《Chum: Act II》


 Prologue

    The wind howls across the Ben Franklin Bridge, whistling through suspension cables and rattling the metal barriers at each end. No cars. No pedestrians. Just emptiness stretching back to Philly on one side and Camden on the other, both ends sealed off with police barriers and SWAT vehicles. The Delaware River churns twenty stories below, slate-gray and choppy, whitecaps breaking against the concrete pillars like they''re trying to warn me about something.


    Sirens in the distance.


    I roll my shoulders back, feeling the pull of healed wounds beneath my costume¡ªthe gash across my collarbone from the Tacony warehouse raid, the bullet scars from the City Hall standoff, the burn tissue from Mr. Prometheus''s final tantrum. They don''t hurt anymore, but the memory lingers in the muscle. A tapestry, scars on top of scars on top of scars.


    Across the span stands Porcelain, motionless in the afternoon sun. His ceramic plating catches the light, not quite white but something more complex¡ªopalescent, almost iridescent where the pieces interlock around his joints. It''s beautiful in a clinical way, like museum art you''re not allowed to touch. The perfect opposite of my own patchwork approach.


    His eyes track me as I approach, calculating, assessing. He doesn''t shift his stance or show any sign of tension. Why would he? I''ve seen security footage of him walking through automatic gunfire like it''s heavy rain.


    "Miss Megalodon," he calls out, voice carrying across the empty bridge. His accent is thick but precise, each syllable carefully formed. "We meet at last."


    I stop thirty feet away, just close enough to make out the details of his face. Late forties maybe, olive skin weathered by sun and violence, beard meticulously trimmed, the longest parts of it capped in a golden cap like a Pharaoh. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he speaks, but there''s nothing warm in them.


    "Porcelain," I answer, matching his volume. "I''d say it''s nice to meet you, but we both know that''s bullshit."


    His mouth twitches, almost a smile. "I expected the Protector of Philadelphia to be... shorter."


    I close the distance between us with measured steps, stopping when we''re practically nose to nose. He doesn''t move, doesn''t flinch, just tilts his head slightly to look directly into my eyes. I plant my feet and slam my forehead against his, the impact sending a dull ache through my skull.


    "You''ve got a problem with tall women?" I taunt, feeling my teeth shift beneath my gums.


    Something like amusement flickers across his face. "You''re awfully confident," he says, voice dropping lower. "From this close, I could rip you in half with minimal effort."


    "Tougher people than you have tried."


    "You''ve met tougher than me?" His eyes narrow slightly, genuinely curious.


    "I''ve beaten tougher than you," I shoot back. "Daisy would make you look like dogshit."


    That gets a genuine laugh, his shoulders actually shaking with it. The ceramic plates click softly against each other with the movement.


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    "If a middle school-aged girl is your high bar, then you''re out of your depth," he says, still smiling. "The reports of your stubbornness weren''t exaggerated."


    "Reports?" I pull back a few steps, giving us both space. He''s sweating. I''m sweating. It''s a sweaty environment. "Been doing your homework?"


    "Of course." He gestures vaguely toward my body. "The teeth, the healing, the blood sensing. Your file is quite extensive."


    "Is that why you''re wearing armor?" I ask, nodding at his ceramic plating. "Doesn''t seem like the moves of a confident man."


    "Are you trying to goad me?" he asks, sounding more amused than offended. "The armor isn''t for my protection¡ªit''s for yours." His posture shifts minutely, weight settling more heavily onto the balls of his feet. "I try not to cause collateral damage if I can avoid it."


    "I don''t believe that," I say, eyes flicking toward the suspension cables above us. No movement. Nothing. Where the hell is Gossamer?


    I flex every muscle in my body and feel the familiar response¡ªteeth pushing against the undersides of my skin, ready to emerge. My costume shifts with me as I move, Gossamer''s latest creation. The base layer self-heals, wicks blood outward but keeps it from soaking in. The body armor sits heavier over my chest and back, kevlar with ceramic inserts. No sleeves.


    And no helmet. Not today.


    "Where''s your armor, diaspora girl?" Porcelain asks, eyeing my exposed head. "Do you have a death wish?"


    His own armor clicks against itself as he moves, like plate mail. Something far heavier than kevlar. Knight armor for a modern age, and just as heavy, if not heavier. When he steps forward, you can hear it. Layers on layers, keeping him squashed and compressed, like if we removed it he would explode. I can see it in his neck muscles. He''s coiled like a spring, one of those springs that''s so heavy and dense that when it uncoils it stands a good chance of turning you into a fine spray of pink mist. Something hydraulic and lethal.


    "You think I need armor for the world''s strongest man?" I taunt. "You just said you''d rip me in half. What good would armor do?"


    He chuckles, genuine amusement in his eyes. "Good point."


    "Besides," I add, "it seems to work for you. Hard exterior, soft inside. Very on-brand."


    His expression hardens. "You mistake durability for rigidity. A common error."


    I clench every muscle in my body at once, forcing them to contract in the particular way I''ve practiced thousands of times. The response is immediate¡ªrows of flat, white teeth emerge from beneath my skin, punching through in neat lines. They start at my fingertips, small but wide, and crawl up my joints one after another. They snake up my arms, over my shoulders, finding space beneath the vest. More sprout from my ankles, knees, thighs. My instant armor.


    It feels like shitting everywhere on your body at once¡ªthat constipated full-body clench followed by awful relief. Just like always.


    Porcelain''s eyes narrow slightly as he watches. "Impressive. A pale imitation."


    "Why don''t you tell me what you''re really here for and we can get this over with?" I shift into a boxing stance, balancing my weight. My eyes dart to the suspension cables again, searching for any sign of movement. Come on, Amelia. Where are you?


    Porcelain rolls his neck until it cracks, the sound echoing across the empty bridge. "You are an obstacle. I am the obstacle remover." His voice drops, each word measured and exact. "My wheels are ever-turning."


    My stomach twists, anger flaring hot and sudden.


    "You killed him," I say, voice tight with restrained fury.


    "I removed an obstacle," he replies matter-of-factly. "He was weak and tender-hearted like the rest of you. No stomach for the necessary violence."


    "He was saving lives. Above all... this shit. Is that what it is for you? Necessary?" The question comes out bitterer than I intended.


    "Of course. All violence is necessary for me. I do not commit unnecessary violence." He says it with the serene confidence of someone who''s never questioned their own justifications. What a poseur. "What about you?"


    "Necessary?" I laugh, cracking my knuckles under my tooth armor before popping my wrists. The teeth shift with the movement, clicking against each other. "No, this is just for fun."


    I start sprinting.

 Recap.1

    <h2 style="text-align: center">Back in the present day...</h2>


    Years in the past, but not many...


    Jordan, Blink, and Maggie pile into the cab behind me, squeezing in, knees bumping. Man, I really fuck this ankle up a lot, huh?


    The driver-a slightly bewildered Indian guy who has probably seen some weird shit driving this late but not this weird-gives me a look in the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised.


    I point a finger forward.


    "Anywhere but here."


    We pull off just as the windows of the warehouse burst outward, glass raining down, the whole structure shuddering like it''s about to collapse inward on itself.


    Then, as we round the corner, leaving the warehouse behind-


    We hear it.


    BBBOOMMM!


    Not a single blast, not a mushroom cloud, not a single fireball, but a chain reaction, one after the other, rapid fire, a rolling thunder of chemical ignitions, each setting off the next.


    The street lights up behind us, shadows flickering against the cab windows as the heat chases our tail. The taxi driver looks like he''s about to shit himself. Jordan laughs, and I feel it too, bubbling up from inside me like nervous vomit. It doesn''t take more than a couple of seconds before the four of us are laughing crazy, even the taxi driver nervously chuckling along, clearly unsure whether or not he just got made the accessory to a crime.


    "Alright, buddy," Jordan starts between giggles. "I''ll tip you extra if you''re willing to take us to Collingswood, wait like twenty minutes with us, and then drive us back. No, wait, no bridge. You got a favorite cheesesteak spot in South?"


    The driver, thickly accented, stares at Jordan in the rear-view mirror. "It''s two AM, sir. Nothing''s open that isn''t a convenience store."


    "Yeah, that''s fine. Just take us to South Street, wait twenty minutes, and then you can drive us back. Like I said, I''ll tip you a ton. Like, here, here''s forty bucks right now," Jordan answers, shaky hands reaching under their re-asserted cloak and pulling out two crisp, slightly wrinkly twenty dollar bills. They pass it through the little taxi window thing while Philadelphia becomes a slow blur around us.


    The driver, just as shaky if not moreso, grabs the bills and tucks them into his cupholder. Finally, I let out the breath I''ve been holding, and the pain in my ankle rushes back to me. "You''ve got it, boss," he says, rounding the corner at a streetlight.


    For a second, I can swear that I see Soot on a nearby rooftop, staring down at us - but I blink, and she''s gone. Already, I hear fire engine screams, ambulances, police sirens, headed their way towards this chemical explosion in North Philly.


    <hr>


    Twenty minutes later, we''re at a 24-hour McDonald''s on South Street, shoes kicked off under the table, costumes half-on. Jordan and I already changed in the bathroom, but Blink and Maggie are still in their outfits, just with the masks off and a sweater thrown over top.


    "So," Jordan says, unwrapping their third cheeseburger with the mechanical precision of someone who''s practiced this exact motion hundreds of times, "you think anyone else is going to connect this particular explosion to the four of us?"


    I shrug, gingerly stretching my ankle under the table. "I''m not worried about it. I''m feeling the win. But hey, guess this means I''m telling this whole story, right? For the new kids."


    "Oh shit." Blink''s eyes widen. "Really? The whole thing? From the beginning?"


    "We''ve got the time," I say, glancing at the camera "and you know I''m a sucker for a captive audience."


    Jordan smirks. "Toss me another barbecue sauce and I''ll let you monologue for thirty minutes."


    "Deal," I say, flicking the sauce packet across the table. "Let''s start at the beginning, when my life went from completely normal to extremely weird in about half a second."


    "Who are you talking to?" Maggie asks. She looks around, worried. "Who did you just wink at?" I ignore her.


    <hr>


    So, I''m Sam Small, Philadelphia''s own Bloodhound. It turns out there''s like six other Bloodhounds in the USA alone, but I''m the only one in Philly, so suck it.


    I got my powers when I was 14 - this was back in August 2023, maybe a year and nine months ago. Basically, I was out fishing with my Pop-Pop Moe - he''s my grandfather - and I fell off the boat. Except I wasn''t just "fell off the boat," I got caught under the boat. And the propeller? It got me.


