# Chapter 2: The Man in the Grey Aura
Rain greeted Alex the next morning—thin, misty, and steady. The kind that coated the city in a dull sheen. He stood at his tiny kitchen sink, the window fogged as the world beyond blurred into silhouettes.
He didn't feel nervous.
He felt calibrated.
The card the mysterious man had given him sat on the counter. Thick paper. Embossed edges. No name—just an address in Midtown and a time.
9:30 p.m.
No organization that operated openly would send something this cryptic.
Underground group? Secret society? Mafia branch? Government offshoot?
But the aura.
That cold, controlled grey.
Whatever they were, they weren't normal.
Alex finished his coffee, put on a jacket, and headed out into 1996.
---
## The City Moves
Through the day, he tested his aura sense—subtly.
A street cop flickered with mild orange.
A Wall Street broker shone faintly green.
But the strange glowing few—the elites—were rare.
Three in all of Manhattan.
One he saw in the subway, moving fast.
One near Wall Street (suit too polished, expression too blank).
And the third… the grey-man from last night.
He was different.
His aura wasn't just present—it was shaped. Trimmed. Suppressed.
A technique.
Meaning aura wasn't just a passive trait.
It could be trained.
He filed that away for future use.
---
## The Meeting
At 9:20 p.m., Alex stood before a nondescript office building in Midtown. It wasn't tall—only five floors. The windows were tinted. The lobby quiet.
Exactly the kind of place that hid important things.
He entered.
The receptionist didn't ask his name. She simply looked up, nodded once, and pointed toward the elevator.
He stepped in.
The elevator didn't have buttons.
It just… moved.
Down.
Deep.
A soft chime. The doors slid open.
A long hallway.
Two guards in suits stood at the end. Both pulsed with mild blue auras—trained but basic.
Behind them was a door.
"Romano," one guard said. "Inside. Hands where we can see them."
Alex complied, stepping into a dark room.
A projector flicked on.
A silhouette appeared.
Same build as the grey-man.
"You came," the silhouette said.
"You invited," Alex replied.
A pause.
Then the lights snapped on.
The grey-man stood across a long metal table.
"My name is Marcellus Grey," he said. "I recruit for an organization that protects the stability of this city. Our job is to find anomalies, threats, and people who… do not belong."
Alex's heartbeat didn't change.
"And which am I?"
Grey studied him.
"Unclassified. Unknown. Aura dormant but awakening. You play cards like a machine. You walk like someone trained. And your body shows no signs of being what you truly are."
Alex smiled slowly.
"What am I, then?"
Grey's eyes narrowed.
"A variable."
Good.
Variables broke systems.
Grey continued.
"We want to test you. Tonight. If you pass, you'll be given access to information that does not exist to the public. Knowledge about aura. Control. Training. Resources."
Alex folded his arms.
"And if I fail?"
Grey didn't blink.
"Then you walk away. No consequences. But you will never be contacted again."
So that was a lie.
The kind of lie told by organizations with too many knives.
"What's the test?" Alex asked.
Grey nodded to the door behind him.
It opened.
A man was shoved inside—a large man, muscles thick, eyes wild, aura blazing bright red.
"He is unstable," Grey said. "His aura erupted two days ago. He's stronger and faster than any normal human, but completely out of control."
The man roared, chains rattling.
"Your test, Romano… is to survive five minutes with him."
The guards unlatched the chains.
The man charged.
And Alex smiled.
---
## Five Minutes
Alex sidestepped as the unstable man slammed into the metal wall, leaving a dent.
Strength: above human.
Speed: erratic but powerful.
Aura: uncontrolled—more explosive than refined.
Alex's mind calculated.
Patterns.
Angles.
Breathing rhythm.
The man swung wildly.
Alex ducked.
Then leveled an elbow into the man's kidney—sharp, precise, targeted.
Not enough to knock him down.
But enough to shift momentum.
The man wheeled around.
Alex stepped back, letting him tire himself.
Grey watched quietly from behind reinforced glass.
"Why isn't he attacking?" one guard whispered.
Grey understood.
He whispered back:
"He's learning."
At minute two, Alex began striking only when openings appeared.
At minute three, he mapped the unstable man's entire pattern.
At minute four, the man's aura sputtered.
