The other side of silver is a secret word (Invite)

The silver tower. One of the many names of the office building in downtown Manhattan that was completely covered in semi-reflective glass. People in the outside, the surface, they were walking in the streets. And on the walls of that building. Ordinary people. Everyday it was the same. They were walking, a constant string that hugged the streets at all but the most dreadful hours. Right now, the massing was exceptional. Midday. People were leaving for lunch. Coming back. Never mind the tourists adding their own sounds and smells to business as usual.

The young man was clothed in a gray suit, expensive, but not too much for the surroundings was mustering himself, his reflection, like so many others using the refractive space as if it were a bathroom mirror. Probably not that the architect had intended. His hair was different now. The tight fit still sat snugly. Latest fashion he was told. He had even bothered to look as if he cared in that stuffy vintage shop. Bothered to look like the young credit card child that he never was. The white dress shirt was much too tight underneath that cloth. A tie, just hanging there, around his neck, as if forgotten, slightly lopsided in the way that suggested careful trimming, adding a speck of dark, nearly black, lilac color to the ensemble was the finishing touch to that very new old Martin. He was still slightly uncomfortable under his new mask. A single bead of sweat being the tribute to his unusual surroundings. The gloves had been lost. Much too significant. A marker to track him.

He was all new and shiny. Up to the bleached, gelled hair. He was all new and still the same. He could not help but wonder. His money he had made during his double assignment at the Mansion was more than enough to carry him over a few months of living underground. As much as a loft in one of the more noble parts of the city rented under a false name was a bother. Much too flashy thing were there for his innate taste. But taste was a luxury right now. One that he had rarely been able to afford himself when he had still been living somewhat more secure surroundings. Better times in a way. This was much more like a past that stayed much too close to the surface of his fractured memory these days.

Being hunted again was... easier in a way. It felt like coming home. A home in which bullets were flying instead of questions at the dinner table. He knew this. This way of life. It was a skin made for him. Fitting tightly like the clothes. Finding a dinner table. Just follow other be-suited beings. Those puppets of the big capital letter. Spilling out of towers that looked, no matter how much silver was invested, like the gravestones they were. They were marking the end. Giant monuments to humanities odd ends. A new frontier to discover on your own. Just reading the names of wasted existences from the signs at their entrances. These new rabbit holes. Down their maw he might yet go. Corporate existence.