The dial tone from Elena's call echoed in Mason's ears for a full half-minute.
He sat on the cold concrete floor of his basement, back against a mold-stained wall, the light from his phone screen illuminating half his face. The silence of the underground space was amplified—the drip of a pipe, the faint rumble of distant traffic, his own heavy breathing.
He forced himself to pull up the ability interface in his mind.
The gray icon hung suspended in the depths of his consciousness like a piece of extinguished charcoal. **Absolute Taste** — the ability that made everything he tasted become a single, overwhelmingly intense flavor. The icon was now completely dim, its edges even showing fine, crack-like patterns. The countdown had reached zero; the 24-hour expiration period had long passed.
He remembered the final attempt: three days ago, realizing this ability might be utterly useless, he'd clung to one last shred of hope and bought the cheapest bottle of wine from a convenience store. He wanted to test if this "absolute taste," if it could consistently distort flavor, might be used for identification—like, taking a sip of wine advertised as "fruity and rich," if it tasted sharply sour or bitter, would that mean it was a fake?
He'd snapped his fingers for that final, remaining use of the ability.
The mouthful of wine had tasted like **burning plastic mixed with rust**.
He'd spat it out, coughing violently, stomach cramping. It wasn't any taste the human palate should register; it was something beyond cognition, pure "sensory noise." Worse, when he later tried to wash the taste away with tap water, the water tasted exactly the same—**burning plastic and rust**—identical, without difference.
That was when he understood: this ability wasn't "replacing a liquid's original taste with another taste." It was "forcibly overlaying a layer of intense, random sensory noise completely unrelated to the liquid itself."
It wasn't even consistent noise. Before, he'd tasted sour, bitter, spicy—each time different.
**No pattern. No control. Utterly useless.**
In the two days that followed, Mason gave up trying to develop the ability. The pressure to survive was too concrete—needing money for next month's rent, needing to handle potential legal risks, and most importantly, that journalist Tom Wiles hovering over him like a ghost.
Compared to puzzling over a superpower that made everything taste disgusting, he needed to think more about this: how to stop his bank account balance, that "anomalous" compensation payment, from becoming someone else's leverage.
"Not every 'anomaly' can become a weapon," Mason muttered into the darkness, his voice hollow in the basement. "Some are just... trash. A reminder that you're still just a trapped ordinary person."
He stood up and walked to the cracked mirror on the basement wall. Under the dim yellow bulb, the reflection was blurry.
Mason Cooper, twenty-six years old.
Six feet tall. That height had gotten him some basketball time in high school, until his grandmother's illness forced him to drop out and work. He had a broad frame, but due to long-term malnutrition and high-pressure jobs, there was no extra fat, just lean muscle shaped by physical labor—shoulders broad from moving stock, arms defined but not overly bulky, a flat stomach with faint hints of abs, a result of chronic under-eating, not gym work.
His face wasn't handsome. The jawline was too sharp, cheekbones high, nose straight but with a faint white scar on the side—from a broken bottle a drunk had used on him during a night shift at the convenience store last year. Boss Miller had called it "work-related," but the medical costs were still docked from his pay.
The most distinctive feature was his eyes. Deep gray, like the L.A. sky in winter rain. Most of the time, those eyes held only exhaustion and emptiness, a numbness polished by chronic sleep deprivation and desperate living. But occasionally, in rare moments—like when he decided to rush into that alley for Samuel, or when he tore that second pair of pantyhose in the mall—that numbness would be pierced by something more primal: an animal-like alertness, a desperate, cornered ferocity.
Elena had described it later: "You seem ordinary, but there's something... not quite broken from being beaten down by life. Not resilience, that's too refined. Something rougher, like sandpaper. It can scrape if you get too close, but sometimes you need that roughness to wear down some polished hypocrisy."
Now, in the mirror, Mason Cooper wore a three-day-old T-shirt, greasy hair, deep dark circles under his eyes. But he stood straight. Not a deliberate chest-out, head-up straightness, but an instinct in his bones that refused to completely bend.
His phone vibrated.
Not Elena. An unknown number, but Mason knew intuitively who it was.
He took a deep breath, answered, and stayed silent.
"Mason Cooper?" Tom Wiles's voice came through, calmer than last time, even with a false note of friendliness. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"Get to the point," Mason said, his voice dry.
