Chapter 3: The Weight of Old Names
The morning sun cut through thin curtains, dragging Alex awake. The city outside was alive: taxi horns, vendors yelling, distant construction rattling the air. Alex didn't feel chaos. His mind hummed. Calculated. Ready.
He rolled over and grabbed the black card tucked in his notebook. Heavy, unmarked. Only a single line on the back:
S.L. – 47 Orchard Street – Midnight
No instructions. No signature. Only authority—the aura of someone who didn't waste words.
Alex traced the embossed letters. "So, this is who noticed me," he muttered. "Interesting."
The smile was faint. Not joy. A predator acknowledging a challenge.
The Romano Name
Shower running, mirror fogged, Alex stared at the reflection. Dark curls plastered to his forehead. Olive skin. Sharp features. A young man by appearance. An old soul by calculation.
Half-Italian. Half-Jewish. The Romano bloodline carried weight. Old loyalties. Old grudges. Old debts. None yet earned in this timeline, but all usable.
He dried off, dressed meticulously, and whispered:
"Half in two worlds. Stand in both. Fear none."
Notebook, card, mind—ready. Time to move.
Breakfast in Little Italy
The bakery smelled of bread and espresso. Signora Lupella nodded.
"Alessandro," she said, "your mother said breakfast. Eat before running off."
Alex smiled politely. "Already doing that."
She slid a bag toward him. Fresh cornetti. He noticed a faint golden-white shimmer above her head—a calm, strong-willed aura. Not elite, but gifted. Not dangerous, but notable.
Alex nodded, pocketed the bag, and let the city teach him.
Mapping the Game
Park bench. Notebook open. Mind sharpening.
Immediate Goals:
Capital. Fast, discreet, sufficient.
Test supernatural perception. Limits, thresholds.
Identify elite factions and hidden players.
Build influence: property, connections, resources.
Prepare long-term investments.
Opportunities – June 1996:
Art auctions (undervalued works)
Underground comics, first prints
CDs, vinyl records with pre-fame value
Pawn shops: gold, jewelry, cash flow
Underground boxing bets
Music producers pre-stardom
He underlined the last one. Hip-hop was a sleeping dragon. Ride it early, profit quietly.
Testing the Senses
He walked through Chinatown. Crowds thickened.
Auras flickered faintly:
Red—anger, unstable
Blue—calm, collected
Green—erratic, unpredictable
And one new sight: a man alone, shadow-wrapped, dense, almost tangible. Heavy aura. Elite. He flicked his eyes toward Alex, acknowledging him… then vanished.
Rule confirmed: elites noticed those who could perceive them.
The Tail
Late afternoon, Alex noticed a silver sedan two blocks behind.
Not random. Too coordinated.
He didn't panic. Panic got people caught.
He ducked into a vendor reflection. Same two men. Same car. Persistent.
Instead of fleeing, Alex used the crowd. Alley, kitchen, service exit. Within a minute, reappeared on a different street. Hoodie reversed. Jacket swapped. Gone.
The sedan sped past, searching. Alex smiled.
Midnight – 47 Orchard Street
Preparations complete. Cash in pocket. Notebook hidden. Mind sharp.
Streetlamps flickered. A metal door waited. He knocked once. Silence. Twice. A slit opened. Grey eyes scanned him.
"Romano," a voice said. Command, not question.
Door unlocked. Darkness inside. Concrete floors. Soft hum, like electricity under skin and bone.
At the end of the hallway, a figure waited. Silver hair, refined suit, aura tightly compressed—faint violet outline leaking.
"Alessandro Romano," he said. Cold. "Welcome to the Sovereign League."
Alex raised a brow. S.L. The card wasn't a summons—it was a spotlight.
"You perceive what most cannot. You gamble too well for a street kid. Who trained you?"
"I trained myself," Alex replied.
A pause. Then a smile. Predatory, sharp, calculating. "Good. You are not owned… yet. Serve us, and we will raise you. Decline…"
The aura flared—violet, controlled, suffocating. "…and we will erase you."
Alex extended his hand. Slowly. Calmly. Calculated. Patient.
The silver-haired elite grasped it. The shake was brief, but Alex's smile was his own.
He wasn't a servant. Not yet. One day… he would be the one raising them.
Somewhere deep inside, the third power stirred. Dormant. Patient. Watching.
End of Chapter 3