Chapter 3: The Professional Gets Tricked By Another Professional
"I'm going to stop by the police station, see if there's any progress. I'll see you guys tomorrow," Elias said, waving as he split off from his friends.
Both Mina and Sylar waved back as he disappeared down the street.
Mina grinned and threw an arm around Sylar's neck. "Boo. Just me and you, huh? Let's hit the game shop without him, Sy! He shall regret ditching us!"
Sylar blinked, caught off guard, as he was helplessly dragged away by Mina's enthusiasm.
Several meters away, the man in dark clothing peeked around the corner.
"That damn kid is nothing but trouble. First he's hanging out with her, and now he's headed to the police station? And his sister's cozying up to another well-known member of that group right now..." he muttered, clearly irritated. He ran a hand through his greasy, unkempt hair and sighed. "It really isn't my day."
Still, he followed from a distance, eyes narrowing as he waited for the right moment to strike.
---
Elias quickly made his way into the police station and headed toward the front desk, where he spotted a familiar figure.
Officer Clifford, a middle-aged man with dark skin and graying, short, curly Afro hair, was buried in paperwork, absently sipping coffee as he worked. His serious expression showed how focused he was—so much so that he hadn't noticed the small droplets of coffee clinging to his mustache.
As Elias stepped into the room, Clifford glanced up, then broke into a warm smile.
"Hey there, Elias. Here for an update? I hate to disappoint you, but there hasn't been any new information since yesterday," he said, sighing with sympathy.
Elias nodded, then subtly pointed to his own upper lip.
Clifford blinked in confusion for a second—then chuckled sheepishly as he wiped the coffee off his mustache.
Would it be okay if I stayed here and did some homework? I know you don't have anything new right now, but my sister's not home, and I don't really feel like going back to an empty house," Elias said, rubbing his fingers together.
Clifford's eyes softened. Mature or not, the boy was still just a kid.
"Yeah, sure. Whatever you need, kid. Just don't cause any trouble, alright? This is still a police station," he said with a touch of sternness.
Elias nodded silently and took a seat on an empty bench, pulling out his homework.
For the next hour, Elias worked quietly on the large stack of homework. He wasn't as smart or diligent as his sister, so he was already getting bored and frustrated. He didn't even make it a quarter of the way through the pile before shoving the papers back into a folder and stuffing it into his backpack. His teachers had told him he could turn it in within a week, so he wasn't too worried about finishing it all right now.
He dug his phone out of his pocket and noticed a text from Eve:
The principal invited me to eat dinner at her place. Sorry, bro, but I don't think I can partake in your dark cuisine tonight 🙏 She said she'll drop me off when we're done, so don't wait for me.
Elias sighed. What should he do while she was away?
He began scrolling through his phone and opened his photo gallery to look at pictures of their parents. He really missed them. He stared at each one, as if trying to burn their image into his mind. Then, he came across an old photo of himself standing with his father inside a shop.
He paused.
His father, Harold Graves, had been an antique enthusiast. When Elias was younger, his dad used to run a small antique shop. While the shop was still technically owned by his father, it had been out of business for nearly five years. These days, it mostly served as a storage space for his father's personal collection of antiques and trinkets.
He had completely forgotten about the place. He hadn't visited in years—and with his parents missing, why would it have crossed his mind?
Elias's mind jolted. Hold on, he thought. What if there's a clue my dad left behind?
He dug through his bag for his keys and began sorting through them until he found the copy for his father's shop. His eyes sparkled with a flicker of excitement and hope—something he hadn't felt in days.
For a second, he even considered kissing the key, but thankfully restrained himself. He slung his bag over his shoulder and stood up, energized by the sudden purpose.
"See you around, Officer!" Elias called out as he walked off with quick, eager steps.
Officer Clifford barely had time to look up. "Wait, what—?" But Elias had already disappeared out the door.
Clifford scratched his nose awkwardly before sighing. "He really just came and went, huh?" he muttered, then returned to the growing stack of documents and case folders on his desk.
Since he no longer had company, Officer Clifford unlocked his desk drawer and slid the completed reports inside. The stack of pending cases now looked a little less overwhelming. He pulled the next file from the top and opened it.
As he read through the contents, his expression darkened.
"Fifteen missing persons, all found murdered… and the scene looked like some kind of occult ritual you see in movies?" Clifford muttered, his brow furrowing as he scanned the report. "No leads. No suspects."
He let out a heavy sigh, dragging a hand down his face. "This city's never had crime like this… so how'd we get something gruesome like this?"
—----------------
While Elias sped out of the police station, the man in dark clothing remained close behind, watching from the shadows.
"Finally," he muttered, flicking away the cigarette he'd been nursing. "The brat's out. If I follow him far enough from the station, I might be able to grab him."