Wiles gave a short laugh. "Alright, I like direct. I've been thinking about our last conversation. I think... there might have been a misunderstanding. I'm not your enemy, Mason. On the contrary, I want to be your partner."
"Partner?"
"Yes." Wiles's tone became coaxing. "Look, you have a nice compensation payout, but in this city, twenty-something thousand disappears fast. Rent, living costs, and... I'm guessing some old debts, right? Plus, a convenience store clerk suddenly has an 'anomalous income.' The IRS might be interested."
Mason's grip tightened on the phone, knuckles white.
"But I can help you," Wiles continued. "I have channels to 'clean' the money, give you a legitimate explanation for the income. In exchange, you just need to tell me one thing: how did you make 'Chrono Gallery' cave so quickly? What cards are you actually holding?"
"I have no cards," Mason said, forcing his voice to sound confused and stubborn. "I just kept complaining until they got annoyed. Maybe they were just afraid of trouble at that time."
"Afraid of trouble?" Wiles's voice cooled a degree. "Chrono Gallery's parent company was just exposed last month for using sweatshops; their stock dropped 15%. They're least afraid of bad press right now because it's already bad. But they were afraid of you. Why?"
Mason, following Elena's coaching, steered the conversation elsewhere. "Why don't you look into whether they have bigger scandals they want to hide? Maybe my complaint just happened to hit their most sensitive moment."
Silence on the other end. Mason could hear keyboard taps.
A few seconds later, Wiles spoke, his tone now holding a sliver of genuine interest. "Bigger scandals... an interesting thought. But even so, an ordinary complainant getting them to pay a far-above-market settlement in 72 hours is still irrational. Unless..."
He paused, then said word by word: "Unless someone taught you how to do it. Do you have an advisor, Mason?"
Mason's heart hammered. This was the probe Elena had anticipated.
"I have a lawyer," he said—the line Elena had prepped. "Legal aid. Every citizen has the right."
"Legal aid lawyers don't teach you tricks like 'fake one, pay ten,'" Wiles scoffed. "Listen, I don't want to dance around. Tomorrow, 10 AM, Silverlake Cafe. We meet. You can bring your 'lawyer.' But if I find out you're playing me..."
His voice dropped to a threatening whisper. "The IRS, Consumer Protection, even Immigration—I have friends who can 'take an interest.' A young man living alone in a basement, no stable job, with anomalous funds flowing in... easy to label as a 'person of interest,' right?"
Mason felt his stomach clench, but forced his voice to stay calm. "Tomorrow, ten, Silverlake Cafe. I'll bring my advisor. If you bring recording devices or anyone else, the deal's off."
This time, it was Wiles who hesitated. Mason's reaction was too calm, too measured, unlike a terrified member of the underclass.
"...Fine," Wiles finally said. "Tomorrow. Don't be late."
The call ended.
Mason immediately texted Elena: "He took the bait. Tomorrow 10, Silverlake Cafe. Asked for advisor."
Elena's reply came a minute later: "Plan A. Wear the new suit. 9:45 AM tomorrow, bookstore entrance across from cafe."
Mason stared at the screen, suddenly feeling a strange calm.
The fear was still there, but it was overlaid by something else—a resolve of "finally facing it head-on." Like three years ago, fresh off the Greyhound bus in L.A., looking at the vast, unfamiliar city, what had risen in him wasn't fear but a near-self-destructive courage: *I've got nothing left to lose anyway, so let's see what you can do.*
He took off his old T-shirt, walked to the leaky faucet in the corner, and rinsed his body under the cold water. It was freezing, raising goosebumps. He dried off and opened the shopping bag with the new clothes.
Dark gray suit jacket, black crewneck T-shirt, slim-fit jeans, lace-up dress shoes.
He put them on, piece by piece. The man in the mirror transformed—still tired, still bearing the marks of a hard life, but the well-fitting clothes acted like armor, covering the most obvious signs of destitution. He no longer looked like a convenience store clerk, but like a... freelance professional just starting out? A young guy in a creative field? At least, not someone easily overlooked or dismissed on the street.
Mason faced the mirror, trying to adjust his expression. Not too nervous, not too aggressive. A calm that said "has limits but isn't afraid."
He practiced three times until his facial muscles ached.
