Chapter 7: ADAPTATION
The library opened at 9 AM.
I arrived at 8:47, standing outside the Queens Public Library branch with my hands shoved in my pockets and my mind running calculations I couldn't stop. Thirteen minutes of waiting. Thirteen minutes of watching normal people walk past—commuters, students, a mother pushing a stroller. Thirteen minutes of pretending I was one of them.
I wasn't. Not anymore.
The Gowanus Canal had swallowed my bloody clothes three hours ago. The evidence was gone, sinking into toxic sludge that would dissolve cotton and denim faster than any forensics lab could find it. But evidence wasn't the only problem.
The wounded guard's face kept surfacing in my memory. Wide eyes. Recognition. A clear view of my features before I'd run like a coward instead of finishing the job.
"Sloppy. You're alive because you got lucky, not because you got good."
The library doors opened. An elderly security guard waved me through without a second glance. I found a computer terminal in the back corner, away from windows, facing the entrance.
Old habits. Combat reflexes. The kind of paranoia that kept soldiers alive and civilians uncomfortable.
I started searching.
The underworld didn't advertise on Google. But it left traces—patterns in the noise if you knew how to look. Unsolved murders in certain neighborhoods. Missing persons reports that never got followed up. Businesses with vague descriptions and no Yelp reviews.
Three hours of digging gave me a rough map of New York's shadow geography.
Red Hook. Brighton Beach. Certain blocks in Chinatown. The Meatpacking District after midnight. Places where the rules were different, where cash changed hands for services that didn't appear on any tax form.
The Continental sat at the center of it all like a spider in a web. Neutral ground. Sacred space. The movies had shown me the surface, but the reality ran deeper than Hollywood could imagine.
"You need access. You need gold coins. You need to stop being a complete outsider before someone realizes you don't belong."
A forum post caught my attention. Deep web adjacent, hidden behind enough anonymity that most people would never find it. Someone asking about "alternative currency exchanges" in Chinatown. Someone else responding with a cryptic address and the words: "Ask for Mr. Chen. Bring something to trade."
I memorized the address. Closed the browser. Cleared the history.
My eyes burned. The computer screen had gone blurry sometime in the last hour, fatigue catching up faster than I could outrun it. When was the last time I'd slept? Really slept?
"Two days ago. In a body that wasn't mine. Before the brand. Before the blood."
I found a chair in the corner of the reading room. Just for a minute, I told myself. Just long enough to rest my eyes.
Someone was shaking my shoulder.
I came awake with my hand halfway to my waistband before I remembered where I was. Public library. Daytime. No immediate threats.
The librarian was a woman in her sixties with gray hair and kind eyes that didn't flinch at my reaction.
"You've been asleep for two hours, dear." Her voice was soft. Practiced. The tone of someone used to dealing with people who didn't have better places to be. "We're not supposed to let patrons sleep, but you looked like you needed it."
I blinked. Rubbed my face. Tried to remember how normal people responded to kindness.
"Thanks. Sorry. Long night."
She nodded like she understood more than I was saying.
"There's a blanket in the lost and found. No one's claimed it in months. You're welcome to it if you need it."
Something cracked in my chest. A small fissure in the wall I'd been building since I woke up in a stranger's body with a death sentence carved into my arm.
"That's... thank you. Really."
She patted my shoulder and walked away. I sat there for a long moment, processing the simple fact that someone had shown me kindness without expecting anything in return.
"First time in this world. Maybe the last."
I didn't take the blanket. I had work to do.
Chinatown would have to wait until tomorrow. The address from the forum wasn't going anywhere, and I needed to approach it with a clear head. One more night in the basement apartment. One more night of staring at the ceiling and trying not to see Yuri Petrov's face.
I spent the afternoon walking. Learning the city. Mapping escape routes and chokepoints and places where a man could disappear if he needed to.
The brand on my arm stayed quiet. The System had gotten what it wanted—for now.
[NEXT MARKER ISSUANCE: 5 DAYS, 3 HOURS.]
Five days. Five days until the voice in my head demanded another death. Five days to figure out how to survive in a world where assassins had their own hotels and gold coins bought more than money ever could.
I found a bodega and bought a cheap prepaid phone. Twenty dollars plus ten for the first month of service. Half my remaining cash, but I needed some way to operate in the modern world.
The walk back to Queens took longer than the subway would have. I didn't care. Movement helped me think. Movement kept the memories at bay.
By the time I reached my building, the sun was setting. Orange light painted the brick facades and made the garbage in the gutters look almost beautiful.
"Tomorrow. Chinatown. Mr. Chen."
The plan wasn't much. But it was something. A direction. A next step.
I climbed down to my basement apartment and locked all three deadbolts behind me. The Glock went under the mattress. The new phone went on the charger I'd bought with it.
Sleep came easier than expected. Maybe exhaustion had finally won. Maybe my brain had started building the walls it needed to keep functioning.
I dreamed of gold coins falling like rain and a voice that whispered numbers in a language I almost understood.
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