“Jesus, Max, have mercy on my body and soul!”

I could smell his lunch before the elevator door opened. To be fair, I think everyone could. The fragrance was so intense it'd upset even the normal humans. Probably.

To me, it was like a camera flash in a perfectly dark room. It hit me like hammer, staggering me and making my stomach churn. I somehow managed to hold my breakfast on the crime scene, but the overwhelming scent of food sent it right back up my throat.

“Oh, hey, Morgan. Sorry, the delivery got delayed,” the senior detective replied with an apologetic smile.

He sat on a cushion at our lunch table, carefully holding a huge pizza slice with three fingers. The rest of the squad minus Dan lingered around, looking at the family-sized pie with agonised expressions. I couldn't tell whether they wanted a bite or just wished it'd to disappear.

“Real parmesan and pepperoni. Where did you get this? Most joints push fakes onto the big pies like their liquidity depends on it.” At least today he had the decency to order mild ingredients. Hopefully, he remembered that time when he'd taken extra onions. I cried like a beaver, so we had to ventilate the offices for the rest of the day.

“Do you want a slice? I'm sure there's enough for everyone,” he asked with a friendly smile.

“Max, I just returned from a quadruple homicide scene. Believe me, holding my last meal is hard enough.”

“Oh. Of course. Sorry.” He stuffed the whole slice into his maw, devoured it with one snap of teeth, then went for another.

“I'll just shower instead. I reek like a slaughterhouse.” I made my way through the break room as fast as I could.

“I don't smell anything,” he offered politely.

“But I do.”

“Just make it quick,” Dan's voice reached me from the office. “The city doesn't pay you for singing in the shower.”

“Aye aye, sir.” I ran from the food aroma into the restroom complex. A thunderous snap indicated Max just swallowed another pizza slice whole.

The worst was still to come, I realised. The scent of food was heavy but relatively pleasant. No, the real problem was Max' metabolism. He'd digest this enormous lunch in just below an hour. Then, the calories and nutrients would go straight into his starving muscle mass. Whatever happened there was a mystery, but they would get consumed at an inhuman rate.

This process released a low-key but intense odour. Normal humans couldn't really notice it, yet found it somewhat unsettling. I could experience the full bouquet, together with all the poisons released in his sweat. His kidneys were extremely efficient, isolating harmful substances and throwing them out of his body. The resulting scent was somewhere between intense muscle growth and acute food poisoning, with a deep, unnatural aroma mixed in. It was quite disturbing, especially on hot summer days like this one.

I knew it wasn't his fault. His body just worked that way.

Max Stone had a name of a pulp fiction strongman and a physique to match. At 7 feet 10 inches and 550 pounds, this mountain of a man had serious problems fitting through some doors. Not to mention using most furniture, vehicles, and other blessings of civilisation tailored for smaller people. He often said that if he had a choice, he'd rather be an average Joe. I could sympathise. Neither of us had any choice, though.

Max' superpower gave him a powerful bone structure and tremendous muscle mass, with no effort on his part. He'd never worked out in his life, yet he possessed a physique most professional strongmen could only dream of. This imposing build maintained itself no matter what he did. He'd never get lighter, leaner or less muscular. His monstrous hunger was a natural side-effect – while he didn't have to build his muscles, their constant growth required a lots of nutrition.

Empowered humans often had special circumstances and needs. In our case, they clashed. Max had to eat a lot and burn it down at a rapid pace. I was extra sensitive to scents.

We both tried to be civil about it. Max kept the most unpleasant elements out of his diet while I did my best not to impose on him any further. He was certainly worth the effort – in spite of his intimidating appearance, Max was a very amiable person. I only hoped he felt the same about me.

Then again, there were people who smelled much worse. We were chasing one.

Stepping into the shower, I shifted my thoughts to matters at hand. Warm water always helped me collect my thoughts. This time, though, I didn't have much to collect. No matter how much I thought, I was still drawing blanks.

Francis Kowalski.

