returned inside me.
The room became silent.
I placed the notebook in the bottom drawer, behind those devoted to companies, cities, and events whose trajectories I once thought I knew. Before closing the drawer, I added one final sentence beneath my notes:
There were heroes before the ones I expected.
I remained still for a moment, looking at the words.
The world had not waited for the beginning of a new era to produce heroes. It had already known its masks, its secret wars, its mistakes, and its forgotten legends.
It had only learned how to bury them.
And some buried things always found their way back to the surface.