"Well, is it wrong to give an injured old man a healing potion?" Jack blurted out, then groaned internally.
Shut up, shut up, Jack!
Jack let out a short, forced laugh, trying to cover up his slip-up, shaking his head. "I think you've got the wrong idea. You already did a background check on me, didn't you?" he laughs more awkwardly.
He is bad at this.
"Ahem... I'm powerless... I don't have that kind of ability... I'm that... that... one anomaly... I'm kinda famous, you know?" he stammered.
Harris slid a document across the table. Jack recognized it instantly: his System ID profile.
The infamous profile.
"You're Jack Dylan," Harris stated, his voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "The only anomaly, the one of the kind."
Jack swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. "Yeah. That's me." He avoided eye contact.
His gaze fixed on the worn surface of the table.
Harris tossed the profile aside, his eyes never wavering from Jack's.
"You were on television for this, weren't you? A grown man, not even a flicker of an ability. People thought it was a joke. A statistical anomaly." He held up the ID card itself, a sleek, black rectangle with a holographic image of Jack's face.
"The image they projected was grainy. Much better in person." and as if to make a point, the detective threw a glance at Jack's real face.
"My fifteen minutes of fame," Jack replied, his voice quiet, almost a whisper.
Jack's stomach twisted into knots. "I'd rather they hadn't bothered." He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Harris exhaled, leaning back in his chair. "We ran your ID, of course. No discrepancies. But something's... off."
He tapped a pen against the table, the rhythmic click echoing ominously in the silence. "You don't have a chip."
"And?" Jack asked devoid of any reactions.
"Hmm-mm, every superpowered individual gets one," Harris continued, his voice low and deliberate. "A magic-imbued tool, crafted by the government's best, 'The Artisan.' "
"This chip identifies an individual's name, affiliations, location, superpower status, and even monitors vital signs like blood pressure and mental health." the detective said in his monotone voice as if he is reciting a manual on how to cook an egg.
"It is designed to identify and control those on the verge of losing control. The Abyss, of course, didn't have one in their bodies." He paused, his gaze boring into Jack.
"And you? You never got one."
Jack forced a nervous chuckle, the sound brittle and unnatural. "Maybe they figured I wasn't worth the trouble."
"Bullshit," Harris muttered, his eyes narrowing. "The procedure is mandatory. Painful, sure, but every registered citizen with powers gets it done."
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table, his gaze piercing. "So why did they skip you?"
Jack let the words of the detective sync in better answering him.
"Well, I was there at the Awakening Center.. and well, after they create my SS ID, they had a good laugh on why would i need a SS ID." he smirked as if what he's saying is something funny.
"They didn't think I could survive it. They looked at me like I was going to break. The implantation process involves magic, a direct connection between the chip and a person's core abilities." he shrugged as he recount the memories of his failed awakening.
It tastes bitter in my mouth.
"Anyways, I had no powers, no core. They deemed that I'm too fragile, too insignificant, to risk killing. They didn't want to have a bad rep from some powerless loser dying during the chip implantation.."
A long silence ensues. Harris, has a blank look in his face. His eyes were unreadable.
Jack didn't know and don't want to know what he's thinking.
Maybe he also thinks I'm a loser. He can't help but think.
He looked down on the table and let his mind wander. Trying to get his mind off the things he wants to bury.
Jack's mind goes to 'The Artisan'.
A strange, unsettling kinship stirred within him, a connection to the famous superpowered craftsman who had designed the chips.
We are both famous in some kind of way. 
Someone whose power only created tools, nothing else.
Just like Jack. If his dreams counted as a power, then they were the same, both limited.
He remembered a brief news clip, a fleeting glimpse of the craftsman, hunched over intricate machinery, and a detail, a subtle shimmer around the tools, that felt eerily familiar, dreamlike.
Just like the void. Except, the void really was a dream.
But none of that mattered now. What mattered was getting out of this room. Now.
As if sensing Jack's desperate wish, Harris started to talk again.
"Are you sure you are not hiding anything from me?" the detective asked once more, his eyes narrowing.
Then he adds his suspicion, perhaps his ultimate goal, "Are you sure you are not connected to the Abyss?"
Jack leaned back, attempting a casual air that felt utterly false. "Detective, you already have my ID. I've got no chip because I've got no powers. I've got nothing to hide."
Harris stared at him for a long moment, his eyes searching for any sign of deception. "You seem awfully tense for someone who's supposedly innocent."
He picked up the medical report on the table. "And Mister White's sudden miraculous healing? The labs have never seen anything like the substance found in his blood. It's almost organic. And you were there. You were the only other person there."
Jack felt a cold sweat dampen his palms. "Well, coincidence?"
"It all happened so fast you know.." he answered.
Harris sighed, rubbing his temples. After a while, the detective caved.
"Fine. You're free to go. But don't leave the city." He looked at the ID card again. "Without the chip, you're a ghost. You could be anywhere, doing anything."
Jack stood, his legs feeling unsteady. "Not like I've got anywhere better to be."
He gave the detective one last look. "But I'm gonna watch a movie. Right. Now." he said seriously. "And I'm gonna see a comedy movie."
Then he left the interrogation room.
Leaving Harris scratching his chin.
.....
Before he walked out of the police station, having escorted by a police staff, he looked around once more for Olo's shadows.
But did not find him everywhere. There was something that he remembered that night about the officer, but then he deemed it unimportant now since he won't be coming back here ever again.
And with that, he left.
But as he walked out of the station, he could feel Harris's gaze burning into his back, a silent promise of further scrutiny, perhaps?
The questions weren't over.
And in this world, questions led to dangerous answers.
The buzzing of the lights seemed to amplify, a constant, irritating reminder of his precarious situation.