The law office smelled like stale coffee and lemon polish.
John sat in a leather chair that creaked beneath him, the keys to the building in his pocket and a folded letter pressed between his fingers. The office was tidy, almost sterile—file cabinets lined one wall, blinds half-drawn against the morning light. Across from him sat a woman in her early fifties with horn-rimmed glasses and graying hair pulled into a bun. Her nameplate read E. Carter, Esq.
She adjusted her glasses and cleared her throat. "Mr. Cruz, thank you for coming. I'm glad we finally reached you."
John said nothing, just nodded.
"You've inherited not only the building at 1432 9th Avenue," she said, sliding a folder toward him, "but also a modest financial estate left in trust until your eighteenth birthday. It has since accrued interest over the years. Your parents—Jonathan and Althea Cruz—set this up before the incident."
John glanced at the file. His eyes scanned the papers, reading more quickly than most people would expect. Numbers danced across the page: an original $100,000 in savings, invested in a conservative portfolio, now just over $180,000.
It didn't feel real.
"You'll need to sign here to officially transfer the funds into an active account under your name. We've arranged with First Union Bank to assist you."
Still silent, he picked up the pen and signed.
"There's also... this," Ms. Carter added, producing a small brass key and a card. "A safety deposit box, also held in trust. We've been holding it for nearly twelve years."
John looked at the key, his chest tightening. "Where?"
"Midtown branch. They'll be expecting you."
The safety deposit room at First Union was cold and quiet.
A bank clerk led him down a narrow hallway to a wall of brushed-steel boxes. The one marked C-112 clicked open under his key. The box was heavier than he expected. Inside, wrapped in old cloth, lay several objects:
A thick leather-bound journal with J. Cruz etched into the spine.
A small locket, still gleaming after all these years, with a picture of a man and woman—his parents—inside.
A worn Manila envelope marked BUILDING SCHEMATICS.
A slim bank passbook and several aged receipts.
John sat down at the nearby table and opened the journal first.
The handwriting was bold and rough. Mechanical diagrams filled some pages, while others contained personal reflections, letters to his mother, and cryptic notes about "keeping the shop safe" and "the world changing faster than the streets can follow." One page read:
"If John finds this... then maybe he can finish what I started. The building isn't just home. It's protection. For us. For the future. For what comes next."
He swallowed. The room seemed to press in on him.
The passbook listed deposits and occasional withdrawals until 1996, then nothing. A small fortune, untouched.
He left the bank quietly, the items secured in a new backpack. His head buzzed with questions, but one thought overrode all else:
He had something now.
A place.
And maybe a purpose.
The next morning, he began the real work.
Armed with cleaning supplies, tools, and a few essentials bought from the corner store, John stood before the building like a soldier before battle. The sun peeked through the skyline, casting warm amber light on the faded bodega sign.
He pulled open the door.
Dust welcomed him like an old friend.
He started at the ground floor. The bodega still held the ghost of its purpose: shelves lined with expired canned goods, empty soda crates, a cracked display fridge. John moved methodically, sweeping, scrubbing, opening windows.
Behind the counter, he found an old ledger book. Faded pages showed lists of deliveries and sales, his father's handwriting looping across the columns.
Near the back wall, he noticed something he'd missed the first time—a steel door, half-hidden behind a toppled shelving unit. The key didn't fit. He'd need tools.
He marked it mentally.
The second floor was next.
This had been the living space. A narrow hallway led to a modest kitchen, a living room with floral wallpaper peeling from damp corners, and two small bedrooms.
The first room, probably his parents', still held a wooden bedframe and a dresser. Inside one drawer, he found a hairbrush with long black strands and a dried-out bottle of cologne.
The second room hit him harder.
A child's room.
A faded racecar bedspread. Stickers peeling off the wall. A small bookshelf holding battered storybooks and a broken toy robot.
On the wall, near the closet, he saw it: faint pencil marks in a column, dated year after year. The highest mark simply read: "6 y.o."
John touched it gently.
Had that been him?
He couldn't remember. But it felt right.
The third floor was different. Purposeful.
It was a workshop—clearly his father's domain. Old tools hung from pegboards. Two long workbenches stretched beneath narrow windows. Boxes of bolts, wires, and resistors were stacked neatly in drawers.
John recognized it all. Not because he remembered—but because this was his language.
On the far side, a door led to a cluttered office. Inside, he found filing cabinets full of diagrams and receipts, plus a locked drawer which he pried open to find a handgun, unloaded, and a sealed envelope marked:
"IF THE WORLD BREAKS AGAIN."
He didn't open it.
Instead, he turned to the second door.
It creaked open into a tiny storage room. Dusty shelves lined the walls, holding labeled boxes: "Copper Wiring," "Emergency Kits," "Manuals."
But in the corner stood something else—a makeshift fuse box, larger than standard, with custom wiring leading out of it.
He stared at it, fingers twitching.
This wasn't standard electrical.
This was reinforced.
Secure.
Hidden.
He traced the wiring. It ran down—into the basement.
The basement was locked.
He found the heavy door at the back of the bodega. It was reinforced steel, like something out of a government facility. The keypad beside it was old, but not broken. He studied it.
No fingerprints. No numbers on the buttons worn down.
He ran his fingers across the panel. No response.
Then he looked back at the envelope from the safety deposit box.
The blueprints.
He opened them on the workbench upstairs and laid them out.
At first glance, the building was standard. But tucked in the corner of the last page was a small, handwritten set of numbers: 143269.
He returned to the keypad.
Pressed: 1-4-3-2-6-9.
The lock clicked.
The door hissed as it opened inward.
A narrow set of stairs led down into darkness.
John flicked on his flashlight and descended slowly.
The basement was colder than expected. As his light swept the walls, he saw insulation, reinforced concrete, and more wiring—heavy, industrial, leading into a breaker box unlike anything in the rest of the building.
He stepped onto the floor.
Clean. Not a speck of dust.
Someone had been down here after everything else was abandoned.
At the far end stood a terminal—old, clunky, but powered. He checked the wires—it had a backup generator rigged through a manual switch.
He flipped it.
The screen lit up.
Welcome, J. Cruz.
Last login: June 8, 1996.
The screen flashed to a list of logs—dates, notes, files. Most were labeled "Test Log" or "Update," but one stood out.
Emergency Protocol—Pending Activation.
He backed away, heart thudding.
He wasn't ready. Not yet.
Hours passed. He returned to the kitchen on the second floor, sore but filled with strange satisfaction. He'd scrubbed the counters, mopped the floors, aired out the rooms.
He boiled water. Cooked rice. Fried eggs and corned beef from a can.
Sat at the dusty table and ate quietly.
As he chewed, he looked around.
This building wasn't just brick and mortar.
It was a vault. A memory. A legacy.
Someone—his father?—had prepared it for something. A storm. A change.
And now it belonged to him.
Outside, New York pulsed.
Somewhere, mutants were awakening. Heroes were rising. Villains were planning.
John Cruz had no cape. No powers. No allies.
But he had a building.
He had knowledge.
And he had time.