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Sterling led me into his study, a converted bedroom lined with bookshelves containing everything from ancient grimoires to modern forensic manuals. A battered laptop sat on the desk, open to news reports about unexplained phenomena.

“You'll want to see this,” Sterling said, pulling a folder from a drawer. He tossed it onto the desk between us.

I opened it, finding official CITD paperwork. My death certificate. Forms documenting the disposition of my government benefits, pension, and personal effects. Status: DECEASED.

“They declared you dead three months ago,” Sterling explained, settling into his chair. “Official story is you were killed in an explosion during a raid on suspected domestic terrorists. Closed casket funeral. Full departmental honors.”

I studied the documentation with detached interest. The clinical evidence of my own erasure from official existence. The neat administrative packaging of a life concluded.

“Who attended?” I asked, the question emerging from some still-human part of me.

“Sean. Me. A few others from your division.” Sterling's voice softened slightly. “It was well done. Respectful.”

I nodded, accepting this information without the emotional response it should have triggered. My own funeral. The ceremonial closing of my life's chapter. It should have meant something. Instead, it was merely data to process.

“As far as the world is concerned, you're gone,” Sterling continued, leaning forward to flip through more papers. “Bank accounts closed. Apartment cleared out. Digital footprint archived and buried.”

“And the rest of my things?” I asked.

“Most went to Sean. Some to storage. The important stuff, your father's journal, your weapons, I kept safe.” Sterling gestured vaguely toward the basement, where I knew he maintained an extensive arsenal and archive.

I absorbed this, considering the implications. “It might be better to stay dead. Officially.”

Sterling's eyebrows rose slightly, surprised by my quick grasp of the situation. “That's... unexpected coming from you. The old Cade would have been figuring out how to reclaim his identity, his position.”

“The old Cade had different priorities,” I replied simply. “CITD resources would be useful, but the scrutiny, the questions, the psychological evaluations...” I shook my head once. “Too complicated. And potentially dangerous if they discovered the changes.”

Sterling studied me, the assessment never truly pausing. “You're thinking more like a hunter now. Off the grid. Outside the system.”

“I'm thinking practically,” I corrected. “What's the most effective approach given current circumstances? CITD wouldwant explanations I can't provide. Would detect that something's different about me. Best case, they'd sideline me. Worst case, they'd consider me a potential threat.”

The analysis was cold, logical, divorced from the attachment the old Cade would have felt toward his career, his colleagues, the life he'd built.

“So what's your plan?” Sterling asked, watching me closely. “If you're not going back to CITD.”

I met his gaze steadily. “Hunt. Figure out what I've become. Stop whatever Asmodeus is planning.”

“Simple as that, huh?” Sterling's tone was dry, but not dismissive.

“It's straightforward,” I replied. “Fewer complications.”

“Simpler,” Sterling corrected. “Not the same thing as better.”

The distinction registered, acknowledged but not fully embraced. I understood what Sterling meant, that simplicity came at the cost of connections, relationships, the human network that had once defined my existence. But those connections required emotional engagement I no longer possessed, making them functionally irrelevant to my current state.

“CITD thinks you're dead,” Sterling summarized, leaning back in his chair. “The people who knew you have grieved and started to move on. Bringing Cade Cross back now would create complications we don't need while hunting Asmodeus and whatever came through that gate.”

“Agreed,” I said simply.

Sterling gesturedtoward the basement stairs. “There's more you need to see.” I followed him down to a heavy door reinforcedwith both conventional and supernatural protections. He worked through multiple locks, revealing his true workspace beyond—a hunter's archive more extensive than anything CITD could imagine.

Weapons lined one wall, everything from ancient ceremonial daggers to modern firearms modified for supernatural threats. Another wall held bookshelves packed with grimoires, journals, and reference texts in multiple languages. Tables supported maps, ritual components, surveillance equipment.

But what caught my attention was the investigation board dominating the far wall. Photos, newspaper clippings, string connections tracking supernatural events across the country. At the center: the demon gate. My last known location.

“My disappearance,” I observed, approaching the board.

Sterling nodded. “Been tracking everything related to the gate since it closed. Trying to understand what came through, what might have happened to you on the other side.”