The door to the apartment building creaked as I stepped inside, the sound reverberating softly through the high-ceilinged hallway. The air was thick with the scent of polished wood and the faint mustiness of well-loved books. It whispered of history, not neglect—more like a cherished old library than a forgotten relic. The building’s intricately carved banisters and crown molding wore its years like a badge of honor.

The hallway was quiet, the faint hum of the fridge confirming Edith had already left for her lunch date. I’d never call them the “Gossip Girls” to their faces, but that’s exactly how I thought of Edith and her crew. They were more like an unofficial neighborhood intelligence agency than a group of ladies meeting for lunch. If something happened in the neighborhood—a new resident, a break-in, or even a stray cat staking a claim on someone’s porch—they knew about it long before anyone else.

And Edith? She didn’t just participate in the chatter—she orchestrated it. I could almost picture them now, gathered around a table at their favorite bookstore bistro, swapping stories and doling out information like seasoned spies. There wasn’t a single crack in the sidewalk or rustling in a shrub that escaped their notice. It wasn’t idle talk; it was reconnaissance.

I glanced at the old clock perched on a narrow table near the stairs. The minute hand was edging closer to when the neighborhood would start buzzing with midday activity. If I was lucky, they’d be deep into their salads by now, Edith holding court with that perfect blend of no-nonsense authority and warmth. That meant I had a solid hour or two before she returned, armed with the latest updates and ready to grill me about where I’d been and why I looked like I’d gone for a swim in my clothes.

Perfect. No third-degree today.

I took the stairs two at a time, the old wood groaning beneath my weight. The hallway on the second floor was dim and cool, a ribbon of light spilling through the small window at the end. I paused outside my door, remembering I’d promised Maggie I’d drop off a restock of my soaps and candles at the market today. And I wasn’t about to give her a reason to think I’d flaked.

The door swung open with a faint click, revealing my sanctuary. The apartment wasn’t huge, but the open layout made it feel more spacious, filled with personality that was entirely mine. Shelves lined the walls, packed with books, board games, and a small but respectable collection of tabletop RPGs. The living area was a controlled chaos of projects and books, with a well-worn couch tucked against one wall, buried beneath a mix of soft blankets and a couple of pillows bearing designs from old-school sci-fi shows and fantasy novels.

But the centerpiece of the room—the heart of my little kingdom—was the large workbench at the far end of the apartment, right below the big window that overlooked Fenwick Street. This was where the real magic happened. The wide wooden bench stretched nearly the entire width of the wall, covered with the tools of my trade—bowls, molds, jars of various powders and oils. The pegboard above it was crammed with cutters, stirrers, and utensils, each one meticulously hung in its spot.

The shelves on either side of the workbench held rows of cured soap loaves and candles, their scents mingling in the air—patchouli, sandalwood, lavender, and sharper notes of peppermint and eucalyptus. The familiar aromas grounded me, pulling me back from the lingering frustration of the day’s earlier chaos. I let out a slow breath, savoring the peaceful silence of my haven.

I emptied my pockets onto the counter—blueberry muffins, my keyring, and the vial of glowing orange liquid that had almost caused disaster. I set the vial down with a soft clink and stared at it for a moment, letting the tension of the day slowly unravel.

I’ll deal with that later.

Grabbing a bright yellow sticky note, I scribbled: Possible merfolk infestation in river? With a wry smile, I slapped it onto the cluttered whiteboard mounted on the wall above the counter, where it joined other sarcastic reminders like Get trash cans that don’t blow away in a breeze and Ask council why raccoons have better city planning skills than people.

Stepping back, I glanced around the apartment. The space was quiet, serene even—almost at odds with the usual chaos. But that’s why it was mine. I’d worked hard to turn this place into a sanctuary, an oasis of calm amidst the storm.

I moved to my workbench, taking in the familiar sight of my tools and materials. The scent of patchouli and sandalwood hung heavy in the air, mingling with a faint metallic tinge. My latest batch of soap loaves had been curing for weeks, waiting patiently to be cut and named.

