Chapter 3: The Paper Trail
The fish processing plant sat at the end of a crumbling pier, its windows dark and its loading docks chained shut. Cole watched it from across the street, coffee steaming in his hand, and felt absolutely nothing.
That bothered him more than the monster inside.
Forty-eight hours since he'd woken up in a dead man's body. Twenty-four since the system had given him a target. He should have been terrified, or angry, or at least appropriately disturbed by the situation. Instead, he catalogued the plant's entrances, noted the security gaps, and sipped his espresso like he was reviewing discovery documents.
Something's wrong with me.
The thought drifted through his mind and disappeared. He had work to do.
Three entrances. Main door facing the street, boarded over. Side entrance near the water, accessible by a narrow walkway. Rear entrance through the collapsed section of roof. No lights. No movement. No evidence of current occupation except for the seven dead people who'd all been found within walking distance.
It hunts at night. During the day, it sleeps. Or waits. Or whatever crocodiles do when they're not eating people.
Cole finished his coffee and walked away.
The sporting goods store on Burnside was empty at this hour—Tuesday morning, early October, nobody shopping for camping equipment. He moved through the aisles with practiced efficiency.
Hunting knife. The blade was eight inches of carbon steel, the handle wrapped in rubber for grip. Legal to carry concealed in Oregon.
Pepper spray. Industrial strength, the kind designed for bears. Probably useless against a Skalenzahne, but options were options.
Collapsible baton. Twenty-six inches extended, steel core, meant for security guards.
The cashier was a bored twenty-something who barely glanced at his purchases.
"Heading into the wilderness?" she asked, scanning items.
"Something like that."
He paid cash. Two hundred twelve dollars. That left him with less than forty until he figured out the banking situation.
The original Cole had forty-seven thousand in the account. I just need to prove I'm him.
Which meant paperwork. Documentation. The kind of boring administrative work that had filled half his previous career.
The Oregon State Licensing Board operated out of a building in Southeast Portland. Cole walked the three miles, getting familiar with his new city, his new body, his new reality. The rain held off. The October air carried the smell of fallen leaves and approaching winter.
Inside the licensing office, a middle-aged woman with reading glasses and an exhausted expression handed him a stack of forms.
"Private investigator license?"
"That's right."
"Experience requirements?"
"Twenty years as a criminal defense attorney." The lie came easily—it was almost true. "I've worked with investigators my entire career."
She didn't ask for documentation. The forms only required signatures, background consent, and a fee. Cole filled them out with information from the wallet—social security number, address, date of birth. All things the original Cole Ashford had possessed.
"Processing takes five to seven business days." The clerk stamped his application. "Examination is self-scheduled through our website. Multiple choice, forty questions, passing score is seventy percent."
"Thank you."
He walked out with a receipt and a timeline. One week until he had legal cover for investigating things.
Not fast enough.
The Skalenzahne wouldn't wait a week to kill again.
Cole found a coffee shop two blocks from his apartment—a narrow storefront with exposed brick and a chalkboard menu featuring drinks he'd never heard of. The espresso was excellent. The barista was a redhead with a nose ring who called everyone "hon" and didn't ask questions.
He sat by the window and let his mind work.
[QUERY: TACTICAL ASSESSMENT OF CURRENT RESOURCES]
The system responded instantly.
[WEAPONS: INSUFFICIENT FOR DIRECT CONFRONTATION WITH SKALENZAHNE]
[COMBAT TRAINING: MINIMAL]
[SUPERNATURAL ABILITIES: NONE]
[RECOMMENDED APPROACH: AMBUSH TACTICS. EXPLOIT ENVIRONMENTAL FACTORS. TARGET VULNERABILITY: UNKNOWN — REQUIRES OBSERVATION.]
So I need to scout. Learn the target's patterns. Find a weakness.
The system pulsed acknowledgment.
Tonight.
Cole ordered a second espresso. The rain started again, streaking down the window, turning the world outside into impressionist smears of gray and green. He watched it fall and tried to remember the last time he'd felt rain like this—really felt it, not just acknowledged it as weather.
In his old life, rain meant traffic delays. Canceled meetings. The annoying squeak of windshield wipers.
Here, it felt like baptism.
You're romanticizing. You're sitting in a coffee shop planning to stalk a monster that's killed seven people, and you're having aesthetic thoughts about precipitation.
He smiled into his cup.
Maybe that's the point. Maybe the old Cole was already dead, long before the car hit. Maybe this is the first time I've been alive in years.
The thought should have been disturbing. Instead, it felt like permission.
He spent the afternoon in the apartment, practicing with the knife. His grip was wrong—he could tell that much. The blade felt foreign in his hand, an object rather than an extension. He cut himself twice on minor movements, blood welling up from slices he barely felt.
[ADVISORY: BASIC COMBAT TRAINING RECOMMENDED BEFORE ENGAGEMENT]
Thank you for that insight.
He bandaged his fingers and tried again. Stab. Slash. Block. The movements were clumsy, uncoordinated, nothing like the fluid violence he'd seen in movies or imagined in courtroom reconstructions.
I'm going to die.
The thought was almost peaceful.
At 10 PM, he dressed in dark clothes—black jeans, gray hoodie, the leather jacket that had dried overnight. Knife in a belt sheath. Baton in his jacket pocket. Pepper spray clipped to his waistband.
The fish processing plant waited.
Cole took the bus to the waterfront district, got off three stops early, and walked the rest of the way through industrial streets. The rain had stopped, but the air was thick with moisture and the smell of the Willamette River.
The plant loomed against the dark sky, a monument to abandoned industry. No lights inside. No movement visible through the broken windows.
He found a position behind a shipping container fifty yards away. Clear sightlines to all three entrances. Good cover. Room to retreat if necessary.
Then he waited.
11 PM. Nothing.
Midnight. A car passed on the distant main road, headlights sweeping across wet pavement.
12:47 AM. Movement.
The side door opened. A figure emerged—tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a rain slicker that seemed to absorb the light. It moved down the narrow walkway toward the water with a gait that was wrong somehow, too smooth, too controlled.
Cole's pulse didn't quicken. His hands didn't shake. He watched with the same detachment he'd felt all day.
[TARGET CONFIRMED: SKALENZAHNE. OBSERVING WOGE STATE... UNABLE TO CONFIRM. TARGET NOT FULLY TRANSFORMED.]
The figure reached the waterline and stopped. It stood there for a long moment, facing the river, perfectly still.
Then it slipped into the water without a splash and disappeared.
Cole waited another hour. The Skalenzahne didn't return.
At 2 AM, he walked home through empty streets. The knife remained sheathed. The baton stayed in his pocket.
It hunts the river. The plant is just a base—a place to sleep and store... whatever it stores.
He passed a convenience store with a television in the window. A news anchor mouthed silent words. The crawl at the bottom read: EIGHTH HOMELESS DEATH IN WATERFRONT DISTRICT — POLICE INVESTIGATING.
Eight now.
Tomorrow, he would need to scout the riverbank. Find the actual hunting grounds. Understand the pattern better.
Tomorrow, he would need to figure out how to kill something that outweighed him by a hundred pounds and had natural armor.
Tomorrow, the real work began.
Cole climbed the stairs to his apartment. The key turned smoothly in the lock.
Inside, he sat on the couch without turning on the lights. The system pulsed quietly, patient and waiting.
[TARGET OBSERVATION COMPLETE. ADDITIONAL DATA ACQUIRED.]
[RECOMMENDED: CONTINUE SURVEILLANCE. IDENTIFY KILL WINDOW.]
He closed his eyes.
The Skalenzahne would kill again. Maybe tonight, while it hunted the river. Maybe tomorrow. The homeless population wouldn't notice another death until it was far too late.
I could call the police.
The thought felt hollow even as it formed. What would he tell them? A crocodile man lives in an abandoned fish plant and kills homeless people?
This is what the system is for. This is why I'm here.
Cole opened his eyes.
The knife sat on the coffee table, blade gleaming faintly in the ambient light from the window. He picked it up. The weight felt more familiar now, less like an object and more like a tool.
I'm going to kill something. Soon. And then I'm going to absorb its power, and I'm going to become something that isn't entirely human anymore.
The thought should have terrified him.
Instead, he started planning.
Reviews and Power Stones keep the heat on!
Want to see what happens before the "heroes" do?
Secure your spot in the inner circle on Patreon. Skip the weekly wait and read ahead:
💵 Hustler [$7]: 15 Chapters ahead.
⚖️ Enforcer [$11]: 20 Chapters ahead.
👑 Kingpin [$16]: 25 Chapters ahead.
Periodic drops. Check on Patreon for the full release list.
👉 Join the Syndicate: patreon.com/Anti_hero_fanfic