The day after the battle at the Lily Pool, the world felt deceptively normal. The sun rose, the 'L' train rumbled past my apartment window with its familiar, comforting screech, and my email inbox was filled with the usual assortment of spam and promotions for things I couldn't afford. If it weren't for the persistent, low-grade chill in my chest and the ominous black phone sitting on my kitchen counter, I might have convinced myself the whole thing had been a bizarre, stress-induced hallucination.
But the phone was real, and my new balance of twenty Merit Points was a testament to the night's insanity. So was the text message I received from a number I didn't recognize: Diner. Corner of Clark and Diversey. 10 AM. Don't be late. -K
Our first official team meeting.
I found Kevin Zhang tucked into a booth at the back of the bustling diner, a half-empty cup of coffee in front of him. He looked completely different from the warrior who had vanquished a soul-eating monster the night before. Dressed in a simple gray t-shirt and jeans, hunched over his phone, he looked like any other college student cramming for an exam. The only hint of his other life was the long, canvas duffel bag resting on the seat beside him, an object I now regarded with a mixture of awe and terror.
"Morning," I said, sliding into the booth opposite him. The waitress came over, and I ordered coffee, my hands still not feeling entirely steady.
"You're alive," Kevin observed without looking up from his phone. "That's a good start."
"Thanks to you," I said earnestly. "I would have been a spiritual chew toy without you."
"Yeah, well, now you're my problem," he retorted, finally putting his phone down. "Which is why we're here. You survived your first encounter through a combination of my expertise and your dumb luck. We can't rely on dumb luck. If we're going to do this, you need to learn the basics. Consider this Supernatural Survival 101."
I leaned forward, ready to absorb anything he could tell me. "Okay. Teach me."
"First, you need to understand what you are now," he began, his voice low and serious. "You're not just a guy anymore. You're a beacon. Your life force—your aura—is naturally bright, like everyone else's. But Jessica's ectoplasmic signature is wrapped around it. Think of it like this: most people are lightbulbs. You're a lightbulb that's been spray-painted with a sign that says 'Free High-Energy Meal Here.' Low-level spirits might be attracted to the light, but predators like the Shade are attracted to the sign."
The analogy was horrifyingly effective. "So how do I turn off the sign?"
"You can't," he said bluntly. "Not as long as she's attached to you. But you can learn to... muffle it. It's about mental discipline. Shielding. Right now, your thoughts and emotions are an open book. You feel fear, it leaks out. You feel anger, it leaks out. It's all just broadcasting your position. I can teach you some basic meditation and focusing techniques to build a mental wall. It won't make you invisible, but it might make you look like a less appetizing target."
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, flat object. It was a simple, circular piece of dark wood, about the size of a quarter, with a single, complex character carved into its surface.
"This will help in the meantime," he said, sliding it across the table. "It's a yarrow-wood charm, consecrated to obscure a person's spiritual signature. It's like a scrambler. Keep it in your pocket. It's not a shield, it won't stop an attack, but it might keep some of the smaller, stupider things from noticing you in the first place."
I picked up the charm. It was smooth and cool to the touch. It felt solid, real, a tiny piece of ancient magic in the middle of a noisy Chicago diner.
"Second," he continued, "your new skill. Empathy. It's powerful, but it's also a massive liability right now. You let Jessica's emotions flood you last night. I could feel it from fifty feet away. You were so overwhelmed, you were practically useless. You need to learn to control it. Think of it as a volume knob. You don't have to listen at full blast all the time. You can learn to just... check in. Get a general sense of her emotional state without drowning in it. It's a tool, not a tidal wave."
He was right. The experience in the park had been brutal. I had no idea how to turn it down.
As if on cue, my thoughts drifted from the supernatural back to the mundane, or what now passed for mundane in my life: Harold Finch. The brief, triumphant feeling of seeing him rattled on LinkedIn was still fresh. I felt a pang of guilt for putting the investigation on hold. I owed Jessica that justice. Her presence in my chest stirred, a cold wave of her own relentless focus on the man who had murdered her.
"There's… something else," I said, deciding to trust my new partner. I wasn't going to tell him about the app or my own countdown, but he needed to know about the other war I was fighting. "My 'passenger,' Jessica. She didn't die in an accident. She was murdered by her boss. I have proof. That's the first assignment I was given—to resolve her regret. To get her justice."
Kevin listened intently, his expression unchanging. He didn't seem shocked or surprised. To him, this wasn't a separate category of problem. Human evil, supernatural predators—it was all just part of the same messy, broken world he was trying to clean up.
"So you're not just fighting monsters," he said when I finished explaining the basics of the Finch situation. "You're trying to take down a powerful human. In some ways, that's more dangerous."
"Tell me about it," I sighed. "I sent some anonymous emails to his colleagues to stir things up, and it seems to have worked. But I don't know what to do next. I have the proof on a USB drive, but what's the safest way to use it?"
Kevin leaned back in the booth, considering. "You've already started a psychological campaign. You need to escalate it. You can't let him recover. The proof is your trump card, but you don't play it until you're sure it will be a fatal blow. You need to keep applying pressure, make him more paranoid, force him into making a mistake."
"What kind of mistake?"
"A public one," Kevin said. "Right now, it's just whispers inside his company. You need to bring the fight into the light. You need a journalist. A real one. Someone who can take your anonymous proof, verify it independently, and publish a story that will destroy him. But finding the right one, and getting them to believe you, that's the hard part."
His advice was sound. It was the same conclusion I had come to, but hearing it from him, so calmly and logically, made it feel more achievable. He wasn't just a weapons expert; he was a strategist. For the first time, I felt like my plan to ruin Harold Finch might actually work. Our alliance wasn't just about fighting Shades in the park; he was going to help me with this, too. We were a team.
As if on cue, the black phone on the table beside my coffee cup vibrated. It wasn't the urgent, high-priority buzz from the day before, but a simple, single ping. A new notification had appeared on the screen. Kevin's eyes flicked down to the device, his curiosity piqued.
With a sense of weary resignation, I tapped the screen. A new assignment card had appeared on my "mission board."
[New Assignment Issued. Type: Spiritual Contamination] [Location: North Avenue Beach.] [Brief: A localized surge of negative emotional energy (despair, regret) is coalescing near the south pier, creating a potential 'Weeping Spot.' Disperse the energy before it attracts more dangerous scavengers.] [Reward: 5 Merit Points. Completion Deadline: 48 hours.]
I sighed and showed the screen to Kevin.
His lips pursed into a thin line as he read the brief. "'Weeping Spot.' I've seen those before. Not as dangerous as a Shade, but they're nasty. They can drive people in the area to depression, even suicide, if they're left to fester."
He looked up from the phone and met my eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible smile played on his lips. "Well," he said, taking a sip of his now-cold coffee. "Looks like class is over. Time for a field trip."