The old maintenance annex near Roosevelt Station hadn't seen life in months.
Eli knew it the second he opened the iron grate beneath the tracks. Dust clung to the hinges like dead skin. A cold draft filtered through the corridor, carrying the scent of stale rust and wet brick. The kind of smell that settled in your throat and reminded you how many places the city tried to forget.
He ducked through the narrow entrance and moved slowly, one hand trailing the wall.
It looked the same. His stash corner hadn't been touched. The old metal crate still sat beside the splintered desk. His cracked mirror lay facedown, right where he left it.
But something was off.
One of the cans he'd strung to the window ledge was missing.
A piece of shredded cloth — once used to plug a leaky pipe — had been unwrapped and tucked behind a broken tile.
A coffee cup, still upright near the far wall, had a faint water ring inside. Someone had used it recently.
Eli narrowed his eyes.
He then exhaled and shook his head once. "Place has been abandoned for months. People wander. Doesn't mean anything."
But even as he said it, his hands were already moving — dragging broken glass across the threshold, setting up a tripwire near the grate, wedging a bent nail beneath the floorboard seam by the sleeping mat. Just in case.
Because in his world, paranoia was safer than being right.
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In Westchester, the war room buzzed with muted chatter and faint clicks of tablets being flipped open. A large central monitor displayed a rotating feed of low-res street cams, focused on sectors of Chicago tagged "anomaly active."
Professor Charles Xavier rolled into the room calmly, his presence enough to silence the bickering before it truly began.
Beast sat with his legs folded beneath him, stylus in hand. Nightcrawler leaned against a support beam nearby, smiling as always. Jean stood by the window, cup of coffee in hand, her gaze drifting toward the trees outside. Logan had just arrived, arms crossed, brows heavy.
Scott Summers entered last, checking his watch as though the meeting were in the way of something more important.
Xavier began, "Surveillance has confirmed our subject—Navarro—is no longer using fixed hideouts. He's shifting locations every thirty-six hours or less."
"Paranoia," Logan grunted.
"Survival instinct," Jean added without turning.
Scott gave a short laugh. "He's just a drifter with an attitude. We've seen a hundred like him."
Beast tapped his tablet. "You underestimate him. He's evading skilled trackers without any training. We only spotted him again yesterday because he lingered to watch a group of children play."
Scott's glance shifted toward Jean, who sipped quietly. His eyes lingered.
She caught the look. The flicker of thought behind it — too vivid, too obvious. The way his brain played out scenes of him holding her, dominating her, her face flushed and vulnerable. The fantasy was crude, but internally clean — ego-driven, not depraved.
Her expression didn't change. But her eyes shifted slightly in his direction, half-lidded, with the kind of cool detachment one might reserve for chewing gum on a shoe.
Scott smiled to himself, misreading it completely. He leaned back in his chair, mentally congratulating himself. "Soon."
Jean returned her gaze to the window and sighed.
"I believe it's time we get closer," Xavier said.
"Send me," Logan muttered. "I'll talk to him."
"Too early," Xavier replied gently. "You carry weight, Logan. That can press as well as pull. We need someone light."
Nightcrawler stepped forward. "We have a student in town. Already in position. Good instincts. Knows how to observe without spooking prey."
"Not prey," Jean said.
"Figure of speech," Kurt replied, smiling.
Scott raised an eyebrow. "Who is it?"
"Davos," Beast answered. "Energy sensitivity, low-level adaptive empathy. Low threat profile. Fast on her feets."
Jean nodded. "Davos will do."
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Eli returned to the surface the next afternoon. The weather had turned, grey and heavy, with low clouds pressing down over the skyline like a blanket waiting to smother the city. The wind carried the chill in steady waves, but he didn't bother pulling his hood up.
He liked the cold. It kept people inside.
He passed through a small plaza near Chinatown — a place where vendors used to sell fake watches and bootleg DVDs. Now it was mostly empty.
As he passed a rusted bench, a dog trotted out from behind a dumpster. Medium-sized mutt. Patchy fur. Eyes too smart.
It stared at Eli for a long second.
Then its ears went flat. It growled — low and uneasy — backing away with stiff legs.
Eli stopped walking.
The dog whimpered, turned, and sprinted across the street.
He stood there for a moment, eyes narrowing.
He wasn't leaking blood. Didn't smell like food.
But the dog had looked at him like it saw a storm coming.
A block later, he found a flyer.
It was wedged under a loose brick near one of his bolt holes. A tabloid clipping from a trash-tier newspaper. Grainy photo. Vague headline: "Alley Ambush – Four Injured in South Loop Attack."
The article described a fight. Conflicting witness statements. One claimed it was "a group thing." Another blamed gang violence. No mention of names. No mention of him.
Just a faceless footnote in a city built on them.
He folded the clipping and shoved it in his pocket.
Then kept walking.
The food truck was parked on the edge of an industrial district near Lower West Side — near enough to draw foot traffic, far enough from eyes.
It sold steamed buns and pork skewers.
Eli hadn't eaten in ten hours.
He waited until the line cleared, then stepped up. His posture was loose, but his gaze flicked across corners, mirrors, angles. Always watching.
The vendor looked young. Sharp eyes. Calm. Maybe seventeen or eighteen, apron slung low.
"What's good?" Eli asked.
"Depends on the day," the vendor said. "You ever get the feeling this city's watching you?"
Eli paused.
The sentence landed wrong.
Like a line from a script.
He took the skewer handed to him, dropped cash without counting, and walked away without answering.
The scout — Davos — watched him disappear into the buildings and exhaled slowly. She'd dropped the phrase, just like Xavier asked. A coded breadcrumb. Nothing threatening.
Still, the look in Navarro's eyes had been… sharp.
That night, Davos returned to her safe flat and pulled out a spray can.
She tagged a low wall near one of Eli's routes with a symbol. Circular. Simple. Underneath it, four words:
"Choose your own chain."
She didn't know if he'd understand it.
But someone else might.
-------------------------------------------
Elsewhere in the city, far from the warmth of any school or sanctuary, another watcher moved with practiced ease through the crowd.
She wore denim and flannel. Red hair in a ponytail. Eyes soft and maternal.
But behind the eyes was something colder.
Something reptilian.
Mystique walked through the plaza where Eli had passed hours ago, hands in her coat pockets, watching. Waiting.
She had seen the dog run. She'd read the article.
And she'd heard the rumors: Knuckle Rat. Ghost-fist. The kid who got back up.
He was Magneto's type. Raw potential. Buried fire. Survival edge.
And if Xavier's people were watching him… well.
That just meant time was short.
She'd find him first.
And make sure his first impression of "his people" came with steel, not sympathy.
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