The jet bridge smelled of rubber and jet fuel, a sharp scent that was, oddly, comforting. My boots echoed as I walked across, each footfall a solid thud on metal. Inside, the terminal corridor stretched long and wide, illuminated by rows of faintly buzzing fluorescent tubes. The industrial gray-blue carpet beneath my feet was worn thin in the middle, a testament to the millions of footsteps that had passed before mine. At regular intervals, green-and-white signs hung from the ceiling:

  Arrivals Customs Baggage Claim

  This is it. I'm back home....

  Perfume drifted from the duty-free shops as I passed, mingling with overlapping PA announcements in English and Spanish, the voices slightly mechanical:

  "Welcome to John F. Kennedy International Airport. Please proceed to immigration and customs..."

  People moved around me in a steady flow. You could tell the family greeters from the business travelers, and the tourists with their wide eyes and oversized carry-ons. I kept my head down, sunglasses on, duffel secure against my side, and walked quickly, following the signs.

  The corridor opened into the immigration hall, a vast space with high ceilings and beige walls. Rows of booths stood behind glass partitions, each one harshly lit from above. Ropes guided passengers into lanes, herding us like cattle. Overhead screens displayed various information.

  I joined the U.S. Citizens line. It was shorter, but still moved slowly. People ahead of me clutched passports, customs forms, and phones. A baby cried somewhere behind me, its mother trying to soothe it. Someone else argued quietly into a phone. The line shuffled forward a few feet at a time.

  I shifted my duffel, adjusting the strap on my shoulder.

  Exhaustion from the journey washed over me. I focused on my breathing and checked my documents once more as I neared the booth. When I reached it, the officer inside, a man in his mid-forties with a crisp blue uniform, looked at me with tired eyes behind the glass. He took my passport and the small stack of papers without comment, opening the packet with my leave orders, a handwritten note from the Bagram liaison confirming my authorized travel.

  "Purpose of trip?" he asked.

  "Returning home from deployment, sir."

  He nodded, typing something into his terminal. "How long were you gone?"

  "About four months."

  "Anything to declare?"

  "No, sir."

  He scanned the passport, took my photo, then stamped it with a dull thud. Without further comment, he slid everything back under the glass.

  "Welcome home, soldier."

  I nodded once. "Thank you, have a good day."

  Customs came next, a short hallway away, with red and green lanes painted on the floor. I walked through the green lane, having Nothing to declare. A customs officer stood with a dog on a leash, the animal alert and curious. He glanced at my duffel, at my face, then waved me through without a word.

  And then the doors slid open.

  The arrivals hall assaulted my ears with noise and teemed with people. A high glass ceiling diffused the late afternoon daylight, casting a warm glow. Crowds pressed against metal barriers on either side: families holding signs scrawled in marker – WELCOME HOME MIKE! – drivers in black suits clutching clipboards – JohnsonLee. Travelers hugged, kids ran, and someone cried openly in the middle of a happy reunion. I made my way through them and looked up. Overhead screens flashed flight information and weather updates:

  New York – 58°F, partly cloudy

  I moved slowly through the crowd, feeling a little lonely. Eli didn't really have any family, except for an aunt who had moved to San Francisco, and I couldn't really remember any of mine either; their faces were just featureless, and I couldn't recall their names. I shook my head, dismissing the useless thoughts.

  I didn't stop for baggage claim. All I had was the duffel on my shoulder – all my luggage. I passed through the sliding glass doors, stepping out of the airport.

  Cool air slapped my face. It was sharp, clean, and completely different from the sweltering heat of Afghanistan. The noise swelled instantly, filled with honking taxis, idling shuttle buses, and suitcase wheels rattling across concrete. Yellow cabs lined the curb in double rows, exhaust curling into the gray sky. A light drizzle had settled, speckling the pavement and darkening the asphalt.

  I stopped just outside the doors and stood there for a second, letting it all hit me. I was home, and I didn't need to answer to anyone now. I adjusted the strap of the duffel on my shoulder and moved toward the taxi stand.

  An orange-vested dispatcher stood near the curb, voice loud and practiced. "Taxis only! Keep it moving! Five in line, let's go!"