    "Ouch," Blink says, wincing. "I still can''t believe how fast you healed from that."


    "That''s the thing - I didn''t know I was healing that fast. I was just happy to be alive."


    Anyway, after I got out of the hospital, I had these neat little shark teeth. And I could sense blood. Pretty gross, right? But useful in some situations.


    I had to get a license for my powers - a JLUMA, Juvenile License to Utilize Metahuman Abilities. This cop named Officer Gold interviewed me about my abilities, basically assessed whether I was a risk to society. Which... in hindsight, maybe, depending who you ask?


    "You''re not a risk," Jordan says, reaching over to steal one of my fries. "You''re a hazard. There''s a difference."


    I flip them off and continue.


    So, a couple weeks after I got my license, this lady named Liberty Belle - she was - is - was a pretty big deal superhero in Philly - she showed up at my house (more or less) and wanted to recruit me to join this team called the Young Defenders. They were, like, the junior version of the Delaware Valley Defenders, Philly''s main superhero team.


    Clarification; First, she found me playing basketball, and my blood sense discovered her secret lethal internal injuries. Then, she told me that she wanted to make sure to train the next generation of capes before she kicked the bucket.


    "Are you okay, Sam?" Maggie asks, reaching over to wipe my eyes with a napkin.


    "Fine!" I mumble. "Let me keep going,"


    I joined the Young Defenders - me, Gale, Puppeteer, Blink here, Crossroads, Gossamer, Playback, Rampart. We trained together. I nearly killed myself trying to prove I belonged by doing this insane obstacle course. Gossamer gave me my name and my first costume.


    My first patrol, I helped take down this guy called Mudslide at a Walgreens. And then I met this asshole calling themselves "Safeguard."


    Jordan rolls their eyes. "Rude."


    "Jordan here," I gesture with a fry, "was my nemesis for about twenty-four hours. They had these space-warping powers, could make distances longer or shorter."


    "I still regret not calling myself ''Non-Euclidean Person,''" Jordan says wistfully. "Also, the fuck you mean ''had''?"


    "Nobody would have known what that meant," I tell them.


    "The smart ones would."


    So anyway, I figured out Safeguard went to my high school. I confronted them, and then instead of, like, a superhero-supervillain fight, they suggested we stage fights to get famous. I thought that was pretty weird, but I didn''t have much time to think about it because while we were trying to do our fake staged fight, we witnessed a murder.


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    We were scouting locations for one of our fake confrontations, and we stumbled on three members of this criminal organization called the Kingdom of Keys - Mr. Nothing, Mr. Polygraph, and our old pal Mudslide, who they trussed up with one of their big-shot lawyers and got out of jail. They were using this abandoned factory for some sort of initiation rite, and we saw them force Mudslide to bury some poor guy alive.


    They spotted us, and we had to fight our way out. I got shot. Jordan got concussed. But we survived, and I discovered I had a third power - rapid healing.


    "Almost died, though," Blink points out.


    "Details," I wave dismissively. "Isn''t that our whole career? Almost dying?"


    "I don''t know if that''s healthy," Maggie mutters.


    "Shush, I''m building to the good parts."


    The next few months were busy. Pop-Pop Moe gave me some wisdom at a Rosh Hashanah dinner. I shared my powers with my best friends. The Young Defenders were rallied to face off with a gang called the Philly Phreaks, so named because all of them had really gross, visually apparent mutations. I mean, like, that doesn''t make them bad people. It''s the murderousness that makes them bad. Anyway, they had this kid they called Deathgirl - she could copy other people''s powers, but stronger, and she was their "secret weapon". One of them - Spindle - double-crossed them because he was tired of a life of crime, started dating Jordan, and then got adopted.


    "We''re still dating!" Jordan points out.


    Jordan and I started working together, investigating the Kingdom. We raided their nightclub hangout - the Crescent - and identified some of their leadership. This lady called Dr. Xenograft with her weird hybrid animals, Mrs. Heartstopper who could stop your heart with a touch (well, like fifteen seconds of touch), and Mr. T-Rex who could, you guessed it, turn into a fucking dinosaur.


    "Wait," Maggie interjects, pausing mid-bite of her McFlurry. "He could turn into an actual dinosaur? Like, with scales and everything?"


    "Scales and down," I shrug. "But yeah. And guess what? They followed us home. You''ve seen him, dude! At the zoo, remember?"


    "Oh, yeah,"


    The Kingdom tracked Jordan and me to my house. Mr. T-Rex and this woman called Mrs. Z - she had weather powers, and remember her because she''ll be important later - they attacked my family''s home. I convinced my parents to flee, and Jordan went to get help. I stayed behind to fight T-Rex, but when he transformed into an actual dinosaur, it was... bad. He crushed my house, stomped on my foot. I fought hard, bit through his dinosaur hide, but he was kicking my ass until Bulwark showed up.


    My house got completely destroyed. I moved in with Blink and her family.


    "You were a decent roommate," Blink says with a small smile. "Even if you talked in your sleep."


    "I do not talk in my sleep."


    "You absolutely do. Mostly about women."


    Meanwhile, Liberty Belle went missing. Puppeteer had a breakdown from the stress of running the team and got admitted to psychiatric care. And then, on the first night of Hanukkah, Chernobyl showed up in Philly.


    Chernobyl was this Ukrainian guy, a former nuclear engineer. He had an accident that basically turned him into a walking nuclear reactor. He had to wear this mechanical suit to keep from irradiating everything around him. Back in the day, he''d killed Liberty Belle''s mentor, Professor Franklin. And Belle had an... extremely intense vendetta against him because of it. Chernobyl was the thing we were all trying to avoid. The worst case scenario.


    Despite explicit orders to help with evacuation, I tracked Belle to an abandoned refinery where she was confronting Chernobyl. I watched their fight, even filmed some of it. Belle was amazing, but she was already weakened from cancer, and Chernobyl was just too strong. When it looked like she was going to lose, I charged in with a makeshift weapon.


    I didn''t save her. Chernobyl killed Belle right in front of me. And then he just... left. Told me to stay with her.


    Blink''s hand thumps me on the back a couple of times. "There, there. She was our leader too, Sam. Don''t beat yourself up over it," she says, pulling me in for a hug.


    The entire superhero community came to mourn Belle. And I inherited all her detective equipment, her notes, her files. She''d left them to me in her will, along with a letter saying she saw special potential in me despite our short time together. Not because I was strong or anything, but just from how stubborn I was about "the truth".


    Sure, I guess.


    I dug into her notes on Chernobyl, ate up his tragic backstory, and rewatched his encounter with Belle over and over again. He said he had a deal with the government. They were letting him operate freely in exchange for his services as a power source, and I think the government was afraid that was about to come out and become public. When federal agents tried to confiscate Belle''s notes from me, this Boston superhero named Miasma helped me out - one of Belle''s old friends. We formed a covert team called "The Auditors" - me, Jordan, and Connor, aka Spindle, who used to be with the Phreaks. Remember him?


    "Decent name," Jordan nods. "Not great, but decent."


    "I miss him. Funny guy," Maggie mumbles.


    "He''s not dead!" Jordan half-heartedly shouts.


    In January 2024, I got attacked again. Aaron McKinley - a guy Jordan and I had beaten before - ambushed me with some of the Phreaks. They tortured me, pulled out my fingernails. But during the torture, I discovered another power - I could grow teeth from anywhere on my body, not just my mouth. I used teeth growing from my wrists to cut myself free, and escaped, but not after making them all look like dogshit and cutting a bunch of cool scars across Aaron''s face.


    After recovering, The Auditors tracked Chernobyl to abandoned subway tunnels under Philadelphia. We got ambushed by Kingdom goons, and I ended up facing Chernobyl alone. We fought, and I actually managed to damage his suit, forcing him out of it briefly. But the radiation exposure nearly killed me. I spent weeks in the hospital recovering, but here''s the thing - Chernobyl turned himself in afterward. Something I said got through to him.


    "You''ve never told us exactly what you said to him," Blink says softly.


    I shrug. "Some things stay between me and the bad guys. Makes the legend stronger."


    So I''m in the hospital for weeks, getting therapy, taking lithium for newly diagnosed bipolar disorder, doing physical therapy, the works. I met my maternal grandmother Camilla for the first time. My friend Jamila - Gale, one of the Young Defenders - and I were sort of dating at this point, but things were complicated.


    I finally got discharged around my 15th birthday, in late April 2024. The hospital was honestly a little bit of a blur - two months of physical therapy, psychological therapy, and a lot of medications with names I could barely pronounce. But I survived. That''s what I do.


    Back at my newly rebuilt home, I got back into training with Gossamer at the DVD headquarters. She taught me boxing, first aid skills, the works. Jordan had renovated the Tacony Music Hall, which they had been squatting in this entire time, into our base of operations, which was pretty sweet. I celebrated Passover with my family, and Jamila even joined us for the Seder.


    "And it''s about to be your home, buddy," Jordan thumps me on the back, almost making me swallow an ice cube wrong.


    "I''m good. I live with my parents," I reply.


    Jordan laughs. "Can''t relate!"


    But things got complicated when this new drug called "Jump" hit the streets. It gave normal people temporary superpowers. While I was still recovering, we encountered this new villain named Ricochet who had amplified his powers with a nasty little syringe called "Fly" - like Jump, but permanent. Then he took another one to try and stack them, and, uh... folded himself in half? It was nasty. Don''t do drugs, kids!


    Then Derek - this guy from my trauma support group who''d been a total jerk the whole time - shows up at my door asking for help. Turns out, he was a werewolf. Is a werewolf. Long story. His friend Elias had taken Fly and transformed into this chimera monster targeting the Independence Blue Cross building, out of revenge for denying his insurance claims (who could blame him? But don''t do that either, seriously). We barely managed to stop him, and learned that some bald guy was distributing these power drugs.


    "That was the first time I saw Derek transform," I say, gesturing with a fry. "Not the last time, but definitely the most surprising."


    Jordan, Derek, Spindle and I gathered intel and discovered the power pills were being distributed by a dealer named Sparkplug. We set up a sting operation with this local team called the Tacony Titans - Sundial, Bubble, Compass, Moonshot, and Sandman.


    The sting went sideways when this vigilante called "Miss Mayfly" showed up with smoke bombs and stink gas, creating total chaos. During the fight, Sparkplug got away, but I discovered something shocking - Miss Mayfly was actually my best friend Kate.


    "Wait," Maggie interrupts. "Your best friend from middle school who didn''t have powers was secretly a vigilante the whole time?"