I knelt down and pulled out the plastic tote from under the workbench, setting it on top. Time to restock. I’d been behind on a few orders recently, and Maggie was starting to give me the look—the one that said, Don’t think I’ll forget about this.

I began counting the bars of soap and candles as I lifted them from the shelves and placed them into the tote. Each bar of soap was carefully wrapped in plain brown paper, secured with string, and labeled with its name—my own little creative touch. Lavender Veil of the Endless Abyss, Peppermint Breeze of Eternal Winter, Mischief Mint of Ever-Shifting Shadows. Maggie never missed a chance to poke fun at the names, but I knew she secretly loved them. The quirky, almost absurd titles had become a bit of a trademark, drawing in curious shoppers who would linger, read the labels, and leave with a smile.

I was almost finished when I glanced at the new soap loaf I’d been working on. It sat on the middle shelf like a prized artifact, its surface smooth and unblemished. I’d been experimenting with this one for weeks, using ground-up stone golem as an exfoliant—a crazy idea that probably would have gotten me a stern lecture from the FDA if they knew. But I’d done enough testing to be sure it was no more harmful than regular pumice stone. Besides, it had a great story behind it.

The golem had burst out of the ground at Ridge Street Park one Sunday afternoon, shattering the tranquility of a sunny day. Kids were screaming, parents were yelling, and it looked like things were about to go from relaxing afternoon to city-wide panic in the blink of an eye. I just happened to be walking by when it started ripping up tree roots like a toddler throwing a tantrum. If I hadn’t stepped in, it would have been a nightmare.

No one got more than a few scrapes and bruises, but that thing didn’t go down easy. I couldn’t just smash it—doing that would’ve sent shards of rock flying like shrapnel, endangering everyone nearby. So I had to chip away at it slowly, breaking it down piece by piece, until it was small enough not to do any more damage. Even when it was reduced to a fist-sized chunk, the thing still kept wriggling and shifting. It wasn’t until I crushed it down to almost dust that it finally stopped moving.

Afterward, I noticed how strangely uniform and smooth the remaining particles were. Ground it even finer and—well, what do you know—it made the perfect exfoliant. And that’s how I ended up with a soap recipe containing pulverized rock golem.

I pulled the loaf down now, its weight solid and reassuring in my hands. The gray soap was streaked with faint crimson and pale blue lines, giving it an almost marble-like appearance. I set it on the workbench and pulled down my soap cutter from the top shelf. Not just any cutter—this one was special. Its wooden frame held a series of tightly stretched wires, positioned to slice the entire loaf into evenly sized bars with a single motion. It had taken me forever to get my hands on it, but it was worth every penny.

“All right, let’s see what you’ve got,” I murmured, lowering the cutter’s wooden frame. The wires slid through the loaf with a satisfying shick, each slice falling neatly into place. I lifted one of the freshly cut bars and ran my thumb over the surface. The texture was firm but with a slight grit, just as I’d hoped. The scent of sandalwood and patchouli wafted up, tinged with the earthiness of the golem’s remnants.

“Limited edition, huh?” I mused, turning the bar over. “Guess I’ll have to come up with a name worthy of you.” I considered for a moment, mentally sifting through a list of potential candidates. Something solid, grounding… yet with a hint of mystique.

Rock Solid of Unyielding Strength? I tried, then grimaced. Too on-the-nose.

I stared at the crimson and blue streaks running through the gray, reminded of veins of precious minerals embedded in bedrock. An idea began to take shape, the words clicking into place like puzzle pieces.

“How about… Musky Essence of the Living Stone?”

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

I said it aloud, letting the name settle in the air. It felt right—like it captured the essence of the soap and the strange journey that had led to its creation. I grabbed a set of blank labels and began writing, the neat script flowing easily as I wrapped and tagged each bar.

With the new batch neatly packed away, I wiped my hands on a clean rag, feeling a sense of satisfaction settle over me. The familiar routine of cutting, wrapping, and labeling had done its job, pulling me back from the day’s lingering tension.

