Marcus's one-week break ended on a Tuesday.
He'd studied camera systems. Practiced "normal speed" movements. Worked with Sarah on gear improvements. Analyzed his mistakes. Learned from them.
Time to see if any of that actually helps.
The new tactical mask fit better than the bandana—covered his lower face properly, stayed in place during movement, actually breathable. The reinforced hoodie had hidden pockets for tools and medical supplies. Sarah had sewn in knife-resistant panels at critical areas.
Still not a costume. Just... better prepared college student aesthetic.
Marcus was walking through the East End around 10 PM, enhanced hearing scanning for trouble, when he picked it up.
Shouting. Breaking glass. A woman screaming. Different from the convenience store—this sounded like a domestic situation gone violent.
Domestic disputes are messy. Complicated. Emotional.
But the screaming continued. Someone was in danger.
Marcus called Bullock first. "Domestic violence situation. East End, Morrison Street, apartment building. Sounds bad."
"ETA ten minutes. Can you—"
"I'll assess. Not engaging unless necessary." Marcus was already moving toward the sound.
He approached the apartment building carefully, using his enhanced hearing to pinpoint the location. Third floor. Unit 3C. A man shouting. Woman crying. Sound of furniture breaking.
Police are ten minutes out. That's a long time when someone's being hurt.
Marcus climbed the fire escape, moved to the third floor. The window to 3C was partially open—he could see inside.
A man, maybe thirty-five, drunk and enraged. A woman cowering near the couch, bleeding from her lip. A child—couldn't be more than six—hiding behind a chair.
Kid in the situation. That changes everything.
The man grabbed a lamp, raised it over the woman.
Marcus didn't think. He went through the window.
His enhanced speed carried him across the room before the man could bring the lamp down. Marcus intercepted the swing, twisted the lamp out of the man's grip using his weapon handling knowledge.
"What the—who the hell are you?!"
"Someone who heard screaming." Marcus positioned himself between the man and the woman. "Police are coming. You should sit down and calm down."
"This is my house! My family! Get out!"
The man lunged. Drunk, uncoordinated, but big and angry.
Marcus's combat training made the defense automatic. Side-step, redirect the momentum, put the man on the floor without actually hurting him. Control hold—firm but not damaging.
"I said calm down."
The woman was staring at Marcus. "Who—who are you?"
"No one. Just someone passing by." Marcus kept the man restrained. The guy was still struggling but starting to tire. "Are you okay? Is your son okay?"
She nodded shakily, blood still dripping from her lip. The kid was crying behind the chair.
Last time I was helpless in an alley. Died for no reason. This time I can actually make a difference.
Sirens in the distance. Police arriving.
"They'll take care of this," Marcus told the woman. "Press charges. Don't let him back in. There are shelters, resources. You don't have to live like this."
"I can't—he's my husband—"
"He's someone who was about to hit you with a lamp in front of your child." Marcus's tone was firm but not harsh. "You deserve better. Your son deserves better."
The police were coming up the stairs. Marcus could hear their footsteps, their radio chatter.
He released the man—who immediately tried to swing at him again. Marcus dodged easily, let the guy stumble into the wall.
"He's all yours," Marcus said to the woman, then moved to the window.
"Wait—what's your name?"
Marcus paused at the window. "Just... someone who gives a damn."
He dropped down the fire escape before police entered the apartment, disappearing into the East End's shadows.
Three blocks away, Marcus pulled off his mask, caught his breath.
His hands were shaking slightly—not from the fight but from the adrenaline, the anger at what he'd seen. A kid watching his father attack his mother. The woman's split lip. The broken furniture.
That's Gotham. That's what happens every night in this city.
And I can actually do something about it now.
Marcus logged the incident in Sarah's app as he walked:
DATE: May 29
TOTAL ABILITIES: 223
SITUATION: Domestic violence intervention - drunk man attacking wife, child present
ACTION TAKEN: Called Bullock, intervened through window, restrained suspect until police arrival, left before identification
RESULT: Woman and child safe. Suspect in custody. No injuries to anyone except the woman's existing injuries.
NOTES: Domestic situations are complicated. Man was drunk, emotional, dangerous. Different from armed robberies—more unpredictable. But child in danger made intervention necessary. Camera awareness: checked—no visible cameras in apartment or hallway. Witness: woman and child saw me but I gave no name or identifying info. Police arrival forced quick exit.
