The sun was climbing, casting long, gold-tinted shadows across the docks.
And then I spotted him.
Leaning against a railing by the water, hoodie half-zipped, earbuds in, doing absolutely nothing suspicious—unless you count showing up exactly where a mission file said he would, which... yeah, kind of suspicious.
He looked young. Like, student-at-a-community-college young.
Though honestly, something about his face said, "I'm playing a teenager but already have a mortgage."
Maybe it was just the hair. Or the posture. Or the fact that I was now conditioned to distrust anyone who looked too normal.
Still—no visible powers. No sparks, no aura, no dramatic soundtrack. Just a kid waiting for... what? A ride? A contact? A moment?
I kept my distance. Let the technique do its work.
No one looked my way. Not him. Not the occasional jogger.
Just another background element. Exactly as planned.
This was good.
Observation. Non-contact. Low risk.
And now that I had a face to match the file photo, I could at least say I was doing the job.
Still no movement.
He wasn't talking to anyone. Wasn't checking his phone. Just staring out at the river like he was waiting for a slow-motion music video to start.
Which, fair. The fog and sunrise combo was doing some real cinematic heavy lifting.
I pulled out the burner phone—not the Nokia, the other one—and angled the camera from waist height. Nothing fancy. Just a casual, low-res snapshot of a guy being ordinary.
Click.
Silent. Clean. Just another photo in a phone full of dead contacts and prepaid minutes.
I checked the image. Clear enough. Face visible. Background generic. No obvious tells, no company, no weird behavior.
Mission said observe, report. No engagement.
This qualified.
I gave it a beat. Let the world settle.
Then, I noticed something… unusual.
I wasn't the only one good at watching.
My eyes flicked toward the far end of the docks.
Nothing obvious. A closed van. A guy in a hoodie feeding pigeons. Two joggers who hadn't broken a sweat.
But something felt… off.
The joggers were a little too synced.
The guy with the pigeons hadn't blinked in a full minute.
And that van hadn't moved, but the condensation on the windshield was gone.
I wasn't sure what I was seeing.
Could've been paranoia. Could've been someone else on a job like mine.
Or it could've been something worse.
I slipped the phone back into my pocket and gave the pier one last glance.
Target: still stationary. Still alone. Still acting like a teenager with too many thoughts and not enough caffeine.
I let my posture shift—more relaxed, less focused. Time to exit.
Didn't want to linger too long. That's how people get noticed.
I turned away slowly, walking like I had somewhere to be but wasn't in a rush to get there. Like a guy with earbuds in and nothing worth remembering on his mind.
As I walked, I let my eyes wander.
Not directly. Never directly. Just casual glances. Reflections in windows. Glimpses in puddles.
Peripheral awareness dialed up to eleven.
The joggers were gone now—too quickly, unless they cut the run short.
Pigeon guy was still feeding the birds. Still hadn't blinked.
And the van?
Still parked. But now there was a slight shift in silhouette behind the driver-side curtain. Just enough movement to make my instincts itch.
Could've been nothing.
Could've been someone who, like me, was paid to watch without being seen.
I kept walking, posture loose, breathing steady. No tension, no rush. Just a morning stroll under a golden sunrise that honestly deserved a postcard.
I slowed a bit as I reached the edge of the dockside path—right where the view opened up. Water stretching wide. The sun cutting through the last layers of fog like a movie shot.
And yeah… it really did look good.
I pulled the phone back out—same burner, same casual movement—and aimed it at the horizon like I was just feeling artsy.
Not a full stop. Just a step or two off the path, like I was lining up the perfect frame.
Click.
Scenic shot. Totally innocent.
And in the background?
The van.
Pigeon guy.
That open stretch where the joggers had vanished a little too quickly.
I took one more, just for safety—adjusted the angle slightly, caught a bit of reflection off a nearby warehouse window. Another layer of information, just in case someone was using that for surveillance.
Then I tucked the phone away again, gave the docks one last look over my shoulder, and kept walking—easy pace, hands in my hoodie pocket, nothing to see here.
