Page 45 of Pulse Zero
This job I just got? It’s going to help. Not because I need the money. I don’t. Not really. If I wanted, I could use cards tied to accounts that will never run dry. Bellrose money. But that money comes with eyes and audits and questions.
My father left us some, of course, but most of it went to my mom. She donated a large sum to charity, then used quite a bit for her move to North Carolina. Even if I wanted to ask her for more of it, I’m not sure it would be enough.
This job pays well. It opens doors, the kind of doors that come with money and hardware and access I don’t have yet, the ability to do it all without asking anyone for permission. It comes withcontrol. And the kind of things I need if this program is ever going to be more than a theory.
You don’t build something like this on allowance money and good intentions.
I glance at the boxes again.
Surveillance first, destruction later.
I pull my phone from my pocket and type out a message now that I have an idea of when I’ll have things ready.
Me: Next Thursday afternoon.
I set my phone down and rub my eyes, the screen still burning behind my eyelids. My glasses slide down my noseagain, and I push them back up with my middle finger out of habit.
I used to miss contacts, but I don’t anymore. Anonymity requires sacrifice. Like depth perception and peripheral vision.
Four years ago, I made the switch from contacts to glasses the same week I dyed my hair green. The press had been relentless back then. They camped outside the Institute, followed me to grocery stores, shouted my name like we were old friends. The disguise mostly worked. People don’t really look at a guy with neon hair and thick-rimmed glasses and think he’s anyone important.
Clark Kent if Clark Kent had insomnia and abandonment issues.
My phone vibrates with a text.
Client: Thanks.
I kick off my shoes and turn back to the monitors. Felix curls beside the keyboard, warm and alive and purring. Code scrolls across the screens. The apartment hums softly with electricity and ordinary life.
Everything is normal.
At least, it looks that way.
The building has oneof those lobbies that smells like expensive air. Not refined florals or citrus or champagne.Just money. Polished stone floors and floor-to-ceiling glass. A security desk that looks like it belongs in a tech startup instead of a residence. The guy behind it barely glances at me as I give my client’s name, which is either a sign of trust or arrogance. Probably both.
The elevator ride is silent, smooth. Fast enough that my ears pop. I adjust my glasses on instinct, watching my reflection in the mirrored walls. Green hair, black hoodie, tool bag. The world’s least threatening home technician.
The doors open directly into the high-rise condo.
It’s obscene. The entire wall across from me is glass, the city laid out like a model below. The space is open with high ceilings, dark gray limestone floors, dark oak walls, and dark furniture. Artwork hangs on the walls, and an old grandfather clock looms in the corner of the living room.
It’s the kind of place that doesn’t worry about money, that makes things happen instead of waiting for them.
Harrison Copeland stands near the wet bar by the kitchen, black hair neat and styled, the sleeves of his pristine white dress shirt rolled to his elbows, one hand braced on the Italian marble counter. He looks exactly the way powerful men always look in articles about innovation. Tall, controlled. The kind of face that photographs well from every angle.
His eyes land on me.
Gray.
Similar, but not the same.Hishad been…brighter. Silver and sharp, like a blade catching light.
Harrison’s eyes are darker—storm instead of steel—but close enough that something in my chest tightens before I can stop it. I shove the reaction down so hard it practically leaves a dent.
“Hey, Doc,” I say, stepping further inside like I belong hereand not like I’ve just mentally compared his eyes to a dead man’s.
He gives a small nod. “Cason.”
“Please. Call me Case.”