    "Yep. And she had a whole team too - Tasha, Lilly, Marcus, and Jenna. They were using drones, gadgets, all kinds of stuff."


    We managed to track Sparkplug to his fancy condo in Rittenhouse Square. Derek, in his werewolf form, and I took him down in a brutal fight. I had to use a mixture of Ketamine and Xylazine to sedate him, stuff that Derek used to sedate himself. We captured Sparkplug and I believe he is currently languishing in Daedalus, the super-secure mega-ultra-supermax they use to contain supervillains with dangerous powers.


    But the biggest shock - bigger than Sparkplug''s electric powers - came when Kate confronted me at our old basketball court. She''d taken Jump herself, turning her skin to metal. We fought - really fought - while she railed at me for abandoning our friend group, for getting powers, for going to a charter school while she was stuck at Lincoln, and it just let out all these awful, horrific bile that I didn''t even know was building. She had become Miss Mayfly to help keep the streets clean while I was in a coma, and from her perspective, here I was throwing that all in her face.


    It was vicious. We''d been friends since kindergarten, and now we were throwing punches, landing blows that should''ve hospitalized both of us. She felt left behind. I felt misunderstood. We both said things we couldn''t take back.


    As the sun started to rise, we finally collapsed from exhaustion, our friendship as battered and broken as our bodies.


    "And you never mentioned this to me?" Jordan asks, eyebrow raised.


    I shrug, avoiding their eyes. "Some wounds don''t heal as fast as the physical ones."


    And then, man, it just keeps going!

 Recap.2

    And then, man, it just keeps going!


    Summer came, and I found myself in the middle of the legal battle against Illya Fedorov (Chernobyl). I worked with federal prosecutor Mrs. Anne-Marie Gibson to prepare my testimony. We discovered the NSRA ¨C that''s the National Superhuman Response Agency ¨C had been collaborating with Fedorov the whole time. It was a lot of complicated legal stuff, but basically they''d been letting him operate as long as he provided them with energy or something.


    The trial was intense. I had to go on the stand and basically relive the worst day of my life, describe watching Liberty Belle die, all while this slick defense attorney tried to tear my testimony apart. I showed the court the video I''d taken on my phone. It was horrifying, but necessary.


    Then, Agent Shaw from the NSRA testified that the agency had been enabling Fedorov''s crimes in exchange for his abilities. It caused a huge scandal. People were protesting outside the courthouse when the Philly Phreaks showed up and started handing out tainted Jump. And by "handing out" I mean "shoving it down random people''s throats". I knew that there was tainted Jump going around - me and Rampart had seen it on patrol, but this was like... a full on terrorist attack. It was nuts.


    The modified Jump caused violent mutations among the protesters, turning them into like, living bombs. A lot... A lot of people got injured bad and some of them died that day, and then the Phreaks were just wading through the crowd trying to up the body count. Just a bunch of the worst teenagers you could ever meet. Deathgirl - the little pet project of the previous leader of the Phreaks - had ascended to some sort of leadership role, and she had it out for me in particular.


    It was hard, because her power is "doing everything you can do, but better and grosser". But she was also just, like, thirteen, so I just... out-enduranced and out-skilled her.


    "You saved my life, too!" Maggie points out. "That''s the attack I got powers in!"


    "True,"


    After everything settled down, I had to testify at a congressional hearing about superhuman regulation. Things started getting really dicey - roaming community defense squads of unpowered civilians trying to keep the peace, and, like, de facto martial law getting declared by the mayor. Before that day our school had like... maybe four resource officers. When we came back to the new school year, September 2024, it was just flooded, I mean flooded with security. And metal detectors! One of them, Officer Ridley at school was harassing students ¨C especially Black and Brown kids. When I saw him assaulting a freshman just for wearing a hat, I put him on the ground with some Aikido.


    That started getting me more attention. I wasn''t even trying to do it, it was just combat training kicking in at that point, but I still got a tongue lashing and detention.


    Anyway. Jordan and I created this anonymous whistleblower website exposing what the security guards were doing. It caught on fast ¨C other schools started making their own sites. The administration tried to shut us down, but we kept going.


    We discovered the guards were connected to a cop bar in South Philly, and that''s where we first encountered Patriot and Egalitarian, the leader and right-hand of a bootlicker superhero team called "Pattinson''s Pals". They''re these self-proclaimed "law and order" vigilantes who basically run around beating up whoever they think is causing trouble. Patriot''s got enhanced strength and durability, and Egalitarian can disorient people around her. They warned us to back off.


    "They were assholes," Jordan mutters. "Still are."


    "I wonder what''s going on with that Egalitarian lady?" Maggie muses.


    Things came to a head at the homecoming dance. Patriot and his goons burst in, claiming they had a warrant for Jordan''s arrest for our whistleblower site. I stood up to him, and he just... he beat me into the ground in front of everyone. It was on camera, went viral. But the amazing thing? The students and teachers formed a human wall between us and Patriot''s team. Even Principal Heckerman stood with us.


    After that, I was invited to testify before Congress about superhuman regulation. While I was in DC, we discovered that Patriot had been part of something called Project Titan ¨C a secret military program creating superhuman soldiers. We also found evidence that Egalitarian was using Fly.


    I confronted Patriot with what we knew during a protest. Then on Halloween night, I got him in an abandoned warehouse, to ostensibly discuss matters further, but really I had been setting up to whoop his ass. I mean - it could''ve gone peacefully, but believe me, he was not going to let that happen. I was completely outmatched physically, but I pulled some nasty tricks like convincing him I had injected him with poison, and then pressuring him with Project Titan and Egalitarian''s drug use, and we negotiated a truce. He agreed to back off and leave Jordan alone ¨C temporarily, at least.


    "You came home looking like you''d been hit by a truck," Jordan says. "Which, given Patriot''s punches, isn''t far off."


    November came, and Maya Richardson won a special election for City Council. The problem? She''s Mrs. Zenith of the Kingdom of Keys - told you she''d come back. I knew it, Jordan knew it, but we couldn''t prove it in time. She beat her Republican opponent in a landslide.


    I went undercover at the Crescent again, trying to gather intel on the Kingdom''s plans. Found a map showing locations they were targeting around the city, but got made by Mudslide. Took a bullet getting out, but managed to escape.


    "You still have that scar," Blink points out, tapping her own shoulder.


    A few days later, we learned the Kingdom was planning something called "Operation Ivory" at the Philadelphia Zoo, and I started really Girl Who Cried Wolf about it. They were planning on stealing the rhinoceroses, to poach them, or do something crazy with Dr. Xenograft''s animal chimera powers, or something... but while the DVDs and the heroes I rallied were dealing with Mr. T-Rex''s distraction at the rhino exhibit, Maggie and I discovered the real target ¨C poison dart frogs from the Reptile House.


    "I got shot!" Maggie adds proudly. "Multiple times!"


    "You were wearing my bulletproof vest," I remind her. "I still can''t believe you stole it."


    "Borrowed," she corrects with a grin.


    We captured Mr. Nothing and Mudslide, but Mrs. Heartbeat escaped with some of the frogs. Still, it felt like a win - collateral damage was minimized, no civilians died, nobody got rhinos, and we captured an extremely useful Kingdom asset, and Mudslide. Everything was cool... until last February, when the fires started.


    At first, it was just strange reports of bright red fires with a metallic smell. Then a coffee shop burned down. Then I found a threatening message in my locker ¨C a nail salon gift card with a hammer sticker.


    It was from Aaron McKinley. Remember him? He was back, and pissed. At me. Specifically.


    Derek and I tracked Aaron to this car he was living in under the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge. We confronted him, but he escaped after a fight. Then things escalated ¨C he set fire to several students during a school evacuation, including me. I got second-degree burns all over my arm and shoulder.


    "You healed fast, though," Jordan points out. "Like, suspiciously fast."


    "Yeah, so I had to keep my arm under wraps for a couple of weeks anyway. It was a super public injury. Really annoying," I grumble.


    Then, Kate''s house burned down.


    She gave up being Miss Mayfly after we got into our fight the previous year, and apparently was just kind of wallowing, and, well, she was inside when Aaron burnt her house down just to hurt me. Or at least I think it was Aaron. I''m still not 100% sure. Either way, I found her inside, unconscious, and barely got her out in time. With help from Crossroads, who can see potential futures (sort of - it''s complicated), I tracked Aaron to an abandoned house near Vogt Park. We had our final showdown there.


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    "You beat him within an inch of his life," Jordan says quietly.


    Yeah. I did. But I didn''t kill him, even though part of me wanted to, so I broke his arm and shoulder instead as a mercy. He''s in custody now, awaiting trial. Of course, he''s got high-priced lawyers from Tremont & Fairfax fighting to get him out.


    Which is weird, right? Tremont & Fairfax - it just sounds like a fancy schmancy name. Extremely out of Aaron''s price range. I didn''t even know who they were until I overheard someone talking about that after my deposition in the case, you know, hey, Aaron''s lawyer, why are you doing pro bono work for this random scumbag in a city you don''t even live in?


    Like I said - Weird, right?


    Oh! Right. I almost forgot about the ordinance! After Richardson got elected, she wasted no time screwing us over. She pushed through this anti-vigilante legislation called the Superhuman Activity Regulation Act. Basically, it banned anyone under 18 from any kind of vigilante activities, regardless of your LUMA status. I promise this will wrap back around to Aaron I just want to make sure our bases get covered.


    "She specifically mentioned you in her speech," Jordan adds. "Used the homecoming video as Exhibit A for why we needed to be ''regulated.''"


    Yeah, that was fun. I actually confronted her about it during a school assembly. She came to Tacony to promote her stupid act, using my fight with Patriot as some kind of object lesson. I stood up in front of the whole school and asked her about Richard Duvall''s mysterious death ¨C her opponent who disappeared right before the election. She did not appreciate that.


    "Got you sent to Heckerman''s office, if I recall," Blink says with a smirk.


    Worth it. Anyway, the ordinance passed 12-5, and just like that, the Young Defenders were officially disbanded. Rampart joined the DVDs officially. Crossroads had already graduated to the senior team. Gossamer was ready to quit superhero work, but somehow ended up joining us instead, which honestly has been a lifesaver. And Blink is here too now!


    "You''re welcome," she says, not looking up from her McFlurry.


    Connor decided to focus on getting his GED and civilian life with his new adoptive family. So basically, our team got gutted overnight.


    "And the Auditors expanded," Jordan adds.


