NOVPUB
Chapter 47: You’re with me
The car ride was a cramped, stifling affair.
Rhea sat in the front seat beside Harris, her superhero suit and mask clinging to her skin like a, suffocating layer.
The backseat was even worse—Titan Pulse, Silk Siren, and Gator Grip were crammed together like misfit puzzle pieces, their bulky gear rubbing shoulders and knees.
No one spoke.
The silence was a vacuum, oppressive and unnatural, broken only by the intermittent hissss of Gator Grip’s forked tongue.
Each wet flick grated on Rhea’s nerves like nails dragging across glass.
She finally understood why everyone hated riding with Harris. The man didn’t just command authority—he radiated it, like a black hole pulling all levity and comfort into oblivion.
He didn’t have to say a word; his presence alone was enough to enforce rigid discipline.
No talking. No shifting. No slouching.
Just silence and order, as if any deviation might provoke judgment.
Kael had absolutely screwed her. Royally.
She ground her molars behind the mask, her amber eyes narrowing as she stared out the window, biting down her resentment.
Bastard, she cursed him silently.
The car rolled to a halt at the edge of the neighborhood, pulling up in front of a squat, nondescript house that looked like every other on the block—except for the faint buzz of tension humming in the air.
The lawn was patchy, the fence slightly crooked, and the front yard sat in eerie stillness, as though holding its breath.
Rhea stepped out first, her boots hitting the cracked pavement with a soft, deliberate thud.
The breeze met her like a slap. She’d expected the fresh tang of open air after so long cooped up in the Haven—but instead, she inhaled a musty blend of garbage, exhaust, and something sourer lurking beneath it.
Her nose wrinkled behind the mask, the smell coating the inside of her lungs like rot.
Already, she hated this place.
Harris signaled the others with a sharp wave of his hand, and the three heroes nodded in unison, peeling off like trained soldiers. Titan Pulse took the north side, his broad frame moving with purpose;
Silk Siren darted east, her hair trailing behind her like a dark banner; and Gator Grip lumbered west, his scales glinting faintly in the afternoon light.
Harris turned to Rhea, his expression all business. "You’re with me. We go in through the door." He walked towards the entrance, his steps measured and cautious, eyes scanning for traps or signs of danger.
Rhea followed, her stride casual, almost lazy, as she watched the orchestrated movements around her with a mix of amusement and disdain.
The hand signals, the discipline—it was all so foreign, so absurdly serious, she nearly laughed.
What a circus, she thought, her lips twitching beneath the mask.
Harris glanced back at her, his brow furrowing. "Be alert," he whispered, his voice a low growl as he reached the door and pressed the doorbell with a gloved finger.
No answer.
The silence stretched, and Harris shifted his weight, preparing to kick the door in, his boot lifting slightly off the ground. Just as his leg tensed, the knob turned with a faint click, and the door creaked open.
An old man stood there, leaning heavily on a cane, his eyes half-lidded as if staying awake was a chore. His voice rasped out, rough and low. "Yes?"
Harris didn’t soften, didn’t hesitate. "Anyone else inside?" he asked, his tone clipped and direct. The old man shook his head.
"No." Harris pressed on. "What about the electricity spikes at night?" The man blinked slowly, unfazed. "No idea what you’re talking about. Maybe it’s my TV—I turn it up loud at night for football, I can’t hear properly otherwise."
Rhea’s shoulders slumped, disappointment washing over her.
All this buildup, the tense march, the team scattering like ants—for an old geezer and his blaring television?
She slapped her forehead in exasperation, the mask dulling the impact with a muffled thud.
Harris shot her a glare, his eyes narrowing in warning, then turned back to the man. "Sir, we need to inspect your house," he said, his voice firm, leaving no room for negotiation.
The old man shrugged, stepping aside with a shuffle.
"Fine by me. Want water or tea?" Harris ignored the offer, brushing past him without a word, his broad frame filling the doorway.
Rhea trailed behind, her gaze sweeping over the man as she passed.
He was too calm—unnaturally so—for someone about to have his home turned inside out by government-sanctioned intruders.
His wrinkled face remained expressionless, hollow eyes tracking them with neither fear nor protest, only the worn-out stillness of a man who’d seen too much and stopped caring.
It set something in her gut on edge.
"You smell, old man. Take a bath sometime," she muttered under her breath, her tone sharp and dismissive. The mask muffled her words slightly, but the disdain in her voice cut through loud and clear.
Harris didn’t spare her a glance, already moving deeper into the house with clinical precision.
But as Rhea stepped past, the old man’s eyes locked onto her—a flicker of something there, too faint to register in the moment.
She didn’t catch it, didn’t pause. She was already turning away, more interested in what lay ahead.
Inside, the house felt like a forgotten relic of time.
The air hung thick with the scent of mildew and aging wood, as if the walls themselves had been quietly decaying for decades.
Faded wallpaper peeled like shedding skin, curling at the corners. A rickety table sat askew near the window, cluttered with dust-choked books, their covers warped and spines cracked from years of neglect.
Pages poked out at odd angles, marked with strange glyphs that Harris noted with a subtle narrowing of his eyes.
A single flickering bulb overhead cast a jaundiced glow across the room, its erratic pulse throwing shadows that danced like phantoms along the floorboards. 𝓷ℴ𝓿𝓅𝓊𝒷.𝓬𝓸𝓂
Nothing out of the ordinary for a place this old, yet something prickled at the edges of Harris’s instincts.