I stepped back, eyeing the tote full of freshly cut soaps and candles. The sight of the tidy, well-organized rows sent a small, contented sigh slipping past my lips. For a moment, everything else faded away—no nagging worries about merfolk in the river, no troubling vials of glowing orange liquid, just the simple pleasure of a job well done.

“All right, troops,” I said softly, resting a hand on the tote’s lid. “Time to get you to the market.”

I hoisted the bin off the table, the weight a comforting reminder of the work I’d put in. As I turned toward the door, the lingering scent of sandalwood and patchouli swirled in the air—a final whisper of the golem encounter and the unexpected inspiration it had sparked. Funny how something so disruptive could be tamed, reshaped, and packaged into something people would soon be using without a clue about its origins.

With one last glance around the apartment, I nodded to myself, satisfied that everything was in order. Edith would be back soon, but with any luck, I’d be in and out before she had a chance to launch into her post-lunch interrogation.

“Don’t burn the place down while I’m gone,” I muttered with a grin, pulling the door shut behind me.

I made my way down the stairs, the tote snug against my hip. I had a market to get to, an order to deliver, and if the universe had any mercy left, a nap with my name on it once I was done.

Time to deliver the goods.

I pushed open the market door with my hip, the bell above giving a cheerful jingle. The market—a cozy, eclectic shop filled with handmade goods, local produce, and my own soaps and candles—was just a short walk from my apartment. Normally, that quick trip was enough to clear my head, but today’s chaos clung to me like a stubborn shadow.

“Behold, citizens!” I called out with exaggerated bravado, my voice dripping with dry humor as I stepped inside, the plastic tote balanced precariously on one hip. “I bring you offerings of—”

I paused mid-sentence. Maggie, Lydia, and John turned toward me in unison, grinning like a trio of cats who’d just caught the canary. They were huddled together near the checkout counter, still snickering over some shared joke. Judging by their synchronized smirks, I was definitely the unwitting star of their conversation.

“Oh, great,” I muttered under my breath, a smirk tugging at the corners of my lips despite myself. “What did I do this time?”

Maggie stepped forward, her hazel eyes gleaming with mischief. “Oh, nothing much.” Her voice was light and airy, but the glint in her gaze suggested otherwise. “How’s your day been, Dave?”

“Same old, same old,” I replied with a shrug. “You know, just the usual weekday: drop off the soaps, avoid some chaos, and try not to level any city blocks.”

That did it. John snorted, and Lydia clamped a hand over her mouth, trying—and failing—to stifle her giggles. Unperturbed, Maggie moved closer, her expression shifting to something resembling exaggerated reverence as she stared at the tote in my hands.

“Fear not, citizens!” she declared dramatically, throwing one arm out in a pose somewhere between a superhero landing and a B-grade stage actor. “I, the mighty Lather Lieutenant, have come to rescue these noble soaps from the clutches of the evil villain!” She narrowed her eyes at the tote as if it might leap up and bite her, then shot me a sly grin.

John delivered a playful chop to the back of her neck. “Hiyah!” Maggie dropped in a dramatic death spiral.

“Oh no! My only weakness!” she wailed, voice rising in a melodramatic crescendo. “The dreaded… neck chop!”

I let out a low groan, amused despite myself. “All right, all right, what did you guys find out?” I asked, glancing between the three of them. “Someone fill me in before I throw this tote at you.”

Lydia, practically bouncing in place, recovered first. “It’s all over social media!” she blurted out. “Some influencer was down at the riverfront and caught your tussle with that tinfoil hero guy. The video’s gone viral! Everyone’s freaking out, trying to figure out who this super-strong guy is that just casually took down ‘Power Paladin’ and tossed a merfolk back into the river like it was nothing.”

I winced. “Tossed? That’s not going to sound any better out of context.”

“Yeah!” Lydia’s voice rose with excitement. “People have been breaking down your moves, and—oh my gosh, Maggie, show him the comments!”

Maggie, still on the floor, propped herself up with one arm and pulled out her phone. She scrolled through her feed, her grin growing. “It’s everywhere. People keep asking, ‘Who’s this guy? Where’s he from?’ Some folks are convinced you’re some kind of secret government experiment, but—” She snorted. “The best part? When they asked around trying to get a name for this mysterious superhuman, everyone just said, ‘That’s just Dave.’”

