The city gave him the chance before he went looking for it.
Mark surfaced near the river line, where warehouses slouched against the water like tired animals. Cargo lights cut pale lanes through the mist. Night crews moved in patterns—predictable, routine.
Too routine.
He slowed, letting his steps fall inside the tolerance band. Breath steady. Shoulders loose.
[CONTROL WINDOW: STABLE]
A sound reached him—metal scraping, quick and careless. Not guards. Not hunters.
Opportunists.
Mark turned down a service road and found three men circling a fourth, a dock worker pinned against a container. One held a shock baton, its tip crackling blue. Another blocked the exit. The third watched the corners.
No insignia. No company gear.
"Not my fight," Mark whispered.
[CONTROLLED CONTACT: RECOMMENDED]
[OBJECTIVE: DATA ACQUISITION]
"Figures."
He didn't rush.
He entered the scene like a misplaced shadow, boots soft on wet concrete. The man with the baton noticed him last.
"Move," the man snapped.
Mark moved—inside the band.
The baton lunged. Mark stepped where the strike would be, not away from it. The blue arc hissed past his ribs. He turned his hips, guided the arm, and let the man's momentum carry him off-balance.
No spike. No surge.
[DEVIATION ACCEPTABLE]
The second man swung a wrench. Mark ducked, shorter this time, too short—pressure flared behind his eyes.
He corrected mid-motion, shortened the turn, and shouldered through instead of striking. The wrench clanged against steel.
The band narrowed.
Mark disengaged half a step.
"Slow," he told himself.
The third man charged, all weight and anger. Mark planted, redirected, and used the container's corner like a fulcrum. The man hit it hard and slid down, winded.
The baton crackled again.
Mark caught the wrist—not tight, not loose—and twisted just enough. The baton fell. He kicked it under the container.
The first man backed away, breathing hard. "You're dead," he said, uncertain.
"Not tonight," Mark replied.
He didn't pursue.
The man ran.
The dock worker stared, eyes wide. "Thanks," he said.
Mark nodded once and stepped back, heart thudding but controlled. The heat stayed low, obedient.
[ENGAGEMENT SUMMARY]
[— Override: NOT USED]
[— Load: WITHIN TOLERANCE]
[— Outcome: ACCEPTABLE]
"Acceptable," Mark echoed.
Sirens wailed far off—not for them. Something else.
He melted into the shadows and moved along the river, letting the encounter settle. The ache behind his eyes was there, but faint. The bands widened with each careful step.
Then the air changed.
Pressure—clean, precise—brushed his awareness and vanished.
Mark stopped.
"You felt that," he murmured.
[CONFIRMED]
"Who?"
[UNKNOWN]
Footsteps sounded behind him, measured and unhurried.
A woman stood beneath a cargo light, coat immaculate despite the damp. No weapon in sight. No rush in her posture.
"Nice control," she said. "You didn't chase the win."
Mark angled his body, keeping the band wide. "You shouldn't be here."
"Neither should you," she replied, calm. "But we're both pragmatic."
[CONTROLLED CONTACT: ESCALATING]
"Name," Mark said.
She smiled. "Later."
The pressure brushed him again—not an attack. A question.
Mark held his ground.
"No override," he said quietly. "No tricks."
Her smile widened, approving. "Good."
She stepped back into the light's edge. "We're watching patterns, not spikes. Keep doing what you're doing."
"And if I don't?"
"Then someone less patient will knock."
She turned away.
Mark didn't follow.
[DATA ACQUISITION: PARTIAL]
[OBSERVER RESPONSE: RECORDED]
The woman vanished into the mist.
Mark exhaled, slow.
"That was a test."
[AGREED]
"And I passed."
[INCONCLUSIVE]
He almost laughed.
Mark headed upriver, steps quiet, control intact. The city felt closer now—less hostile, more interested.
Not safer.
But navigable.
End of Chapter 7