At minute five, Alex moved.
A single strike.
Open palm.
To the chest.
The man collapsed.
Not dead.
Just unconscious.
Alex turned toward the glass.
He wiped a bit of dust from his sleeve.
"Time's up."
---
## The Offer
Grey entered the room slowly.
"You aren't normal," Grey said. "And you aren't scared of what you don't understand. That makes you dangerous."
Alex held his gaze.
"Do I pass?"
Grey handed him a black envelope.
"Welcome to Division Grey. Training begins tomorrow."
Alex accepted it.
But before leaving, he asked:
"What was wrong with him—the one I fought?"
Grey paused.
"Some people are born with aura. Some awaken it. And some… have it forced open. He was one of the third type. Controlled incorrectly until he snapped."
Forced open?
Meaning someone was experimenting.
"By who?" Alex asked.
Grey didn't answer.
6th 7
But his silence said enough.
There were other players.
Hidden.
Dangerous.
Powerful.
Good.
Alex liked a crowded board.
As he stepped out into the hallway with the black envelope, he felt something shift inside him.
Something warm.
Something waking.
His aura.
The second cheat ability.
Not fully unlocked yet—but responding.
And somewhere deep within him…
a third power slept.
Waiting.
Watching.
---
**End of Chapter 2**
# Chapter 3: The Weight of Old Names
The morning sun bled through thin curtains, dragging Alex out of a light, half-alert sleep. He didn't dream anymore—not since waking in this world. His mind remained too sharp, too busy, too tuned to the possibilities around him.
He sat up and stretched slowly, muscles lean and youthful. The body he had taken over wasn't weak, but it lacked the hardened efficiency he once had. Something to fix later.
For now, he had more pressing concerns.
**The card.**
The one the elite stranger slipped him last night.
He walked to the desk, picked it up, and examined it again under better lighting.
Black. Unmarked. Weighty like metal.
Only a single embossed line on the back:
**S.L. – 47 Orchard Street – Midnight**
Nothing else.
No instructions. No signature. No threat.
Only elite circles used this style. No flashy symbolism. No unnecessary details. People who mattered didn't introduce themselves—they summoned.
Alex tapped the card against the desk.
"Let's see what kind of world you're hiding," he murmured.
---
### **The Romano Name**
Showering in the cramped bathroom, he stared at the fogged mirror.
The reflection stared back with a dual identity: Romano blood on one side, Jewish roots on the other. A heritage that, in this world, had weight.
Not power—weight.
A history of allies and enemies. Families that held grudges for decades. Communities that remembered favors.
In his old world, the Romano name died when he did.
Here…?
He dried off and dressed cleanly. If he was to build an empire, appearances mattered. Every room he entered, he needed to control it.
He buttoned a shirt, pulled on a dark jacket, and brushed curls back from his forehead.
"Half-Italian, half-Jew," he muttered to himself. "A foot in two worlds. Use both. Fear none."
He packed a notebook, yesterday's poker winnings, and the mysterious black card.
---
### **Breakfast in Little Italy**
He walked downstairs into the bakery below. The smell of warm bread hit him like nostalgia.
The old owner, Signora Lupella, looked up. Her red apron was dusted with flour.
"Alessandro, you look alive today," she said. "Your mother called. Said to feed you."
Alex smiled softly. "You're already doing that."
She slid a paper bag across the counter.
"Fresh cornetti. You eat before you start running around doing God-knows-what."
He paid—she refused.
"Your father helped my husband in '89," she said. "Free until you make me rich. Then we talk."
Her words lingered.
His father.
A man he never met in his old world, and hadn't yet seen in this one.
Another thread to investigate.
As he left the bakery, he sensed a faint shimmer above her head—a soft, golden-white aura.
Calm. Pure. Strong-willed.
She wasn't an elite. But she wasn't ordinary either.
There were more gifted people in this world than he initially assumed.
---
### **Planning the Empire**
At a small park bench nearby, he opened his notebook.
**Immediate Goals:**
1. Secure stable capital.
2. Test supernatural senses further.
3. Understand elite factions.
4. Acquire real estate before the coming boom.
5. Build a legitimate front—for money laundering and influence.
6. Begin long-term stock investments.
But first… jobs.
Not a 9-to-5. Something fast, something discreet.