  I joined the short queue with half a dozen people, all damp and tired in their own ways: a family arguing quietly, a woman in heels scrolling furiously on her phone. When it was my turn, the dispatcher barely glanced at me before waving an arm. "Next cab!"

  A yellow Ford Crown Victoria rolled forward, checkered stripe faded, roof light wet with drizzle. The driver leaned out – middle-aged, South Asian maybe, name tag clipped to the visor.

  "Where to?" he asked.

  "Queens. Astoria," I said. "Thirty-fourth Street, off 30th Avenue."

  He nodded, popped the trunk. I tossed the duffel in, slid into the back seat, and shut the door behind me.

  The interior smelled faintly of pine cleaner and old upholstery. A small dashboard idol bobbed gently as the cab pulled away from the curb. We merged into traffic, the airport falling behind us. At first, it was all highways and interchanges, lanes slick with rain, with low barriers and industrial buildings squatting near the road. Jamaica Bay stretched out to my right, gray water rippling under the overcast sky, moving along with the wind. In the distance, I could see planes taking off, their silhouettes distinct against the clouds.

  I rested my head against the window and watched the scenery go by. Gradually, the New York skyline crept into view, tall, distant forms rising out of the haze, then sharper lines. The Empire State Building, unmistakable even from a distance. The Chrysler Building's crown glinting faintly through the gray.

  We crossed the RFK Bridge, Manhattan sliding past on the left, the East River sparkling dully below. The city was massive, with millions of people living their lives, though how it would soon be a battlefield in the coming years.

  Then we were in Queens. The streets narrowed, and brick buildings replaced tall glass and steel ones. Fire escapes zigzagged up fa?ades. Storefronts flickered by, diners, laundromats, bars with neon signs advertising their products.

  Astoria.

  The cab turned onto 34th Street, slowing as parked cars crowded the curb. It was a quiet residential block, with five-story brick walk-ups lining both sides, trees just beginning to show green buds on their branches. A few windows glowed warmly. Flags hung from balconies here and there, stirring slightly in the damp breeze.

  The driver pulled up to the curb and put the car in park.

  "Here," I said as I paid him the amount he was owed, tipped him more than necessary, and stepped out. I grabbed my duffel bag from the next seat and slung it over my shoulder.

  The cab pulled away, taillights vanishing down the street.

  I stood there for a moment, rain dotting my hoodie, listening to the distant hum of the city.

  The building was right in front of me. A faded green awning stretched over the entrance, fabric worn thin at the edges. The brickwork was darkened by age and weather. A metal buzzer panel sat beside the door, names etched into small plastic labels, some crisp, some yellowed, some missing entirely.

  It was the place Eli had inherited from his dad, where he stayed after graduating from high school.

  I didn't go inside, not yet. I needed to get some groceries. My stomach growled, loud enough that I snorted quietly at myself. The fridge in that apartment had been empty for months. Whatever canned soup might still be in there had probably expired by now.

  I turned and walked down the block. Half a block away on 30th Avenue, neon glowed through the drizzle.

  GREEN'S MARKET – OPEN 24 HRS

  The sign flickered slightly, one letter dimmer than the others. Lotto ads and beer specials plastered the glass door.

  I pushed it open, a bell jingling overhead. Air-conditioning mingled with the smells of fresh bread and coffee. The narrow space was packed, shelves reaching floor-to-ceiling with cereal boxes stacked precariously, canned soup, Goya beans, paper towels, and cleaning supplies. A long cooler hummed along one wall, its glass doors fogged slightly. In the back, a small deli counter displayed cold cuts and cheeses behind glass.

  The owner, an older man with gray hair and a white apron, looked up from behind the register.

  "Hey, boss," he said easily. "What you need?"

  "Just some groceries," I replied. "I'll pick it up."

  He smiled and went back to his work.

  I grabbed a plastic basket from the stack near the entrance and moved on autopilot.

  Milk first, a gallon of whole. Then bread from the deli counter, an Italian loaf still warm enough to fog the bag. Butter. Eggs. A red can of Folgers coffee. Sugar packets. A box of cereal I remembered eating as a kid. Half a pound of deli ham, pre-sliced. American cheese.Some vegetables. Rice.

