145 Coffee and Conspiracies

“Not bad,” Tigress said as she poured hot water into a mug and slid it toward me. “You?”

“Just came back from another world.”

I sat by the small desk beside her kitchenette. The apartment was about as humble as mine with cheap flooring, the faint smell of instant noodles, and a lazy fan that barely kept the heat at bay. While she busied herself at the counter, I extended a faint pulse of current through the room, brushing against every wire, socket, and hidden frequency I could find. No foreign signals. No unusual currents. No bugs. Her place was clean.

“Here.” She set down a mug, followed by three jars of sugar, coffee, and creamer. “Pick your poison.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

I stirred the mix absently, watching the swirl of brown and white until it settled. The taste was cheap but familiar. The bitter tang brought back memories I didn’t care to revisit. It was the height of noon, far too hot for coffee, but I wasn’t drinking it for comfort. I just missed the ritual.

Across the desk, Tigress slurped her noodles, eyeing me with lazy sharpness. “I thought you were the type who takes it black.”

“It depends,” I said. “And I thought you were a detective. Isn’t it wrong for you to assume things without evidence?”

Her lips curved faintly. “Evidence?” She set her cup down, leaned back, and gestured toward me. “Fine. Let’s play.”

She pointed at my tie. “You’ve been in an air-conditioned environment recently. That faint lint on your shoulder? Plane seats. You came straight from the airport.”

Her gaze slid to my watch where the price tag poked out. “Those tags are from the central mall two blocks from here. Tacky-looking watch, but nothing special. Highly likely a replica if the price tag were to go by. So… landed, shopped, still settling in.”

Then she pointed at my jacket sleeve. “That suit doesn’t fit right on the shoulders. Borrowed. Probably provided by whoever’s handling you right now.”

Finally, she nodded toward the window. “And that overly loud white car parked outside? Yeah, I saw it. Bet, you didn’t pick it. You would not show off something that tacky with the SRC closely watching you, unless Guesswork somehow convinced you keep it.”

She slurped another mouthful of noodles, then smirked. “Did I ‘detect’ everything right?”

I sipped my coffee slowly. The way she said it told me she wasn’t playing. I suddenly regretted that Guesswork hadn’t given me a proper briefing about her. Maybe he’d withheld this on purpose. I decided to cut through the game. “Are you with the task force?”

Her brows lifted. “What task force?”

So that was a no.

“Then are you an ally or an enemy?”

“I don’t care,” she replied flatly.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’ll get. I’m here because I got demoted, simple as that.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes sharp. “Guesswork offered to get me back in the game, said I’d have some influence again, maybe even protection, in exchange for cooperating with whatever conspiracy you two are cooking up.”

“Conspiracy?” I chuckled under my breath. “Now I feel offended.”

But she wasn’t wrong. From the outside, that’s exactly what it looked like, a bunch of fallen capes and moral disasters plotting something the SRC wouldn’t approve of. Tigress had fought beside us against Light, but that didn’t mean she shared our mission. She, Hover, Bunny… none of them knew about the Entity. Bunny only helped because he was a friend. Guesswork, on the other hand, ‘believed’ because his powers told him something I couldn’t explain.

As for Missive, or Spoiler, as she now called herself, I doubted she’d ever forgive me for the past.

I leaned back, meeting Tigress’s gaze. “What if I told you we’re conspiring to save the world?”

She slurped her noodles loudly, the sound deliberately disrespectful. Then she set the cup down and said, “Get out.”

I looked at my coffee, still half full. “I’m not done yet.” I took another slow sip of coffee, letting the heat sting my tongue before swallowing. The silence hung between us like a wall neither of us wanted to break.

“How much did Guesswork tell you?” I finally asked. “After what happened back then?”

Tigress didn’t even look up from her noodles. “Nothing,” she said flatly. “I believe he guessed I wouldn’t be joining whatever it is you’re planning.”

That little smirk on her lips told me she was aware of her own wordplay.

“Don’t worry about me,” she continued. “I have no plans of sticking my nose into your business. I have my own thing going on. So I expect you to respect my boundaries and not stick your nose into mine. Do you understand?”

“I understand.”

At least, enough to know not to push her. But the unease lingered. The way she said it, calm and detached, was more unnerving than hostility. She wasn’t scared of me. She wasn’t impressed either. She’d written me off as a walking disaster she wanted nothing to do with.

I didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.

As bizarre as the visions I’d seen through Mother’s help were, I couldn’t wrap my head around how any of them led to me marrying her. Tigress, Amelia Morose, the woman who now refused to even look at me for more than five seconds. It sounded like a cruel joke, or a trick played by fate to make me question my sanity.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said, draining the last of it in one long chug. The bitterness clung to the back of my throat. “If you need help, tell me.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The silence said it all.

I stepped out of her apartment and walked back to mine, deciding halfway through the hallway that I didn’t want to buy a bed after all. Buying one meant paperwork, delivery schedules, receipts, and things that left traces. Stealing one, though, was cleaner. Moreover, it was way more fun.

The building had plenty of vacant units, most gutted or unrenovated. After a short scan through several floors, I found one without a bed but plenty of replacement parts I could work with. Problem was, I couldn’t just drag an entire frame through the hallway without being seen, so I went higher, a taller building adjacent to mine, with a few accessible service balconies.

A short leap through the night air later, and I found what I needed: an unused mattress, dusty but intact. I phased it through the wall, carried it across, and set it down neatly in my apartment. The whole thing took less than five minutes.

I could feel invisible eyes watching. Not physically, but the kind of observation that prickled at the back of your neck. SRC surveillance, probably. I let them watch. I was curious how they’d react. Would they report it? Would they confront me?

If they were smart, they’d ignore it.

If they were petty, they’d use it against me.

Either way, it told me something about them.

I slumped onto my new, stolen bed and dialed Guesswork’s number.

He picked up after two rings. “Yeah?”

“I stole a bed,” I said plainly. “Also, I’m heading out for a bit. Gonna practice parkour on the rooftops. Thought I should let my handler know.”

There was a pause, the kind heavy with disapproval.

“…You what?”

“I stole a bed.”

“For fuck’s sake, Nick,” he groaned. “You’ve been there less than a day.”

“It’s a good bed,” I replied. “Comfortable.”

“That’s not the point!” he snapped. “Do you realize how many red flags you’re waving right now? SRC eyes are everywhere! Just… just stop doing impulsive crimes for one goddamn day!”

“I’m practicing parkour,” I said. “That’s not a crime.”

He let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re going to give me a heart attack, man.”

“Good,” I said, smirking to myself. “Keeps your powers sharp.”

Before he could yell again, I hung up.

The night air was cold enough to sting. My hood was up, music blaring through the wireless earphones. Each beat matched the rhythm of my stride as I leapt from one rooftop to another, steel and glass glinting under the moonlight.

I didn’t hide what I was doing. Every jump, every roll, every vault, I let the drones see it. Whoever was watching me had full access to the show. Let them analyze my balance, my endurance, and the way I twisted through the air. If they were going to watch, I’d give them something worth their data feed.

By past midnight, I’d already mapped the entire district in my head from good vantage points, blind corners, and routes of escape. It was all there.

Back at my apartment, I stripped off my hoodie and turned on the shower. The water hit me like static. I didn’t even sweat, not really, but the act felt necessary. More than that, I wanted to see if they’d still keep watching.

They did.

I could feel those unseen eyes, keeping watch. Guesswork’s people were subtle, but not invisible to me. When he was around, the peeping lessened. When I was alone, it doubled. Why? Was he shielding me? Or were they conscious of his presence for a reason?

Part of me wanted to shut their eyes for them, to flood their cameras with static, and to fry their tech just to remind them who they were dealing with. But I stopped myself. If I wanted to play this smart, I had to let them believe I was oblivious. A man ignorant of the eyes around him was easier to study than one who looked straight into the lens.

So instead of hiding, I exaggerated normalcy. I lingered in front of the mirror longer than necessary. I whistled. I stared at nothing. I acted human.

If I wanted, I could’ve escalated further and done something so absurd they wouldn’t know whether to laugh or panic, like watch porn or masturbate. But that would’ve been a waste of theater. Better to keep them guessing than confirm the act was deliberate.

When I finished my shower, I grabbed a towel and my phone. My stomach wasn’t complaining, but the clock said otherwise.

Food delivery still ran at this hour. Wamond never slept. Even now, a dozen riders crisscrossed the neon streets like worker ants, hauling plastic bags filled with grease and caffeine. I scrolled through the app, ordering whatever was quickest.

As a cape who didn’t need sleep, I had to fill the silence somehow. The night stretched endlessly, so I ate through it with cheap noodles, convenience-store sandwiches, and whatever the delivery riders could spare. Between bites, I let random videos run in the background: martial arts demonstrations, cooking tutorials, cape sighting footage, even a few clips of old documentaries about the City-State wars.

With my Enhancer ratings, I could replicate almost everything the videos showed. Human motion was just a matter of muscle memory and precision. I mimicked forms from several disciplines, committing them to instinct. The cooking tutorials were less useful, but strangely comforting. Maybe it was the rhythm of the chopping, the sizzling, and the human need for repetition.

By the time the digital clock on the wall flicked to six, the city outside began to stir. Neon lights dimmed into morning haze, and distant engines filled the sky. I straightened up, cleaned the clutter off the counter, and went through the motions of grooming. Razor. Toothbrush. Hair slicked back.

I buttoned my black suit, adjusted the tie, and stared at the mirror. The reflection looked normal enough to pass for one of the Wamond commuters. The ID tag on the desk caught my attention, Wamond Chronicle. The words sat bold and official above my name. I pocketed it, grabbed my keys, and headed out.

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime. Tigress, Amelia Morose, was already inside, arms crossed, expression blank. She didn’t look at me, and I didn’t bother forcing small talk. The ride was short, tense in its silence, filled only with the faint hum of the elevator descending through steel and concrete.

When the doors slid open at the parking level, she stepped out first. I followed, my footsteps echoing faintly in the cold air. Rows of vehicles gleamed under fluorescent light. I beeped mine, and spotted her dragging a motorbike from the corner.

Her pink-tinted helmet matched the faint hue of the tiger stripes on her bag. Even now, she was stubbornly sticking to her theme.

“Do you want a ride to work?” I asked, nodding toward my car, while I glanced at her ID hanging from her neck. “Because it looks like we work at the same place.”

She finally glanced at me, her tone clipped. “No thanks.”

The word was still hanging in the air when a sharp hiss cut through the parking lot. Both of us turned toward her bike. One of the tires was deflating fast, a thin jet of air escaping from a clean puncture near the valve.

Her eyes narrowed. “Really?”

I raised my hands slightly. “Wasn’t me.”

Amelia gave me a long, suspicious look before crouching beside the tire. I didn’t move to help. The irony didn’t escape me that she’d spent years hunting people like me, and now she thought I was the one sabotaging her commute.

“Wanna come?” I asked in good nature, because I’m not that bad of a guy. “You don’t want to be late.”

“No.”