No one called out.
No sudden movement.
No heat behind my neck.
If they were watching me, they weren't sure what they were seeing.
Perfect.
I didn't head straight home.
Even if it was my first mission, I'd read enough spy novels—and watched enough movies at questionable hours—to know that's how people got tailed. Or worse.
So I took the scenic route.
Through alleys, behind delivery trucks, past dumpsters that smelled like regret and old onions.
Not running. Never running.
Just making sure that if anyone was watching, they'd have to work a little harder than usual.
And all the while, the technique held.
Low-level mana flow. Breath light. Thoughts calm.
I wasn't invisible, but I might as well have been wallpaper.
Twice, I paused.
Once to duck behind a row of trash bins while a security patrol rolled past.
Once in a corner deli, where I pretended to browse for gum until a guy on the opposite side of the street decided he wasn't interested in loitering anymore.
Could've been nothing. Probably was.
Didn't matter.
This wasn't about proving I was being followed.
It was about making sure I wasn't easy to follow again.
The route kept bending: construction zone, loading dock, rooftop with a loose drainpipe that creaked like a liar.
By the time I reached my neighborhood, the fog had thinned and the morning had grown louder—cars, dogs, the city waking up properly.
But I felt good.
No tails. No alerts. No loose footsteps behind me.
Technique still holding, steady and low, like a quiet hum under the skin.
I reached my apartment door, waited a full five seconds to listen, then stepped inside.
I closed the door behind me, slid the main lock into place, then fastened the second one I'd installed myself—an old-school sliding bolt I'd picked up from a hardware store two blocks over. Not pretty, but solid.
After that, I dragged one of the chairs under the knob for good measure. Classic, reliable, slightly paranoid.
Exactly the vibe I was going for.
I stepped back from the door, exhaled slowly, and rolled my shoulders. Safehouse secure. Apartment sealed. Technique intact.
And right on cue—
Two soft chimes echoed in the corner of my vision.
[System Notification]
Stealth Encounter Logged
+150 CP awarded
— Successfully observed a being of greater power without being detected.
— No alerts triggered, remain vigilant.
"Just because they didn't notice you doesn't mean they can't. Stay sharp."
[System Notification]
Skill Reinforcement: Practical Application
+50 CP awarded
— Repeated use of mystical infiltration techniques under physical stress improved retention and control.
— Parkour, evasion, and route scrambling practiced without incident.
"Consider not doing flips near broken drainpipes next time."
I blinked. Then grinned.
Progress. Tangible, actual progress.
The kind you didn't need a training montage or a wise old mentor to unlock—just nerves, instinct, and a solid pair of sneakers.
I dropped onto the couch, kicked my shoes off with a tired sigh, and opened the burner phone again.
Time to send the proof.
I tapped through the gallery, picked the clearest of the shots—the one with the best profile of the target and just enough background to look natural—and hit send.
[Message Sent: Archer]
Image: Subject — East River, 6:17 AM.
No text. No signature. Just the photo.
Then I leaned back and waited.
A few seconds later, the screen buzzed.
[New Message: Archer]
✔️ Received.
Continue monitoring.
Avoid secondary observers.
I blinked at the screen.
Secondary observers?
I pulled up the photo again, zoomed in.
Yep. They were there. Subtle, blurry, half-concealed in fog and shadow.
One near the warehouse window. Another in the van reflection.
Not police. Not bystanders.
Not amateurs, either.
But here's the thing: I already knew the clock hadn't started yet.
Roughly ten days before things got loud. I had time.
Time to train.
Time to learn.
Time to figure out who the hell was watching who.
And whoever those guys were, they weren't in the movie.
That made them interesting.
Too professional to be random thugs.
Too coordinated to be civilians.
Could be the government. Could be Trask. Maybe some corporate black-ops team doing recon before mutants officially hit the news cycle.
None of them good news.
But right now? Just another mystery on the board.
And I had ten days to get better at solving them.