The transition back to Andrew Garfield felt more like a betrayal than ever. As Foster slicked his hair back in the sterile restroom, he watched his own eyes in the mirror—Foster Ambrose's weary, cop's eyes—disappear behind the silver rimmed glasses of a man who helped dismantle the city he was sworn to protect.
The UIAF office was buzzing. Robert pounced on him the moment he arrived.
"Garfield! The library proposal is in. The planning committee is reviewing it as we speak." He lowered his voice.
"And we've got a new client. A big one. OmniCorp Logistics. They're looking to consolidate their operations and need a discreet feasibility study for a new distribution hub."
"Where?" Andrew asked, his consultant's mind automatically engaging.
Robert's grin was predatory. "The old industrial sector. Right on the edge of the Ironweave Mill property."
A cold knot tightened in Foster's gut. The mill. "That's… a sensitive location. There's an ongoing police investigation there."
Robert waved a dismissive hand.
"A dead mechanic. Tragic, but it has nothing to do with real estate. The property value is depressed. It's the perfect time to buy. OmniCorp doesn't care about ghosts, they care about access to the river and the rail line."
He leaned in. "This is a career-maker, Garfield. We handle this right, and we're not just consultants; we're kingmakers."
For the next two hours, Andrew was immersed in the world of OmniCorp. He sat in a conference room with Robert and a sharply dressed OmniCorp VP, a man named Mr. Sterling, discussing traffic flow analyses, tax incentives, and the political leverage needed to re-zone the land.
"The main obstacle," Andrew heard himself say, "will be the historical preservation lobby. They'll argue the mill is a landmark of the city's industrial age."
Mr. Ignacio smiled, a thin, bloodless expression. "Then we argue back that a state-of-the-art logistics hub is the landmark of its future. Progress, Mr. Garfield, is a compelling argument, especially when it comes with jobs. We have friends on the council who agree."
_Withersby._
Foster thought.
_He's the obstacle. And these men are talking about him like he's a nuisance to be swept aside._
He played his part, nodding along, suggesting strategies, all while feeling like he was helping to build a coffin for a part of the city's huge anachronistic body.
—
The shift back to Foster Ambrose was a descent into a different kind of chaos. The station was buzzing, but with the frantic energy of unresolved violence, not corporate ambition.
He found Neil Humphrey looking like he'd wrestled a bear made of wiring. "The device," Neil said, gesturing to the remains of Leo's counter.
"I think I've isolated the receiving frequency. It wasn't just picking up random energy. It was tuned to a very specific, very low wavelength. Something that doesn't exist on any public spectrum."
"What does that mean?" Foster asked, his mind still half-full of OmniCorp's flowcharts.
"It means he was listening to a private radio station." Neil said, his eyes wide. "One that broadcasts… something. And whatever it broadcasts, it can interact with the physical world. It can cause power drains. It can… scratch."
Eliza Ramirez hurried over, her usual cheer replaced by concern. "Foster, the union rep for the mill workers is here. Again. He's demanding an update. Captain Hanson said to handle it."
Foster met with the rep, a burly man named Drummond, in a cramped interview room.
"We're being stonewalled." Drummond accused, his fists clenched on the table. "Leo was a good man. This wasn't a random robbery. Something's not right."
"The investigation is ongoing." Foster said, using the same placating, bureaucratic tone he'd used as Andrew Garfield. It felt equally hollow here. "We're following every lead."
"Are you?" Drummond leaned forward.
"Or are you just waiting for us to forget? The company wants to sell the land. They want this to go away. Is that what this is about?"
The echo of his morning conversation with the OmniCorp VP was deafening. Foster felt the two halves of his life colliding.
He was the man smoothing the way for the company that wanted the land, and the cop telling the victim's friends to be patient.
He returned to his desk, his head pounding. Captain Hanson walked past, pausing just long enough to lock eyes with him.
"The union summary was adequate, Ambrose. See that the OmniCorp inquiry doesn't become a distraction." He moved on before Foster could form a reply.
The words landed like a blow.
_OmniCorp inquiry. Hanson knew about the development proposal. Of course he did. It was his district._
But the way he said it… it felt like a warning. A reminder that he was watching both of Foster's lives, even if he didn't know they were connected.
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of paperwork and evasive answers. He felt like a double agent in his own skin, betraying both sides by merely existing.
As Foster Ambrose, he was failing to find justice for Leo. As Andrew Garfield, he was actively enabling the forces that wanted to pave over Leo's memory.
He went home, the conflicting conversations of his day echoing in his mind—the slick corporate strategy, the gritty union demands, Neil's technical revelations, Hanson's veiled warnings.
His life was a double helix, two strands twisted around a core of terrifying secrets, and he was terrified that any moment, the whole structure would unravel.
He emptied his pockets onto his dresser. His police whistle. His wallet. And the stupid, tarnished brass compass Havelock had shamed him into buying.
He picked it up. The needle spun lazily, not settling on north, but pointing erratically towards his window. Towards the city.
It was just a cheap piece of junk.
But as he lay in bed, exhausted, he couldn't shake the feeling that the old clockmaker, in his own infuriating way, had given him something more than a lesson.
He'd given him a question. And Foster was too tired to even know what it was.