Chapter 3: Hunting the Hunter
Morning came gray and cold. I woke at six without meaning to—the body's rhythm, not mine.
The bed was lumpy. My neck ached. I stretched until joints popped, then forced myself through a basic routine: pushups, situps, squats. Fin's body handled it well enough. Endurance would come with practice.
Shower. Coffee. Two slices of toast from bread that was one day from stale.
By eight, I was on the street.
Manhattan in September still held summer's memory. Warm enough for just a jacket. I walked with no particular destination, letting the crowds carry me. Testing.
The Detection had worked weakly in the apartment—or not at all. Too quiet. Too safe. But the city was different. Eight million people, and some percentage of them wanted to hurt someone.
I focused inward as I walked. Tried to open whatever sense the power relied on.
At first: nothing. Just the usual urban pressure. Horns and voices and engines.
Then—a flicker.
A man on the corner, arguing into his phone. His energy pushed against my awareness like a hand on my chest. Not killing intent. Anger, frustration, violence somewhere underneath. But controlled. Leashed.
I walked past him. The pressure faded.
Twenty minutes later, another hit. A junkie near a bodega, eyes tracking wallets and purses. Desperation radiated from him. The potential for harm if the right circumstances aligned. But no murder in his heart. Not today.
I was learning to distinguish gradients. Irritation versus rage. Greed versus bloodlust.
Most people were fine. The city was angry but not homicidal.
By noon, my head throbbed. Too much input. Too many small flickers adding up to sensory overload.
I ducked into a coffee shop and ordered a large black, extra shot. Sat in the corner and let my mind settle.
Joe Goldberg cannot kill anyone.
The man I was hunting wouldn't feel like the junkie or the angry phone caller. Joe's intent would be different. Patient. Calculated. Cold where others burned hot.
Obsession had its own signature.
I spent another two hours walking after the coffee kicked in. East Village to SoHo. Up through Greenwich. The city blurred into streets and faces and the occasional ping against my Detection—nothing significant, nothing that matched the profile I was building in my head.
Then I turned onto a quiet street near East 4th.
Mooney's Rare Books.
The shop window displayed leather-bound volumes and antique editions. A small bell would chime when you entered, probably. The kind of place that smelled like old paper and dust.
I stopped walking.
Something cold brushed against my awareness. Not immediate danger—not a threat to me, specifically—but wrongness. Patient and calculating and completely at odds with the ambient noise of the city.
The presence came from inside the bookshop.
Through the window, I could see a man arranging books on a display. Dark hair, neatly styled. Late twenties or early thirties. Handsome in a way that felt rehearsed—the kind of face that practiced sincerity in mirrors.
He moved a first edition, adjusted its angle, stepped back to assess.
The cold feeling intensified. Like standing at the edge of a frozen lake and knowing the ice was thinner than it looked.
He turned toward the window. Not looking at me specifically—scanning the street, checking for customers, ordinary behavior.
I didn't stop. Didn't stare. Kept walking like every other pedestrian on the block.
But my Memory Palace recorded everything. His face. His posture. The exact angle of his shoulders. The way his hands moved—gentle, careful, practiced.
Hands that had killed before.
The certainty settled into my bones. I didn't know how I knew. The Detection was crude, imprecise, barely functional at Phase 1. But some things you don't need perfect tools to recognize.
That man was a predator.
I walked three more blocks before ducking into another alley. Leaned against the brick wall. Let my heartbeat slow.
Found you.
Back at the apartment, I opened the laptop and searched: Mooney's Rare Books.
The website was basic—hours, location, history. Family-owned, established 1987. Specializing in rare editions and first prints.
The staff page loaded slow on Fin's ancient wifi.
Joseph Goldberg. Manager.
The photo matched the man in the window. Same dark hair, same careful smile. Bio said he'd been with the store for years. Loved classic literature. Passionate about connecting readers with books that changed their lives.
Charming. Humble. Trustworthy.
Bullshit.
I stored every detail in my Memory Palace. The way his name looked in print. The angle of his photo. The store's hours—10 AM to 7 PM, closed Sundays.
Then I pulled up Google Maps and memorized the surrounding blocks. Entry points. Exit routes. Sightlines from the café across the street.
Tomorrow I'd establish surveillance. Learn his patterns. Figure out his schedule, his routines, his current target.
Because Joe Goldberg had one. The Detection had told me that much. The coldness wasn't dormant—it was focused. Hunting.
Someone in this city had caught his attention.
I ordered pizza using an app on Fin's phone. Pepperoni, even though something in my borrowed brain said I didn't like pepperoni.
When it arrived, I carried the box to the fire escape and sat with my legs dangling over the edge. Four stories up, watching the city lights flicker on as evening settled.
The first bite confirmed it: this body loved pepperoni. Something about the salt and fat combination lit up reward centers that weren't mine.
I ate three slices anyway. Not my preferences anymore.
The pizza grease made my fingers slick. I wiped them on my jeans and stared at the skyline.
Joe Goldberg was out there somewhere. Maybe at home. Maybe watching his target through her window, building fantasies about their future together.
He didn't know I existed.
That was my advantage. The only one I had.
The rules said I couldn't kill him. Fine. I'd beat him other ways. Out-think him. Out-maneuver him. Get between him and whoever he was hunting before he could close the trap.
Break his obsessions, grow stronger.
One obsession at a time.
I finished the pizza and went inside to plan.
The notebook I'd bought at a corner store sat on the desk. I opened it, uncapped a pen, and started writing.
Joe Goldberg. Manager, Mooney's Rare Books. E 4th Street.
Detection profile: Cold. Patient. Active obsession suspected.
Priority: Identify target. Intercept before violence.
Assets: Memory Palace confirmed. Detection weak but functional. Immortal Soul untested.
Liabilities: No resources. No allies. No knowledge of local terrain.
Next steps: Establish observation position. Learn Joe's schedule. Watch for target contact.
The pen moved faster as connections formed. The body of a writer serving me well—thoughts flowing into words without friction.
When I finally stopped, three pages were full.
I read them over. Made additions. Started a second list: things to acquire. Burner phone. Cash reserve. Surveillance basics.
The clock read 11 PM. My eyes burned.
But something had loosened in my chest. Purpose, maybe. Direction.
I'd woken up this morning in a body that wasn't mine, with a mission I didn't choose, in a city full of strangers.
Now I had a target. A plan. The beginning of something that might become competence.
Joe Goldberg was a hunter.
So was I.
The notebook closed with a soft sound. I tucked it under the mattress—paranoid, but paranoia kept people alive—and killed the lights.
Sleep came faster than expected. The body was tired even if the mind wasn't done racing.
My last thought before darkness: tomorrow, the real work began.
The coffee shop across from Mooney's opened at seven. I'd be there at six-thirty, watching the door.
Waiting for my first clear look at the man I'd been sent to stop.
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