Page 7

The clinical observation was accurate. I had returned leaner, harder, muscle mass reconstructed differently than before. Whether from my time in the gate or the process of my return, my body had been subtly reshaped.

“Towels in the cabinet,” Sterling continued. “Soap, shampoo, whatever else you need. Make yourself decent.” It wasn't a suggestion.

I nodded once, accepting the directive. The basement shower at the warehouse had been functional but basic. A proper bathroom with hot water, clean towels, the simple human comfort appealed on a level that surprised me.

Sterling hesitated at the door, conflict evident in his expression. Then he crossed to the closet and pulled out a cardboard box.

“There's something you should see,” he said, placing the box on the bed. “After you're cleaned up. When you're ready.”

I looked at the box, noting the CITD logo stamped on its side, the official evidence tape sealing it closed, marked with my name and a case number. My personal effects, gathered aftermy disappearance, treated as evidence in what would have been classified as a disappearance or presumed death.

“My things,” I said, recognition automatic.

Sterling nodded. “Your badge. Wallet. Keys. The contents of your desk. What was left behind.”

The implication was clear. These were the remnants of my life, the pieces that remained when I was thought gone forever. A collection of objects that had once defined part of my identity, now archaeological artifacts from a life that no longer quite belonged to me.

“I'll leave you to it,” Sterling said, moving toward the door.

“Thank you,” I replied, the social nicety emerging from muscle memory rather than genuine feeling.

Sterling paused, studying me again with that penetrating hunter's gaze. “Don't thank me yet. We still don't know what came back with you.” The door closed behind him with quiet finality.

The hot water felt like revelation against my skin, washing away grime real and metaphorical. I stood under the spray longer than necessary, watching dirt and dried blood swirl down the drain, wondering how much of myself was being carried away with it.

Afterward, clean and dressed in borrowed clothes that hung slightly too loose on my leaner frame, I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the box of my former life. The seal had grown brittle with time, easy to break. Inside, neatly organized with the precision typical of Sterling, lay the pieces of who Cade Cross had been.

My CITD badge, the metal still gleaming despite six months of disuse. My wallet, containing driver's license, credit cards now surely canceled, a faded photograph of my parents I'd carried since childhood. Keys to an apartment I no longer had, abuilding super would have cleared out months ago. A watch my grandfather had given me for graduation.

Mundane objects, devoid of power or significance beyond the meaning humans assigned them. Yet holding them felt significant, like reconnecting to an identity that had been stripped away and was now being reassembled, piece by fragmented piece.

A soft knock on the open door pulled me from my contemplation. Sterling stood in the doorway, expression unreadable, a tray in his hands.

“Thought you might be hungry,” he said, entering to place the tray on the dresser. Simple food, sandwich, apple, coffee strong enough to strip paint. “Found anything useful in there?” Sterling nodded toward the open box.

I shook my head. “Just... pieces.”

“Pieces are a start,” Sterling replied, moving to the window and adjusting the blinds with casual precision that positioned him to see the yard beyond while blocking any view of him from outside.

I noted the positioning, the continued caution. “You're still not sure about me.”

It wasn't an accusation, just observation. Sterling didn't bother denying it.

“I've been doing this a long time, kid. Seen every kind of resurrection, restoration, body-snatching, and soul-hijacking the supernatural world has to offer. Some of them look perfect on the outside. Right down to the memories, the mannerisms. But there's always something off.”

“And with me?” I asked.

Sterling's gaze was direct, unflinching. “Your eyes. They're yours, but they're... empty. Like something vital didn't make the return trip.”

The accuracy of the assessment was unsettling. I didn't confirm or deny, letting the observation hang between us.

“You should eat, then rest,” Sterling said finally, breaking the tense silence. “Whatever happened to you in that gate, your body's still recovering. Sleep if you can.”

The directive was sound. Basic human needs, food, rest, recovery. Essential regardless of what else might be happening, what changes might have occurred. Physiological requirements remained, even if psychological patterns had altered.

“And Sean?” I asked.

Sterling's expression hardened slightly. “We stick to the plan. One day. Then we approach him together, prepared.”