Chương 21: Out of the Cage

I managed to exhale only the essentials into the receiver: I briefly told Rachel that I was in custody, dictated the precinct number, and spat out the surname of that pig Alvarez. Every second counted; I could feel time slipping through my fingers.

"What, that's it? Shop's closed! Time's up!" Alvarez practically tore the smartphone out of my hands. His face flushed, his fat neck bulging over his shirt collar.

"So, you said goodbye to your girl? Had your little chat? Enjoy that memory, Tom, because next time you hear her voice won't be anytime soon. Five years, if you're lucky." His threats shattered against my emotional shield like fine spray against granite. I only gave a short nod. The duty officer grabbed my elbow without ceremony and led me back down the corridor. The scrape of a key, the heavy sigh of an iron door, and I was back in the cell. Nothing had changed inside.

The same stale, heavy air soaked with the smell of unwashed bodies. The number of people had not decreased; the same living wall of sweaty backs and sullen faces remained. My solitary corner on the hard wooden bench, which I had fought so hard to claim, had already been taken over by some twitchy-eyed guy. But the moment I took a step toward him, he jumped up as if the bench had suddenly turned white-hot.

He hurriedly retreated to the wall, choosing to brace it with his shoulder alongside the other unlucky ones who had not found space. Yesterday's demonstration of krav maga had left a deep mark in their collective memory. No one wanted to test how quickly I could break a man's jaw. That worked in my favor; unnecessary conflicts with this biological trash would only distract me from analyzing the situation.

I sat down, leaned the back of my head against the cold wall, and closed my eyes, initiating an internal calculation process. The situation was shaping up to be bad. Miller, that petty tyrant, had decided to go all in. He had not merely accused me of stealing my own wages; he had attributed to me a sum many times larger. This was no petty theft now, but a state-level criminal offense with serious time attached. As for Alvarez, there were two possibilities.

Either he was hopelessly stupid and lazy, or he was a complete bastard on the payroll of people like Miller. He threw nonexistent evidence in my face, bluffed about video recordings, and demonstratively ignored any of my arguments. Rachel was the key variable. Her brief "okay" over the phone now rang in my ears. What had that been? A cold acknowledgment that she had heard me but was not about to go to bat for a guy she had met a week ago?

Or a concise reply from an FBI professional who had already started turning the gears of the system in my favor? She knew how those mechanisms worked. She was my only real chance at a clean resolution. There was also Alex from beach police, but the very thought of him in this hole made me want to smirk. I pictured him walking in here in his uniform shorts and trendy sunglasses; they would laugh him to death before he even managed to pull out his badge. In any case, I had done everything within my power.

Dialogue with Alvarez was closed; he heard nothing but his own opinion. If Rachel did not help, there was one last line of defense: my mother. In the evening, as agreed, she would call Danny. People from the awakened corps would get me out of here in five minutes; of that I had no doubt. Though I would rather not involve them over something so trivial. Time in the cell did not simply pass; it decayed. No clock, no windows, no connection to the outside world.

The only way not to go insane was to listen to the endless chatter around me. It was a live show of degenerates. The main topics were food and drugs. Two dealers in the corner, without the slightest concern for the guards, were seriously discussing a business plan. As soon as they got out, they would buy pure product from some buddy downtown, cut it with flour, and make money. They were discussing a criminal operation right inside a police station, three yards from the bars.

That was everything one needed to know about the intellectual level of the local contingent. Forget films about Ocean's friends or genius thieves. In reality, prisons were filled with fools, losers, and those who simply could not calculate consequences two steps ahead. And the worst part was that I was sitting in the same row with them. It was a painful snap on the nose, a lesson for the future: never allow emotions or circumstances to drive you into the same cage as idiots. My thoughts circled endlessly.

For the tenth time, someone started arguing about where in Los Angeles the juiciest burgers were made. These arguments were endless and meaningless, like trying to empty the ocean with a teaspoon. Suddenly, something clicked in my head. [Special command completed. Emotions returning to the Familiar] I involuntarily flinched. That meant it was now 12: 16. The precision was absolute. Exactly twenty-four hours had passed since the command. The world around me changed instantly.

