I jerked awake to a knock that ripped me from my deep sleep like a gunshot. My face was buried in the pillow, heart racing before my brain caught up. For a second, I didn't know where I was. I grunted as I felt an ache in my muscles that told me I'd slept too hard and too deeply.

  I heard the knock again, more insistent and a little louder.

  "Mr. Calderon?" a voice called through the door. "My name is Gideon. I'm from Stark Industries. If you would spare a minute, please..."

  I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring up at the ceiling as my eyes struggled to focus. The man's words replayed in my head, slowly and disjointed, as I tried to piece them together in my sleepy haze.

  Stark Industries. What do they want?

  I dragged a hand down my face and kicked the blanket off, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. I sat there for a second, letting the room stop spinning, then glanced at the small digital clock on the nightstand.

  9:37 a.m.

  "Yeah, yeah," I muttered, voice rough with sleep. "I'm coming."

  I stood, stretching carefully. My body still felt strange when I moved. I grabbed a T-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it over my bare torso, then shuffled out of the bedroom and down the short hallway toward the front door.

  I stopped at the peephole out of habit and looked through, squinting my eye. A man in a black suit stood just a little too close to the door for the fisheye lens to give me a full picture. He had neatly trimmed hair and wore a pair of glasses. I knew instantly he was a man who wanted to climb the corporate ladder.

  I unlocked the deadbolt and chain, then opened the door.

  He brightened instantly.

  "Mr. Calderon!" he said, stepping back half a pace. His smile was practiced; it was the kind learned to use when your job involved delivering things people didn't exactly like. He held a large gift basket in one hand. It was packed with fruit, wrapped in cellophane, a dark glass bottle nestled inside, and a card was tucked into the weave.

  I scanned him automatically, habits engraved in muscle memory. His hands were empty except for the basket, and it didn't look like he carried a concealed weapon. I did notice that his shoes were well-polished but looked worn.

  "What can I do for you?" I asked.

  He shifted the basket to one arm and held out his other hand. I took it, still groggy. He shook it vigorously.

  "As I said, my name is Gideon," he said. "Stark Industries public relations. I was tasked with delivering this to you as per company policy." He gave the basket a small shake. "So... This is a thank you, Mr. Calderon, for your service to Stark Industries; your being let go is just an opportunity to start anew."

  I stared at him a beat longer than was polite.

  "I never worked there," I said flatly. "Dude."

  His smile froze, just a fraction. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone.

  It wasn't an iPhone or anything I recognized. Sleek, seamless, glass edge-to-edge. Way ahead of the tech curve.

  "Huh," he murmured, tapping quickly. "Ah. My apologies, Mr. Calderon. It says here we are simply to deliver this to you." He looked up, now apologetic. "It would help me greatly if you'd accept this."

  I sighed, stepped back, and took the basket.

  "Fine," I said.

  "Much appreciated," he replied, already backing away. "Have a wonderful day."

  I heard him mutter, "No wonder, it looked a little too expensive..."

  He turned and left with the brisk efficiency of someone who didn't want to linger any more than necessary.

  I closed the door, slid the locks back into place, and dropped the basket onto the couch.

  "What the hell..." I muttered.

  I pulled the wine bottle out and set it on the coffee table, then unfolded the card. The message inside was written in printed cursive.

  

  undefined said:

  Dear Eli,

  You know who it is. Couldn't get back in touch, busy being me.

  This is a thank-you-for-not-letting-me-die thing.

  Enjoy the wine. And do check your bank account.

  —T

  I snorted softly.

  Classic Stark. Even gratitude came wrapped in veiled ego.

  The bank account line caught my eye again.

  I moved to the desk, powered the computer back on, and logged into my online banking. It took a long minute to load.

  Then the number appeared.

  $1,030,675.00

  I stared at it and refreshed the page. The same number remained.

  I leaned back slowly, a breath slipping out of me.

  "Jesus," I muttered.

  I'd never had that kind of money in either life. Not even close. It felt unreal, like Monopoly money with too many zeros. But I also knew exactly what it was: freedom and options. It wasn't much on the grand scheme of things, but it was not what would keep me alive, but a tool to help me along the way.

  "Thanks, Stark," I said quietly.

