Chapter 33: The Underground Talks
The Spinnetod integration was unlike anything Cole had experienced.
The previous absorptions had been violent—fever dreams, competing instincts, the brutal rewiring of his nervous system to accommodate foreign essences. This was different. Subtle. Almost gentle.
He woke on December 2nd feeling patient.
Not tired, not lethargic, but genuinely patient in a way he'd never been before. The constant drive to act, to move, to accomplish—it had quieted. His mind settled into longer rhythms, willing to wait for the right moment rather than forcing opportunities.
The spider's gift. Patience as a weapon.
The physical changes were more dramatic.
Cole's fingers moved with new dexterity, bending at angles that would have been uncomfortable before. His spine had developed a flexibility that made yoga masters look rigid. When he stretched in the morning, his body responded like something designed for contortion rather than human locomotion.
But the tremor-sense was the most useful addition.
He first noticed it when his neighbor Martha walked past his door at 7 AM. Before she knocked—before she even reached his apartment—Cole knew she was there. He felt her footsteps through the floor, through the walls, through the subtle vibrations that traveled through the building's structure.
The spider knows when prey touches its web. Now I know too.
Martha brought more soup. Cole thanked her and meant it.
The fever peaked on December 3rd—mild by his standards, barely 101—and broke that night. By the morning of the 4th, the integration was essentially complete.
[SPINNETOD ESSENCE: ACCLIMATED]
[ABILITIES CONFIRMED:]
[— PATIENCE ENHANCEMENT: IMPROVED LONG-TERM PLANNING, REDUCED IMPULSIVITY]
[— TREMOR-SENSE: DETECT MOVEMENT THROUGH PHYSICAL MEDIUM, RANGE ~30 FEET]
[— FLEXIBILITY: ENHANCED JOINT MOBILITY, CONTORTION CAPABILITY]
[TOTAL ABSORPTIONS: 5]
[HUMANITY: 84%]
Five essences now. Each one had changed him—strength, speed, senses, tracking, and now patience and perception. He was becoming something new, something that had never existed in the Grimm universe or any other.
The Collector. That's what they call me.
The name bothered him more than it should have. It implied observation, awareness, the kind of attention that made his work harder. Someone in Portland's supernatural underground was tracking his kills, cataloguing his patterns, selling information to interested parties.
I need to find them before they sell to someone who can actually stop me.
Cole started with what he knew.
The tracking had started after the Marsh kill—Winters had said as much before she died. Someone had witnessed him entering the warehouse on the night of the Lake Oswego assassination. That witness had started asking questions, connecting dots, building a profile of the predator who was hunting Portland's Wesen.
The warehouse was chaos. Fire, smoke, fleeing crowd. Anyone could have seen me.
But most of the crowd had been inside, fleeing the flames. Cole had entered through the front and left through the side—a route that would only have been visible to someone watching from outside.
Security cameras? No, those were destroyed in the fire. Another observer? Someone specifically watching the warehouse?
The Verrat came to mind. They'd been monitoring Marsh's operation, visiting periodically to check on their investment. If a Verrat operative had seen Cole entering and exiting, they'd have every reason to investigate.
But the Verrat are looking for internal betrayal. They're focused on Volkov, not an external threat.
Unless someone was playing both angles. Feeding the frame to the Verrat while selling Cole's identity to independent buyers.
An information broker. Someone who profits from chaos.
He needed a contact in the underground. Someone who owed him, or feared him, or both.
Moonrise was quieter on weeknights.
Cole arrived at the Wesen nightclub at 9 PM on December 4th, dressed down to avoid attention. The Siegbarste bouncer recognized him from his previous visit but said nothing—the "mixed-blood" cover was holding, for now.
Inside, the Detection Matrix identified thirty-one Wesen across various species. Cole found a seat at the bar and ordered a drink he intended to nurse all night.
The bartender tonight wasn't Jessica Reeves—she'd taken time off after their conversation, probably scared by how close she'd come to real trouble. Instead, a young Fuchsbau with nervous eyes and quick hands served the drinks.
