We drive separately on the way to the café. When we arrive, it's just busy enough to feel lively but not chaotic. Lacy leads the way, claiming a booth near the window. She slides in first, her movements fluid and confident. Day follows, settling beside her, and I take the opposite side, feeling outnumbered before we've even started.

Lacy scans the menu with sharp eyes, probably counting calories in her head. Day, on the other hand, hasn't touched the menu, leaning back against the booth like she's got all the time in the world. She's always like this—unshakable and calm, no matter the setting. No matter the day we've had.

"Anything good?" I ask, breaking the silence as I glance at my own menu. Not that I need it. I already know I'll order something greasy and terrible for me. I have standards to maintain.

Lacy barely looks up. "Depends on how you define 'good.' They have a salad."

Her tone is clipped, not unkind, but I can tell she's already filtering out everything that doesn't meet her personal standards, which is likely most of the menu. She sets it aside a moment later with a faint sigh, her fingers brushing against the edge of the table as she glances at Day. "You?"

"Not hungry," Day replies smoothly, though she'll probably order something small just to keep up appearances. She looks at me, her fiery eyes steady. "What about you, Harlan?"

"I don't know, I'll figure it out," I tell her simply, since I will. I'm hungry, and they have a lot of things that look good. Maybe if Lacy and Dayanara weren't going to eat anything here, they shouldn't have let me pick, even though it helped my mood.

The waitress approaches, and we rattle off our orders with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I go for the burger special, extra fries. Lacy gets her salad, dressing on the side, and Day surprises no one by ordering a plain coffee and a sugar-free pastry. The waitress nods and disappears, leaving the three of us in an awkward silence that feels heavier than it should. Lacy's eyes flicker between me and Day, clearly picking up on the tension from earlier. Her fingers toy with the edge of her napkin as she speaks up.

"Rough morning," she says, more an observation than a question.

Day hums softly in agreement, but I just shrug, leaning back in my seat and letting my head fall against the booth. I can feel Lacy's gaze lingering on me, but I don't meet it. I'm too tired to deal with her concern, no matter how well masked.

"What's the plan?" she asks eventually, her voice quiet but steady.

Day glances at me, waiting for me to answer. I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. "Figure out where she went. Track her down."

Lacy's brow furrows. "You think she's still in the city?"

"She didn't just vanish into thin air," I reply, though I have no idea how much longer I'll be able to say that, considering the power we're most likely up against. Also, Solace International is massive, but again... it's clear our rules don't apply to them."She's out there. We'll find her."

"And if you don't?" Lacy's tone is cautious, not challenging, but it still rubs me the wrong way.

"We will," I say firmly, my voice leaving no room for argument. She'll probably still argue.

Day's watching me now, her expression unreadable. She's good at that—keeping her thoughts to herself until it matters. I know she's gauging me, trying to figure out if I'm as close to snapping as I feel. I glance away, focusing on the cheap laminate of the table instead. In my defense, catching Three was our biggest break since the start of the case, and now she's gone. I can't help but blame myself. It's not like I had any business in that area of the city at three in the morning, but still. I should've been there.

Lacy doesn't push, though I can see the doubt in her eyes. She shifts her attention to Day, her tone softening. "What about you? Any ideas?"

Day shrugs, sipping her coffee. "Nothing solid. Whoever's behind this, they're good. Better than anyone we've dealt with before."

Her words hang in the air, heavy with unspoken truths. I can't help the way my fingers drum against the edge of the table, frustration bubbling under my skin. "Better doesn't even begin to cover it. Whoever this boss is, they've got abilities that make everything we've seen so far look like a joke."

Lacy glances between us, her brow furrowing as she processes my words. She doesn't ask questions at first, just listens, but the way her eyes narrow slightly tells me she's filing this information away. Always observing, even when she doesn't mean to.

"What kind of abilities?" she asks eventually, her voice light. It's a cautious question, one that feels more like a probe for clarity than anything else.

"Something we've never dealt with before," Day replies before I can, her tone calm but firm. "We don't know the extent yet, but it's powerful. Really powerful."

