Lance’s doorbell rang. [6:54 AM]. Six minutes early.

  Shit.

  He hadn’t slept. Again. The dark circles under his eyes in the bathroom mirror looked like bruises, a fitting match for how his head felt. His reflection stared back, accusing. You look like hell.

  The overgrown beard would stay one more day—he wasn’t trying to impress anyone, least of all a federal agent. He splashed cold water on his face, willing his thoughts into some semblance of order. The same order that had eluded him all night as memories of the Durview Hotel played on endless loop behind his closed eyes.

  His phone buzzed again. A text this time:

  Unknown: I’m outside. - Agent Garvin

  Lance grabbed his black jacket, checking his wallet out of habit though he knew exactly what was in it: twenty-three dollars cash, two maxed-out credit cards, and a bank card linked to an account that would make a college student wince. The federal government most likely already knows he is broke—at least that will save him the embarrassment of admitting it.

  The black sedan from yesterday idled at the curb, its engine a quiet purr in the pre-dawn silence. Same car, same agent, different context. Lance’s boots crunched on frost-covered grass as he crossed his small front yard. His breath fogged in the air, reminding him of the smoke that had filled his lungs at Titan’s Den. Stop it. Focus.

  Agent Garvin sat ramrod straight in the driver’s seat, her short black hair even more severe than yesterday. She didn’t look up from her phone as Lance opened the passenger door.

  “You’re late.”

  Lance checked his phone. [6:57 AM]. “Actually, you’re early.”

  “In government work, early is on time, on time is late.” She finally looked at him, her eyes sharp despite the hour. “And late is unacceptable.”

  The car’s interior smelled of new leather and government-issue air freshener. As Lance slid into the passenger seat, he couldn’t help but notice how clean everything was—no coffee cups, no loose papers, not even a speck of dust on the dashboard, none of the usual detritus that accumulated in civilian vehicles. Everything in its place, just like Agent Garvin herself.

  “Where are we going?” Lance asked as they pulled away from the curb.

  “Nowhere.” Garvin made a right turn onto Madison. “This conversation requires privacy, not location.”

  Lance’s phone buzzed against his thigh. Then again. He didn’t look away from Garvin, knowing whatever she had to say demanded his complete attention.

  They drove in silence for several blocks, the streets empty except for the occasional delivery truck or early-morning jogger. Lance watched his neighborhood scroll past, familiar landmarks taking on an alien quality in the pre-dawn gloom. The Sacred Valley wasn’t even open yet—strange, since he’d never seen the place closed before.

  “The United States Enhanced Corps,” Garvin said suddenly, as if continuing a conversation they’d been having. “Another announcement’s coming today. We’ve been quietly assembling teams for the past month.”

  His phone vibrated non-stop now. Lance pressed his palm flat against his pocket, but kept his eyes on Garvin.

  Lance turned from the window. “Haven’t really looked into it.”

  “That’s rather the point.” She took a left onto Highland. “We’re a joint task force combining military oversight, scientific research, and law enforcement capabilities. Our mandate is to identify, monitor, and when necessary, intervene in situations involving enhanced individuals.”

  “Like me.”

  “Like you.” She nodded. “Though you’re something of a special case.”

  “Because I killed Rick?”

  “That’s part of it.” Her tone remained neutral, professional. “We keep tabs on all of the Enhanced.”

  Lance’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been watching me.”

  “Of course we have. You’ve killed three people.”

  “Two,” Lance corrected. “And it was self—”

  “Mark Turner.” Garvin’s interruption was calm but firm. “Hired assassin. Father Emmanuel Rossi, though I understand you dispute that one. And Maverick Munson. Three deaths, Mr. Lawthorn, regardless of circumstances or justification.”

  “And now you’re nearly broke, unemployed, and our surveillance shows increasingly unstable training methods.”

  The car’s temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Lance’s hands curled into fists in his lap. “I didn’t kill Rossi.”

  “The specifics don’t matter.” Harrison turned onto a side street. “What matters is that we’re establishing the Enhanced Corps. We need people who can handle these emerging abilities.”

  “And you think of me as a candidate?”

