The city of Montreal breathed around Elias Thorne, a complex organism of soot-stained brick, gleaming new automobiles, and the ever-present undercurrent of desperation fostered by the Depression. From his modest apartment, Elias watched it, not just with his own keen eyes, but increasingly through the senses of others – the primal strength of Thomas, the furtive skittering of Mickey, and now, the needle-sharp perception of Anya Petrova.
His System interface, a constant companion visible only to him, showed subtle but encouraging shifts. [Host Power: 3.28]. The minute increments from Mickey's continued gleanings and Anya's developing attunement were slowly accumulating. His energy reserves were still at [75.80/100], as he hadn't empowered anyone new since Anya. The 'Influence (Localized)' had ticked up to [0.7%] after the Leclerc incident, and 'Reputation (Underworld – nascent)' was now [Established – Minor Player (Whispers)]. Whispers. That was good. Whispers traveled, bred uncertainty, and gave him an aura of mystery before he even stepped onto the main stage.
Lou Scarelli wouldn't take the humiliation at Leclerc's lightly. The man's reputation was built on fear and swift retribution. Thomas's intervention was a direct challenge. Elias knew a response was inevitable. The question was, what form would it take? He wouldn't send thugs to face Thomas again directly, not immediately. Scarelli was a brute, but not entirely witless. He'd try to gather information first. Who was this "Mr. Thorne"? Who was the mountain of a Scotsman who broke hands and caved in chests?
This was where Anya Petrova became invaluable.
He met her by the waterfront, near the clock tower at Quai de l'Horloge. The St. Lawrence River, grey and choppy under an overcast sky, stretched out before them. Anya was different from their last meeting. The initial awe of her powers had settled into a quiet confidence. She was still dressed simply, but there was an alertness in her stance, a sharpness in her hazel eyes that wasn't just natural acuity anymore. It was power, harnessed.
"Miss Petrova," Elias greeted her.
"Mr. Thorne." She nodded, her gaze sweeping their surroundings with an efficiency that was almost unsettling. "The air is clearer today. I can see the individual rivets on the Jacques Cartier Bridge."
"Your senses continue to adapt, then." Elias offered her a small, wrapped parcel. "Pastries. From a decent bakery. You should keep your strength up."
She accepted it with a slight, grateful smile. "Merci."
"I have a task for you," Elias said, getting to the point. "More challenging than hitting targets in an attic." He described a small, unassuming café in Saint-Henri, 'Le Coq D'Or,' known to be a frequent meeting spot for Scarelli's higher-ranking associates, including his volatile second-in-command, Dominic "Dom" "The Pipe" Moretti – so named for his preferred method of persuasion.
"I want you to observe it," Elias instructed. "From a distance. There's an abandoned office building across the street, top floor should offer a good vantage point. Note who comes and goes, specifically anyone matching Moretti's description – heavy-set, expensive suit, usually smoking a large cigar. Note any vehicles, any interactions that seem... significant. Timings. Everything."
He stressed, "Your priority is not to be seen. You are an unblinking eye, nothing more. If there's any hint of compromise, you withdraw immediately. Understood?"
Anya's eyes gleamed with a mixture of excitement and solemn understanding. "Understood, Mr. Thorne. I see, I record, I vanish."
"Exactly." He provided her with a new, high-quality notebook and several pencils, already sharpened to fine points. "Report back here, same time tomorrow."
The next afternoon, Anya was waiting for him, the pastries untouched beside her, her notebook filled with remarkably neat, precise script and several surprisingly accurate sketches of faces and vehicles.
She'd spent six hours in the dusty, vacant office, her Archer-enhanced vision turning the street below into her personal diorama.
"Moretti was there, Mr. Thorne," she began, her voice low and even, showing no sign of fatigue despite the long vigil. "Arrived at 11:32 AM in a black Buick sedan, license plate F-2871. Two bodyguards with him, unremarkable faces, but their jackets didn't sit right. Armed." She tapped a sketch of Moretti – a heavy-jowled man with cruel eyes and a cigar clamped in his teeth. The likeness was undeniable.
"He met with three other men. One I recognized from Mickey's descriptions as Rico 'The Weasel' Albanese, Scarelli's main bookie. The other two were new to me." She had sketched them too, capturing their features with deft strokes. "They spoke for nearly two hours. Moretti did most of the talking. And the shouting."
Elias listened intently. "Could you make out any of their conversation?"
Anya nodded. "Parts of it. The windows of the café were closed, but my hearing... it's also better than it was. Faintly, but I could discern words if they were loud enough. Moretti was angry. He mentioned 'the butcher' and 'that oversized Scottish bastard.' He was furious about the... disrespect."
A grim satisfaction settled in Elias. The message had been received.
"He said," Anya continued, her gaze unwavering, "that Mr. Scarelli wants to know who this 'Thorne' is. Who owns the Scot. He wants... 'a lesson delivered.' Moretti told the others to 'find out everything.' He mentioned your properties by name – specifically the Rue Sainte-Catherine tenement. He said to 'start asking questions there, quiet-like, then not so quiet-like if need be'."
So, Scarelli's first move wasn't direct retaliation, but intelligence gathering, targeting Elias's known assets. Predictable. And manageable, if he acted swiftly.
"Did they set a timeframe?" Elias asked.
"Moretti told them he wanted answers 'before the week is out'," Anya reported. "He also seemed to be distributing money to them before they left."
"Excellent work, Anya," Elias said genuinely. Her contribution was invaluable. "You've given us a crucial warning." He felt a flicker of gratitude towards the System for leading him to her. The [0.2%] boost to his own visual acuity felt like a dividend well earned.
Anya merely nodded, a professional coolness about her. "It was... stimulating, Mr. Thorne. To see so clearly, to understand the patterns from afar."
He knew Scarelli's men would be cautious at first, asking around the Sainte-Catherine tenement. They'd be looking for a link between the mysterious "Thorne" and the formidable Scotsman. His tenants were unlikely to know much, but some could be intimidated into talking about their young, quiet landlord.
"Thomas needs to be aware," Elias murmured, more to himself than Anya. "And perhaps Mickey can listen for any loose talk from Scarelli's lower rungs about their new assignment."
He looked at Anya. "Your role in this, for now, is done. Maintain your discretion. I may have further need of your... perspective soon."
The game was escalating. Scarelli was now actively hunting for him. But Elias had the advantage of surprise, of unseen assets, and of a power that was growing with every passing day, every new piece of information, every loyal soul he brought under his expanding umbrella. He would not be caught flat-footed.