I stare into the mirror, and for a moment, I don't recognize the man staring back. The lines around my eyes run deep—etched from years of watching too much and feeling too little. My beard's gone more gray than black, scruffy and uneven like I stopped caring halfway through. The scar under my left eye still throbs on rainy days, a souvenir from a job that should've killed me. My hair's thinner now, pushed back, but the silver in it catches the bathroom light like frost. There's no fire in my eyes anymore—just a cold, dull sharpness. Not tired. Not broken. Just… used. A weapon put on a shelf, gathering dust.
I blink—and the man in the mirror changes.
The gray vanishes from my beard, the tired weight in my eyes replaced by something leaner, sharper. My skin smooths, the lines softening like time's been rewound with surgical care. The scar is still there, but fainter now—like a whisper of what's to come. My hair's thicker, darker, combed back with purpose. The shoulders are straighter, posture tighter, muscles more defined. The weight of years—the hesitation, the ache in my knees, the slow breath before every move—it's all gone.
I look... capable. Unforgiving. Dangerous in a different way. Not the seasoned weapon left in a drawer, but the blade just forged, still hot, still willing to be aimed at anyone for the right price.
I don't smile. I just stare—and nod. This face will get me through their world.
I ran a hand over my face. Solid. Real. I tested my reflexes – snap my fingers, track the movement in the mirror. Faster than I was five minutes ago. I dropped into a stance, muscles responding with a forgotten alacrity. This wasn't an illusion.
With my new found ability I needed a way to test the constraints of my younger form, if things were different from my past or not. I needed equipment, resistance, space. I needed a gym.
Finding a suitable facility in this sector of the city was straightforward. Information gathering was a constant, even when dormant. There was a place three blocks away, large, privately owned, minimal oversight unless you caused a disturbance. Perfect.
I dressed in neutral, non-descript clothes – dark sweatpants, grey hoodie, the kind of anonymous athletic wear you see on a hundred people every day. Grabbed a small bag with a water bottle and a low-profile lock. Stepped out and went for my car.
I drove into the centre of New York. This city. A recent convergence, they called it. New York and Gotham. I heard it's name from a radio channel not originally from my Earth. It was... more. More noise, more shadows, more contrasts. Gleaming towers scraped a perpetually bruised sky next to gothic spires that looked like they bled into the concrete. The air tasted of ozone and desperation, exhaust fumes and something else, something ancient and predatory. I knew the grid of the original components, the routes, the chokepoints, the safe houses. This was different. Patches of familiarity stitched into swathes of the utterly alien. My internal map was riddled with blank spaces. It was a tactical disadvantage.
But the body... the body felt right. As I walked, the familiar ache in my left knee was gone. The stiffness in my shoulders nowhere to be found. My stride was longer, faster, effortless. It felt like shedding a worn-out shell.
The gym was called 'The Crucible'. Fitting. Industrial design, reinforced concrete, heavy iron weights. Serious place. Not a poser's paradise. I paid in cash, took note of the security cameras (angles easily bypassed, blind spots obvious), the access points, the personnel. Two on the desk, one floor manager, few trainers scattered around. All predictable.
I moved to the free weights section. Started with simple movements. Presses, curls, rows. Not for building muscle, but for testing limits, measuring response. My form was precise, honed over decades. Muscle memory is a powerful thing, tied less to the age of the fiber and more to the programming. I didn't just lift; I analyzed torque, joint stability, rate of fatigue. This body wasn't just younger; it felt optimized. The strength was higher, the endurance deeper. Every rep was a confirmation.
I moved onto compound movements. Squats, deadlifts. I kept the weight conservative at first, focusing on depth and power. But the power surged. I added plates, feeling the familiar strain, but it was a clean strain, not the grinding protest of aging joints. My core locked solid, my back straight, the weight moving as an extension of my will. I could feel the old speed returning, the explosive power in my legs that could turn a simple leap into scaling a wall, a step into breaking bone.
I pushed further. Box jumps. Burpees. Sprint intervals on a machine. My lungs burned, but recovered faster. Sweat slicked my skin, but it felt clean, efficient. It was exhilarating, in a cold, calculating way. This level of physical capability opened up entirely new operational possibilities. Routes that were too strenuous before became viable escape paths. Targets previously requiring elaborate planning to isolate due to their physical presence could now be potentially engaged more directly.
My focus was absolute. The grunts and groans of other patrons, the motivational music thumping through the speakers, the clatter of weights – it all faded into background noise, variables I registered but didn't process emotionally. I was a machine performing diagnostics.
It was during a brief pause between sets of pull-ups, letting my heart rate stabilize as I analyzed the data my body was sending me, that the variable, the human variable, introduced itself.
"Hey."
A voice, female. Mid-twenties, judging by the tone. Not hostile, not requesting assistance. Social interaction. I kept my gaze fixed on the bar, my breathing measured.
"Yeah?" My voice was flat, devoid of inflection.