  “You’re certainly of interest—and one of the strongest we’ve seen.” She pulled into an empty parking lot, killing the engine. “O-4 pay grade for enhanced individuals who pass our screening protocols. Full benefits, specialized training. The kind of support that could prevent incidents like what happened at Titan’s Den.”

  Lance let out a harsh laugh. “You want to recruit me? After telling me you’ve been investigating me?”

  “The situation is evolving rapidly.” Garvin turned in her seat to face him fully. “Enhanced abilities are emerging faster than we can track them. Traditional protocols don’t apply. We’re adapting—something you should understand, given your own experiences.”

  “And if I say no?”

  “Then you continue as you are. Training alone, burning through what little money you have left, hoping you don’t accidentally kill someone else while pushing your limits.” Her words landed like precise strikes. “How’s that working out for you?”

  Lance stared out the window. “Marcus is a veteran.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Marine Corps. Built that gym from nothing. Now it’s gone, and the insurance company’s stonewalling him.”

  Harrison studied him for a moment. “You’re hardly in a position to make demands, Mr. Lawthorn.”

  “If I’m the strongest arma user, then helping a decorated veteran rebuild isn’t asking much,” Lance said. “You want to convince me you can handle arma users? Start there. Show me you can take care of the people already hurt by all this.”

  Garvin was silent for a long moment, her fingers jumping once on the steering wheel. When she spoke, her voice had lost some of its edge. “But you’re right. The treatment of veterans such as Mr. Johnson doesn’t reflect well on us. I’ll look into it.”

  “Look into it?” Lance’s voice rose. “His entire life’s work is gone. ‘Looking into it’ isn’t good enough.”

  “What would be?”

  “Action. Results. Prove you can handle the small problems before claiming you can tackle the big ones.”

  Harrison’s sigh carried years of bureaucratic resignation. “I’ll see what we can do for Mr. Marcus Johnson. He does have an impressive service record.”

  Lance nodded, though he didn’t entirely believe her.

  “The initial screening is in two days, 0800 hours at Cherry Point.” She put the car in drive. “It’s about two and a half hours east of here, just off Highway 70. I’ll send you the coordinates for the back gate.”

  Harrison pressed a button on her console, and Lance’s door clicked open. Several seconds passed.

  “Mr. Lawthorn?”

  “My apartment’s in the other direction.”

  “You have a lot to think about.” She glanced at her watch. “I have another meeting in twenty minutes, and I can’t afford to be late.”

  Lance stared at her. “You’re really going to make me run back.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be back before I can even turn the car around,” she said dryly. “I doubt a five-mile jog will challenge someone who spends his mornings doing backflips off playground equipment.”

  Lance sighed.

  “One more thing,” Garvin said. “I never actually claimed you were the strongest enhanced individual we’re tracking.”

  Lance froze, his hand on the door. That explained a lot.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Lawthorn.”

  He stepped out of the car, neurons making sense of it all. As the black sedan pulled away, Lance stood in the empty lot, watching it disappear around the corner. Even his pain nullification couldn’t keep the chill from settling in his bones.

  Not the strongest. The words stuck in his head, a warning and a challenge coming from someone who saw beyond his narrow view of what was possible.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from an unknown number:

  Unknown: Sending you a pin. Hope to see you the day after tomorrow. - Agent Garvin

  I don’t, Lance thought, dropping the phone in his pocket.

  Harrison was right—with his enhanced speed and stamina, Lance could have sprinted back to his apartment in under two minutes. But after this conversation, walking felt like the better option. Even at a normal pace, it only took him eight minutes to cover the distance.

  Every train of thought led back to the Enhanced Corps. The math was simple: no job, no gym, no support group since Elena disbanded it to protect everyone’s identities. His connection to BioNova was burned beyond repair after their relentless pursuit of extra doses. These days, his social circle consisted mainly of Diego—a relationship born from their shared arma abilities—and Jiro, who cared more about belly rubs than enhanced powers.

  Joining the military had been his dream once, before a failed medical screening derailed those plans. His mother, proud of her own service, had been more disappointed than he was. Now he had a chance to fulfill that dream, but telling her would mean explaining everything—the powers, the deaths, Rick. The proud smile he imagined on her face twisted into something else in his mind, something closer to horror.

