Chapter 12 : Ghost Hunt
The basement door gave way on the first kick.
Enhanced strength did the work—the frame splintered, the lock tore free, and I was through before the echo faded. The stairs descended into industrial darkness, broken only by a single work light near the back.
Ghost was mid-phase through a floor safe when I entered.
His torso had disappeared into the metal, arms reaching for whatever was stored inside. At the sound of my entrance, he tried to pull back—but phasing required concentration, and concentration was exactly what my arrival had shattered.
He materialized with a yelp, stumbling backward, hands raised in reflexive defense.
Young. Younger than I'd estimated. Twenty at most, with the gaunt look of someone who didn't eat regularly. His eyes darted toward the stairs behind me, calculating escape routes.
"Don't," I said.
He phased left.
I'd anticipated the direction—people under stress defaulted to predictable patterns—and my swing caught him mid-transition. The enhanced fist connected with partially solid flesh, sending him crashing into the brick wall.
No escape that way. Brick was too thick for his minor phasing ability.
Ghost scrambled to his feet, pressing himself against the wall, looking for any way out. The stairs were behind me. The walls were solid. The ceiling was reinforced concrete.
"Who are you?" His voice cracked. "I don't have much, man. Whatever Murphy owes you, it's not worth—"
"This isn't about Murphy."
I crossed the distance before he could process the statement. His attempt to phase through me failed—the power required focus he couldn't maintain—and my hand closed around his throat, pinning him to the wall.
"This is about you."
[EXTRACTION TARGET CONFIRMED] [INITIATING CONTACT PROTOCOL]
The system responded to my intent. I pressed my palm flat against his chest and triggered the extraction.
The pain was expected this time. Fire in my veins, the sensation of something being pulled from one body and forced into another. Ghost screamed—really screamed, the kind of sound that came from a place beyond conscious control.
But something was wrong.
[WARNING: PHASING SIGNATURE UNSTABLE] [EXTRACTION DIFFICULTY — HIGH] [MAINTAIN CONTACT]
The power resisted transfer. Where Tank's strength had flowed like water, Ghost's phasing felt like grabbing smoke. It kept slipping through my grasp, partially transferring before sliding back.
I pushed harder. The burning intensified.
Twenty seconds. Thirty. Ghost's struggles weakened as the extraction progressed, his body going limp against the wall.
Forty seconds. The resistance suddenly collapsed.
[EXTRACTION COMPLETE — 55%] [WARNING: SYNC INSTABILITY DETECTED] [NEW POWER: MINOR PHASING — SYNC RATE 8%]
I released Ghost and he crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Alive, but reduced. Whatever he'd been able to do before, most of it now belonged to me.
I flexed my hand—
And it passed through the wall.
Not intentionally. Not controlled. The phasing activated on its own, my hand becoming intangible and sinking into the brick before I could react.
I yanked back. The hand solidified, scraping against rough stone.
"What the hell—"
My fingers flickered again. Solid, intangible, solid. The power was integrating badly, worse than the strength enhancement, unpredictable surges firing at random.
[WARNING: ACCIDENTAL PHASE RISK ELEVATED] [SYNC TRAINING URGENTLY RECOMMENDED]
I stared at my hand. Willed it to stay solid. For a moment, it obeyed.
Then my pinky finger disappeared into my palm.
Eight percent sync rate. The power was barely under control, activating on impulses I couldn't predict. One wrong moment—shaking hands with someone, touching a door handle, any physical contact—and I'd be exposed.
This was a problem.
Ghost groaned at my feet, beginning to stir. I didn't have time to deal with the complications right now. I needed to leave before he woke fully, before anyone else arrived, before Murphy came looking for his missing operative.
The stairs. The door. The night air.
I walked home through empty streets, my left hand phasing through my pocket twice before I learned to keep it away from my body. The power surged and ebbed like a malfunctioning circuit, beyond conscious direction.
Three blocks from the fence's warehouse, I passed a streetlight. My hand went intangible again, and for a moment, light shone through my palm like I was made of colored glass.
I laughed.
The sound surprised me—genuine amusement rather than panic. I'd just acquired a power I couldn't control, exposed myself to potential discovery, complicated every aspect of my carefully managed existence.
And I was laughing.
Because it was working. The system, the extraction, the accumulation of abilities that would eventually make me something this world had never seen. Tank's strength. Ghost's phasing. Two pieces of a collection that would only grow larger.
Even glitchy powers were still powers.
My apartment door required three attempts to open.
The first time, my hand phased through the handle. The second time, I gripped too hard and dented the metal with enhanced strength. The third time, I managed the delicate balance between abilities that wanted to activate and the normal human motion of turning a key.
Inside, I collapsed onto the couch and pulled up the system interface.
[POWER INVENTORY: 2/3] [1. STRENGTH ENHANCEMENT — POTENCY 40%, SYNC 45%] [2. MINOR PHASING — POTENCY 55%, SYNC 8%]
[LEVEL: 9] [PP: 315] [EXP: 45]
The numbers were encouraging. Level nine, triple where I'd started. Power points accumulating for future upgrades. Two abilities in storage with room for a third.
But the sync rate on phasing was a crisis.
I held my hand in front of my face and concentrated. Solid. Stay solid.
The hand obeyed for five seconds. Then my ring finger flickered out of existence.
Training protocols. The system offered recommendations—exercises designed to improve sync rate, meditation techniques, progressive exposure methods. Tank's strength had required three days to reach functional control. Phasing would take longer.
You have other obligations, I reminded myself. STAR Labs. Caitlin. The cover you're building.
All of which required physical contact with other humans. Handshakes. Casual touches. The normal interactions that held society together.
If my hand phased through someone's grip at the wrong moment, questions would follow. Questions I couldn't answer without revealing everything.
I needed to stabilize this power before my next STAR Labs visit. Before my next date with Caitlin. Before the mask I'd built so carefully developed cracks I couldn't repair.
The clock on the wall showed 4:17 AM. Dawn in two hours. The gym opened in three.
I pulled up the training protocols and started reading.
Sleep could wait. Control couldn't.
The next three hours were an education in frustration.
I started with basic exercises—willing the phasing on, then off, attempting to establish conscious control over the activation. The results were inconsistent. Sometimes the power responded. Sometimes it ignored my intentions entirely. Twice, my entire arm went intangible when I was trying to solidify a single finger.
Eight percent sync rate meant the power barely recognized my authority. I was trying to train a wild animal that didn't know it had been captured.
By 6 AM, I'd achieved something resembling progress. I could maintain solidity for thirty seconds at a stretch. Could occasionally trigger phasing on purpose. Could usually prevent the random fluctuations that had plagued me earlier.
[SYNC RATE: 11%] [MARGINAL IMPROVEMENT DETECTED]
Eleven percent. Three percent gain in three hours of concentrated effort. At this rate, functional control was weeks away.
I didn't have weeks.
The phone on my counter displayed three notifications. One from Cisco, asking about tomorrow's protocol review. One from an unknown number selling insurance. One from Caitlin.
Dinner again soon? Same place?
I stared at the message. Considered the implications.
A date meant physical contact. Hand-holding. Maybe more. Every moment of connection was a potential exposure point.
But canceling would raise questions. Create distance I couldn't afford. Damage the relationship that had taken weeks to build.
I typed back: Tomorrow night. Looking forward to it.
Then I put on gloves—black, leather, the kind that looked fashionable rather than suspicious—and headed for the gym.
The strength training would give me something to focus on while I figured out how to hide a hand that couldn't decide if it existed.
One problem at a time.
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