Then he lay back on the bed, staring at the water-stain patterns on the ceiling that looked like maps.
**The Next Day**
Silverlake Cafe was on the east side of Silver Lake Boulevard, housed in a converted 1920s Spanish-style building. At 9:35 AM, sunlight filtered through stained-glass windows, casting dappled light on the dark wood floors.
Mason arrived early, standing under the awning of the used bookstore across the street. He wore the new clothes, holding a cheap faux-leather briefcase (containing only photocopies of the Chrono Gallery documents and a water bottle), trying to look natural.
At exactly 9:45, a deep blue Tesla Model S glided silently to the curb.
The door opened, and Elena Voss stepped out.
This was the first time Mason saw her fully, in daylight, while sober.
She wore a perfectly tailored dark gray women's pantsuit—the jacket nipped at the waist, highlighting a slender waistline and a full bust; the trousers were cropped, showing slender ankles and a pair of nude pointed-toe heels. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a sleek bun, revealing a long neck and small diamond stud earrings. She wore subtle professional makeup, her lips a muted dusty rose. She exuded an aura of "expensive and competent."
She carried a titanium silver briefcase that reflected cold light in the sun.
"Punctual," Elena said as she approached, her eyes quickly scanning him, giving a slight nod. "Clothes work. Take a deep breath. Remember: you don't need to speak much today. I'll handle it."
Her voice was calm and powerful, carrying undeniable authority.
"He might record," Mason said.
"I know. That's why we sit there." Elena pointed to the third window booth inside the cafe. "I checked yesterday. I installed a micro signal jammer under that table. Within three meters, all wireless recording devices fail."
Mason was stunned. "You..."
"First rule of crisis management: control the environment." Elena cut him off, a faint smile touching her lips. "Let's go."
They entered the cafe. Elena went straight to the booth, set down her briefcase, took off her suit jacket and draped it over the chair back, revealing a white silk blouse. Her movements were fluid, natural, as if this were her office.
Mason sat beside her, his back to the door. He could smell her perfume—not the lazy fruity scent from last night, but something crisper, cedar mixed with white musk, like mountain air.
At 9:58, Tom Wiles pushed through the door.
He looked to be in his early forties, slightly overweight, wearing an ill-fitting cheap suit, thinning hair, small eyes that darted around quickly. He carried a black leather folder. His gaze immediately locked onto Mason, then swiftly assessed Elena, his pupils contracting slightly.
"Mr. Wiles," Elena spoke as he approached, not standing up. "Have a seat. I'm Elena Voss, Mr. Mason Cooper's crisis management consultant."
Her tone was declarative, not a greeting.
Wiles hesitated for a second, sat down opposite them, and placed his folder on the table. "Ms. Voss. I didn't expect Mr. Cooper to have access to a... professional of your caliber."
"Everyone has the right to professional advice," Elena said calmly, opening her briefcase and extracting a thin file. "Before we begin, I need to confirm one thing: you are not carrying any recording or video devices, correct?"
Wiles's face changed. "That's not standard—a journalist has the right—"
"This is not an interview," Elena interrupted, her voice still steady but colder. "This is a risk assessment discussion based on potential legal disputes. If you are carrying recording devices, I will consider it an attempt to gather evidence against my client and will immediately terminate this conversation, while filing for a restraining order on grounds of 'harassment and potential extortion.'"
She pushed the file toward him. "This is a draft of the restraining order application. I've already signed it. One phone call, and it will be served by a court officer within twenty minutes."
Wiles stared at the file, a fine sweat breaking out on his forehead. He gritted his teeth, pulled a pen-shaped recorder from his inner suit pocket, and placed it on the table. "Satisfied?"
Elena picked up the recorder, examined it, then snapped it in two with a sharp twist.
"You—" Wiles almost stood up.
"Compensation will be mailed to your company," Elena said, placing the broken pieces on the table, then pulling out an identical new recorder from her briefcase and sliding it over. "Use this one. It has built-in encryption. After the conversation, I will need to be present to supervise the deletion of the original file. Agreed?"
Wiles's face flushed red. He clearly hadn't anticipated such a strong counter-move.
"...Fine," he finally said through clenched teeth.