"You... uh... you're killing it over there. You make it look easy."
I turned my head slightly. She was standing a few feet away, holding a water bottle. Athletic build, bright, open face. The kind of person who navigated the world on instinct and emotion.
"It requires minimal effort," I stated, truthfully. The body was operating at peak efficiency.
She blinked, perhaps not expecting the clinical response. "Right. Minimal effort for you, maybe. I've been trying to get my pull-ups like that for months."
Silence stretched. I had no protocol for this conversation. Compliments weren't data I needed to process. Shared fitness goals weren't relevant to my operational parameters.
She seemed undeterred. "Anyway. Just wanted to say, impressive. I'm Chloe, by the way." She offered a hand.
I looked at the hand, then at her face. Analyzing... what? Risk? No, she radiated harmlessness. Opportunity? None apparent. Liability? The circumstance seems suspicious. First time testing my younger self a stranger approaches me. I can't be too careful, especially in a new world I have no information about.
I didn't take her hand.
Her smile faltered, replaced by a flicker of something... confusion? Disappointment? It was hard to read.
She withdrew her hand slowly. "Okay... tough crowd. Look, maybe we'll see each other around? You usually work out here?"
"No." This was my first time here. Possibly my last, depending on how the next phases of assessment went.
Another pause.
"Right. Well. You definitely motivate people," she tried again, a forced lightness in her tone. "Hey, maybe I could get your number? If you ever like, share tips or something?"
The request hung in the air.
A faint echo. My daughter. The gulf between us, a chasm I didn't know how to cross. Attempts at connection felt artificial, forced, because the part of me that understood genuine human interaction had atrophied, perhaps never even fully developed. Looking at Chloe, with her open face and simple request, I felt a brief, sharp pang – not of desire or regret, but of pure, cold inadequacy. This fundamental human exchange, effortless for most, was a foreign language to me. I don't know what Emily saw in me.
"No." The word was quiet, absolute.
She recoiled slightly, as if struck. The confusion deepened, mixed now with hurt. It was a small, almost imperceptible shift in her expression, but I registered it.
"Oh. Okay. Sorry to bother you." She turned and walked away quickly, heading towards the treadmills, her back rigid.
I watched her go, analyzing the interaction in retrospect. My response was optimal from a security standpoint. From a human standpoint...? Irrelevant. But the echo of my daughter lingered for a fraction longer than usual before I suppressed it. That was a variable I couldn't control, couldn't quantify, and couldn't eliminate.
Emotions are just a weakness that can be exploitated and now that I'm back into contract killing it best I supress it quickly before it grows.
I pulled myself back onto the bar, focusing on the burn in my lats, the contract and release of muscle fiber. Finished my sets. Moved to the mats for stretching and core work, still analyzing the data from the physical tests. The body was a prime instrument. This perfect engine was still piloted by the same cold, damaged consciousness. The reflection in the mirror might be younger, but the Ghost was still old.
Workout complete. Data logged. Time to leave the controlled environment and test my navigation and adaptation in the true unknown: the city outside.
I left the gym, blending back into the stream of people on the sidewalk. The air was cooler now, the sky darker. Neon signs flickered, casting garish pools of light that warred with the deep shadows pooling under the gothic arches and between the impossibly tall buildings. The sounds were a symphony of urban chaos – sirens wailing, distant shouts, the rhythmic clatter of an elevated train, muffled music from unseen establishments.
I needed to establish my bearings in this merged landscape. My internal GPS, based on old maps, kept glitching as familiar street names intersected with unfamiliar architecture, as expected patterns of traffic flow were disrupted by unexpected, labyrinthine alleys that looked like they belonged in another dimension.
I moved deliberately. Not fast, not slow. Observing. My eyes scanned rooftops for possiblesnipingpositions, the faces of pedestrians for indicators of threat – fear, aggression, surveillance. The density of the crowd was higher than typical streets, but the underlying tension, the feeling of being watched, unusual for this part of New York or I guess Gotham.
I took a turn down what should have been a familiar avenue, but a section of it was blocked by rubble and scaffolding that looked centuries old, fused with crumpled, modern steel. detour signs pointed into a narrow lane I'd never seen before. I didn't hesitate. A new route was just a new problem to solve.
The lane was dark, echoing. Smelled of damp stone and something metallic, like old blood or leaking fuel. Fire escapes crisscrossed overhead, forming a tangled steel canopy. Graffiti, strange symbols I didn't recognize mixed with familiar tags, adorned the walls. Every shadow seemed to writhe.
The physical prime felt potent, a rediscovered weapon. But it wasn't enough on its own. The city demanded more than just physical prowess. It demanded understanding, adaptation on a level I hadn't faced in decades. The test in the gym was complete. The test of the city had just begun. And unlike any mission before, the parameters were changing with every block, every shadow, every strange sound that echoed in the polluted air. I was in my prime, yes. Ready for anything. But for the first time in a long time, 'anything' felt truly unknown.