  A bag of Doritos. I paused at the freezer, then reached in and grabbed a pint of Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.At the register, I added a six-pack of Heineken and a pack of Marlboro Lights. Old habits. I didn't care; I felt like I needed to get drunk soon enough.

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  The owner rang it up without comment.

  "Forty-two seventy-eight," he said.

  I paid, bagged everything myself, the plastic crinkling loudly in my hands as I packed my goods, and stepped back out into the drizzle.

  The walk back was short.

  Streetlights flickered on as dusk settled in. A kid on a bike zipped past, tires hissing on wet pavement. I reached the building, climbed the steps, and unlocked the door. The hallway smelled faintly of dust and old paint. I climbed to the third floor, the duffel bag bumping against my hip, grocery bags digging into my fingers.

  The key slid into the lock easily enough. The apartment door opened with a soft creak, and everything inside smelled like dust and stale air. Old hardwood floors stretched across the living room, scuffed and scratched but warm to my feet. The ceilings were high, making the space feel bigger than it was. A radiator sat beneath the window, silent now but ready to clank all winter long.

  The kitchen was small with a gas stove, a refrigerator from the '90s humming quietly, and cabinets that didn't quite close right. Two bedrooms: one empty, and one that had been my dad's, untouched since he'd passed away. The living room held a worn sofa, a small TV on a stand, and a coffee table scarred with use. In the corner, an office setup, my dad's old desk, a dusty PC tower beneath it, and a dark monitor.

  I set the bags down and just stood there for a moment.

  Exhaustion slammed into me as I took it all in. My shoulders sagged as my lower back ached. My neck felt stiff and wrong. Jet lag tangled with adrenaline withdrawal and the quiet hum of the Codex in my chest. I sighed, scrubbing a hand over my face.

  I just wanted to eat something and get some sleep... but

  I carried the grocery bags into the kitchen and set them on the counter. The overhead light flickered once before stabilizing. I unpacked slowly, deliberately, grounding myself in the normality of it. Milk into the fridge. Eggs on the top shelf. Bread on the counter. Butter in the door.

  The refrigerator hummed louder than I remembered, but it was functional, and that was good enough.

  I slapped together a sandwich without thinking: ham, some cheese, a few slices of tomato, lettuce torn by hand because I didn't feel like finding a knife. I ate it standing at the counter, chased it with half a glass of milk straight from the jug, then leaned back and closed my eyes as the calories hit my system.

  I felt much better having some more food in my system.

  I grabbed one of the bottled waters, twisted the cap off, and drank deeply. Then another long swallow for good measure.

  I glanced toward the living room again. The computer sat there innocently.

  Sleep tugged at me hard. I could feel it pooling behind my eyes. I could absolutely crash on the couch right now and be out for the next twelve hours.

  But there was something I needed to know first.

  What kind of world had I been pushed into?

  I walked over to the desk and pressed the power button on the old PC tower. It whined, fans spinning up with a dusty rattle. The monitor blinked, then glowed to life, bathing the corner of the room in pale blue light.

  Windows XP.

  Of course it was, I thought with some amusement.

  I sat down, rolling my shoulders as my neck protested. The chair creaked slightly as I sat in it. I wiggled the mouse, clicked through the login screen, and waited while the machine booted up and connected to the Ethernet. Internet Explorer opened slowly. I stared at the homepage for a second, then typed into the search bar:

  Latest news and hit enter.

  I didn't find much I didn't already know: a few crimes, celebrity gossip, and, interestingly, nothing about Tony shutting down his company's weapons division, only that he had returned safely. I knew from the movie that he'd done it immediately after returning. It made more sense this way, that was a movie and this was real life. He wasn't as injured in his chest, nor did he spend months in the Ten Rings' tender care. I doubted he could make such a decision without breaking billions of dollars worth of contracts and paying the dues. I'd keep an eye on what he'd do, though. I needed to... I searched for some recent scientific breakthroughs.

  The results loaded: mundane articles about the Large Hadron Collider firing up in Switzerland, scientists excited, politicians nervous, headlines about stem cell research debates, ethics panels arguing in circles, a piece about climate models, and a tech blog buzzing about rumors of a new iPhone model.

