The encounter with Hanson had left a permanent crack in his composure.
The cool, collected Andrew Garfield persona felt like a suit of armor that had been struck by a cannonball—still holding, but fundamentally compromised.
He needed to move, to act, to reclaim some sense of control.
The plan to investigate Regent and Sycamore was no longer a clever idea, it was a necessity.
He stood before the small mirror in his office, meticulously re-affixing the mask.
He adjusted the silver-rimmed glasses, ensuring they sat perfectly. He ran a comb once more through the severely slicked-back black hair, a style Foster Ambrose would never—could never—maintain.
The crisp white shirt and black vest were his uniform, the polished shoes were his silent declaration that he belonged nowhere near the grimy streets he was about to walk.
This was the power of the costume: it commanded a different kind of attention, opened different doors, and asked different questions.
Stepping out of the UIAF building, the city greeted Andrew Garfield differently than it did Foster Ambrose.
As a policeman, he was part of the scenery, a functional piece of the urban machinery, often ignored or viewed with wariness.
As Andrew, he was an anomaly. A few heads turned, well-dressed professionals gave him nods of recognition, shopkeepers' eyes tracked him with a mixture of curiosity and deference.
He was money. He was influence. He was a potential client.
He walked with a purposeful, yet unhurried stride, the kind used by men whose time was too valuable to be spent rushing.
He arrived at the corner of Regent and Sycamore. The air here felt thick, charged with the history of violence and secrets.
He stood where Davidson had died, but he looked at it through Andrew's eyes. A policeman saw a crime scene.
A consultant saw prime real estate adjacent to a problematic alley, an area in need of "revitalization."
He walked slowly, his hands in his pockets, observing. He saw the same basement door the old woman had pointed to, but now he assessed the quality of the brickwork, the potential for conversion.
He saw the modern apartment building opposite and mentally calculated the property values, which would be depressed by the blight of the old structure.
He was playing the part so completely that for moments at a time, he almost forgot why he was really there.
His gaze fell upon the tailor's shop, the one with the apartments above it.
4B Sycamore Lane. Leo's apartment. Lily Moses's apartment.
He approached the building, not with a cop's authoritative stride, but with a potential buyer's curious interest.
He was examining the facade, the state of the windows, when the main door opened and a young woman emerged.
It was her. Lily Moses. She had her linguistics textbook clutched to her chest and her glasses were slightly askew.
She blinked in the afternoon light, her eyes landing on him. There was no flicker of recognition for Foster Ambrose, the policeman.
Instead, she saw a well-dressed stranger loitering, and a hint of nervousness crossed her features.
"Can I help you?" she asked, her voice cautious.
Andrew offered her a benign, professional smile. "My apologies. I didn't mean to stare. I'm with the Urban Infrastructure Analysis Forum."
He gestured vaguely at the building. "We're conducting a preliminary survey of the architectural stock in this historic district. This is a fine example of late 19th-century craftsmanship."
The lie came smoothly, dressed in the respectable language of his day job. Lily's posture relaxed slightly.
A consultant was less threatening than a policeman revisiting her false testimony.
"Oh," she said. "It's... it's an old building. The plumbing makes funny noises."
"I'm not surprised."
Andrew said sympathetically. "Many of these older properties have their... quirks."
He let his gaze wander up to the windows of her apartment, then Leo's. "It must have been unsettling, what happened to your neighbor."
Her face paled. "It was terrible. I... I told the police everything I know." The words had a rehearsed quality, a wall she'd built.
"Of course, of course." Andrew said, his tone understanding, almost dismissive. "A tragic, random event. It's a shame. This could be such a desirable neighborhood."
He was speaking her language now—the language of safety, property value, and normalcy.
He was validating her desire to see it as a one-off tragedy, not a symptom of a deeper sickness. "Well, don't let me keep you. Have a pleasant afternoon."
She gave him a hesitant nod and scurried away, clearly relieved to be free of the interaction.
As Andrew Garfield, he had learned nothing new from her, but he had confirmed something crucial: the persona worked.
He could move through this space without raising the defenses that Foster Ambrose instantly triggered.
He spent another twenty minutes walking the block, his consultant's eye noting cracks in the pavement, the quality of the street lighting, the flow of foot traffic.
But beneath the surface, Foster's mind was churning, cross-referencing every detail with the Davidson file, the journal, the mill homicide.
The pieces were all here, scattered like shrapnel from an explosion he couldn't see.
As he finally turned to leave, a prickle ran down his spine. He had the distinct, unshakable feeling that the neighborhood itself was watching him back.
Not with the curious or deferential eyes of before, but with a cold, ancient awareness.
The mask of Andrew Garfield had allowed him to walk among the secrets, but it had not made him invisible to them.
If anything, it might have made him more interesting.