Lydia jumped in, impersonating Cassie from the yoga café, deadpan and with a hint of annoyance. “That’s just Dave.”

I shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of the situation settle over me. “Well, that’s just great. How long is this going to follow me around?”

“Oh, it gets better,” John said, pulling out his own phone and turning the screen toward me. “Remember that one move you used to bring down ‘Power Paladin’? The chop to the back of the neck? It’s started a whole new trend—people are calling it ‘Dave-Fu,’ and it’s even got its own hashtags.” He scrolled through a few posts, the words #DaveFu and #JustDave popping up repeatedly, alongside clips of people mimicking the move.

Maggie stood, still grinning, but the humor was fading. "Seriously, Dave. You’ve gone viral.”

I sighed, trying to tamp down my exasperation. “I’m never going to live this down, am I?”

“Nope,” Maggie replied brightly, popping the ‘p.’ “Not a chance.”

Her tone shifted then, more serious. “But, jokes aside… what exactly was all that about? I mean, ‘Power Paladin’ was a complete nobody, right? And suddenly, he’s got enough juice to rival some of the Big Ten?”

I set the tote on the counter with a thud. “Long story short? He drank something—some kind of vial. One minute he was a wannabe hero with a tinfoil complex, the next, he was way more dangerous than usual.”

Lydia and John exchanged glances, their brows lifting in surprise. “Wait, are you serious?” Lydia asked, lowering her voice. “Like, some sort of superhuman drug or something?”

“Sounds like it,” I replied, crossing my arms. “Whatever it was, it didn’t just amp up his strength; it made him immune to The Calm. He wasn’t reacting to anything around him—just barreling forward like a freight train.”

John frowned, his usual jovial expression dimming with concern. “You know, there’s been rumors around campus lately… something about a drug that makes you super, even if you’ve got zero latent abilities.”

Lydia nodded. “People at the university have been calling it ‘Courage.’ There’s this one guy—usually full of it, but he swears he knows someone who tried it and lifted a car.”

My mood darkened, the lightness from earlier conversation fading. “Zenith City University?” I asked, my voice low.

John nodded. “Yeah, mostly around the science and research buildings. Could be just a rumor, but if ‘Power Paladin’ got his hands on it… who knows how many others might have, too.”

“Great,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “Just what I needed. Super-powered college kids running around, juiced up on some mystery serum.”

Maggie crossed her arms, her earlier grin replaced with concern. “So, what now? You going to look into it?”

I shook my head slowly. “Not my circus, not my monkeys,” I said, though I wasn’t entirely convinced. “I just want to restock the soaps, keep my head down, and hope this blows over before people start asking too many questions.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, good luck with that, Mr. ‘Dave-Fu.’” She glanced at the tote. “Want some help unloading?”

I snorted. “If you start narrating yourself like ‘Power Paladin’ again, I’m throwing the tote at you.”

Maggie gave me a mock salute, but her grin didn’t reach her eyes. “Roger that.”

As she began arranging the soaps on the shelves, her hand paused mid-motion, gripping one of the bars tighter. She raised the soap to eye level and slowly read the label aloud. “Musky Essence of the Living Stone?” She turned to me, eyebrow raised.

I smirked, but Maggie just rolled her eyes and placed the bar on the shelf with the rest.

The playful banter subsided, but the weight of the earlier conversation lingered. As I continued stocking the soaps, my mind churned with worry. Courage. It felt like more than just a rumor now. What if it really was making its way through the university? What if more people got their hands on it?

My hands stilled for a moment as I considered my options. I didn’t want to get involved, but if this thing was as dangerous as it seemed, I might not have a choice. I could almost hear the voice in my head nudging me toward action. And then there was Alan.

“Well,” I muttered to myself, the reluctance clear in my voice, “I guess I could always reach out to Alan.”

I wasn’t sure which was worse: letting this thing escalate or contacting Alan again.