He flipped to a new page and wrote:
**Opportunities, June 1996:**
* Art auctions (undervalued pieces; easy to flip)
* Comic shops (Marvel comics with future value—rare issues cheap now)
* CD stores (first pressings and vinyl collections)
* Pawn shops (old jewelry, gold price fluctuations)
* Underground boxing bets
* Music producers about to blow up (pre-fame investments)
He underlined the last one.
Hip-hop in 1996 was a sleeping dragon.
If he played his cards right, he could ride the wave.
---
### **A Supernatural Test**
Before the meeting tonight, he needed to test the aura sense. Understand its limits.
He walked into Chinatown, letting the crowd thicken around him.
For minutes, he focused.
Auras flickered in the corner of his perception. Faint glows. Emotional colors.
A man arguing with a vendor burned deep red.
A calm elderly woman glowed pale blue.
A child sparkled with erratic green bursts—energy overflowing.
Then, he saw something new.
A man sitting alone at a tea shop.
A shadow-like aura wrapped around him. Heavy. Dense. Almost tangible.
When Alex walked past him, the man's eyes flicked up.
A subtle nod.
Acknowledgment.
Alex didn't break stride.
**Conclusion:** elites recognized those who could perceive them.
Another rule of this hidden world.
---
### **An Unexpected Tail**
By late afternoon, he headed back toward Manhattan—only to notice something off.
A silver sedan.
Two blocks behind.
Same car three turns in a row.
Too coordinated to be random.
Alex didn't panic. Panic got people caught.
He stopped at a street vendor, bought a soda, and used the reflection from the stall's glass to confirm:
Same car.
Two men.
Watching him.
"Looks like the elites move fast," he muttered.
Instead of running, he walked toward a crowded intersection.
A cab slowed.
Alex opened the door.
"Harlem," he said.
The cab pulled off.
But when he glanced back—
the sedan peeled into traffic.
Persistent.
Good. That meant he mattered already.
---
### **Losing Them**
At the next block, Alex slipped $20 to the cab driver.
"Drop me here. You didn't see me."
The driver shrugged, pocketed the bill, and pulled off.
Alex moved fast.
Into an alley.
Through a back door.
Across a kitchen.
Out a service exit.
Within a minute he reappeared on a different street—hood up, jacket reversed.
He melted into foot traffic.
The sedan shot past the corner, searching where he *should* have been.
He vanished.
---
### **Nightfall — 47 Orchard Street**
The hours crawled. Alex prepared carefully.
Cash in pocket.
Notebook hidden.
Mind sharp.
At 11:58 p.m., he approached the old warehouse at Orchard Street.
Dim streetlights flickered.
A single metal door waited.
He knocked once.
No answer.
He knocked again.
A slit opened.
A pair of cold grey eyes looked out.
"Romano," the guard said. Not a question.
The door unlocked.
Inside was darkness lit only by faint lanterns.
Concrete floors.
A long hallway.
As Alex walked, a soft hum filled the air—like electricity vibrating against bone.
**Supernatural. Strong. Controlled.**
At the end of the hall was a room.
A man stood waiting.
Not the one from the poker den.
Someone more dangerous.
Tall. Refined suit. Silver hair slicked back. Aura compressed so tightly that only a faint violet outline seeped out.
He didn't smile.
"Alessandro Romano," he said. Voice smooth. Cold. "Welcome to the Sovereign League."
Alex's brow lifted.
S.L.
So that's what it meant.
The silver-haired elite continued.
"You've drawn our attention. You perceive what most cannot. And you gamble too well for a street kid."
Alex said nothing.
"Tell me," the man stepped closer, "who trained you?"
Alex met his eyes.
"I trained myself."
A pause.
Then the man smiled for the first time.
Sharp. Interested. Predatory.
"Good," he murmured. "Then you are not owned yet."
He extended a hand.
"Serve us, and we will raise you. Decline…"
His aura flared—violet crushing the air around them.
"…and we will erase you."
Alex didn't blink.
A test.
Everything here was a test.
Slowly, he reached out—
And shook the man's hand.
But his smile was his own.
Calculated.
Patient.
Hungry.
**Because one day, he would not serve the elites.**
One day, he would rule them.
---
**End of Chapter 3**