    To make matters worse, Mr. Nothing and Mudslide escaped during a prison transport. There was this whole operation to move them from the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center, but the Kingdom ambushed the convoy. Captain Plasma got taken down, and they disappeared without a trace.


    Then came the biggest middle finger yet ¨C Richardson announced the formation of Argus Corps. This government-sanctioned superhuman task force would have powers to detain people, interrogate them, all kinds of stuff. And guess who she put in charge? Freaking Patriot.


    "She called it ''preemptive deterrence,''" Jordan says with air quotes.


    The team was Patriot, Turbo Jett, Miasma, and this new guy, Captain Devil. Miasma was the real surprise ¨C he used to be one of Liberty Belle''s allies. No idea why he joined up with Richardson, but it felt like a betrayal. Turbo Jett is someone we... encountered at the marina during a Jump slash Fly operation. Oh god, I gotta get into Rogue Wave. Okay. After this bit, promise!


    "Wasn''t this also the Soot time?" Maggie asks. "Around that time?"


    Yeah, we started getting reports of a figure in a gas mask using some kind of smoke abilities to take down drug dealers. Calling themself "Soot." They were targeting Jump dealers specifically, which put them on our radar. Jordan and I had a run-in with them during a break-in at a loan shark''s house. They were... professional. But brutal.


    Later, I tracked Soot to a warehouse where they were processing chemicals for their smoke powers. We had this whole debate about vigilante ethics ¨C they were willing to do things I wouldn''t, like using carbon monoxide to incapacitate people. But in the end, they handed over some Jump pills they''d confiscated, so I let them go.


    I had my suspicions about who Soot might be, but couldn''t prove anything. Still can''t, technically, though the evidence is... pretty compelling.


    "What evidence?" Blink asks, leaning forward with interest.


    Just patterns. Timings. The fact that Kate keeps disappearing at night and coming home at weird hours. Nothing concrete. But enough to make me wonder.


    Anyway, while all this was happening, on my 16th birthday, Maggie and I encountered a new player ¨C Bash. He was using some kind of auto-injector to enhance his already existing superpowers. Not Jump or Fly, something different.


    "Black autoinjectors," Jordan adds. "That''s what tipped us off about Stheno Pharmaceuticals in the first place."


    Right, which brings us back to Tremont & Fairfax. See, after Aaron''s arrest, I had to give this whole deposition about what happened. His lawyer was this woman named Katherine Huang, from Tremont & Fairfax ¨C this fancy New York law firm. Okay. Back to full circle.


    That''s when we discovered the connection between the law firm, Maya Richardson, and this company called Stheno Pharmaceuticals. Jordan found corporate registration documents linking them all together. We figured out Stheno was probably experimenting with Jump and whatever other drugs the Kingdom was pushing.


    So naturally, we had to break in.


    "Naturally," Jordan deadpans. "Wait, you missed a spot. Get back to Rogue Wave, we haven''t explained to the readers where the Jumpw as coming from yet."


    "The who?" Maggie asks, incredulously. "People are reading this?"


    "Don''t worry about it," Blink waves her hand in front of Maggie''s face.


    Oh right, Rogue Wave! I can''t believe I almost forgot to explain where all the Jump was coming from.


    So in the midst of all this Kingdom of Keys and Argus Corps business, we started noticing something weird with Jump dealers around the city. Like, if you mentioned "Rogue Wave" to them, they''d just... short-circuit. I mean that almost literally. Go full "Manchurian Candidate" and start trying to kill you immediately.


    We kept investigating, and it turned out Rogue Wave was this entire criminal organization distributing Jump and Fly throughout Philadelphia. They weren''t just selling drugs ¨C they were creating these supernatural contracts with dealers that literally forced them to follow orders.


    Their leader is this guy in a monkey mask who calls himself Monkey Business. He has the power to make contracts that are supernaturally binding. You sign with him, you''re basically his puppet. There''s also his enforcer, Birthday Suit, and a bunch of other chumps I haven''t had the displeasure of meeting yet - Rush Order, Dead Drop, Jackpot, and Snake Oil.


    "Don''t forget the big reveal," Jordan says, lowering their voice.


    Oh yeah. The big one. So a couple weeks ago, Monkey Business and his crew hijacked NBC10 and the emergency broadcast system. They had this whole manifesto about creating a "meritocracy" through superpowers. But the real bombshell? They claimed to have over 30,000 contracted individuals in Philadelphia alone ¨C people who signed these binding contracts and are now completely under their control.


    "That number''s bullshit," Jordan interjects. "I snuck into Monkey Shitness''s boat and overheard them talking about it. It''s closer to a thousand."


    Maybe, but even if it''s a fraction of that, it''s terrifying. Because these contracted people aren''t just dealers ¨C they''re normal citizens, cops, maybe even teachers or politicians. And if someone says the wrong thing about Rogue Wave, these sleeper agents activate and attack.


    "Like Officer Ridley," Blink points out.


    Exactly. One day at school, Jordan decided to test the waters by claiming to work for the Kingdom of Keys and making a big public show about it - Monkey Business''s announcement was used to activate all their sleeper agents at once and get them to start sabotaging the Kingdom. So when Jordan made an announcement about it, Officer Ridley went zombie-mode instantly, attacked Jordan with a taser and tried to strangle them with a baton. I had to choke him out to stop him, and even other students and another security guard helped.


    "Throat still hurts," Jordan chuckles. "Not too bad, though."


    So now we''ve got the Kingdom of Keys, Rogue Wave, and Argus Corps all fighting for control of Philadelphia, with regular people caught in the middle. And us teenagers are trying to navigate all of it while dealing with school, family, and, you know, not dying.


    "Good luck with that last one," Jordan mutters.


    Okay.


    Back to the present. And by that I mean, like, three hours ago. Before that, we did some cool investigation shenanigans that tied the Kingdom back to Stheno, which turned out to not have an actual office, just a warehouse on Trenton Avenue. And that meant we could do some investigation. The plan was simple ¨C get in, document what they were doing, get out.


    But of course, nothing ever goes according to plan in our lives.


    Turns out we weren''t the only ones interested in Stheno. Soot was already there, along with two superpowered enforcers - Bash and Lenny - and a bunch of civilian security guards. The place turned into a three-way battle with smoke everywhere. That''s when Argus Corps showed up, and suddenly it was a four-way. The fight was total chaos ¨C smoke everywhere, people getting thrown around. Earlier in our infiltration I had... tied up a security guard, and we had to un-tie him and get him out because Soot was about to flood the place with chlorine gas to smoke everyone out.


    So... had to rescue that guy!


    Patriot came after me. He grabbed my ankle on the stairs, crushed it, but I managed to break free. Jordan severed the staircase with their space powers, dropping Patriot while I rescued the guard. We jumped out a window where Blink and Jordan were waiting with a makeshift landing pad.


    As we escaped in a taxi, Soot released some kind of chemical that triggered a chain reaction, and the whole place went up in smoke and fire.


    And here we are, looking a hell of a lot more ridiculous than four random teenagers hitting McDonald''s at 2:30 in the morning should. I''m in my winter Bloodhound suit with the helmet off, missing a boot because my ankle''s swollen to the size of a softball. Jordan''s cloak is singed at the edges, and there''s soot ¨C actual soot, not the vigilante ¨C streaked across their face. Blink''s costume is torn at the shoulder, and Maggie has an impressive black eye forming.


    Part of me feels like I should be worried about Aaron''s trial, or Maya Richardson''s schemes, or Rogue Wave distributing Jump, or whatever the hell Stheno was making in that warehouse. But right now? Sitting here with my friends, alive when we easily could''ve died again? I''m just... I don''t know. Happy seems like the wrong word. Relieved, maybe. Grateful.


    "So," Jordan says, unwrapping their third cheeseburger with the mechanical precision of someone who''s practiced this exact motion hundreds of times, "you think anyone else is going to connect this particular explosion to the four of us?"


    I shrug, gingerly stretching my ankle under the table. "I''m not worried about it. I''m feeling the win."

 Chapter 1.1

    The McDonald''s on South Street is practically empty, which is probably for the best, because we look like we crawled out of a horror movie. There''s only a couple of employees behind the counter who look like they''re one customer away from a mental breakdown, and a guy in the corner who''s either meditating or sleeping upright, it''s hard to tell from here. The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker above us, making the already surreal situation feel even more dreamlike.


    "Holy shit," Jordan says, unwrapping their third cheeseburger with the mechanical precision of someone who''s practiced this exact motion hundreds of times. "I can''t believe we actually pulled that off."


    I stretch my ankle under the table and immediately regret it. Pain shoots up my leg like I just stepped on a Lego made of fire. When Patriot grabbed me on that stairwell, I felt something crunch. It''s not the worst injury I''ve had - not even top five, honestly - but it definitely ranks in the top ten most annoying.


    "Pulled it off is a stretch," I mutter, grabbing a handful of fries. "We nearly died. Again."


    Blink picks at her McFlurry, which looks mostly melted at this point. "How many times does this make now? I think I''ve lost count."


    "Tonight specifically, or overall?" Maggie asks, her face illuminated by her phone screen as she scrolls through something. "Cause overall, I''m pretty sure Sam''s at like, double digits by now."


    "Hey," I protest weakly, but honestly, she''s probably right. My life has become a series of near-death experiences punctuated by school and detention.


    Jordan finishes swallowing a massive bite and points at me with the remainder of their burger. "So what exactly happened in that office with the security guard? One minute I''m trying to keep the staircase from collapsing, and the next you''re jumping out a window."


    "Patriot showed up. I cut the guard loose, and then I had to get out of there fast." I don''t mention how Patriot crushed my ankle, or how I''m pretty sure something''s broken in there. No point worrying them when we''re all riding the high of not being dead. Besides, if my healing factor kicks in properly, it''ll be fine by morning. Maybe. Probably. I''ll deal with it later.


    Above the sound of wrapper crinkling and soda slurping, I hear the distant whump-whump-whump of helicopter blades. We all look up instinctively, even though we can''t see through the ceiling.


    "News choppers," Jordan says, reaching into their backpack and pulling out their phone. "They''re already on it." They tap a few times and turn the screen toward us. The local news has a live feed going - aerial shots of the warehouse engulfed in flames, emergency vehicles with lights flashing surrounding the perimeter.


    "Fuck," Blink whispers, leaning in closer to see. "That''s... a lot bigger than I expected."


    "Chemical chain reactions will do that," Jordan replies, all casual, like they''re talking about the weather and not about how we just blew up a warehouse full of industrial chemicals. "But hey, the Kingdom''s out a few million, and we''ve got whatever''s on these." They pat the front pocket of their backpack, where I know they''ve stashed at least three USB drives they yanked from various computers in the facility.