Despite his growing impatience, he held himself back. He'd noticed something odd—Elias wasn't heading home, nor back to school.
"Where's he going?" the man murmured, trailing him at a distance. Then, a thought struck him. His eyes lit up with excitement. "Maybe… maybe the kid's leading me to the target item."
With that hopeful idea, he postponed his plan to snatch the boy. For now.
Elias, blissfully unaware of the danger shadowing his steps, walked on without a care.
---
A few minutes later, Elias entered a bustling commercial district. The streets were crowded with people unwinding after a long workday, shopping or grabbing early dinners.
He found the shop quickly. His father's old antique store was tucked between a bookstore and a tea shop, its windows boarded up, the old wooden sign long gone.
Honestly, the place could've been sold for a fortune—the district had grown lively and expensive—but Elias's father had refused to give it up. Now, it functioned as a private storage space for his beloved collection of antiques and trinkets.
Elias pulled out his keys, found the one for the shop, and slipped inside. He locked the door behind him—just in case any curious shoppers mistook it for a hidden gem and wandered in.
Outside, the man in dark clothes nearly rubbed his hands together with glee. "This boy just handed me a gift," he muttered. "Maybe the item is inside that shop!"
He was practically buzzing with anticipation. He even wanted to jump and click his heels—but as a self-proclaimed professional (and manly adult), he would never allow such a thing.
Unbeknownst to him, another pair of eyes in the crowd was watching him. Normally, he would've noticed—his skillset was nothing to scoff at—but after spending all day trailing Elias without making progress, his frustration had dulled his instincts.
Just as he stepped out from the crowd, ready to make his move—
Wham!
He slammed directly into someone.
"Aaagh!" a voice wailed.
He looked down. A frail-looking old woman lay sprawled dramatically on the pavement, limbs flailing as if she'd just been struck by lightning.
"Ah! My arm! My hip! My leg!" she shrieked, grabbing each part in turn. Her wrinkled face was a mess of tears, snot, and exaggerated agony.
The man in dark clothes froze, caught mid-step in utter disbelief.
A crowd quickly gathered, drawn by the screaming.
"The one day my grandson couldn't come with me, and this happens," the old woman cried, voice cracking. "Just my luck…"
The murmurs began almost immediately.
The dark-clothed man's scowl deepened. A crowd was the last thing he needed. There was no way he could grab Elias now—not with all these eyes on him.
Among the onlookers, a young man's heart cracked with sympathy. The old woman reminded him of his own sweet grandma. When he noticed the stranger who'd knocked her down still standing there silently, he snapped.
"At least apologize, you scumbag!" the young man barked.
The dark-clothed man's jaw clenched. He wanted to strangle everyone here. But this was public. He was on an undercover mission. Killing witnesses wasn't exactly subtle.
And what was this about apologizing? Since when had he ever needed to apologize?
The young man bent down, trying to help the old woman up—but she wailed even louder when he touched her.
"I-I think my hip's broken," she whimpered.
He gave her a worried glance. "I can take you to the hospital, ma'am."
The woman furrowed her brow. "But I didn't bring much with me today… My grandson wasn't home, so I only brought enough cash for groceries…" She lifted a small, squished bag of vegetables with trembling hands.
The young man's face hardened. "Really now?" He turned back to the dark-clothed man, fury in his eyes. "Hey! If you're not even going to say sorry, the least you can do is give her compensation! You knocked her down, after all!"
Then, more gently, he turned to the woman. "Don't worry, ma'am. I'll make sure you get compensation for your injuries."
The old lady wept in gratitude, clutching his arm. "Bless you, young man… bless you…"
Meanwhile, the dark-clothed man was silently fuming.
This has got to be a scam. This is really not my day.
He was, in fact, absolutely correct.
The old lady he had bumped into? A professional scammer. She didn't even have a grandson. She had been single her whole life—how could she have a son, much less a grandson?
These suckers, the old lady thought smugly, careful not to let her expression slip from its pitiful performance.
The moment the man entered the street, her sharp eyes locked onto him. He might have tried to blend in with his nondescript clothes, but to her seasoned gaze, it was laughably obvious: this man was loaded.
And why wouldn't he be? Someone who worked shady jobs, avoided the law, and risked his life regularly had to be well-compensated. He clearly didn't skimp on himself either.
As a true professional, she immediately clocked the subtle signs. The "discreet" jacket he wore? Hermes. The watch peeking from his sleeve? A limited edition Patek Philippe worth at least $70,000. The man could pretend to dress down all he wanted—he screamed money to someone like her.
No way I'm letting this cash cow pass me by, she thought.
"Keep it up, my new secondhand grandson," she mentally cheered, flashing an internal thumbs-up to the kind young man still defending her with fiery conviction.