"Good," Elena said, leaning forward slightly, folding her hands on the table. "Then let's be efficient. Mr. Wiles, your interest in my client, Mason Cooper, stems from the anomalously high settlement he obtained from his dispute with Chrono Gallery. Your core question is: how did he achieve this?"
Wiles regained his composure, opening his folder. "According to my investigation, Mason Cooper, twenty-six, no fixed employment, currently works night shift at 'Lucky 711' convenience store. Monthly pre-tax income approximately two thousand dollars. Resides in a basement apartment renting for six hundred dollars monthly. However, on the 23rd of this month, he purchased a watch valued at twenty-two hundred dollars from Chrono Gallery, then filed a claim for 'counterfeit goods' and received twenty-two thousand dollars in compensation. That's nearly a year of his income."
He looked up, fixing his eyes on Mason. "A young man with meager income, no legal background, forces a luxury retailer with a professional legal team to pay a tenfold settlement within three days. This defies business logic. So, my questions are: Do you possess leverage over Chrono Gallery? Were you guided in this claim? Or are you connected to... groups specializing in 'consumer fraud schemes'?"
Mason gave the rehearsed answer. "I have no leverage. No guidance. Don't know any groups. I simply pursued a reasonable claim based on the California Consumer Legal Remedies Act and the merchant's own 'fake one, pay ten' guarantee. Their quick payment might be because they actually sold a fake and feared escalation."
"Feared escalation?" Wiles scoffed. "Chrono Gallery's parent company was just exposed for supply chain issues last month; media focus is high. They're least afraid of bad press right now because it's already bad. But they feared *you*. Why?"
Elena took over.
"Mr. Wiles, your question is based on a flawed assumption: you believe Chrono Gallery's rapid settlement is 'anomalous.' From a risk management perspective, it's completely rational."
She pulled another document from her briefcase. "This is the stock price trend and major event timeline for Chrono Gallery's parent company, 'Luxury Group Holdings,' over the past twelve months. Note this node: November 15th, the Group CFO investigated for alleged insider trading. November 20th, the Group announces a 30% downward revision of Q4 revenue expectations. November 22nd, the day *before* Mr. Cooper's purchase, the Group board holds an emergency meeting. The agenda: 'Controlling potential legal risks to avoid triggering debt covenant breaches.'"
She looked up at Wiles. "When a publicly traded company faces financial crisis, management turmoil, at a sensitive moment, *any* consumer dispute that could trigger chain lawsuits or regulatory scrutiny gets top-priority treatment—not because it's important, but because it 'could be the final straw.' Mr. Cooper's claim, while only twenty-two thousand, if mishandled and exposed as 'Luxury Group continues selling fakes,' could spark a class-action suit with claims in the tens of millions. Comparatively, a quick tenfold payout for a confidentiality agreement is the most economical choice."
Wiles opened his mouth to object, but Elena didn't let him.
"You see this as 'anomalous' because you only see Mr. Cooper's individual background, not the 'systemic context' in which his claim occurred." Elena's voice was surgically precise. "This isn't 'mysterious forces' or 'someone behind him.' It's basic business risk calculus. And you, Mr. Wiles, as a self-styled 'investigative journalist,' failed to do your basic homework."
The booth fell briefly silent.
Wiles's face flushed, then paled. He looked down, quickly flipping through his folder, clearly searching for a rebuttal.
"Even so," he finally looked up, his voice tinged with frustration, "a convenience store clerk hitting this timing so precisely is too coincidental."
"Luck," Mason spoke—his third sentence of the day. "I just got lucky."
"Luck?" Wiles stared at him, his small eyes glinting. "You know, I checked your past records. Three years, seven consumer complaints—against phone companies, internet providers, even food delivery apps. Each time you got compensation or a settlement. *Each time*."
He leaned forward. "Occasional luck is possible. But seven times in a row? Each time squeezing money from a corporation? That's not luck anymore, Mr. Cooper. That's a 'pattern.' And patterns mean... skill. Or perhaps, talent."
A chill ran down Mason's spine. This journalist had dug deeper than he'd thought.
Elena smiled. It was a cool, slightly mocking smile.
"Pattern? Mr. Wiles, are you familiar with 'survivorship bias'? You see Mr. Cooper's seven successful complaints. You don't see his fifty-three failed attempts—the ignored emails, the hung-up calls, the rejected claims. Someone in chronic financial distress persists with complaints more than average because they have no other options. Persist enough times, and you'll succeed a few times statistically. That's probability, not talent."
