With the charger secured, John never stepped outside again. The eight months were a ticking clock, and he couldn't afford to waste a single second. He began to abuse his adrenal manipulation, he entered a serene state. In this state, he absorbed the language. He listened to podcasts and news broadcasts, cross-referencing words with his translation app. He practiced pronunciation, mimicking the subtle inflections of the speakers.
It took him three days to become a true beginner. It wasn't hard. His near photographic memory and intense focus allowed him to quickly pick up on common phrases, the meaning of street signs, and the general gist of conversations. He could understand what was being said, even if he couldn't form complex sentences himself. He was ready to leave his cage once more.
The eighth night, the city felt different. It was no longer a blur of foreign sounds but a collection of conversations he could almost understand. John stepped out with a new purpose: to speak.
His first stop was a small, late-night café where a single barista was wiping down the counter. John walked up, and with a voice that had no confidence in it, he said, "Buongiorno."
The barista looked up, surprised, and returned the greeting. John pointed to a steaming cup and, using the few words he knew, stammered out, "Un... caffè, per favore."
The barista smiled, a warm and genuine expression. "Certo," he replied, and began to prepare the coffee.
John paid with the cash he had, and as the barista handed him the cup, he said, "Grazie." It was a simple exchange, but for John, it was a victory.
He continued his journey through the city, his coffee cup a prop to make him look like a local. He deliberately sought out conversations. He asked a woman for directions to a landmark he already knew. He asked a street vendor about the food he was selling. His sentences were clumsy and broken, his pronunciation imperfect, but people were patient and kind. They understood his meaning, and with each interaction, his confidence grew.
For the next week, John's life became a loop of learning and practice. By day, he was a silent scholar in his room, devouring the Italian language with the aid of his stolen phone. His adrenal manipulation allowed him to compress hours of study into a single, focused session, turning him into someone who could hold a genuine conversation.
At night, he was amongst the locals, mingling in dimly lit cafes and bustling late-night markets, his clumsy sentences giving way to more natural, fluid speech. He still hadn't forgotten his assignment, but he knew he couldn't hunt a phantom without being able to ask a few questions.
His first night of hunting had been a complete failure. He was no closer to finding his instructor, and his only hope now lay in getting a hold of the security footage from a building near his hideout.
On this night, after a week of dedicated practice, John felt ready. His sole goal was to find a job specifically, a security night job. Infiltration, he reasoned, was a high-risk gamble. He didn't have enough information on the local security systems to pull off a break-in without raising an alarm. The direct approach was often the most effective for him in this case,
He target's included a small business, a family-run operation, or an apartment building that was likely to have a night guard. He avoided the large, corporate towers with their state-of-the-art security systems and multiple patrols. He walked the city's quiet residential streets, his eyes scanning for "Help Wanted" signs and his ears open for any gossip about a vacant position.
His search led him to a modestly sized apartment complex. A hand-written sign was taped to the glass door of the main office: "Cercasi Guardia Notturna" "Night Guard Wanted." It was a beacon in the darkness. John took a deep breath, his mind already calculating what he lacked. He had no resume, no references, and no real identity. But he had a confidence and a presence that could make one overlook his apperance.
John walked into the modest lobby of the apartment complex, the scent of old wood and cleaning supplies hanging in the air. The main office door was ajar, and inside, a portly man with a tired face was hunched over a small television, its screen filled with grainy security camera feeds.
John cleared his throat, and the man jumped, startled. He looked up, his eyes a mix of annoyance and exhaustion. His gaze lingered on John's youthful face, a look of skepticism etched on his features.
"Scusi," John said, his voice calm and even. "I saw your sign. I'm looking for the night guard position."
The man looked him up and down again. "You? You're a child. This is a job for a man. I need someone who can handle themselves."
John didn't flinch. He knew he looked young, even with the hardened lines of his training on his face. "I am eighteen," he said, using an age that was close to the truth and gave him a better chance of being taken seriously. "And I am very observant. I am also quick and don't tire easily."
"Observant?" the man scoffed, gesturing to the bank of monitors. "Observant is not what you need to be when you're watching these all night. I need someone who won't fall asleep."
"I don't sleep much," John said, the truth of his words that Marco, in his weariness, mistook for a simple matter of youthful insomnia. He spoke of his "experience" in a way that was vague, referencing his ability to "watch and wait" and his "training in observation." He didn't lie, but he allowed Marco to fill in the blanks with his own assumptions.
"I have spent my life focused on details," John continued. "I've been able to notice the small changes that mean something is wrong."
The man who's name was Marco, was clearly desperate. The last guard had quit without notice, and he was tired of working the night shift himself. After a brief and surprisingly simple conversation, Marco handed John a set of keys and a worn-out uniform.
"The job is simple," Marco explained, his finger tracing the lines on a map of the building. "You sit in here, you watch the cameras, you do a patrol every two hours. You call me if there's a problem. Don't touch anything you're not supposed to."
John nodded, his eyes already scanning the layout of the building, mentally noting the position of each camera. He was in. The first part of his plan was a success. He now had access to the building's security system, and, more importantly, to the camera footage he desperately needed.
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