Emotions flooded back into my consciousness like a river breaking through a dam, washing away the icy calm of logic. I felt both good and unbearably bad at the same time. The taste of that morning vanilla bun we had been handed suddenly surfaced in my memory. Back then, I had simply thrown it into the furnace of my body, noting only the calories. But now… God, it had been damn delicious. A light sweetness, the aroma of vanilla, soft dough.

Under the anesthesia of suppressed emotions, I had been deprived of the simplest pleasures of life. But along with the taste of the bun, reality returned. The suffocating discomfort of this cell pressed down on me. The walls seemed closer, the ceiling lower. Regret over wasted time gave way to burning resentment, fear for the future, and such rage at Miller and Alvarez that my jaws clenched to a grinding ache. I felt like a cornered animal. Maybe I should switch off emotions again? For another day?

Without emotions, life turns into a gray routine, but in moments like this, or in the heat of a fight, it becomes a damn tank that just pushes straight through. To distract myself from the creeping apathy, I summoned the status panel. [Control Panel: TRAINER] Level: 2 S-Power (System Energy): 11/11 Special Command: 2/4 Tactical Mode: 0/1 [Subject Status: MONSTER] Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

Level: 1 Race: Human (Homo Sapiens) Attributes: Strength: 8 (Level of a well-built athlete, the result of exhausting training) Endurance: 6 (You no longer run out of breath after climbing stairs) Agility: 7 (You can already touch your shoulder blade with your fingers, flexibility is increasing) Current Effects: [Increased Irritability], [Mild Dehydration] Yes, quite the picture. Because of the miserable night on the bench, the Special Commands had not recovered. S-Power, however, was at maximum.

I still had no idea how to use it. The same went for the monster level. A full month of training, tons of sweat, and I was still at level one. How was it supposed to be increased? By killing someone? Or by completing tasks? There were no hints. The only thing that truly warmed me was the stats. In just a month, I had transformed from a soft-bodied nobody into a real athlete. And this was only the beginning. Two more months of hellish training lay ahead. That was, if I did not get out of here in five years instead.

The heavy bolt clanged, making everyone in the cell shrink back instinctively.

"Thomas Ross!" the duty officer barked as he entered.

"Out. Now!" I was ready for another round of psychological games, for Alvarez's sticky stares and new threats. My muscles tensed involuntarily when the officer came for me, but everything unfolded in a completely different, almost surreal way. Without unnecessary words, without any demand to sign reports, they simply handed me a bag with my confiscated belongings. The officer opened the heavy metal door and practically shoved me outside, as if I were not a robbery suspect but a guest who had overstayed his welcome.

I froze at the top of the station steps. The sunlight hit my eyes so sharply that I went blind for a moment. A cocktail of scents struck my nose: heated asphalt, exhaust fumes, and freedom, sharp and dizzying. I stood there, foolishly clutching my smartphone, trying to comprehend that the cell was behind me.

"So, you're just gonna stand there looking like you got kicked in the balls?" The voice was familiar, sharp, with a pleasant huskiness. I turned my head. Rachel was sitting on the stone parapet, one leg crossed over the other. Her fiery red hair was pulled into that same tight ponytail that never seemed to change; I had never seen her with it loose. Today she had swapped her paintball tracksuit for a business style: a narrow dark-blue skirt, a crisp white shirt, and a black tie under her jacket.

She looked like an agent from a Hollywood detective film, only her gaze remained the same, bold and intolerant of objection.

"So, this is your doing?" I asked. A smile began to spread across my face on its own, despite the irritation still buzzing in my veins.

"What, you thought Santa Claus just flew by?" she snorted, hopping down from the parapet.

"I'll break it all down for you, but let's get out of this circus. I'm sick of looking at these clowns in uniform." She demonstratively spat onto the clean steps of the station with obvious satisfaction, expressing her deepest contempt for the local law enforcers and, by extension, the entire system. We walked a couple of blocks until we came across an unremarkable stall. The smell of fried meat and spices made my stomach tighten treacherously.

Rachel, without hesitation, dropped onto a plastic chair right there on the street and, like a true tomboy, ordered herself a cold bottle of beer and a huge shawarma dripping with sauce. I followed her example. For a moment, a system notification flashed before my eyes: [Trainer Analysis: The hops contained in beer negatively affect the Familiar's condition. Causes micro-intoxication, slowing metabolism and tissue recovery. Full abstinence is recommended.] To hell with the regimen.