"And specific," I add, the words bitter on my tongue. "Breaking walls apart and rebuilding them like they're nothing, precise enough to leave no trace. It's not just power, it's control. That's what's terrifying."

Lacy's expression shifts, her reserved exterior cracking just enough to show the unease beneath. "So this isn't just another villain. It's something else."

"A different league," Day paraphrases, her voice as steady as ever, but there's something in her eyes—something unspoken that says she feels it too. The weight of whatever we're up against. "We just need to be patient."

"Great idea." Her certainty doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, it pisses me off. "Let's wait around they tear the city apart. See if they rebuild it every time."

"Harlan," Day warns, her voice sharp but not unkind. She's used to my anger, misdirected or not. "Frustration isn't going to solve anything."

"Neither is doing absolutely nothing," I snap back, the edge in my voice sharper than I intended. I see the flicker of something in her eyes—disappointment, maybe—but she doesn't rise to it. She never does, especially with me, since she knows it's all hollow. She just sips her coffee, as unshakable as ever.

"You're not doing nothing," Lacy says softly, her voice almost hesitant. She shifts uncomfortably, her fingers brushing against her napkin again. "You're here. You're working on it."

Her words catch me off guard. I glance at her, surprised by the quiet conviction in her tone. She's not trying to fix anything, not offering empty reassurances. She's just... acknowledging the effort. It's strange, but not unwelcome, and it honestly makes me feel a bit better.

I let out a breath, the tension in my shoulders easing just slightly. "Yeah. Working on it."

It goes silent as the waitress returns with our food, and for a few moments, the table is filled with the clink of plates and utensils. Lacy picks at her salad with a meticulousness that borders on clinical, while Day stirs her coffee absently, her gaze distant.

The conversation shifts after that, the tension easing but not disappearing entirely. The sound of muted laughter and quiet conversation from nearby tables fills the café, giving the three of us a momentary pause from the bigger problems hanging over us.

The meal ends when Lacy needs to go back to work, and that's my afternoon.

My evening is spent quite differently.

I end up investigating in my off time, since I have no idea how much longer doing so during work hours will be an option, or if it still is to begin with.

I wear my normal civilian clothes, jeans and a hoodie. I wear my hood up, because I always have—ever since I was a kid—which probably makes me look more like a con than a hero, but whatever. I'm pretty sure something I have on has my hero logo—an eye, with the iris replaced by the warped shape of an H—on it, since most of my clothing does. Clothes I get through the HSA are free, and despite the fact I've made a decent life for myself, old habits die hard and I can't help my frugal nature.

I don't get a lot of looks when I enter the police station. They see the glowing purple eyes and they know it's me, even if it's difficult to see my face. I don't spot Zaman or any of the other officers I regularly speak with, but it's also kind of late so I assume they went home.

The observation room from earlier is locked, but my ID card still works. The faint beep of the scanner is the only sound in the empty hallway before the door clicks open. I slip inside, shutting it behind me. The monitors are off now, leaving the room bathed in a dim red glow from the emergency exit sign.

I don't stop to linger. The real reason I'm here lies on the other side of the glass: the room where Three escaped.

The interrogation room looks sterile, lifeless. I step inside, the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead buzzing like static in my ears. I keep my focus on a wall—the wall. The one that disintegrated, then rebuilt itself in seconds. It looks as solid and untouched as the rest of the room. No cracks, no discoloration, no evidence that anything happened at all.

Right in line with their usual work. Not a trace left behind, nothing for us to work with. They won't even give us the slightest bit of false hope. At least, not on the surface level. I wonder exactly how well police searched this room. Did they go straight to trying to track down Three? Or did they actually spend some time in here, looking for clues?

I want to think, without a doubt, they would've. However, not every cop can be Zaman, and the force got lazier when heroes became more common. I don't blame them, since we're quite capable and if they help us too much they can actually end up getting in our way. Still, it's widely expected that they take crime scenes seriously, and the numbered are a big deal.

