A holiday morning in Washington was born under a pale and icy blue sky. The silence of the streets, devoid of the heavy traffic of weekdays, was the perfect backdrop for Michael's mind. He woke up at exactly 06:00, without the aid of alarms. His body operated with the precision of an atomic clock.
Upon getting up, the first thing his eyes sought was the safe where the spider origami was stored. The threat — or the invitation — from the new player was the last piece of information he had processed before sleeping, and now, with his system recharged, he would use it as fuel for the day.
The Routine of Perfection:
Michael headed to the bathroom. The shower was taken at an unvarying temperature of 38°C, enough to relax the muscles without inducing lethargy. While brushing his teeth, he observed his reflection in the mirror with clinical impartiality. He did not see himself as a man, but as a tool that needed constant maintenance.
After grooming, he chose his outfit. True to his principle of social invisibility, Michael avoided logos or extravagant cuts.
The Pants: Dark jeans, straight cut and impeccably tailored.
The T-shirt: An Egyptian cotton piece in lead-gray, perfectly pressed.
The Footwear: Black leather boots, cleaned to the point of reflecting the hallway light.
Although Michael believed his sobriety made him ordinary, he ignored a biological fact: the symmetry of his face and his upright, controlled posture exuded an aura of danger and sophistication that the human eye is programmed to notice.
The Effect at the Mall:
Michael parked the gray sedan at the shopping complex. The holiday had brought families and couples, creating the white noise he appreciated. He took a shopping cart and headed to the fresh foods section.
As he walked through the aisles, the phenomenon began to repeat itself. A woman, who was choosing apples a few meters ahead, stopped her movement midway upon seeing him pass. It wasn't just the basic clothes that fit his athletic body perfectly, but the way he moved — an economy of motion that suggested immense strength under absolute control.
Two young women having coffee near the supermarket entrance interrupted their conversation.
— Look at that guy — one of them whispered, following Michael with her eyes. — He looks like he stepped out of a film noir, but without the effort.
— It's the bone structure — the other replied. — And those eyes... it's like he's seeing through everything.
Michael noticed the looks. He processed the dilation of the pupils of the women who crossed his path and the instinctive posture adjustment they made upon noticing his presence. To him, however, these were just statistical variables of human behavior. He wasn't seeking validation; he was there for supplies.
The Surgical List:
He selected the items with technical speed:
Proteins: Salmon fillets and organic chicken breast.
Vegetables: Bunches of spinach and broccoli, assessing the turgidity of the leaves with a light touch.
Grains: A box of quinoa and medium-roast coffee beans.
In the wine aisle, an elegant woman, wearing a cashmere coat, "accidentally" blocked his path with her cart.
— Excuse me, would you know if this Merlot is a good choice? — she asked, giving him a smile that usually disarmed most men.
Michael stopped. He looked at the bottle's label and then at her eyes. His gaze was so direct and deep that, for a second, the woman felt as if he were reading her bank history and her deepest secrets.
— The vintage is irregular due to excessive rain that year — Michael replied, his voice calm and firm. — If you're looking for balance, the Cabernet next to it has a more controlled acidity for what you intend to have for dinner.
Before she could thank him or extend the conversation, Michael gave a slight nod and moved on. He wasn't rude; he was just... too efficient for casual flirting.
The Return and the Alert:
When he reached the checkout, the employee, a middle-aged woman used to the constant flow of customers, fumbled with the scanner upon meeting Michael's gaze. He paid in cash — new bills organized by value — and withdrew to the parking lot.
Upon entering the car, the holiday seemed to have ended for him. Michael turned on the secondary cell phone, the one connected to the micro-tracker in Foxy's jacket. The red dot on the map hadn't moved from the hospital, which was expected. However, a new notification flashed on the screen.
It wasn't from the FBI. It wasn't from Célia.
It was an image captured by one of the security cameras Michael had hacked on the perimeter of his own house, minutes ago.
On the cell phone screen, he saw a hooded figure standing exactly in front of his door, holding a small envelope. The figure looked directly at the hidden camera lens, as if it knew where Michael had hidden it, and flashed a quick smile before leaving the envelope on the ground and disappearing down the service stairs.
Michael gripped the steering wheel. The rival Architect's "game" wouldn't wait for the end of the holiday. While the women at the mall still held in their memory the image of the mysterious and handsome man who had crossed their paths, Michael was already calculating the return trajectory, feeling that the peace of his shopping was merely the prelude to a collision that, this time, would happen within his own territory.
He shifted gears and accelerated. The game had no breaks for rest, and the next move would require more than just beauty and technique; it would require the sacrifice of his own invisibility.