She paused, her tone turning sharp. "But what truly concerns you isn't 'talent' or 'patterns.' It's whether you can package Mr. Cooper's case into a 'little guy beats big corp' story to sell to certain media or entities. Or more directly—whether you can threaten him with 'exposure of potential fraud' to get a cut of that settlement."
Wiles's expression froze.
Elena pulled a final document from her briefcase and slid it across to Wiles.
"This is your work record for the past three years. April 2023, you threatened a small manufacturer with 'exposure of labor issues,' received a 'consulting fee' of fifteen thousand dollars. November 2023, similar tactics against a restaurant chain, eight thousand dollars. June 2024, you were sued for falsifying business records, case number LA-SC-2024-0783, settled on condition you 'cease similar investigations.'"
Her voice dropped to an icy level. "Under that settlement, if you engage in threatening 'investigations' again, the plaintiff has the right to reopen the case and seek treble damages. My calculation puts that over one hundred and twenty thousand dollars."
Wiles's hands began to tremble. He stared at the document, which contained partial copies of his case file, even his signature on the settlement.
"You... how did you..."
"Second rule of crisis management: know your opponent." Elena closed her briefcase. "Now, Mr. Wiles, let's make a deal. You cease all investigation and harassment of Mr. Mason Cooper. These materials—" she pointed at the file, "—disappear forever. You can even continue your 'journalism,' as long as my client is off-limits."
She leaned back slightly, posture relaxed but eyes sharper. "Or, you can choose to continue. In that case, this material will be emailed this afternoon to the L.A. County District Attorney's office, the California Bar's complaint committee, and the legal departments of the three companies you are currently 'cooperating' with. I doubt they'll be pleased."
The booth was so quiet they could hear the hiss of the coffee machine's steam wand.
Wiles's face went from red to white, then to a dead gray. His eyes flicked between Elena and Mason, finally settling on the file detailing his past.
"...I need time to consider," he said hoarsely.
"You have thirty seconds," Elena glanced at her watch. "Twenty-nine, twenty-eight..."
"Enough!" Wiles stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly on the floor. He grabbed his folder, turned to leave, then stopped and looked back at Mason.
His expression was complex—anger, resentment, but more than that, a cold scrutiny.
"Watch your step, kid," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "The people helping you... might know best how to play you."
With that, he strode quickly out of the cafe, not even taking the new recorder.
Mason watched him disappear outside, then let out a long, slow breath. Only then did he realize his fists had been clenched so tight his nails had dug into his palms.
"His last words..." Mason looked at Elena.
"Standard loser's intimidation, trying to plant a seed of doubt," Elena said calmly, packing her files back into the briefcase. "Don't fall for it. I've seen plenty like him. Once their past is exposed, they resort to these cheap tactics to regain some psychological footing."
She stood, putting on her suit jacket. "Though he was right about one thing: your case *is* 'anomalous.' Either you have divine protection, or your case happened to land at the most sensitive systemic node. That kind of coincidence, to certain people, is itself a valuable 'data point.'"
Mason followed her out of the cafe. The sunlight was bright.
"So... it's over?" he asked. "He won't harass me again?"
"For now," Elena said, walking toward her car. "The leverage I have should keep him quiet for a while. But his mention of 'certain people' might be real—in business intelligence circles, there are entities that specifically collect 'anomalous dispute cases' to analyze corporate risk patterns. Your case might already be in some database."
She opened the car door but didn't get in immediately, turning to face Mason.
"So, you have two choices now. First, take the remaining money, leave L.A., go to a small town where no one knows you, start fresh. Second," she paused, "partner with me. Turn your 'anomaly' into a legitimate, protected asset."
Mason was stunned. "Partner? How?"
Elena checked her watch. "It's 11:20. I have some things to handle this afternoon. If you truly want to know, come to my apartment tonight. Seven PM. I'll send the address. Wear something comfortable. No suit this time."
She got into the car, the window rolling down.
"But Mason, this is the final choice. Once you step into my world, you can't go back to a life of 'just struggling to survive.' My world... has more opportunities. But also more traps."
The Tesla slid silently into traffic.