  I clicked a Wired article about cutting-edge prosthetics and read halfway through. DARPA-funded exoskeleton projects for soldiers.

  I opened a new tab and searched famous inventors controversies.

  Howard Stark came up almost immediately: old scandals, WWII weapons contracts, rumors of hidden tech caches, and conspiracy theories layered over dry historical fact. I skimmed, then froze at a certain name: Reed Richards and his advanced particle discoveries.

  I shook my head. I'd handle that information later and kept going: genetic research and mutation.

  More of the same. Cloning bans. Stem cells again. A sidebar article on X-linked genetic disorders caught my eye. I clicked it, then followed a link deeper into a medical journal summary.

  Rare genetic conditions. Outliers. Kids with unusual strength or sensory acuity. Most of it framed as speculation or early-stage research. One article leaned harder into sensationalism, hinting at "unknown variables" and "anomalies living among us."

  I felt my heartbeat tick up slightly.

  I clicked another link. It was a blog written by an unknown user:

  Government Schools for Gifted Children? What They Aren't Telling You

  I read for maybe thirty seconds before closing it. Mutants. I realized this wasn't just the MCU.

  I leaned back in the chair and rubbed my neck.

  I shut the browser down.

  Still. For now, that was enough. The world hadn't visibly gone to hell as it would in the coming years. I had time to prepare.

  I just had to commit...

  I rolled my neck slowly and winced as something tight pulled at the base of my skull. My body still felt... wrong.

  Better than Afghanistan. Much better.

  But not right.

  I was underweight, weak in places I shouldn't be. The reckless changes I'd already made had taught me that lesson the hard way. The denser skull I'd rushed early on put constant pressure on my neck. Muscles strained under the added weight, never quite relaxing. A low, persistent ache lived there now, a reminder that shortcuts had consequences.

  No more half-assed tweaks. If I'm to survive this new life, I needed to build myself to be better, smarter, stronger.

  The Codex stirred faintly in my chest, responding to the direction of my thoughts.

  I focused inward on the Codex. I could access it more easily now, enough to feel my body's structure with ease. in a way I hadn't before: bones as frameworks, muscle fibers, blood flow, neural pathways, microfractures that had healed imperfectly, scar tissue, density.

  I thought about trying to mimic the biology of an Astartes, but shook my head, No. Not yet. I wasn't sure if I could do something like that now; they were essentially demi-gods, maybe even wielding a sliver of the God Emperor's divinity. Instead, I turned to one of my all-time favorite games: Halo. They were a blueprint I needed to follow. Super-soldiers pushed to the edge, augmented piece by piece. I'd have to do it in stages.

  I swallowed.

  Spartans weren't just strong. They were engineered holistically. In the games, Spartans got injections that wove new muscle fibers into existing ones, turning regular human strength into something monstrous. For me, it could be a gradual change that the Codex hinted at, maybe. Infuse low changes into my limbs and then to my whole body. Then the skeleton. That carbide ceramic ossification from the lore: unbreakable bones to handle the strain. The crystal could mimic it, shave a thin layer off the outer bone, fuse in a force-infused coating. But kids in Halo died from this stage. I was an adult, so safer probably, but still, I'd have to do it in stages.

  Start with non-weight-bearing bones, ribs maybe, or fingers. The neural side would be a problem. The Spartans had interfaces that synced with MJOLNIR, and also helping them overclock their reflexes. This would be the linchpin for my survival; it could mean rewiring nerves, faster signals, making me faster, increasing my reflexes and speed.

  And then the big one: growth hormones, the pituitary overhaul. The treatment that turned the Spartans into 7-foot giants capable of fighting the Covenant. I didn't specifically want the height, but I certainly wanted density and mass, nor would I mind the increase in height and size.

  I exhaled, rubbing my temples. It had to be stages: neural first for control, then muscles for stability and power, skeleton for durability, and the hormones to tie it all together. I'd test small, recover fully, and then iterate. Rush it, and I'd turn into a monster before I was ready.

  The crystal pulsed once, as if in approval.

  I relaxed back into the chair, thinking, "I'll rest first, then act tomorrow."