GEAR PERFORMANCE: New mask worked well. Stayed in place during fight. Reinforced hoodie protected against broken lamp debris. Hidden pockets useful for tools.
PSYCHOLOGICAL: Harder than convenience store. Seeing the kid scared like that... hits different. But felt right. Would do again.
He sent the log to Sarah and Jackson.
Sarah called within minutes. "Domestic situation? Those are dangerous, Marcus. Unpredictable."
"Kid was there. Man was about to brain his wife with a lamp. What was I supposed to do?"
"Call police and wait."
"I did call police. But they were ten minutes out. That's a long time when someone's getting hurt."
Sarah sighed. "I know. You did the right thing. Just... be careful. Domestic situations can turn on you. The victim sometimes defends the abuser. It's complicated."
"I know. But the kid..." Marcus trailed off. "The kid shouldn't have to see that. Nobody should."
"You're a good person, Marcus Reid. Stupid sometimes, but good."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
Over the next week, Marcus established a pattern.
Evening patrols through East End and Crime Alley—the neighborhoods that needed help most. Enhanced hearing scanning for trouble. Camera awareness keeping him off surveillance systems. Better tactics avoiding unnecessary exposure.
He intervened in:
Two muggings (both stopped without injury, suspects restrained for police)
One attempted carjacking (driver saved, carjacker fled before Marcus could restrain him)
One breaking and entering (caught burglar mid-robbery, zip-tied him to a radiator with a note for police)
Each intervention logged. Each one analyzed for mistakes. Each one teaching him something new.
His ability count climbed steadily—copying from criminals he encountered, civilians he helped, police he passed on the street:
New abilities gained:
Lock manipulation expertise (from professional burglar before restraining him)
Threat de-escalation verbal techniques (from hostage negotiator at crime scene)
Urban navigation shortcuts (from taxi driver)
Adrenaline management (from ER nurse during hospital shift)
Basic Arabic phrases (from corner store owner)
Each ability integrated into his growing collection. Each one making him slightly more capable.
By early June, Marcus had 234 abilities. Phase 1 long complete. Phase 2 progressing steadily.
Thursday evening training at I-Ching's dojo brought an unexpected development.
"You move differently now," I-Ching observed after class. "More confident. More... practical."
Marcus was wrapping his hands. "Just applying what you taught me."
"Hmm." I-Ching tilted his head, his blind eyes somehow seeing more than most sighted people. "You're using these techniques outside class. In real situations."
He knows. Of course he knows.
"I'm being careful."
"Are you?" I-Ching's tone wasn't accusatory, just curious. "Gotham is dangerous, Marcus Reid. Skills alone don't keep you safe. Wisdom does."
"I'm trying to be wise."
"Wisdom is knowing when not to fight." I-Ching moved closer. "I hear sirens every night. Violence everywhere. And I hear young men thinking they can fix it all with their fists."
"I'm not trying to fix everything. Just... help when I can."
"Noble." I-Ching adjusted Marcus's stance slightly. "But nobility gets people killed in this city. Promise me something."
"What?"
"Promise me you'll remember you're human. Enhanced or not, trained or not—you're still human. You can still be hurt. Still be killed. Don't let confidence become arrogance."
"I won't."
"Good." I-Ching patted his shoulder. "Continue your training. But remember—the best fight is the one you don't have. Think about that."
Saturday at Ted Grant's gym brought a different kind of lesson.
Marcus was working the heavy bag when Ted approached.
"You're holding back," Ted said, watching Marcus's combinations.
"What?"
"You're holding back. I can tell. You're faster than you're showing. Stronger too." Ted crossed his arms. "Why?"
Marcus stopped punching. "I don't know what you mean."
"Kid, I've been training fighters for forty years. I know when someone's pulling their punches." Ted's expression was serious. "You've got real power. But you're scared to use it. Or hiding it. Which is it?"
He's too observant. Can't fool an expert.
"Just being controlled. You taught me control."
"Control is good. Fear is different." Ted gestured to the ring. "Three rounds. Full power this time. Show me what you're really capable of."
They sparred. Marcus let himself use more of his enhanced speed and strength—still holding back, but less than usual.