  I stood, poured myself a bowl of cereal with the milk I'd bought last night, and ate it standing at the counter. The TV flickered on in the background, some morning news program droning about markets and weather. I barely listened as my mind ran on what I would do.

  I didn't need a job anymore. The money in my account could carry me for a few years if I was careful, even more if I invested it properly. From Eli's hazy memories, something else popped up: his aunt Carmen. He'd lived with her through high school after his dad died. She'd been there when everything else fell apart. They'd stayed close, even after she moved away to get married.

  I walked back into the bedroom and opened the nightstand drawer. Inside, tucked beneath some old receipts, was a flip phone.

  A Motorola Razr. I looked at it in amusement as I flipped it open, powered it on, and scrolled through the contacts until I found her name.

  My thumb hovered over the call button.

  I didn't have all of Eli's memories. Not really. Most of them were hazy, filled with emotions without any real context. But I remembered enough to know that this woman cared for the body I had inadvertently taken over, and I would honor that.

  I needed to let her know i was back...

  I exhaled slowly and pressed the button. The phone beeped as it rang, the tone oddly loud in the quiet apartment. Once. Twice. I almost hung up. Then...

  "Eli?" A woman's voice came through, sharp with surprise and concern. "Eli... aren't you supposed to still be overseas on your deployment?"

  "Hey, Carmen," I said. My voice sounded steadier than I truly felt. "Yeah. About that... I left the military. I got out."

  There was a pause on the line. I could feel her surprise through the phone.

  "What?" she said finally. "What do you mean you're out? Eli, can you even do that? Are you hurt? Where are you? Are you alright?"

  "No, no, I'm fine," I said quickly, trying to calm her. "I promise, Carmen, I'm not in any trouble. It was my decision to leave. I'm back home. In Astoria."

  Another pause. I could picture her now, brown brows drawn together, phone pressed tight to her ear,her mind racing at my words.

  "You're sure?" she asked, more quietly now. "You would tell me if something was wrong, right?"

  "I would," I said, and meant it. "I'm okay. Just... done. I wanted to let you know."

  I heard her exhale, long and shaky.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  There was a beat, then her tone shifted, still concerned, but warmer now that there was nothing wrong.

  "Well," she said, "you know you can come visit, right? Any time. You don't even have to ask."

  I smiled faintly, staring at the far wall. "I know. And I will. Just... not right now."

  A pause. Then a small, understanding sigh.

  "Alright," Carmen said. "You take care of yourself, Eli. And make sure you eat your food on time."

  "I will," I said. "And tell your husband I said hi. And Ruth too."

  She laughed softly at that. "I will. You call if you need anything. I mean it."

  "I know," I said. "Bye, Carmen."

  "Bye, Eli."

  The line clicked dead.

  I lowered the phone and sat for a moment, staring at the dark screen in my hand. The apartment felt quieter now, and I felt a little better, like I was accepting my identity. I set the phone down on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on my knees. My shoulders sagged as the weight of it all caught up to me, a slight fear and an overwhelming feeling of heaviness in my chest.

  I was postponing what I really needed to do. I knew what was coming in the near future. In a few months, Bruce Banner and the Abomination would tear through Harlem like a natural disaster with fists. Even if I stayed out of it, even if I kept my head down and tried to ignore it all, I knew I needed power to have agency over my safety, especially since I was blessed or cursed with the Codex. I didn't need to be a hero; I just needed to be ready. I leaned back and stretched out on the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the quiet neighborhood hummed faintly outside. I let them all fade as I slowed my breathing and turned inward.

  The Codex answered immediately, opening up to dark possibilities. I didn't rush; I took my time as I planned to construct a framework for the alchemical ritual. If I was going to touch my brain my nervous system then it had to be done carefully. One wrong move and I was done.

  I focused on the first layer.

  Neural speed.

  Reaction time.

  The Codex responded by projecting a lattice of understanding into my awareness, and I shaped it carefully into something coherent.

  Superconducting Fibrification of Neural Dendrites.

  I understood what it would do the moment the concept locked in. This would allow me to move with the reflexes of a Spartan: platinum-based superconducting fibers grown onto the outer surfaces of neural dendrites throughout the brain. I would not be replacing them; instead, I would be sheathing them, riding along existing structures like rails laid beside an old road.

