Chapter 3 : The Hunting Ground
Jitters Coffee looked exactly like it did on television.
The exposed brick. The warm lighting. The customers clustered around wooden tables with laptops and conversations. I'd seen this place a hundred times in episodes—background setting for character moments, Barry Allen's caffeine addiction, Iris West's former workplace.
Now I sat at a corner table, nursing a medium roast, waiting for a man I'd never met to tell me about monsters.
The coffee was a solid six out of ten. Better than the hospital. Worse than the artisan place I used to frequent in my old life, the one with the pretentious barista who remembered everyone's order. I made a mental note in my phone. Might as well track the important things.
[TUTORIAL QUEST: FIRST EXTRACTION] [TIME REMAINING: 4 DAYS, 18 HOURS, 7 MINUTES]
Marcus Webb arrived at 9:23. Fifties, balding, the kind of paunch that came from desk work and stress eating. He spotted me immediately—Harrison Griffin's face, apparently, was memorable—and crossed the café with obvious relief.
"Harry! Jesus, Harry, we thought you were dead."
He grabbed my hand and shook it vigorously. I smiled and played the role.
"Nearly was. Nine months in a coma."
"The accelerator explosion. God. I tried calling the hospitals but they wouldn't tell me anything, privacy laws and all that. I just assumed..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Sit down, sit down. Let me buy you a coffee."
"Already have one."
"Then I'll buy the next round." He dropped into the chair across from me. "How are you feeling? You look good. A little thinner maybe."
"Muscle atrophy. Working on it." I leaned back, assessing him. Nervous energy beneath the friendly exterior. Dark circles under his eyes. This was a man carrying stress. "The doctor says full recovery is possible with time. I'm easing back into work."
"Work." Webb's expression flickered—relief mixing with something else. Guilt, maybe. Or hope. "That's actually why I wanted to meet. Things have gotten... complicated since you went under."
"The protection racket you mentioned. Before the accelerator."
He blinked. "You remember that?"
I tapped my temple. "Memory's spotty in places, but some things stuck. You were worried about organized elements targeting the shipping district. Asked me to assess the metahuman threat potential."
"That was before there were any metahumans." Webb leaned forward, voice dropping. "Now there are. And the problem I was worried about? It got worse."
"Tell me."
He glanced around the café, checking for eavesdroppers. The paranoia wasn't unfounded—in a city with telepaths and enhanced hearing, you never knew who might be listening.
"There's this guy," Webb said. "Works the warehouse district. Collects 'insurance' from businesses. Anyone who doesn't pay... accidents happen. Fires. Equipment damage. Workers getting hurt."
"Metahuman?"
"Has to be. I've seen him shrug off things that would hospitalize a normal person. One of my dock workers hit him with a forklift—not on purpose, but still. The guy just stood up and walked away. Forklift was totaled."
Enhanced durability. Possibly super strength. Street-level criminal using powers for extortion.
Perfect.
"Does this guy have a name?"
"People call him Tank. I don't think that's what his mama named him, but it's what he goes by. Big guy, maybe six-four, built like a linebacker. Operates out of the warehouses near the river."
"And the police?"
Webb laughed bitterly. "Three assault charges, all dropped. Witnesses recant. Evidence disappears. Either he's got someone on the payroll or people are too scared to testify."
Or both. Probably both.
I filed the information away. Tank. Enhanced durability. Warehouse district. Criminal protection racket. Witnesses too afraid to speak.
This was my target.
"You said you're getting back to work," Webb continued. "Does that mean... could you look into this? Figure out what we're dealing with? I'll pay your usual rate, premium even. My business is bleeding money from this extortion."
"I'll look into it." I didn't need his money, but taking the job provided cover. A reason to investigate. "No promises yet—I'm still getting back on my feet. But I'll see what I can find."
Webb's shoulders loosened. "Thank you, Harry. Seriously. I didn't know who else to call. The Flash can't be everywhere, and the police..." He trailed off, the sentence finishing itself.