Ted kept up surprisingly well despite being sixty-plus. His decades of experience and ring awareness compensated for Marcus's physical advantages.
After three rounds, both breathing hard, Ted nodded approvingly.
"That's better. You're actually trying now." He pulled off his headgear. "Whatever you're doing outside this gym—and I'm not asking what it is—don't hold back when it matters. Holding back gets people hurt. Including you."
"I'll remember that."
"Good. Now hit the showers. You smell like determination and poor life choices."
Marcus almost laughed despite the exhaustion.
Sunday morning, Marcus met Sarah and Jackson for their weekly review.
"Two hundred thirty-four abilities," Sarah said, scrolling through his logs. "You're accelerating again. And your intervention rate has increased—five operations this week."
"I'm being smart about them. Camera awareness. Quick in, quick out. No unnecessary exposure."
"Except the domestic situation where witnesses saw you."
"Witnesses who have no idea who I am and were traumatized anyway." Marcus leaned back. "I made the right call there."
"I'm not saying you didn't. I'm saying you're getting more confident. Confidence is good until it becomes recklessness."
"I-Ching said something similar. And Ted. You're all worried I'm going to do something stupid."
"Because you tend to act first and think later when people are in danger," Jackson pointed out. "Not a criticism, just an observation."
That's fair.
"I'm being careful. More careful than before. Better training. Better gear. Better tactical awareness."
"Good. Keep it that way." Sarah pulled up her projections. "At this rate, you'll hit Phase 2 completion in six weeks. Two hundred fifty abilities. Advanced tactical knowledge. Expert combat skills. That's when you'll be genuinely ready for serious threats."
"Six weeks. I can do six weeks."
"And until then, stick to manageable situations. No supervillains. No enhanced opponents. No major gang operations."
"Yes, mom."
Sarah threw a pen at him. "I'm serious. You're getting good, but you're not invincible. One mistake against the wrong opponent and all this training means nothing."
"I know. Trust me, I know."
That evening, Marcus was on patrol in Crime Alley when he felt it.
The sensation of being watched.
His enhanced awareness picked it up—someone observing him from a distance. Not hostile exactly, but definitely focused on him specifically.
Marcus scanned the rooftops, the shadows, the street. Nothing obvious. But the feeling persisted.
Someone's following me. Watching.
He continued his patrol, now hyperaware of his surroundings. The sensation followed him for three blocks before fading.
Who was that? Police surveillance? Another vigilante? Criminal tracking me?
Marcus logged the incident:
NOTE: Felt like I was being watched during patrol. Enhanced awareness detected observation but couldn't pinpoint source. Possibly police surveillance. Possibly another player. Need to be more careful. Someone is paying attention.
He sent it to Sarah and Jackson.
Sarah texted back immediately: Be careful. If someone's actively tracking you, they might be trying to identify you. Vary your patrol patterns. Change routes. Don't be predictable.
Good advice.
Marcus finished his patrol using different routes, staying hyperaware. The sensation didn't return.
But he knew what it meant.
Someone in Gotham was watching him.
Studying him.
Preparing for... what?
One more thing to worry about. Perfect.
Marcus headed home, his mind churning.
Two hundred thirty-four abilities. Growing tactical experience. Better gear. Successful interventions.
But also: viral footage making him visible. Gangs asking questions. Federal agents aware. And now someone actively tracking him.
This is getting complicated fast.
But that's Gotham. Nothing stays simple here.
He logged his final notes for the day:
WEEK SUMMARY: Five successful interventions. 11 new abilities gained. Phase 2 progressing ahead of schedule. But visibility increasing. Someone tracking me. Need to be more careful. Vary patterns. Maintain operational security. Don't get comfortable.
GOAL: Stay invisible while helping visibly. That's the challenge. Do good without being known. Help without being identified.
TIMELINE: Six weeks to Phase 2 completion. Then Phase 3. Then... whatever comes next.
Marcus closed the app, looked out his window at Gotham's endless night.
Somewhere out there, someone was watching.
He just had to figure out who.
And whether they were friend or threat.
For now, keep helping. Keep training. Keep getting better.
The rest will sort itself out.
Probably.
Outside, Gotham's sirens wailed their eternal song.
And Marcus Reid, the vigilante without a name, prepared for whatever came next.
Even if he wasn't sure yet what that was.