  The effect would be immediate, in theory.

  Electrical impulses, action potentials, would no longer bleed energy into surrounding tissue. There would be no resistance or delay. Neural signals would propagate at speeds no human nervous system was ever meant to sustain.

  Three hundred percent faster. Maybe more.

  Reaction time, collapsing from fractions of a second to something closer to nanoseconds. My visual input would be processed before conscious awareness caught up. Motor commands issued before hesitation could exist.

  I could see it.

  Tracking multiple moving objects without effort. Spatial reasoning allowing me to read the surroundings like a map unfolding in real time. I would be able to recall things that I never paid attention to, patterns snapping together before I realized I'd seen them.

  Then the Codex showed me the cost.

  Misalignment.

  A single fiber grown wrong, a junction imperfectly fused, and blood flow would choke off, leading to cerebral hypoxia, a stroke-like collapse, permanent damage, tremors, locked-in paralysis, and ultimately, death. This procedure alone had killed more candidates than any other in the Spartan program.

  The sensation, translated through memory fragments embedded in the Codex, was vivid:

  Lightning inside the skull.

  Molten metal poured along every thought.

  I swallowed.

  Next layer: Vision.

  The occipital lobe flared in my awareness as the Codex unfolded the next page:

  Occipital Capillary Reversal.

  Blood vessels feeding the visual cortex would be restructured, dilated, and rerouted. Oxygen delivery would be tripled, and nutrient flow optimized beyond natural limits.

  The result was obscene: visual acuity sharpening past normal human thresholds, peripheral vision expanding until any motion at the edge of awareness became as clear as what was directly ahead, and low-light sensitivity approaching night vision without hardware.

  But again, there were

  risks: vessels rupturing under pressure, hemorrhage, and blindness.

  And then the last layer: control. Speed without control was suicide.

  The Codex unfolded the third layer:

  Cerebellar Myelination Enhancement.

  Myelin sheaths thickened artificially around cerebellar neurons. The signals would be insulated, the noise reduced, and coordination refined, giving me balance under stress and near fine motor control even when the body was pushed beyond its augmented limits. Hands steady, no matter what.

  I leaned back mentally, assembling the pieces: neural speed, visual processing, motor control.

  I wouldn't touch muscle yet, wouldn't touch bone, wouldn't touch hormones.

  This was already insane enough; I hesitated. Once I started, there would be no halfway point, no stop button. If I failed here, I wasn't sure I'd wake up, and if I did, I'd be broken.

  The Codex pulsed with an impatient, dark hunger, waiting to feed on my pain. It accepted the framework the moment I finished shaping it. I felt the shift immediately, like a lock clicking open deep inside my chest. Knowledge snapped into place.

  I knew I could do this. There would be no safeguards except my will to push forward.

  I drew a slow breath.

  "If I screw this up," I whispered to the empty room, "it's just natural selection."

  I centered myself, then I let the Codex engulf me. The pain hit instantly. I felt it everywhere, from the tips of my feet to my head.

  My body spasmed violently, back arching as if I'd been electrocuted. My jaw locked as my hands clawed at the sheets without direction or control. A scream tried to tear its way out of my throat and died there, crushed by the sudden overload. It felt exactly like the Codex had warned me.

  I felt molten metal being poured directly into my brain. My thoughts were incoherent as they tore themselves apart mid-formation. My vision exploded into white static as every nerve in my head fired at once.

  I felt growths inside me, threading themselves through pathways that no one would consciously feel. Every thought I tried to form shattered into sparks.

  Blood roared in my ears, my heart hammering against my ribs, desperate to escape.

  I couldn't breathe. My body locked down, muscles seizing so violently I thought my spine would break. Something rattled in the distance. Maybe I'd kicked the bedframe, or maybe I hadn't moved at all.

  Time dissolved, leaving only pain. Then, my vision tunneled.

  Darkness crept in from the edges, heavy and merciful.

  Did I make a mistake? The thought barely formed before dissolving.

  The last thing I felt before consciousness slipped away was the Codex, still working, methodical and uncaring.

  Then everything went black.