Surveillance and Suspicion

The "White Tower Observatory" wasn't the cold, sterile laboratory of tubes and blinking instruments Alan had imagined. It was more like an exceptionally well-appointed, luxuriously isolated suite deep within the London Wardens Headquarters. A spacious living area connected to a private bedroom, a physical therapy room equipped with top-tier machinery, and a meditation chamber lined with various cushions and basic runic practice tools. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of London's hazy skyline, but the glass was clearly special—one-way, multi-layered, with protective and energy-dampening runes sealing it off completely. It had every comfort, bordering on opulence, yet felt as cold as a high-security prison cell.

Alan had been here for three days.

The searing physical pain had receded, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion and hollowness, as if he'd been scraped clean, leaving only a shell barely functioning. The medical team's expertise was impeccable. Advanced regenerative tech and gentle infusions of life Anima accelerated his physical healing. Fractured ribs knit with nano-scaffolding; acid-burned skin regrew, pink and new. But his core—that wellspring known as "Harmonizing"—remained like a dry well, silent and fathomless. Each attempt at the most basic breathing exercise taught by his grandfather felt like digging in a parched riverbed, bringing only dizziness and deeper fatigue. Master Bohr's runic scanners swept over him, registering only the faintest, almost negligible Anima ripples.

Yet, more oppressive than his physical weakness was the pervasive, icy, and thorough **surveillance** within this "Observatory."

Thorne's "Project Watcher" had snapped shut like an invisible net.

The overt "protection" was indeed strengthened. Two heavily armed Warden soldiers stood guard outside the suite door 24/7. Their tactical armor was imposing, eyes sharp as hawks behind visors, non-lethal Anima suppressors and runic restraints prominent on their belts. Whenever Alan needed to leave the suite—under escort by medical personnel or Bohr's assistants—to the adjacent dedicated examination room, these silent sentinels shadowed him at a precise distance, feeling more like an escort for a high-value prisoner. Their presence was a constant, unspoken reminder: You are under watch.

But this was only the visible tip.

The covert monitoring was suffocating, as pervasive as the air itself. Even in his weakened state, Alan's heightened senses could clearly "smell" the hidden traces:

Eyes Watching: Tiny, near-invisible black domes, seamlessly integrated into the ceiling moldings of the living room, bedroom, and even the meditation chamber. No blinking lights, but radiating a cold sense of observation. Their placement was calculated, covering every angle, leaving almost no blind spots.

The Energy Net: The walls, floor, ceiling were embedded with barely visible silver tracery. Not decoration, but an exquisitely precise "Anima Sensory Grid" laid by Master Bohr himself. Like countless intangible tendrils, they constantly scanned, recorded every flicker of energy within Alan, down to the subtlest physiological Anima shift caused by his emotional state, all fed to some central database.

Runic Locks: Key points—inside the main door frame, around the massive windows, even within the bathroom vent—were etched with faintly glowing, complex runes. Their purposes varied: spatial stabilization (preventing external teleportation or internal breaches), energy containment (blocking Alan's passive absorption and external anomalies), mental interference shielding (warding off remote probes or control). They formed an invisible cage, isolating him completely.

Life Tracker: A sleek, silver wristband was locked around his wrist. Resembling a high-end fitness tracker, it housed micro-sensors continuously monitoring his core vitals—heart rate, blood pressure, temperature, brainwaves—transmitting data in real-time. It couldn't be removed, incorporating tracking and an emergency alarm.

Alan could feel it—behind this surveillance, a pair of cold, vigilant, deeply distrustful eyes watched him constantly. The eyes of Renard Black. Thwarted from his "Stasis" or "Neutralization" plans, the Security Director had clearly interpreted his "Watching" duties with extreme prejudice, perhaps exceeding even Thorne's intent. His minions weren't just the door guards; occasionally, black-uniformed investigators bearing the Security Division insignia would appear.

That morning, Alan was in the physical therapy room under medical supervision, working on muscle rehabilitation. A Security investigator named Carson stood nearby, observing with cold detachment. Carson was tall and lean, with the watchful eyes of a coiled viper.

"Mr. Shaw, please repeat the lateral raises. Ten repetitions per set, three sets," the medic instructed gently.

Alan gritted his teeth, lifting his sore, weak arms. Sweat quickly soaked his medical scrubs.

Carson leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. His voice was flat but carried an icy sting. "Form looks adequate. Recovery seems decent. Kovach's 'Stripping' wasn't so terrible after all? Or perhaps..." His gaze, like a probe, swept over Alan's damp neck and trembling arms, "...you've still got plenty of juice tucked away?" He seemed to be searching for hidden power sources.

Alan faltered mid-motion, humiliation and anger surging. He took a deep breath, forcing the emotions down, and continued the exercise without acknowledging him.

"Focus, Mr. Shaw," the medic said, frowning slightly at the interruption, clearly displeased with Carson.

Carson snorted, falling silent, but his scrutinizing, suspicious gaze remained a physical weight on Alan's back.

At lunchtime, Lena appeared at the suite door, carrying a tray. Her arrival required clearance from the guards. Her uniform was crisp, but the dark circles under her eyes and the weariness etched into her brow showed she hadn't rested either. Her gaze held deep concern and worry for Alan, but under the watchful eyes of the guards and the omnipresent cameras, it was carefully wrapped in a layer of professional detachment.

"Alan, how are you feeling? Master Bohr says your vitals are steadily improving," Lena said, setting the nutrient-rich meal on the table, her voice striving for calm distance.

"Fine. Not dead yet," Alan rasped, stirring the thick soup in his bowl without appetite. He could feel Lena wanting to reach out, to comfort him, but an invisible barrier had risen. She was a Warden agent. He was a "Project Watcher" subject.