    "Should we like... worry about the neighborhood?" Blink asks, already looking like she''s about to start crying.


    Jordan shakes their head. "Look, see, the warehouse is still almost entirely intact, the smoke is just pouring out the windows. Because all the chemicals were in sealed containers, we got a bunch of little, smaller explosions that popcorned like fireworks instead of one giant fireball that blew up the entire neighborhood. I''m sure the block will be a no-go zone for a while, but I think in terms of collateral damage this is probably as good of a situation as we could''ve hoped for."


    "What''s on those drives, though?" Maggie asks, leaning forward with interest.


    Jordan shrugs, smirking. "No idea. I didn''t exactly have time for a thorough review while under pressure. I just ran a script to grab whatever I could. Could be the secret formula to the black autoinjectors, could be someone''s vacation photos. And you grabbed whatever USBs you could, right?"


    Maggie smiles a toothy smile and pulls out several handfuls of USB drives, gently dumping them on the table for Jordan to take and shove in their backpack.


    "So what''s the plan now?" Blink asks, glancing nervously at the door like Patriot or Captain Devil might burst through at any moment. I understand the feeling - my senses keep spiking at nothing, my body still convinced we''re in danger.


    Jordan crumples their wrapper and tosses it onto the tray with surprising accuracy. "We lay low. For at least a week. No patrols, no investigations, nothing that puts us on anyone''s radar. We don''t know if they got a good look at any of us in there, and I don''t particularly want to find out by having Patriot kick down my door."


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    My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a notification from our HIRC chat.


    "Tasha and Amelia are clear," I tell the others, scrolling through the message. "They made it back to base without being followed. Amelia says she can help look at my ankle tomorrow if it''s still bothering me."


    Jordan snorts. "Because what this team really needed was psychic powers." I stick my tongue out at them.


    "What about the USBs?" I ask, circling back to the more important issue. "Are we just gonna sit on those for a week too?"


    "We''ll need to be careful with those," Jordan says, suddenly serious. "The Kingdom has people everywhere. We try to analyze those ourselves, chances are we''re just going to end up with a bunch of encrypted files we can''t crack. And if we give them to the wrong person..." They make a slicing motion across their throat.


    "Davis?" I suggest. Councilman Davis has been one of our few reliable allies in this mess, even if he can''t always help us directly.


    Jordan makes a noncommittal noise. "Maybe. Let''s see what we''re dealing with first, then decide who needs to see it."


    Maggie yawns widely, not bothering to cover her mouth. There''s a massive bruise forming around her left eye from where she took a hit during the confusion at the warehouse. "What time is it, anyway?"


    I check my phone. "Almost three. Shit." My parents are going to kill me if they''re still up. And they might be - they''ve been on high alert ever since I got attacked by Aaron.


    "We should all head home," Jordan says, gathering up their trash. "Get some sleep while we can. Tomorrow''s gonna be... interesting."


    "That''s one word for it," Blink mutters.


    Jordan reaches into their backpack again and pulls out their wallet. They count out bills, dividing them into neat little stacks. "Forty each for taxis. Should be enough to get you home from here."


    "I could just skate," Blink says, rolling her eyes, but Jordan shakes their head.


    "Safer inside a car, I think. You could get ambushed on the streets a lot more easily."


    Blink nods at that.


    I pocket the money and stand up, immediately wincing as weight hits my bad ankle. Yep, definitely something more than a sprain in there. Blink notices and raises an eyebrow, but I just shake my head slightly. Not now.


    "Same time tomorrow?" Maggie asks as we shuffle toward the door, our bodies feeling ten years older than they did a few hours ago.


    "No," Jordan says firmly, eyes sort of swirling upwards in thought. It takes a couple of seconds for them to compile it into words. "We meet Sunday morning at the Music Hall to go over what we found and figure out next steps. Given that the Kingdom has a guy with randomly generated ESP varieties, we can''t guarantee anything we say over HIRC isn''t being monitored if we''re not in the Faraday room, since we have to act like he might have technopathy at any moment. Normally they wouldn''t have a good reason to be pointing that guy at us, but we just gave them a great one."


    Maggie nods.


    We step outside into the cool night air. South Street is never truly quiet, even at three in the morning, but it''s as close as it gets. A few straggling bar-hoppers, the occasional taxi cruising for fares, street cleaners making their rounds.


    "Everyone good?" Jordan asks, looking at each of us in turn. We all nod. "Then let''s split. Different directions, different taxis."


    We do a quick exchange of fist bumps.


    "Auditors adjourned," Jordan says, giving a little salute before steering Maggie toward Market Street to catch a cab there.


    I watch them go, then turn to Blink. "You okay getting home?"


    She nods. "Yeah. Just be careful with that ankle, okay? And text me when you get in."


    "Will do. And hey," I add, "nice work tonight. That slingshot shot on Patriot was a thing of beauty."


    She grins, some of the exhaustion lifting from her face. "Gotta justify my place on the team somehow."


    We part ways, and I find myself alone on the corner, trying not to put too much weight on my bad ankle while I pull up the taxi app on my phone. A few minutes later, a yellow cab pulls up to the curb.


    "Where to?" the driver asks as I slide into the back seat. He''s an older Indian guy with a neatly trimmed beard and family photos taped to his dashboard.


    I give him my address in Mayfair, then lean back against the seat, letting the gentle motion of the car and the drone of late-night talk radio wash over me. The adrenaline is finally starting to fade, leaving me hollowed out and heavy-limbed.


    The city slides by outside the window, all light and shadow in a streaky, tiger-stripe mix. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat. I wonder what Kate will say when I get home - assuming she''s there and not still out as Soot. I have so much circumstantial evidence at this point that it would be ridiculous to keep pretending I don''t know, but she''s made it clear she won''t admit anything without irrefutable proof.


    The taxi takes the ramp onto I-95, and I watch the Center City skyline recede in the side mirror. The warehouse fire is visible even from here, a distant orange glow against the night sky with helicopters circling like moths around a flame.


    I let my eyes drift closed, just for a moment. The image of Patriot''s face as he fell off the stairs sticks in my head like a jump scare - the cold fury in his eyes, the slight curl of his lip, the absolute certainty that he was right and I was wrong.


    My phone buzzes, jolting me back to alertness. It''s a text from Jordan.


    `Made it to Maggie''s, all clear. Check in when you''re home.`


    I text back a thumbs-up emoji, then notice another notification. It''s Tasha, sending me a link to a live news stream about the explosion. I don''t click on it. I don''t need to see what I just lived through, filtered through the lens of reporters who have no idea what really happened.


    The taxi takes the Cottman Avenue exit, heading toward Tacony. We''re getting close to home, and I still have no idea what I''m going to tell my parents if they''re awake. The truth? A half-truth? Some completely implausible lie about losing track of time at a friend''s house?


    I''ve gotten better at lying over the past year and a half, but I''m still not great at it, especially when I''m this tired. And there''s Liam to consider too - Kate''s dad has been a gracious houseguest, but I don''t know how much longer he''s planning to stay, and if he''ll be awake.


    My life has gotten so complicated since that day on Pop-Pop Moe''s boat. Sometimes I wonder what I''d be doing right now in some alternate universe where I never fell overboard - probably sleeping peacefully in bed, worrying about normal teenage stuff like homework and prom and college applications, instead of government conspiracies and supervillain drug operations.


    The taxi turns onto my street, and I feel my muscles tense. The lights are on in the living room. Someone''s still up.

 Chapter 1.2

    I pay the taxi driver, adding a decent tip because it''s the middle of the night and he didn''t try to make small talk, which I appreciate more than I can express right now. The porch light is on, which is normal, but the living room lights being on at 3:15 AM is definitely not. My parents are usually asleep by eleven, maybe midnight on weekends.


    Something in my gut tightens as I limp up the front walk. I''ve got a decision to make in the next ten seconds: try to sneak in and hope they''re just... what, having a late-night tea party? Or bite the bullet and face whatever''s waiting for me.


    The sneaking option is tempting, especially with my ankle screaming at me, but the odds of success are basically zero. If they''re up at this hour, they''re up because they''re waiting for me.


    I take a deep breath, key ready in my hand, and open the front door as quietly as possible. The hinges don''t squeak - my dad is religious about WD-40 - but the sound of the lock turning might as well be a gunshot in the quiet house.


    "In the kitchen," my mom calls, voice tight. Not angry-tight, but worried-tight. I recognize the difference by now.


    I hobble through the living room, past the stairs, and into the kitchen. Both my parents are sitting at the table. Mom has her hands wrapped around a mug of what smells like chamomile tea gone cold. Dad''s just sitting there, his glasses pushed up on his forehead while he pinches the bridge of his nose. There''s an empty wine bottle on the counter behind them that wasn''t there when I left.


    They both look up when I enter. Mom''s eyes immediately go to how I''m favoring my right leg, while Dad just looks... tired. Really tired.


    "I was out superhero-ing," I say before they can speak, deciding that honesty is the best approach here. "We found out the Kingdom was making their power-enhancing drugs at this warehouse in North Philly, and we went to investigate, and things got complicated, and there was a fight, and then the warehouse kind of... exploded?"


    The words tumble out of me in a rush. I pull out a chair - not too roughly, because Liam is asleep in the converted storage room behind the kitchen, and the last thing I need is to wake him up and have an audience for whatever''s about to happen.


    "Are you hurt?" Mom asks, eyes still on my ankle.


    "It''s not bad," I lie. "Patriot grabbed it, might have done some damage, but my regeneration should kick in. If not, I''ll get it checked tomorrow."


    Her face scrunches up.


    "The warehouse that exploded on the news," Dad says flatly. Not a question. "That was you."


    Also not a question.


    I nod, surprising myself with how little guilt I feel about that particular detail. "That was mostly Soot, actually. She was the one who released the chlorine gas that set off the chain reaction. But yeah, we were there. Jordan got some data about what they were making, and we, uh, disrupted their operation."


    Mom sets her mug down with a sharp click, whispering harshly. "Sam, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Industrial chemicals, supervillains, government-sponsored heroes - you could have been killed!"


    "But I wasn''t," I point out, which is probably not the most tactful response. Mom''s face blanches and my Dad''s entire body goes rigid, all at once. "And we got valuable intel that might help us figure out what the Kingdom''s doing with these drugs."


    "That''s not your job," Dad says, his voice quiet but firm. "You''re sixteen years old. You should be worrying about finals and summer plans, not taking down criminal organizations. You''re not a police officer. If that''s what you want to do, join the academy once you''re done school."


