The muted hum of electronics filled Marcus's apartment in Coastal City, a low and constant vibration that never stopped, not even when he slept. A row of monitors stretched across his desk, each feeding him a different stream of information, poker tables on the left, live security camera feeds in the middle, and the encrypted tunnel into S.T.A.R. Labs' servers flickering softly on the right.
On the poker side of things, Marcus was deep into a high-stakes tournament, the kind where the wrong read cost you more than money. On the S.T.A.R. Labs side, he was combing through their latest clean energy research, checking experimental tech files, and quietly mapping out their database structure for weaknesses, not to sell, not to exploit, but to keep his skills honed. If someone in this world of capes and cosmic powers decided to burn S.T.A.R. Labs to the ground tomorrow, Marcus wanted to be the guy who already knew what they'd lost.
And on a separate window, tucked neatly into a corner, was his personal "cape tracker." A custom program scraping news feeds, security footage, and amateur recordings from across the world.
The patterns were there if you knew where to look.
The Flash, active for two years now, impossible to pin down except by the blur and the aftermath.
Batman, Gotham's shadow for nearly a decade, his appearances mapped like a ghost story told in police blotters.
Superman, four years in, brighter than the sun in both presence and influence.
John Stewart, the Green Lantern currently assigned to Earth, also has four years of activity, methodical and precise in his work.
It was a strange time to be alive. Heroes were real, out in the open, shaping history one battle at a time. And here Marcus sat, no flight, no strength beyond what he'd earned in the gym, no magic glowing in his veins, just a sharp mind, faster fingers, and a habit of sticking his nose where it didn't belong.
He leaned back, cracking his knuckles as his digital opponent placed another heavy bet. The man's profile picture was generic, but Marcus had already done the digging. Member of the Falcone crime family, mid-tier, with a habit of chasing cards the way some men chased women. And tonight, the guy had come in with money to burn, or rather, lose.
Marcus studied the screen, saw the bet, and smirked. The river card slid into place, completing his flush. The next two minutes were a masterclass in patience, just enough hesitation to make the other man think he had the upper hand. When Marcus called and the cards hit the virtual table, the chat window exploded with the kind of profanity you didn't even need to translate.
The $275,000 pot slid into his balance, and moments later, a portion of it was quietly routed into one of his untraceable accounts.
Marcus allowed himself a small, private grin. Then he shut it down. Never linger too long on a win.
Standing, he stretched until his shoulders popped. The apartment was dim, lit mostly by the glow from the monitors and the streetlights filtering through the blinds. His place wasn't flashy, with clean lines, minimal furniture, and every piece serving a purpose. The only real indulgence was his chair, an ergonomic recliner that had molded to his frame over the years of long nights.
He made his way to the bathroom, steam curling around him as the shower washed away hours of concentration. Twenty minutes later, towel slung over one shoulder, he stepped out just as his phone began to ring.
Not the personal one, the official work phone.
He dried his hands before answering.
"Marcus," he said.
"Got a job in Los Angeles," the voice on the other end told him. "Security systems check and optimization. Private firm. You interested?"
"Hmmm…" Marcus glanced at the clock. "Been a while since I've been to LA."
He got the details, location, scope, payment, and by the time he hung up, his mind was already shifting gears. The client was paying by the hour and didn't flinch at his rate. That meant they wanted it done right.
Within twenty minutes, his flight was booked.
---
The next day, Marcus was staring out the oval window of a flight descending over Los Angeles, the city sprawling out in golden haze beneath him. The air was warmer here, drier. The kind of heat that carried the smell of concrete and car exhaust rather than saltwater and rain.
The job site was a sleek office building in Westwood. He walked the perimeter, mapped out access points, then plugged into their internal systems. He told them three days, though he already knew he'd be done in two. They agreed to his rate without haggling. Smart people, or desperate.
That night, he found a bar a few blocks from his temporary place. Whiskey in hand, he sat by the window and let himself unwind. His fake ID had served him well; technically, he wasn't legal for another year, but nobody here was the type to ask too many questions if the money was right.
He thought about it as he sipped.
Twenty years. Twenty years of living in a world with gods, magic, aliens, and monsters, and he still had to worry about bullets. Still had to keep his head down. Still had to rely on grit and brains instead of glowing fists or invulnerable skin.
And yet, here he was. Not dead. Not powerless, either. Just… human.
He found an apartment to rent for the week instead of a hotel room. Better security, better privacy. It wasn't big, but it had a view, the kind that let you see the city lights stretching to the horizon.
Marcus poured another drink and sat in the recliner by the window. The city was alive beneath him, every flashing light and distant siren another story in progress. Heroes and villains moved out there, pieces in a game he wasn't ready to play, not yet.
But he'd keep track. He'd make sure if the day came, he wouldn't be caught with his pants down.
For now, the whiskey was smooth, the view was good, and the world kept turning.
The storm, he thought, would come soon enough.