Thirty-two years old. A former Navy SEAL with a distinguished service record. Four combat tours in the world's hotspots. Decorated for bravery in the field. Two purple hearts. Extensively trained in all forms of warfare, with actual combat experience to boot.

After his discharge he'd ran a private business in his home town. A member of several veteran associations, described as a helpful, supportive man by other ex-soldiers. Well-liked and respected in his neighbourhood.

We had no idea what'd drawn him into vigilantism. We'd checked every possible angle.

No major life crises, no reported psychological problems. No prior conflict with the criminal underground, at least not on the American soil. Dan looked into family background, searching for murdered family members. You'd be surprised how many Empowered took inspiration from old popular culture, especially in face of a catastrophic life crisis.

Nothing. Kowalski was single with no children. His only brother had died in military service. Both of his parents were alive and well in Alabama. He was estranged from them.

We couldn't find any motive behind his murderous rampage.

He aimed high, targeting mostly dangerous gangs and organised crime, but there was no particular pattern to his attacks. It seemed he went after any high-profile felon he could identify. It was a common problem with wannabe superheroes: Their definitions of 'crime' were vague at best. Often, they boiled down to 'whoever earned my ire at the moment'.

Francis Kowalski had started his career in armed vigilantism like most of them. At first, it went just as planned. He'd slaughtered of a few vicious gangsters, sacked some drug factories, took down a careless mobster or two. Then he moved up the food chain, hunting bigger game, and things quickly started to slip. He got wounded for the first time. His supplies were running dry. Soon enough, we were on his trail.

The reality proved different from the comic books.

Before long, his war on crime had turned into a desperate struggle for survival. Kowalski began robbing gun shops for weapons and ammunition and drug stores for medicine. As a wanted criminal he couldn't even buy a candy in a corner shop, so he had to steal his groceries, too. He'd taken to drugs, developing a taste for amphetamine he took from his victims. Ultimately, he was forced to trade for supplies on the black market. Whatever his ideals were, hunger had soon compromised them.

Then we caught up to him for the first time.

At this point he was a battered, exhausted mess, pushed deep into the corner. He'd suffered from several wounds, most of them infected. They were healing badly, probably thanks to his unforgiving lifestyle. He'd coped with it in the worst ways.

I'd never smelled a miasma of antibiotics so thick. His internal system was ruined, the benign micro-organisms purged along with the bacteria feasting on his injuries. His liver and kidneys were damaged beyond repair, working at their very limits. The moment I'd felt his scent, I'd realised he was committing an extended suicide. Whether it was intentional or not was his secret.

The e-SWAT had given him a run for his money. If it weren't for his superpower, he'd have been dead by now. Even so, he'd gone out of the fight with several more gunshots and some tremendous internal injuries. Yet, he'd managed to escape.

Kowalski was an Empowered human. We wouldn't be chasing with him otherwise.

At least we hadn't had to figure out the nature of his power. The military kept a strict track of every Empowered who went into service, much like the police force.

In simplest terms, he possessed an inhuman endurance.

He was all but immune to fatigue. He hardly had to sleep and could shrug off crippling pain as though it was an headache. He also metabolised poisons far better than most, probably because his body had to purge absurd amounts of decomposed toxins every day.

His power also gave him some more... Unusual properties. When we'd first faced him, he withstood a thick cloud of tear gas by holding his breath. For several minutes.

Granted, it still blinded him, but the gas cloud had also limited our visibility. He'd ran away under its cover, leaving next to none scent trails. I couldn't function in a room sprayed with tear gas unless it was properly cleaned, which also destroyed all the tracks.

This exploit earned him the moniker 'Breathless' in the mass media. I believed he preferred 'Relentless' – at least that was the tag on his armour vest – but as always, the superhero names were chosen by the editors-in-chief.

Ironically, the Breathless had never shown himself without a gas mask afterwards.

I stepped out of the shower and wiped myself with a towel. Time to get back to work, even if it mostly involved staring at the clue board.

Kowalski was extremely tough to pursue. He cared little for covering his tracks, but catching a trained special op who could run for the whole day felt hopeless at the best of times.

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