CHAPTER 12: PATTERNS
The gym was empty at five AM.
I'd found it three days ago—a small boxing place on 47th, the kind of establishment that didn't ask questions if you paid cash. The owner was an old Puerto Rican man named Hector who'd given me a once-over and handed me a key to the back entrance.
"You look like you need to hit something," he'd said.
He wasn't wrong.
I stood in front of the heavy bag now, wrapped hands raised, trying to remember the proper stance from a YouTube video I'd watched the night before. Feet shoulder-width apart. Weight on the balls. Chin down.
The first punch landed wrong. Too much arm, not enough hip. The bag barely moved.
I tried again. Better. Again. Worse.
Normal. Completely, frustratingly normal.
No surge of power. No unnatural speed. No strength beyond what my untrained body could produce. I hit the bag until my shoulders burned and my knuckles ached, and nothing changed.
The power activates under threat from multiple opponents.
That was my working theory. Three attackers in my apartment—power surge. One punching bag—nothing. But I couldn't exactly hire three guys to attack me again just to test it.
Or could I?
No. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
I finished my workout, showered in the grimy locker room, and walked to the diner on 45th. The same one I'd visited my first day in Hell's Kitchen, photographing safe house locations while Linda the waitress called me "hon" and served me mediocre eggs.
Strange how that felt like years ago instead of weeks.
"Coffee, black," I told the new girl behind the counter. Not Linda—different shift, probably. "And whatever's fastest."
She brought me toast and eggs. I ate without tasting, scrolling through news on my phone.
MASKED VIGILANTE STRIKES AGAIN: THREE RUSSIAN MOBSTERS HOSPITALIZED
HELL'S KITCHEN CRIME WAVE: POLICE DENY VIGILANTE INVOLVEMENT
"DEVIL OF HELL'S KITCHEN" TERRORIZES CRIMINAL UNDERWORLD
The headlines were everywhere. Matt's war on the Russians was escalating faster than I remembered. Bodies piling up. Operations burning. The criminal infrastructure of Hell's Kitchen being systematically dismantled by a man in a black mask.
The timeline is accelerating.
I'd been worrying about this since I arrived. Every action had consequences. My investment in Nelson & Murdock, my support of Karen's case, my presence in Hell's Kitchen—all of it was creating ripples. Changing things.
The Russians were being hit harder because Matt had more resources. He wasn't stretched as thin, wasn't as exhausted, wasn't making the mistakes that came from fighting alone. My money had bought him breathing room.
And someone was noticing.
I pulled up the encrypted notes app I'd started using after my fight. The one where I'd been documenting everything I'd observed about my own abilities.
Three attackers: Full enhancement. Speed, strength, reaction time all dramatically increased.
Training alone: No enhancement. Completely normal.
Hypothesis: Power activates in response to genuine threats. Multiple opponents seem to be a trigger.
Questions: Is it number-based? Threat-level based? Can I control it consciously? What are the limits?
Unknown: Why I have this. How long I've had it. Whether it will change.
The coffee had gone cold. I pushed it away and checked the time. Almost eight. I had a meeting with Claire at nine.
Her apartment smelled like coffee and disinfectant.
"You look better," she said, eyeing me critically. "Color's back. The tremors are gone."
"I feel better." I sat on the same couch where I'd spent two days unconscious. "Strong enough to start testing things."
"That's what I was afraid of."
I told her about my experiments. The gym. The punching bag. The complete lack of enhancement when I wasn't in danger.
"So it's threat-responsive," Claire said when I finished. "Not voluntary."
"That's my theory. Three attackers triggered it. Training alone doesn't."
"The other person I help—" She caught herself. "Let's just say his abilities work differently. They're always on. Constant input, constant enhancement. What you're describing sounds more... conditional."
"Like a defense mechanism."
"Maybe." She studied me. "The question is whether you can learn to control it. To activate it intentionally, or at least to manage it when it does activate."
"I need to test it more. Find out the parameters."
"And how exactly do you plan to do that? Pick fights with random criminals?"
"No." I hesitated. "But I could... train. Real combat training, not just hitting a bag. Sparring with someone who knows what they're doing."
Claire's expression was skeptical. "You think getting punched in the face is going to help?"
"I think I need to know whether this thing activates in a controlled fight, or only in real danger. And I need to learn how to actually fight either way." I leaned forward. "There was a man in my apartment. I broke his arm. With one punch. If I'd hit him differently—if I'd hit him in the head—I might have killed him."
The words hung in the air.
"I have this power," I said. "But I don't understand it. And until I do, I'm dangerous. To myself. To the people around me."
Claire was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was careful.
"There's someone. A trainer. He's helped people like you before—people who needed to learn control as much as technique." She pulled out her phone. "I can give you his number. But Roy... this path you're walking? It doesn't lead anywhere good. I've seen what happens to people who think they can fight their way through Hell's Kitchen."
"I'm not trying to fight. I'm trying to survive."
"Sometimes those are the same thing."
She texted me the contact. I saved it, filed it away for later.
"One more thing," she said as I stood to leave. "The news. The masked man."
I went very still.
"He's been hitting the Russians hard. Harder than usual. Word on the street is they're panicking—calling in reinforcements, making alliances they wouldn't normally make." Claire met my eyes. "This city is about to get very dangerous. Whatever war is coming, you're already caught up in it."
I thought about Karen. About Foggy. About Matt, out there every night in his black mask, fighting a battle he couldn't win alone.
"I know."
"So what are you going to do?"
I looked out the window. In the distance, smoke was rising from the docks. Sirens wailed through the morning air.
"Figure out what I can do. And then do it."
That night, I stood on the roof of my Hell's Kitchen apartment, watching the city burn.
Not literally—not entirely. But the smoke from the docks was still visible, a dark smear against the orange-lit sky. Somewhere down there, men were fighting. Dying. Trying to hold onto power that was slipping through their fingers.
And somewhere in the shadows, a man in a black mask was tearing it away from them.
My phone buzzed. A text from the number Claire had given me.
You're Roy? Claire's friend?
Yes.
Tomorrow. 6 AM. Fogwell's Gym.
I didn't recognize the name, but I knew how to search for it. A boxing gym in Hell's Kitchen. Old. Established. The kind of place that had been there before gentrification, before the developers, before the crime waves.
I'll be there.
The response came quickly: Don't be late. And don't expect it to be easy.
I put the phone away and stared at the horizon.
Somewhere out there, Matt was working. The masked vigilante. The Devil of Hell's Kitchen. A man with abilities beyond human understanding, fighting a war against an enemy he couldn't see.
I had abilities too. Different ones. Less controlled. But real.
The question was what to do with them.
I thought about the first morning I'd walked these streets—the woman feeding pigeons, the Russian lookouts, the determination that had brought me here in the first place. I'd wanted to help. To use my knowledge, my resources, my second chance at life to make a difference.
Now I had something more. Something dangerous. Something I didn't understand.
But I was going to learn.
The smoke kept rising. The sirens kept wailing.
And somewhere in the darkness, the war continued.
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