  Lance rounded the corner to his apartment building and spotted a figure peering through his window. The man bobbed and wobbled, moving from window to window like a clumsy cat burglar. At one point, he crouched low to check the bottom corner of Lance’s living room window, then stretched up on his toes at the next, hands cupped around his eyes to block the afternoon glare. The whole display looked ridiculous—if this was a criminal, he was either desperate or incredibly bad at his job.

  “Can I help you?” Lance called out.

  The man spun around, lost his balance, and stumbled backward. “Jesus Christ, man!”

  Lance blinked. “Diego?”

  “Uh, hey.” Diego straightened up, shoving his hands in his pockets. “You weren’t answering your phone.”

  “Since when do you own a black hoodie—nevermind that, you can walk now.”

  “Yeah, about that.” Diego scratched his neck. “Turns out my PT worked better than expected. Like, way better.”

  “I wasn’t casing it. I was...” Diego gestured vaguely at the window. “Making sure you were okay?”

  “By looking like a burglar.”

  Diego grinned. “Anyway, I brought breakfast. Well, it was breakfast twenty minutes ago. Now they’re more like room temperature burritos.”

  Lance shook his head and pulled out his keys. “You could have texted.”

  “I did. Fifteen times.” Diego followed him to the door. “Also, your neighbor across the hall definitely thinks I’m suspicious. She’s been watching me through her peephole for like twenty minutes.”

  So that’s what all those vibrations were about. The conversation with Garvin had made him completely forget about his phone.

  “Mrs. Dursey.” Lance waved at the door across the hall. “You can come out now. He’s with me.”

  A lock clicked and a grey-haired head poked out. “Next time,” she said sternly to Diego, “sit on the steps like a normal person.”

  Lance unlocked his apartment door and headed straight for the kitchen, Diego trailing behind. Jiro bounded off the couch to greet them, tail wagging furiously as he sniffed Diego’s legs with particular interest. Lance dug through the paper bag Diego had brought, pulling out three foil-wrapped burritos. He grabbed a plate from the cabinet, unwrapped the burritos, and popped them in the microwave for thirty seconds.

  “Your dog keeps staring at my legs,” Diego said.

  “He probably smells the difference. No more wheelchair smell.”

  “Great, even the dog’s judging me.”

  The microwave beeped. Lance pulled out the plate and set it on the counter between them. At the other end of the kitchen, Diego was still squinting at Jiro, his head tilting sideways as the dog circled his legs. He kept tracking Jiro’s movement, his eyebrows climbing higher with each lap the dog made around the kitchen.

  “Yo, was your dog always this massive?”

  “Yeah, he’s been getting pretty big lately.”

  “Dude, he’s like four times bigger than when I last saw him. That’s not normal growth.”

  Lance observed Jiro padding around the kitchen. “Been meaning to take him to the vet, but Dr. Robbins hasn’t gotten his gene therapy yet. Half his staff is still out sick.”

  “True. World’s got bigger problems than big dogs right now.” Diego hopped onto the counter, legs swinging. “How’d it go with Marcus yesterday?”

  “Not great. We won’t be pumping iron there anytime soon.”

  “Yeah, that figures.”

  Lance nodded around a mouthful of breakfast burrito.

  “So where were you this morning? Out for a run?”

  “This’ll sound crazy, but the federal government wants me to join their new military branch.”

  Diego nearly fell off the counter. “Was it the US Enhanced Corps? Dude, that’s insane! I read about it yesterday—They’re like the Navy SEALs of arma users! Are you gonna do it? You have to do it. This is huge!”

  “You think?”

  “Hell yeah! Are you joining?”

  “Still thinking about it.”

  “Well, I want in too.”

  “Screening’s in two days. Cherry Point—couple hours south.”

  Lance watched Diego’s face light up with excitement. That familiar spark in his eyes—the one Lance hadn’t seen since their early training days. He caught himself starting to feel it too, that pull of possibility. Getting stronger, maybe even helping people... but he stopped that line of thinking cold.

  He’d already fallen for that trap once, bought into the whole hero narrative like some naive kid who’d read too many comics. Real life had a way of grinding down those idealistic edges. Still, watching Diego’s enthusiasm, he couldn’t completely squash that small voice wondering if maybe, this time, things could be different.

  “Fuck it, let’s do it.”