"Director Thorne is keenly interested in your recovery progress. Master Bohr's team reports are providing valuable insights into your ability," Lena tried, but it sounded hollow.

"Are they?" Alan looked up, meeting Lena's eyes, a hint of barely concealed sarcasm in his voice. "Have they analyzed when I'm likely to become an 'uncontrollable monster' yet? I bet Director Renard's reports make for even more thrilling reading?"

Lena paled, her lips parting as if to argue, then pressing into a thin line, a flicker of pain and helplessness in her eyes. "Alan… don't. 'Project Watcher' is for your protection, and for…" She didn't finish, but they all knew—and for studying you, controlling you.

"For the protection of London," Alan finished for her, looking down again. "Thanks for the lunch, Agent White."

Lena stood for a moment, then sighed softly. "You… get some rest." She turned and left, her retreating back seeming smaller. The door hissed shut behind her, sealing off the outside world.

That afternoon, Alan was permitted an hour of "recovery meditation" in the chamber—under the close watch of one of Bohr's assistants. It was ineffective, only adding to his frustration.

As evening approached, the suite door slid open, and an unexpected figure strode in—Fenrir Silvermane. He looked fresh from a mission, dust and a smear of something dark and suspicious on his combat gear, smelling of sweat and cordite. The guards seemed about to protest, but Fenrir fixed them with his amber wolf eyes, an unspoken pressure making them step back involuntarily.

"Hey! Kid!" Fenrir boomed, his voice loud enough to make the ceiling cameras seem to vibrate. He completely ignored the Security technician pretending to "record ambient parameters" on the nearby couch. "Heard you sent that lunatic Viktor and his pile of rotting meat straight to hell? Good work! Fucking satisfying!"

His massive hand clapped Alan hard on the shoulder. The force rocked Alan, tugging at healing injuries, making him wince. Yet, strangely, this rough greeting and the raw, vital energy radiating from Fenrir acted like a stiff breeze, instantly cutting through the suite's oppressive atmosphere, bringing a breath of much-needed life.

"Fen… Fenrir?" Alan stared at him, surprised.

"Look at you, skinny as a plucked chicken!" Fenrir appraised him frankly, no filter. "But alive is good! Bjorn sends his thanks—not that you brewed the antidote, but without you stirring the pot, that old bat Caspar's scheme would've finished him! The Silver Moon Pact owes you!" His tone dripped with contemptuous glee when mentioning Caspar.

"And ignore those black-suited rats from Security spouting shit!" Fenrir's voice grew even louder, clearly meant for the eavesdropping technician. "'Unstable element'? 'Potential threat'? Wolf's balls! I saw it on the front line! Without you, kid, that golem would've torn us all apart! That Camden shithole would still be 'Withering'! They know nothing! Cowards hiding in their tower giving orders! Screw 'em!"

The Security technician's face tightened. His fingers flew over his tablet, undoubtedly logging Fenrir's "insubordination."

Fenrir didn't care. He clapped Alan's shoulder again (slightly softer this time), flashing sharp canines in a grin. "Heal up! Bones knit fast! When you're back on your feet, I'll take you to 'chat' with Renard! Show him what real 'instability' looks like! Later!" He was a whirlwind, arriving and departing just as abruptly, leaving stunned guards and a technician, and… an Alan whose eyes held a spark of something besides despair.

Fenrir's crude but genuine support was a powerful tonic, briefly scattering the shadows in Alan's heart.

Deep in the quiet night, Alan lay in the soft bed, sleepless. The city lights outside cast blurred patterns through the special glass. The hidden surveillance devices felt like countless cold eyes in the dark, silently watching his every move, his every breath. Loneliness and suffocation washed over him like a tide.

As he tossed and turned, a faint, almost imperceptible beep-beep came from the direction of the meditation chamber, nearly drowned by the HVAC hum. He remembered Simon's backup toolkit, left there during a previous visit to adjust a runic meditation aid.

A thought struck Alan. He slipped silently out of bed, bare feet on the plush carpet, and padded into the meditation room. He opened a hidden compartment in the toolkit—previously empty. Now, nestled inside, was a thumb-sized, featureless black metal cube.

Alan's heart leapt. He snatched the cube. It felt cool and smooth in his palm. One side had an almost invisible tiny indentation. He pressed it tentatively with a fingernail.

Hmm…

A wave of incredibly faint, barely detectable energy pulsed from the cube, instantly enveloping Alan in a bubble about a meter wide. For that split second, Alan's heightened senses registered it—the unblinking gaze of the ceiling camera locked onto him, the scanning tendrils of the wall grid probing his weak internal energy… they all experienced a brief, almost imperceptible lag and blurring! Like a signal momentarily disrupted!

The effect lasted barely two seconds before everything snapped back to normal. But those two seconds of "static," for Alan, were like a breath of free air in an airtight vault!

He quickly released the indentation and clenched the cube tightly, his palm damp. Simon! Only that tech wizard could have slipped this past Renard's net!

He returned to bed, tucking the cube carefully under his pillow. In the darkness, he lay awake, feeling the cube's cool solidity, a tumult of emotions churning inside.

Gratitude for Simon's risky gift. Warmth from Fenrir's blunt support. Understanding for Lena's position. Fury at Renard's cold surveillance. And profound unease about his own future.

Project Watcher… Alan mulled over the name. Thorne had him under the spotlight and microscope. Renard saw him as a bomb to be defused. And Fenrir and Simon, in their own ways, offered him a lifeline.

In this "White Tower Observatory," a fortress of cutting-edge tech and ancient runes, trust was a rare gem, and suspicion, the very air he breathed. Alan knew his path to recovery would be a treacherous walk on thin ice, under countless cold, watchful eyes. And he had to walk it—to find his grandfather, and to reclaim… his own measure of freedom.