The wall feels almost mocking in its perfection as I step closer. I let my fingers hover over it for a moment, hesitant to touch something that might still hold residual energy or, worse, collapse under my hands. Thankfully, it doesn't look like it's going anywhere—not anymore, at least.

I press my palm flat against the surface. Cold. Smooth. Impossibly smooth. Like it was never torn apart in the first place. I run my hand down, searching for anything, but there's nothing. Just flawless concrete. Exactly as it was before, no way to even tell where the hole would've ended and the rest of the wall began.

It becomes clear pretty quickly that I'm not gonna find anything in here. It seems as though the room has been cleaned since Three's escape, anyway. I momentarily think this may have been a bust, but then I remember that this wall has two sides to it. There's a maintenance hall on the other side, the same one Three escaped out of.

I'm positive the police didn't search in there very well. It looks like the interrogation room was cleaned, I assume after they searched it top to bottom for clues. However, the tunnel? I highly doubt the police touched that much more than looking for basic evidence of tampering, of someone manipulating the wall from the other side.

Which they wouldn't find, because the numbered are already way too good.

The boss? I'm sure he's flawless.

So, I doubt the cops had any luck, even if they did think to investigate the area further than protocol demands. I basically specialize in this sort of thing, though, and the police don't have my ability. Nobody does.

I doubt they thought it would've been all that useful, since they have everything on camera—the maintenance hall footage was just as confusing as the interrogation room, since there was nobody on that side either—and my power gives me the ability to see through time. Something every camera on the planet can do. I come in handy with blind spots, but there are none in the maintenance hall.

Still, it's worth a shot. Cameras don't pick up on everything.

I exit the interrogation room, as well as the observation room, before entering through a familiar heavy metal door with the words Maintenance: Personnel Only printed on it. The hallway is dark, and the door closes behind me with a metallic bang that sounds strangely final. I make my way down the corridor until the hall looks familiar, like it did in the security footage, before stopping outside of what has to be the other side of the interrogation room wall.

I look it over, just like I did with the other one, and it's a bit easier on this side since I don't have the red light of the exit sign distorting everything. No, the maintenance hall is pitch black. There are lights I could turn on, but I work better in the dark.

I work better in black light.

I lean closer, letting the faint glow of my eyes wash over the wall. UV light practically courses through my veins, it's an undertone present throughout my entire body, most prominent in my freckles and eyes. There are small areas that light up, fluorescent, under my eyes, but nothing interesting. One spot where someone definitely took a piss, another where someone likely got the shit beaten out of them, and a few splatters of god knows what.

Nothing of interest, though. Nothing that stands out. The concrete wall, covered in miscellaneous scratches and chipped paint, mocks me. I scan over it, starting from the top and working my way down, before I finally catch something of interest. I was hoping I might get some sort of vision, but I don't.

No, because something catches my eye. At first, I don't see anything. Just the same smooth, infuriatingly untouched surface. Then, as I shift my angle, a faint shimmer catches my attention.

I narrow my eyes and lean in. It's subtle, barely there, but under my black light vision, something starts to take shape. Faint lines carved into the concrete, almost invisible unless you're looking for them. They glow, too bright for it to be a natural liquid, meaning it was likely stamped on there with ink specifically designed to only appear under black light.

Specifically so I, and nobody else, would find it.

It's a circle. About the size of a plum, touching the floor, printed on the wall. At least, that's what I think it is at first. As I get closer, I realize that the line work is far more deliberate than that. It's not a circle, either. It's a number. Written like it was typed. It had to have printed or something, I don't know, but I've never met someone whose handwriting is Times-New-Fucking-Roman.

Then again, I wouldn't put it past this guy. The boss. The mark of the boss, I assume, tying into his name. It would make sense, since he's supposed to be the most powerful. The numbered get better the lower they go, so it would only make sense that their jailbreak would be printed with intel. Intel voluntarily given to me, but intel nonetheless.

Right there, embedded and glowing under black light on the wall, is the name of the person I've been obsessed with for weeks. A number. The boss:

Zero.