Cole waited.
His patience—enhanced by the Spinnetod essence—made the waiting almost pleasant. He observed the crowd, catalogued faces and species, learned the social dynamics of the establishment. Moonrise catered to Portland's supernatural elite: businesspeople, professionals, the upwardly mobile Wesen who wanted to socialize without hiding what they were.
At 10:30, his target arrived.
The Eisbiber was easy to spot—beaver Wesen were distinctive even in human form, with their prominent teeth and anxious energy. This one was shorter than most, middle-aged, wearing the kind of ill-fitting suit that suggested modest success in some trade profession.
More importantly, Cole recognized him.
Bernard Higgins. Bud's cousin. One of the Wesen freed from Volk's warehouse.
The recognition went both ways. Bernard's eyes widened when he spotted Cole at the bar, then darted toward the exit in a clear calculation of escape routes.
Cole raised his glass in a casual salute. I see you. Don't run.
Bernard hesitated, then approached with the cautious shuffle of prey approaching a predator it couldn't flee.
"Mr. Ashford." The Eisbiber's voice was barely audible over the club's music. "I didn't expect to see you here."
"I didn't expect to need information. Circumstances change." Cole gestured to the empty seat beside him. "Buy you a drink?"
Bernard sat like a man expecting the chair to explode. "I don't know anything. Whatever you've heard, I don't know anything about anything."
"You know people. That's all I need." Cole signaled the bartender. "There's a rumor in the underground about someone called 'The Collector.' Someone who hunts bad Wesen. Ring any bells?"
The Eisbiber's eyes went wide. "I—I've heard things. Everyone's heard things."
"Tell me what everyone's heard."
Bernard accepted the whiskey Cole had ordered for him and drained half in one gulp. "They say there's something new in Portland. Something that hunts Wesen—not like a Grimm hunts, but different. Something that takes pieces of its kills. People are scared."
"Good. Fear keeps people careful." Cole leaned closer. "What I want to know is who's selling information about this Collector. Who's tracking the kills and spreading the word?"
"I don't—" Bernard stopped, clearly weighing his options. "There's a broker. Works out of a shop in Sellwood—antiquities, supposedly, but really it's information. He buys and sells secrets. Anything about anyone, if the price is right."
"Name?"
"Ephraim. That's all I know, I swear." The Eisbiber finished his whiskey with shaking hands. "He's not someone you want to cross, Mr. Ashford. He's got protection—serious protection, from people who don't like their secrets getting out."
"I'll keep that in mind." Cole slid a hundred-dollar bill across the bar. "For your trouble. And Bernard—"
"Yes?"
"You never saw me tonight. You never heard about this conversation. Understand?"
Bernard nodded frantically and disappeared into the crowd.
Ephraim. Antiquities shop in Sellwood. The next link in the chain.
Sunday arrived with unseasonable warmth, the kind of December afternoon that made Portland feel almost pleasant.
Cole met Adalind at a restaurant in the Pearl District—her choice, upscale Italian, the kind of place that required reservations weeks in advance unless you knew the right people. Adalind clearly knew the right people.
She looked beautiful in a way that still caught him off guard. Dark green dress that matched her eyes, hair down instead of her usual professional twist, a smile that seemed genuinely happy to see him.
She's not performing tonight. Or she's performing so well I can't tell the difference.
"You look tired," she said as he sat. "Rough week?"
"Work." The word covered multitudes. "You?"
"Client drama. Nothing interesting." She studied him with the particular intensity that came naturally to her. "Something's different about you. I can't quite place it."
The Spinnetod integration. She can sense the change in my essence.
"Good different or bad different?"
"Just different." She smiled and let it go—a gift Cole hadn't expected. "So. Tell me something real about yourself. Something you haven't told anyone else."
I died in another world and woke up in a body that wasn't mine. I hunt monsters and steal their powers. I'm becoming something that shouldn't exist.