    "But I can help," I say, leaning forward. "I have powers. I have training. I have a team. And the Kingdom needs to be stopped before they hurt more people. And- and- and nobody else seems to care to do this work and... and dig these obvious connections up. And I''m, we''re probably going to give them to the DVDs and the cops. All the info we got. We..."


    My parents stare at me while I grab for words. When I finish the sentence, it''s more choked than I really, really wanted it to, and it makes me sound kind of pathetic. At least to my own ears. "Had to get one last parting shot. Before Jordan. Goes."


    Mom runs a hand through her hair, which is already a mess - she''s been doing that nervous gesture all night, I can tell. "We understand that you want to help, Sam. We do. But there has to be a line somewhere. You can''t keep putting yourself in these situations."


    "What situations would you prefer?" I ask, and it comes out more bitter than I intended. "The ones where I sit at home and do nothing while people get hurt? The ones where I pretend I don''t have these abilities and just... what, ignore everything that''s happening around me?"


    Dad takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. When he puts them back on, his expression is softer, almost wistful. "You know, I used to feel the same way. Back in college, I was at every protest, every rally. Thought the whole system needed to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch." He gestures vaguely at a mental image of his younger self. "Had the Che t-shirts and everything."


    "You still have one in the back of your closet," Mom points out. "I''ve tried to throw it out three times."


    "It''s vintage," Dad says defensively before turning back to me. "The point is, I get it, Sam. I really do. When you see injustice, when you see the system failing people, there''s this... this burning need to do something about it."


    I nod, a little taken aback by this unexpected understanding.


    "But the thing I had to learn," he continues, "is that there are many ways to fight that fight. You don''t have to be the one throwing yourself into danger every time. Some battles are better fought from different angles."


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    "What''s that supposed to mean?" I ask, genuinely confused. "I should, what, write an angry letter to the editor about the Kingdom of Keys? Start a hashtag campaign?"


    Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand. "It means that your desire to help is good, but the way you''re going about it isn''t sustainable. Not just because of the physical danger, but because of what it does to you, to your soul, to be constantly fighting."


    "Sometimes the most radical thing you can do," Dad adds, "is live well. Get an education. Build the skills and knowledge you need to change things systematically. Zoning Section 8 housing and homeless shelters as a city planner isn''t sexy. But it''s the work that works for the people who need it most. We need to use the levers that we have access to."


    I pull my hand away, frustration building again. "That''s a luxury we don''t have. People are dying now. The Kingdom is hurting people now. A guy in a monkey mask is doing... deal with the devil contracts now. I can''t just... put a pin in it until I finish college."


    "No one''s saying you have to ignore everything," Mom says. "But there are degrees of involvement, Sam. There''s a difference between passing along information to the proper authorities and personally confronting supervillains in abandoned warehouses."


    "The ''proper authorities'' are compromised," I counter, trying not to raise my voice. "Maya Richardson is on the city council and she''s Mrs. Zenith! The cops have Argus Corps breathing down their necks! Who exactly should I be trusting with this?"


    Mom glances at Dad. I recognize that expression. It''s the your daughter''s kind of right, Benjamin expression. She usually wears it drunk - not today, I guess.


    Dad leans forward, his expression serious. "That''s all the more reason to be strategic, not reckless. If the systems are failing, you need to be smart about how you fight back. Getting yourself killed or arrested doesn''t help anyone."


    There''s a logic to what he''s saying that I can''t entirely dismiss, as much as I want to. It''s the same argument I''ve had with myself on sleepless nights - what''s the endgame here? Am I going to be fighting the Kingdom forever? What happens when the next big bad shows up after them?


    "I don''t have all the answers," I admit finally, my voice smaller than I''d like. "But I know I can''t just do nothing when I have the ability to help. That feels... wrong. On a fundamental level."


    Mom and Dad exchange one of those looks again - the silent conversation that parents somehow master.


    "What if," Mom says carefully, "there was a middle path? A way for you to use your abilities and knowledge without constantly putting yourself in the line of fire?"


    "Like what?"


    "Like being the intelligence," Dad suggests. "The person who gathers information, connects the dots, and then passes it along to people who can act on it legally."


    "That''s... basically what we did tonight," I point out. "We gathered intel. It''s just that sometimes gathering intel means breaking into places you''re not supposed to be."


    "And sometimes those places explode," Mom adds dryly.


    I can''t help but let out a small, tired laugh at that. "Yeah, well, that wasn''t exactly part of the plan."


    Dad shakes his head, but there''s the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "The point is, Sam, we''re not asking you to stop caring or stop trying to make a difference. We''re asking you to find ways to do it that don''t involve you constantly risking your life."


    "Jordan''s leaving," I say after a moment, circling back to what''s really bothering me. "MIT. With them gone... I don''t know what happens to the team. To our work. And everyone keeps calling me the ''leader''."


    Understanding dawns in my parents'' eyes. This isn''t just about tonight; it''s about what comes next. About finding my place in a changing landscape that I still don''t really get. "That''s a legitimate concern," Dad acknowledges. "But it''s also an opportunity to reassess, to figure out what your role should be going forward."


    "But, Sam," he continues, and ah, there''s the catch, "we need some ground rules. Real ones, not the kind you agree to and then immediately break when something shiny catches your attention."


    "I don''t-" I start to protest, but Mom raises an eyebrow, and I deflate. "Okay, fair."


    "School comes first," Mom says. "That''s non-negotiable. Your grades have been slipping, and if you want to have options after graduation, that needs to change. If you want to use that nose of yours as a surgeon instead of a superhero, you''ll need to pass through med school. They don''t make exceptions for teen superheroes."


    I nod. I can''t argue with that either.


    "No more middle-of-the-night operations without telling us first," Dad adds. "We need to know where you are, who you''re with, and what you''re doing."


    "That''s not always possible," I counter. "Sometimes things happen quickly, and there''s no time to check in."


    "Then at minimum, a text," Mom says. "Just so we know you''re alive and where to start looking if you don''t come home."


    That seems reasonable. "Okay."


    "And for the immediate future," Dad says, his tone making it clear this is the big one, "you''re grounded for the rest of the month."


    I want to argue, but I know that battle is lost before it begins. And honestly, part of me is relieved. With everything that''s happened tonight, laying low for a few weeks sounds pretty appealing, even if I''d never admit that out loud.


    "Fine," I concede. "Grounded for the rest of the month. What does that mean exactly?"


    "No patrol, no superhero activities, no warehouse explosions," Dad lists off, counting on his fingers. "School, home, that''s it. Not even rescuing cats from trees."


    "The cats will have to fend for themselves," Mom adds with a small smile that doesn''t quite reach her eyes.


    I slump in my chair, feeling the weight of the night finally settling onto my shoulders. "What about my team? Jordan found some important information tonight."


    Mom and Dad exchange another look.


    "The team can come here," Mom says eventually. "If you really need it to, or they can meet without you. I have half a mind to call the O''Brians," my heart lurches and I''m about to start spontaneously shitting blood, "but... I don''t really like them. So just... keep it here. Because at the bare minimum, Ben still has a gun."


    Dad glances at my Mom with a sort of puzzled expression. I''m not really sure what it means. "And definitely no operations for the rest of the month. If it were up to me, ever, but I know by now trying to stop you will just make you get sneakier," he adds, after a moment of awkward silence.


    It''s more than I expected, honestly. "Okay. Deal."


    Dad stands up, stretching his back with a series of pops that make me wince. "Now get some sleep. Even superheroes need to maintain their circadian rhythm."


    "Ice that ankle first," Mom adds, maternal instinct kicking in. "And if it''s not better by morning, we''re going to the hospital."


    "It''ll be fine," I say automatically, though I''m not actually sure that''s true. It hurts a lot more than I''m letting on.


    Mom gets up and comes around the table, pulling me into a hug that catches me off guard. She smells like wine and chamomile and that fancy lotion she uses that costs way too much but Dad buys for her anyway. For a moment, I let myself just be a kid being hugged by her mom, not a superhero or a vigilante or whatever the hell I am these days.


    "We love you," she says quietly. "We just want you to live long enough to do all the amazing things you''re capable of."


    "I know," I mumble into her shoulder. "I love you too."


    Dad joins the hug, his arms long enough to wrap around both of us. For a brief moment, we''re just a normal family having a normal moment, if you ignore the context completely.


    When they release me, I see the worry lines around their eyes, the gray that''s starting to appear in Mom''s hair that wasn''t there a year ago. I wonder how much of that is because of me, because of the life I''ve chosen. The guilt is a familiar weight now, just one more thing to carry.


    "Now go to bed," Dad says, gently pushing me toward the door. "And try not to wake Kate. Or Liam."


    Kate. Right. I have a whole other confrontation waiting for me upstairs.


    "Night," I say, turning toward the stairs, my ankle protesting with every step.

 Chapter 1.3

    The stairs feel like Mount Everest with my ankle the way it is, but eventually I make it to the second floor. I pause outside our bedroom door, listening. No sounds of movement inside, but that doesn''t mean anything. Kate''s gotten good at playing possum.


    I push the door open slowly, wincing at the tiny creak of the hinges. The room is dark except for the faint blue glow of Kate''s phone charger and the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Kate appears to be a motionless lump under her blanket on the far side of the room.


    I hobble in and close the door behind me, not bothering to be particularly quiet. If she''s awake, she''s already heard me. If she''s actually asleep... well, we need to talk anyway. As I''m digging through my dresser for pajamas, I catch a whiff of something chemical. Not strong, just a faint trace, but definitely there. Like cleaning products, but with a metallic undertone. Guess she can''t keep it out of her hair.


    "Late night?" Kate''s voice comes from the bed, deliberately casual. She doesn''t sound groggy at all. Definitely wasn''t asleep.


    "Could ask you the same thing," I say, turning to face her. She''s sitting up now, her phone screen illuminating her face with that eerie blue glow. Her hair is damp - recently showered. Convenient.


    "I''ve been here all night," she says, not looking up from her phone. "Unlike some people."


    "Uh-huh." I toss my clothes on my bed and sit down, carefully keeping weight off my bad ankle. "So you wouldn''t happen to know anything about a warehouse explosion in North Philly tonight?"


    Her eyes flick up to meet mine, narrowing slightly. "Only what''s on the news. Industrial accident or something, right?"


    "That''s what they''re saying." I watch her face carefully. "Weird thing is, I was just there. And so was Soot."


    "Who?" Kate says flatly. "Sounds dangerous. Is that some baddie I should recognize?"


