The headache didn't go away. It felt like a live wire was pressed against the base of Elias's skull, humming with the frequency of a thousand different conversations. He stared at the television screen, which was now scrolling through private police manifests and hero "incident reports" that never made the evening news.
'I'm inside. I'm actually inside their network.'
Elias didn't move his hands. He didn't have to. The more he focused on a specific file—a redacted report from the night his mother died—the faster the text flew across the screen. His mind was reaching out, snaking through the Wi-Fi signals in the walls, jumping from his apartment to the relay tower three blocks away.
"Aegis," Elias whispered.
The screen flickered. A high-resolution image of the golden-armored hero appeared, followed by a list of 'Settlements Paid.' There were dozens. Millions of dollars funneled into nondisclosure agreements. My mother's name was there, buried in a spreadsheet under 'Structural Variable Losses.'
Elias felt a cold, sharp twitch in his right hand. Suddenly, his fingers moved on their own, mimicking the precise, rhythmic tapping he had seen a world-class hacker do in a documentary years ago. Then, his arm shifted, locking into a perfect defensive posture he'd seen Silver Streak use to deflect a blow.
'What am I doing?'
He looked at his own limbs. They felt lighter, more responsive, as if they were finally calibrated correctly. He stood up and walked to the cracked mirror in the hallway. He watched his reflection, focusing on the way a professional fighter would stand. Instantly, his weight shifted to the balls of his feet. His shoulders dropped into a relaxed, lethal stance. He hadn't practiced a day in his life, but his body remembered every frame of every fight he'd ever watched on the news.
"I can do everything they can," Elias said, his voice flat. "But I'll do it better."
A notification pinged—not in the room, but directly in his mind. A nearby traffic camera had picked up a "Hero Alert." Two blocks away, a rookie hero named 'Pulse' was cornering a suspect in an alley.
Elias closed his eyes and pulled the feed. Suddenly, he wasn't in his apartment anymore. He was seeing through the lens of the street cam, looking down at the alley.
Pulse was glowing with blue energy, his hands crackling as he laughed. The "villain" was just a kid, maybe sixteen, holding a bag of stolen groceries. Pulse wasn't arresting him. He was charging up a blast, aiming it right at the kid's chest just to see him jump.
'He's going to kill him for a loaf of bread.'
Elias felt the air around him begin to ripple. The clock on the wall slowed its ticking until the sound was a deep, guttural thud.
"Not this time," Elias muttered.