"I used to practice law," Cole said instead. "Defense work, mostly. Before I came to Portland."
"Why did you stop?"
"I got tired of defending people I knew were guilty." The truth, if not the whole truth. "The system works the way it works, and I understood that intellectually. But eventually the gap between what I was doing and what felt right became too wide to ignore."
Adalind nodded slowly. "I understand that feeling. More than you might expect."
"You do?"
"Corporate law isn't that different from defense work. You protect clients regardless of what they've done. You use the system to serve their interests." Her expression shifted—something vulnerable showing through the professional polish. "Sometimes I wonder if I chose this or if it chose me."
She's questioning her path. Questioning the choices that led her to Renard, to the Royals, to everything she'll become.
"What would you do if you could start over?"
"I don't know." She laughed softly. "That's the problem, isn't it? We spend so much time becoming what we are that we forget to ask if it's what we wanted."
The food arrived—pasta that probably cost more than Cole's daily surveillance budget—and the conversation drifted to lighter topics. Portland weather, restaurant recommendations, the particular absurdity of Oregon politics.
But something had shifted between them. The game-playing remained, but there was genuine connection underneath it now. Two people hiding things from each other, knowing they were being hidden from, choosing to continue anyway.
When the meal ended, Adalind walked him to his car.
"Same time next week?"
"If you're free."
"For you?" She smiled, and it reached her eyes. "I'll make time."
She kissed him—not the brief goodnight of their last date, but something longer, warmer, full of promise and danger in equal measure.
Cole drove home with the taste of her on his lips, wondering when exactly this had stopped being strategy and started being something more complicated.
She's going to destroy you. Or you're going to destroy her. Or both.
The thought should have been warning enough to walk away.
Instead, he found himself already looking forward to next week.
The tremor-sense woke him at 3 AM.
Footsteps in the hallway. Three sets, moving with the careful coordination of people who'd practiced this approach. They stopped outside his door.
Cole was out of bed and reaching for his weapon before his conscious mind fully processed the threat. The Skalengeck ambush instinct had him positioned in shadow, away from the door's direct line of fire.
A knock. Polite, almost gentle.
"Mr. Ashford? We know you're awake. We'd like to talk."
Not police—wrong cadence, wrong energy. Not Verrat—they'd have breached already. Something else.
Cole kept his pistol ready and didn't answer.
"We represent parties interested in your recent activities," the voice continued. "The meeting you missed on Friday? We'd like to reschedule."
The unknown contact. They found me.
"How did you find this address?"
"The same way we found your phone number. Information is our specialty." A pause. "We're not here to threaten you, Mr. Ashford. We're here to make an offer. One you'll want to hear."
Cole's finger rested on the trigger. Three heartbeats outside the door—the tremor-sense could track them through the floor, through the walls, through the subtle vibrations of their breathing.
I could kill them. Probably. But that would answer questions I haven't asked yet.
He lowered the weapon.
"Slide a card under the door. I'll contact you when I'm ready."
A moment of silence. Then a white rectangle appeared beneath his door—a business card, blank except for a phone number.
"We look forward to hearing from you." The footsteps retreated, moving down the hallway with the same coordinated precision.
Cole waited until the tremor-sense confirmed they'd left the building. Then he picked up the card and studied it in the dim light.
Just a number. No name, no affiliation, no indication of who these people were or what they wanted.
Information is their specialty. Which means they know about me. Know about the kills. Know about the absorption.
The thought should have been terrifying.
Instead, it felt like opportunity.
Reviews and Power Stones keep the heat on!
Want to see what happens before the "heroes" do?
Secure your spot in the inner circle on Patreon. Skip the weekly wait and read ahead:
💵 Hustler [$7]: 15 Chapters ahead.
⚖️ Enforcer [$11]: 20 Chapters ahead.
👑 Kingpin [$16]: 25 Chapters ahead.
Periodic drops. Check on Patreon for the full release list.
👉 Join the Syndicate: patreon.com/Anti_hero_fanfic