    "Funny you should mention being careful," I say, leaning back on my hands. "Because I''ve been thinking a lot about Soot lately. About who they might be under that mask."


    Kate sets her phone down, her expression hardening. "Sam, if you''re about to accuse me of being some random supervillain, I''m really not in the mood."


    "I''m just connecting dots, Kate. It''s kind of my thing." I start counting on my fingers. "Soot shows up right after your house burns down. They mainly operate in Tacony and Mayfair - our neighborhood. They''re exactly your height and build. They have the same skin tone as you, even if their nail polish is always deliberately different from yours." I glance pointedly at her blue-painted nails. "They have some sort of medical device in their mask that looks an awful lot like it could be made from a repurposed CPAP. They know enough martial arts to be effective in a fight, just like you. And they''re mysteriously never around when you are."


    "Lots of people are my height," Kate says dismissively. "Lots of people know martial arts. And I haven''t been anywhere near North Philly tonight."


    "Then why do you smell like industrial chemicals? The same ones that were in that warehouse?"


    Kate rolls her eyes. "I took a shower using these fancy bath products my dad bought with some of those donations. Sorry if they offend your superhuman senses. You can go smell them if you don''t believe me."


    Sure.


    I resist the urge to call bullshit. That''s not what bath products smell like, and we both know it. "And how come Liam''s been the beneficiary of all this anonymous monetary attention? Where''d that come from?"


    "What are you implying?" Kate''s voice turns icy. "That I''m, what, stealing? Taking payoffs? Whoever this Robin Hood is probably caught wind of the fact that my fucking house burnt down and is being a Good Samaritan. Isn''t that what superheroes do?"


    "Steal from people? Not usually," I bite back.


    Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    "This is ridiculous." Kate stands up, crossing her arms. "You''re seriously accusing me of being a vigilante based on... what? Coincidences? Circumstantial bullshit? I thought you were supposed to be the detective here."


    "I am," I say calmly. "And the evidence is pretty compelling, Kate."


    "Evidence?" She laughs, but there''s no humor in it. "You don''t have evidence. You have a theory, and you''re seeing what you want to see to make it fit."


    "Then explain why Soot just happened to be at the exact same warehouse we were planning to hit tonight. How come they keep popping up where I pop up?"


    Kate''s face doesn''t change, but I catch the subtle tension in her shoulders. "How should I know why some random person was where you were? Maybe they were tracking the same people you were. Maybe it''s someone on your team with a secret identity. Maybe it''s your friend Jordan trying to impress you."


    "Jordan was with me the whole time," I point out. "And everyone else on the team is accounted for. And none of them have smoke powers."


    "Then maybe it''s just a coincidence," Kate says, her voice rising slightly. "The world is full of them. Or maybe Soot was following you. Did you ever think of that?"


    "I didn''t consider that I was an interesting enough person to be worth following," I sarcastically quip.


    Kate throws up her hands. "I don''t know, Sam! I don''t know how this person''s mind works because I''m not them!"


    I study her for a long moment. She''s good, I''ll give her that. Not a single crack in her denial. But there''s something in her eyes - a defiance that goes beyond simple frustration at being falsely accused.


    "Okay," I say finally. "So you''re not Soot. Then you won''t mind if I ask you where you were tonight between 9 PM and 2 AM?"


    "Here," she says without hesitation. "Watching Netflix, then sleeping. Your dad checked on me around 11 before he went to bed. Ask him."


    Damn. That''s a solid alibi if true, and knowing my dad, he probably did check in. That doesn''t mean she couldn''t have left afterward, but it complicates my timeline.


    "Fine," I say, not bothering to hide my skepticism. "Let''s say I believe you. That still doesn''t explain all the other coincidences."


    "Maybe you''re seeing patterns that aren''t there." Kate sits back down on her bed, picking up her phone again. "Maybe you''re so desperate to know who Soot is that you''re forcing the pieces to fit."


    "Or maybe you''re lying," I counter. "And we both know it."


    Kate looks up, her expression suddenly tired. "What do you want from me, Sam? A confession? Because unless you''ve got a smoking gun, you''re not getting one."


    "I want honesty," I say. "We live together. Your dad lives here. We''re supposed to be friends, or at least we were before... everything. If you''re putting yourself in danger every night, I deserve to know."


    "Like you tell me every time you go out as Bloodhound?" she asks, raising an eyebrow. "Like you told me before you went out tonight?"


    "That''s different," I protest. "My parents know. My team knows. I''m not hiding who I am."


    "Aren''t you?" Kate''s voice is quiet now, almost sad. "Sam Small, straight-B minus student by day, vigilante by night? Seems like hiding to me."


    I don''t have a good response to that. She''s not entirely wrong.


    "Look," Kate says after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "I''m not Soot. I''m not a vigilante. I''m just trying to get through each day and take care of my dad until we can get back on our feet. If you want to waste your time trying to prove otherwise, that''s on you."


    There''s a finality to her words that tells me I''m not getting anything more out of her tonight. She''s dug in her heels, and short of catching her in the act, I''m not going to change her mind.


    "Alright," I sigh, reaching for my laptop. "I still think you''re full of shit, but whatever."


    "Likewise," she mutters, turning to face the wall.


    I open my laptop, planning to check if anyone''s posted updates in our HIRC chat, but immediately notice something''s off. I left it open to a forum thread about regeneration science, but now it''s displaying our secure chat. The one where we planned tonight''s operation.


    I glance over at Kate, who''s very deliberately not looking at me.


    I want to confront her, to throw the laptop across the room and demand answers. But what good would it do? She''d just deny it again. And maybe that''s the smarter play anyway - let her think I don''t know, see what else she might let slip by thinking she''s still a step ahead.


    Instead, I quietly close the laptop and set it aside. I''ll need to tell Jordan tomorrow, make sure we change our security protocols. Maybe set up some kind of trap for next time, something to catch her in the act.


    "Night," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "Sleep well, bitch."


    "Night," Kate replies, still facing the wall. "Don''t let the bed bugs bite, whore."


    There''s no bite to it. Even after we''ve literally powerslammed each other into the concrete, I just can''t muster up any real venom, not the sort of stuff that would really make toes curl. This is just what teenagers say to each other, right?


    I change into pajamas and slide under my covers, my mind racing despite my exhaustion. The warehouse explosion, the confrontation with my parents, the ankle injury, and now this - it''s too much to process all at once. But one thing is crystal clear: Kate is Soot. And more importantly, she doesn''t trust me any more than I trust her.


    As I drift toward uneasy sleep, I find myself wondering what Jordan would do in this situation. Probably something clever and strategic. But Jordan''s leaving soon, and then it''ll just be me trying to figure out what to do about the vigilante sleeping across the room.

 Chapter 2.1

    I''ve had this keycard for almost two years now, and yet every time I tap it against the sensor pad outside the Delaware Valley Defenders'' headquarters, I expect it not to work. Like maybe this is the day they finally figured out I shouldn''t have access to a professional superhero facility, or the day the universe decides I''m an impostor who doesn''t belong. But the light flashes green, same as always, and the heavy metal door unlocks with a satisfying click.


    Apparently Councilman Davis''s override works. Good to know.


    The headquarters always smells the same ¨C a mixture of industrial cleaner, the faint ozone scent of high-tech equipment, and stale coffee. The corridor leading from the side entrance is dimly lit and empty this early on a Sunday morning, which is exactly what I was hoping for. The less people who see me hobbling around like I went twelve rounds with a sledgehammer, the better.


    My ankle isn''t technically worse than last night, but it''s definitely not better either. I woke up this morning to find it swollen to the size of a softball, mottled with impressive purple and yellow bruises. Walking on it feels like stepping on broken glass, which is why I''m gripping the wall like it''s the only thing keeping me from falling into the void as I make my way toward the medical office.


    "Temporary" crutches fashioned from a broomstick and some duct tape only get you so far. And by "so far," I mean "down the stairs and into the taxi before mom notices and insists on taking me to an actual hospital."


    The medical office is at the end of the corridor, past the gym and the computer room. As I approach, I hear voices ¨C one calm and measured, the other deep and irritated. Great. Company.


    I push the door open with my shoulder, careful to keep my weight on my good leg, and find myself face-to-face with Multiplex. Well, face-to-chest is more accurate. The man is built like a refrigerator with arms.


    He cuts off mid-sentence and turns to stare at me, his expression shifting from annoyed to suspicious in the span of a heartbeat. Behind him, Nurse Sylvia is organizing supplies on a metal tray, her silver hair pulled back in its usual immaculate bun. She looks up and smiles when she sees me, seemingly unsurprised by my unannounced arrival.


    "Bloodhound," Multiplex says, crossing his arms. "What are you doing here?"


    It''s more of a statement than a question. Something I seem to be getting a lot of recently.


    I straighten up as much as I can while still keeping weight off my bad ankle. "Morning to you too, Multiplex."


    "That doesn''t answer my question," he says, about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus.


    "I''m here to see Nurse Sylvia," I say, gesturing to my ankle, which is visibly swollen even through my sweatpants. "Medical issue."


    His eyes narrow. "The Young Defenders program was officially dissolved. Your keycard shouldn''t even work anymore."


    "And yet, here I am," I say, trying for a smile that probably looks more like a grimace given how much my ankle is throbbing. "Councilman Davis cleared it. You can call him if you want."


    Multiplex''s jaw tightens. He and Davis have some kind of ongoing professional tension that I''ve never fully understood but have definitely exploited on multiple occasions.


    "Elijah," Nurse Sylvia says, her voice gentle but firm as she steps around him. "The girl is injured. Why don''t you finish filling out that incident report and let me do my job?"


    For a moment, I think he''s going to argue, but he just exhales sharply through his nose. "Fine. But this doesn''t mean the headquarters is open to every former junior member who scrapes their knee. There are protocols for a reason."


    "Of course," Sylvia says soothingly. "Sam is a special case."


    That seems to irritate him even more, but he doesn''t contradict her. He just gives me one last measuring look before brushing past, careful not to actually touch me. The door closes behind him with a little more force than necessary. "Man, what''s his beef?" I find myself mumbling.


    "Don''t mind him," Sylvia says, leading me back into the office proper and patting the examination table. "He''s been dealing with budget negotiations all week. Makes him even more of a stickler than usual."


    I hop over to the table and boost myself up, wincing as my ankle protests the movement. "Thanks for seeing me without an appointment."


    "Well, when Jamal calls me at six in the morning and says one of his kids needs help, I make room in my schedule." She kneels down to get a better look at my ankle. "What happened here? And don''t give me the sanitized version."