We shook hands again and parted ways. Webb headed back to his office, looking marginally less burdened. I headed south, toward the industrial district, toward the river.
Toward my prey.
The warehouse district smelled like diesel fuel and salt water. Shipping containers stacked in colorful rows. Cranes cutting geometric shapes against the gray afternoon sky. Trucks rumbling along access roads, carrying goods to and from the docks.
I walked the perimeter casually, hands in jacket pockets, just another anonymous face in a neighborhood full of anonymous faces. Workers in reflective vests. Drivers in their cabs. Security guards stationed at gate entrances.
And somewhere among them, a metahuman.
[PASSIVE DETECTION: ACTIVE] [RANGE: 10 METERS]
The system's detection function was basic at my current level. Close range only. I'd need to physically walk past every corner of this district to map metahuman activity.
So that's what I did.
Two hours of walking. Casual loops that covered as much ground as possible. I stopped at a food truck for a hot dog, ate it on a bench overlooking the river, resumed my circuit.
At 4:47 PM, near a loading dock at the end of an access road, my system pinged.
[METAHUMAN DETECTED] [CLASSIFICATION: PENDING — REQUIRES CLOSER ANALYSIS] [ESTIMATED THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE]
I didn't break stride. Just walked past the loading dock at normal pace, peripheral vision cataloging everything.
A large man stood near the dock's rolling door. Six-four, built like Webb described—broad shoulders, thick arms, the confident stance of someone who knew they couldn't be hurt. Two smaller men flanked him, ordinary humans from the system's lack of detection ping.
Dock workers gave the group a wide berth. Nervous glances and hurried movements. The body language of prey avoiding predators.
Tank.
I completed my loop without looking back. Found a position across the street, behind a stack of shipping containers, where I could observe without being observed.
For three hours, I watched.
Tank collected envelopes from three different business owners. Handshakes that lasted too long, grips that left the recipients flexing their fingers afterward. His crew handled the intimidation—casual threats, pointed comments about fire hazards and safety violations.
Tank himself barely spoke. He didn't need to. His presence was the message.
At 8:15 PM, he left the loading dock and walked north. His crew stayed behind, probably to handle more collections. Tank moved alone, cutting through alleys and side streets with the confidence of a man who feared nothing.
I followed at a distance.
His route was predictable. He stopped at a bodega for cigarettes, exchanged nods with the owner, continued north. Crossed into the Glades—the rougher neighborhood I'd read about in police reports—and entered a run-down apartment building.
Third floor lights came on five minutes later.
I found a diner across the street and ordered coffee. Sat by the window, watching the building, mentally mapping entrance points and exit routes.
Tank's apartment faced the street. Single window, probably a studio. The building had fire escapes on both ends. No visible security cameras. The neighborhood was the kind of place where people minded their own business.
Isolated. Overconfident. Predictable.
I opened my phone and started a new file. Target profile. Known capabilities. Patterns of movement. Vulnerabilities.
Four more days to complete the tutorial quest. Four more days to plan the perfect approach.
The system interface pulsed gently in my peripheral vision.
[TARGET IDENTIFIED: DESIGNATED "TANK"] [POWER TYPE: UNKNOWN — PHYSICAL ENHANCEMENT PROBABLE] [RECOMMENDATION: ADDITIONAL RECONNAISSANCE BEFORE EXTRACTION ATTEMPT]
For once, the system and I agreed.
I finished my coffee and paid the bill. Tomorrow, more surveillance. I'd need to confirm his schedule, identify the optimal moment to strike. Learn everything about this man before I made my move.
In my old life, I worked an office job. Spreadsheets and meetings and corporate politics. The most dangerous thing I'd ever done was jaywalk during rush hour.
In this life, I was planning to hunt a superhuman.
Somewhere across the city, Barry Allen was probably saving someone. Being the hero. Doing things the right way.
I wasn't going to be that kind of hero.
Two days of watching. Then I would take what Tank had, and the game would truly begin.
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