After a day among addicts and vomit, I had earned this small act of defiance.

"Alright, spill it," I said, biting into the shawarma with clear satisfaction.

"How did you pull it off? Alvarez didn't look like someone you could negotiate with over a cup of coffee."

"Your Alvarez's a fucking coward, that's the whole secret," Rachel said, taking a long pull straight from the bottle.

"I just shoved my FBI badge in his face and hinted at an unscheduled audit of his cases, and boom, he damn near pissed himself. I'm telling you, he's probably still hiding in a bathroom somewhere, scrubbing his underwear in a urinal."

"That's… vivid," I said, barely holding back a laugh.

"But seriously, that's it? You scare him a little and I walk?"

"Only when these badge-wearing clowns have jack shit on you, Tom," Rachel curled her lip, tearing off a chunk of lavash.

"I checked your file. Miller cooked up some story about you beating ten grand out of him. Problem is, no cameras in the office, zero witnesses, and the guard didn't even log any injuries because there weren't any. Not a bruise, just a scared look on his face. They had nothing. Alvarez was just letting you rot, hoping you'd crack and sign your own damn sentence." I shrugged silently. My guess had been right. They had been bluffing, and doing it with the confidence of professional hustlers.

"I heard you walked into that cage and put everyone in their place right away. Showed those local jackals who's alpha. Gotta respect that," Rachel said, raising her bottle in a lazy salute.

"And after a beatdown like that, that idiot seriously thought a couple days in holding would break you? What a fucking joke. They keep hiring idiots into the police, and then we at the Bureau have to clean up their mess." I suspected the cops had a similar opinion about federal agents, but I chose to keep quiet. She had pulled me out of a cell despite barely knowing me, and arguing about interagency rivalry felt like the last thing I should do.

"Long story short, Tom, you can relax. With evidence like that, no prosecutor in their right mind is touching this case. There won't be a trial. And after the way I spooked your detective, he'll talk Miller into dropping it himself. Hell, he might even toss him in a cell for a couple hours just to shut him up." That was not just good news. It was a jackpot. For a moment, I wanted to jump up and break into some kind of victory dance, but I restrained myself and kept it short.

"Thanks, Rachel. You really saved me."

"Yeah, take your 'thanks' and shove it up your ass," she cut in sharply, something hot flashing in her eyes.

"Listen, Tom. I don't give a shit what kind of beef you've got with Miller. I don't care where you learned to drop people like that either. But if that shit-for-brains Malibu lifeguard Alex is even half right about you… then when I hit something the FBI can't handle, I expect you to show up. Deal?"

"Fair enough," I replied without hesitation. The deal was honest.

"Good," she said, tossing a few crumpled bills onto the counter without waiting for change.

"See you in a week at paintball. Don't be late." I watched her back until her decisive stride disappeared into the crowd. Rachel was a walking contradiction: she swore like a sailor, behaved provocatively, yet beneath that tomboy exterior there was a core of steel. She was someone one could rely on, and in my current world that was worth more than any amount of money. I had no idea what kind of help she might need from Thomas Ross, but I was used to repaying my debts.

The following week passed in a working rhythm that I had already begun to see as the only correct one. My days turned into a precisely calibrated algorithm: exhausting workouts at the limit of my abilities, first aid courses where I practiced applying tourniquets and bandaging wounds until it became automatic, and endless running. I enrolled in advanced track and field classes to refine my breathing technique. The police seemed to have forgotten about my existence. No calls, no visits.

Danny was also silent, which was the best sign. A handler remains satisfied as long as the subject does not cause problems. One evening, when twilight had already thickened outside the window, I noticed that my Spanish workbooks were filled to the last page. Out of curiosity, I opened a thick dictionary at a random spot. I translated the words instantly, without thinking, as if it were my native language. For a final test, I went to YouTube and found some Argentine film.

A typical melodrama about a poor maid and a rich heir falling in love. The plot was so cliché and sugary that it almost made me sick, but there was one detail that mattered. I understood every word. Every intonation, every piece of slang, the rapid pace of speech, none of it was just noise anymore. I had mastered Spanish. Now I needed practice, real conversation to cement the result. And I knew exactly who would be the best teacher. It was time to finally gather the courage and ask Stephanie out on a date.