    I hesitate for a second, but there''s not much point in lying. "Patriot grabbed it. Crushed it, actually."


    She looks up sharply, her kind face suddenly serious. "Richard Johnson did this to you? When?"


    "Last night. At a warehouse in North Philly."


    She sighs, gently probing around my ankle with fingers that radiate a subtle warmth ¨C her power, taking the edge off the pain just enough to make her examination bearable. "The same warehouse that''s all over the morning news with chemical fires and a multi-agency response?"


    I wince, and not just from the physical discomfort. "Maybe?"


    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Mmhmm." She continues her examination without further comment, which is somehow worse than a lecture. Nurse Sylvia has perfected the art of the disappointed silence. "I''ll assume this was a coincidental warehouse right next door."


    After a thorough assessment via palpation, she stands up. "Well, it''s not great, but it could be worse. Looks like you had multiple fractures and some ligament damage. I say ''had'' because your regeneration has already started knitting things back together, but it''s still a mess in there. I could get more thorough imaging with an x-ray, but I don''t have an x-ray, and by the time we''re done it''d be inaccurate anyway."


    That tracks with how it feels. "So what''s the prognosis, doc?"


    "First, I''m not a doctor, I''m a nurse practitioner, as I''ve reminded you approximately thirty-six times." She retrieves an compression bandage from a cabinet. "Second, you need to stay off this foot as much as possible for at least a week. Your regeneration is dealing with the broken bones first, but the soft tissue damage will take longer."


    She starts wrapping my ankle with practiced efficiency. "I''m going to give you a walking boot and some crutches. Use them. And ice it three times a day, twenty minutes each time."


    "Will do," I promise, knowing full well I''ll probably ditch the crutches as soon as the boot makes walking somewhat manageable. Sylvia seems to read this thought directly from my brain, because she fixes me with a stern look.


    "I mean it, Sam. Your healing factor isn''t a get-out-of-injury-free card. Push too hard, and you could end up with permanent damage." She secures the bandage with a clip. "Bodies aren''t meant to heal this fast ¨C even powered ones. The process isn''t perfect."


    "I know, I know." I''ve heard this lecture before. Multiple times. I don''t have permanent damage yet, if you don''t count the scar tissue. Which I don''t. Scar tissue isn''t damage, it''s scarring. Different thing.


    She disappears into a storage closet and returns with a walking boot and a set of adjustable crutches. "Your regeneration rate suggests you''ll be mostly healed in about a week to ten days, which is impressive but not instantaneous. That''s assuming you actually rest and don''t immediately go back to kicking down doors or whatever it is you''ve been up to."


    "I don''t kick doors. I jumped out a window, but that''s unrelated to the injury,"


    Sylvia closes her eyes briefly, like she''s praying for patience. "Of course you did." She helps me fit the boot, adjusting the straps until it''s secure but not too tight. "How''s that feel?"


    I flex my foot experimentally. The boot keeps it mostly immobilized, but there''s enough support that the stabbing pain has dulled to a persistent ache. The warmth from her hands has helped too. "Better, thanks."


    "Good." She hands me the crutches. "Now, want to tell me what you were doing tangling with Argus Corps in a chemical warehouse? I thought you were grounded."


    I adjust the crutches to my height. "It''s complicated."


    "It always is with you," she says, but there''s no heat in it. She starts cleaning up the packaging from the boot. "Your parents know you''re here?"


    "They know I was getting my ankle checked. They think I''m at urgent care." It''s not technically a lie, but Sylvia''s raised eyebrow makes it clear she''s not impressed with the distinction.


    "Sam," she says, her voice softer now. "I''ve been patching up superheroes for almost twenty years. I''ve seen what happens when people ¨C especially young people ¨C try to carry too much on their shoulders."


    "I''m fine," I say automatically.


    "Are you? Because taking on Argus Corps single-handedly doesn''t sound ''fine'' to me. It sounds like someone with a death wish or something to prove. Maybe both."


    I look down at my hands, suddenly finding my cuticles absolutely fascinating. "I wasn''t alone. My team was there."


    "Your team of other teenagers?" She sighs. "Listen, I''m not going to lecture you about responsibility or making better choices. That''s not my job, and honestly, it probably wouldn''t change anything."


    "But?" I prompt, because there''s definitely a "but" coming.


    "But I want you to understand that Liberty Belle saw something special in you, Sam. She wouldn''t want you to burn yourself out before you even turn eighteen." She sits down in her rolling chair, bringing herself to eye level with me. "Or get arrested."


    The mention of Belle makes my chest tighten. It''s been months since she died, but sometimes it still feels like it just happened.


    "I''m not trying to burn myself out," I say quietly. "I''m trying to finish what she started."


    Sylvia''s expression softens. "I know, honey. But Belle had years of experience, a whole support system, and government backing. And even with all that, this job still killed her in the end."


    "Cancer killed her," I correct.


    "Cancer that she got from radiation exposure during a mission," Sylvia counters. "This life takes its toll, one way or another. I''ve seen it happen over and over."


    "Is this the part where you tell me I should quit while I''m ahead?" I try to keep the defensiveness out of my voice, but I don''t entirely succeed.


    To my surprise, she shakes her head. "No. If there''s one thing I''ve learned from working with powered individuals, it''s that telling someone not to use their abilities is like telling them not to breathe. It doesn''t work, and it usually just makes things worse."


    She stands up and goes to a cabinet, returning with a small bottle of pills. "These are for pain, if you need them. I remember your liver makes things act weird. This shouldn''t be an issue with that."


    I take the bottle, surprised by this unexpected shift. "Thanks."


    "What I will say," she continues, as if we haven''t had an interruption, "is that you need to build a more sustainable approach."


    "Like you did?" The words are out before I can stop them.


    Instead of being offended, she smiles. "Yes, actually. I made the choice to use my abilities in a way that lets me help without destroying myself in the process. The Delaware Valley Defenders will always need good medics," she says, helping me down from the examination table. "But we also need people on the front lines. Just make sure you''re still around for the long haul, okay? This isn''t a sprint."


    "Yeah," I say, testing my weight on the crutches. "About that. Do you think... would it be okay if I came by more often? Not just when I''m injured, I mean. I''ve been thinking about cross-training, learning some more medical skills."


    I''m not sure if I mean it. Maybe I''m just making small talk. Or thinking too much about what my parents say.


    Sylvia looks surprised, but pleasantly so. "Of course. Though I''d have to clear it with Multiplex."


    "Councilman Davis can help with that," I say, flashing her a grin. "He and I have an understanding."


    She laughs. "I bet you do. That man has a soft spot for strays."


    "I prefer to think of myself as ''independently affiliated,''" I say, which makes her laugh again.


    "Sure you do." She opens the door for me. "Take care of that ankle, Sam. And maybe try staying out of warehouses full of volatile chemicals for a while? Or violating city ordinances."


    "No promises," I say, but I''m smiling as I maneuver myself and my new crutches through the doorway.


    The corridor outside is still empty, which is a relief. The last thing I need is to run into Fury Forge or Bulwark and have to explain why I''m limping around headquarters looking like I lost a fight with a trash compactor. Which, given Patriot''s grip strength, isn''t far from the truth.


    I''m almost to the exit when I hear footsteps behind me ¨C heavy, deliberate footsteps that I recognize immediately. I briefly consider pretending I don''t hear them, but with these crutches, I can''t exactly make a quick getaway. Come on, Multiplex, give me a break.

 Chapter 2.2

    "Bloodhound," Multiplex calls again when I don''t immediately stop. "A word."


    I sigh and pivot awkwardly on my good foot, the crutches squeaking against the polished floor. "Yes?"


    He approaches with measured steps, his posture military-straight. Up close, the lines around his eyes are more pronounced than I remember, tiny etchings of stress and responsibility. His expression is carefully neutral, which somehow makes it more intimidating than if he were scowling.


    "Your ankle," he says, glancing down at the boot. "Patriot did that?"


    I''m surprised he knows this detail. "Yeah. Last night."


    "Hmm." He crosses his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. "And now a warehouse full of industrial chemicals is on fire. Interesting coincidence."


    "Very interesting," I agree, keeping my face as neutral as his. Two can play at this game.


    Multiplex stares at me for a long moment, like he''s waiting for me to crack and confess. When I don''t, he just exhales slowly. "You know, this isn''t the first time a group of teenagers has decided they know better than everyone else."


    "Is that what you think we''re doing?" I ask before I can stop myself. "That we just want to prove something?"


    "Isn''t it?" His tone isn''t accusatory, just matter-of-fact. "You''re operating outside the system, taking on threats that trained professionals struggle with, and repeatedly putting yourselves in life-threatening situations. All while ignoring the legal framework specifically designed to prevent vigilante chaos."


    I feel my temper rising, a familiar heat crawling up my neck. "The ''legal framework'' you''re talking about was created by Maya Richardson ¨C who, by the way, is running the Kingdom of Keys. Or did you miss that memo?"


    "I''m well aware of the allegations against Councilwoman Richardson," he says, his voice perfectly even.


    "They''re not allegations. They''re facts. Facts that we''ve been trying to prove for months while you and the DVDs sit around filing paperwork and following protocols."


    Something flickers in his eyes ¨C annoyance, maybe even anger ¨C but his voice remains steady. "And you believe that justifies ignoring the law? Setting fires? Causing millions in property damage?"


    "If it stops the Kingdom from pumping out whatever drugs they''re making in that warehouse? Yeah, actually, I do. I didn''t even set those fires, by the way. That was some bitch who was trying to kill us."


    Multiplex shakes his head, a gesture so small it''s barely perceptible. "This is exactly why Belle and I disagreed about the Young Defenders program."


    That catches me off guard. I''ve never heard him talk about Belle directly before. "What do you mean?"


    He seems to deliberate for a moment, like he''s deciding how much to say. "She believed in inspiration, in leading by example, in taking risks for the greater good. I believe in structure, in systems, in building something that lasts beyond any individual hero."


    "And you think those things are mutually exclusive?"


    "No." For the first time, there''s a hint of something like regret in his voice. "But I think they require balance. Belle leaned too far in one direction, especially toward the end. She saw potential everywhere, even when the risks outweighed the rewards."


    I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to defend her. "She saw potential in me."


    "Yes," he says simply. "She did."


    The corridor feels suddenly too small, too confined for this conversation. Multiplex''s presence fills the space in a way that has nothing to do with his physical size.


    "Can I ask you something?" I say, adjusting my grip on the crutches.


    He inclines his head slightly, an invitation to continue.


    "Why do you give us ¨C me ