In the sterile, high-tech glow of his bedroom, Walker was practically vibrating with anticipation. He had spent the last hour monitoring the frequency of the new bug he'd tucked into a side pocket of Leander's backpack during their brief "friendly" encounter.
"This is it," Walker whispered, a smug grin plastered across his face. "No more detours. No more disappearing acts. I'm going to see exactly where you sleep, Leander Hayes."
He tapped a sequence on his mechanical keyboard, the rhythmic clicks sounding like a countdown. The tracking software flared to life, a red dot pulsing steadily on a map of Queens.
"Wait... why is he back at school? Or is that... a library?" Walker's brow furrowed. The dot was stationary, just three blocks away from the campus. He pulled the audio logs, the system automatically stitching together the bits of conversation it had captured.
'I'm home! Mom, what's for dinner?' A voice came through the speakers—nasal, high-pitched, and definitely not Leander's.
'Ugh, today's math class was a total nightmare. I'm not doing this homework. I'll just hit up Jerry tonight and copy his. Hey, did you see that girl in the hallway today? She was...'
Walker slammed his fist onto the desk, the monitors rattling from the impact. "Damn it! Again?!"
He watched the red dot on the screen move toward a local arcade. Leander hadn't just found the bug; he had managed to plant it on a random freshman without Walker even feeling the weight of the backpack change.
"What are you, a magician?" Walker growled, his face flushing with a mix of anger and genuine terror. "Who are you really playing with, Leander?"
While Walker was losing his mind, Leander was moving through the darkened streets of Queens with the purposeful grace of a ghost. He wore his silver-framed glasses, the HUD highlighting the path toward Mike's Fast Food.
The neighborhood changed as he walked. The suburban quiet of his own street gave way to the neon-drenched, grimy reality of the industrial district. Pedestrians here didn't make eye contact. They huddled in the shadows of bus stops, their eyes glazed or predatory.
Leander didn't look like he belonged here. A fourteen-year-old in a clean hoodie and expensive glasses was an invitation for trouble.
Behind him, several motorcycles roared to life. Four men, their faces obscured by helmets and bandanas, began to circle him, their engines revving in a rhythmic, intimidating snarl.
"Oh, look at this," one of the riders laughed, his voice muffled by his visor. "A little prince taking a late-night stroll. You lost, kid? Or are you looking for us?"
"Nice glasses," another sneered, pulling his bike closer until the exhaust heat brushed Leander's leg. "They look like they'd fit me a lot better than you."
Leander didn't stop walking. He didn't even look at them.
From a shadowed corner fifty meters away, Zost watched the scene unfold. He had been following Leander, half-hoping the kid would lead him somewhere he could take a shot, but now he just watched with a morbid sense of curiosity. 'Let's see how the "ghost" handles a group of street rats,' Zost thought.
The lead rider reached out, his gloved hand swinging toward Leander's head to snatch the glasses.
Leander didn't flinch. He didn't even raise a hand.
Suddenly, the motorcycle's front wheel locked with a violent, metallic screech. The bike jerked sideways as if kicked by an invisible giant, slamming into the motorcycle beside it.
BANG! CRASH!
The two bikes tangled in a mess of chrome and sparks, sliding across the pavement. The riders were thrown like ragdolls, skidding into the third motorcycle and taking it down as well.
"AH! My leg! Don't touch me, man, I think it's snapped! S***!"
The survivor of the group scrambled off his bike, trying to pull his friends away from the wreckage. "My bike! My new f***ing bike is ruined!"
Leander glanced at them over his shoulder, his eyes cold and distant. In the wreckage, a small, jagged piece of metal—sheared off from the frame by Leander's magnetic pulse—flew into the fuel tank of the lead bike. Gasoline began to spray onto the hot engine block.
Leander flicked a finger.
A tiny spark of static electricity jumped between two exposed wires.
WHOOSH.
The motorcycles erupted into a towering pillar of orange flame, lighting up the alleyway like a funeral pyre. Leander didn't stick around to watch. He stepped into the shadows and vanished.
Zost shrank back behind the brick corner, his breath hitching in his throat. 'Terrifying. He didn't even touch them. He just... willed them to burn.'
Zost turned to run, but he stopped mid-step.
Leander was standing right in front of him.
One second, the kid had been fifty meters away; the next, he was inches from Zost's face, his golden-tinted glasses reflecting the distant fire. Zost stumbled back, nearly tripping over a trash can. Instinctively, he whipped out his backup pistol and aimed it at Leander's forehead.
"Where is Mike Ian?" Leander asked. His voice wasn't loud, but it carried a weight that made Zost's skin crawl. "Tell me now, and I might let you keep your life."
Zost felt the cold steel of the gun in his hand, and for a second, his professional training took over. "Who the hell are you? S.H.I.E.L.D.? A mutant?"
Leander took a single step forward.
Clack-clack-clink.
Zost's eyes widened in horror. The pistol in his hand didn't fire. Instead, it literally fell apart. The slide slid off the rails, the recoil spring bounced into the gutter, the magazine dropped to the floor, and the frame disintegrated into its component pins and screws.
Zost was left holding nothing but a bare plastic grip.
And the bullet that had been in the chamber? It was floating an inch above Leander's open palm.
"Last chance," Leander said. "Where is he?"
"He's at the restaurant!" Zost shouted, his hands flying up in a universal gesture of surrender. "There's a big deal going down tonight! A massive transaction! He won't be out until it's finished! Please, kid, I was just doing a job!"
Leander flicked his wrist. The bullet shot forward, missing Zost's ear by a hair and embedding itself so deeply into the brick wall behind him that it vanished from sight.
Leander grabbed Zost's wrist. A faint, golden glow surged from Leander's skin, seeping into the hitman's arm. Zost tried to pull away, but it was like trying to move a mountain. The energy felt warm, then hot, then terrifyingly invasive.
"Take me there," Leander commanded.
Zost didn't argue. He led the way, his heart pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
Ten minutes later, they arrived at the rear entrance of Mike's Fast Food. The area was far from abandoned. Three black armored vans were parked at the curb, their engines idling. Seven or eight men in heavy leather jackets stood around, their hands never straying far from the bulges under their coats.
A corpulent man in an expensive, ill-fitting suit stepped out of the lead van, followed by three bodyguards carrying heavy, reinforced briefcases. They disappeared into the back of the restaurant.
"What kind of deal is this?" Leander whispered, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the scene.
"Drugs," Zost replied, his voice shaking. "High-purity stuff. And some encrypted data files stolen from a tech firm. It's the biggest play Ian has made in years."
Leander gave Zost a sharp look, then lightly tapped the man's forehead. Zost's body went rigid, locked in place at the corner of the building. He could breathe, he could see, but he couldn't move a single muscle.
"Stay here," Leander said.
Leander rose into the air, his silhouette disappearing into the dark roofline of the restaurant. He landed silently above the secret back office, his feet touching the gravel roof without a sound.
Through the ventilation shaft, he looked down.
"Mike, you old bastard! You've gotten even fatter since the last time we did business," the newcomer laughed, embracing Mike Ian.
"Busy, Frank. Too busy to hit the gym when I'm moving this much weight," Ian replied. The air in the room was thick with tension. Six armed guards stood in the corners, their eyes darting between the two bosses.
"Let's get to it," Frank said, slamming his briefcase onto the table. He flipped the latches. "Five million in cash here. Another five in the van once my guy verifies the purity."
"You don't trust me, Frank? After all these years?"
"I heard you lost Enzo's crew to an 'accident' yesterday, Mike. Accidents make people nervous. Nervous people get cautious. Show me the goods."
Mike Ian opened a larger crate, revealing dozens of bags filled with a fine white powder. "High-purity. You can cut this four ways and still have the best product in the five boroughs."
Leander, watching from above, felt a cold, sharp clarity wash over him.
"So many lives ruined in those boxes," Leander whispered to himself. The golden light in his eyes began to hum. "I think a 'death sentence' is exactly what the doctor ordered."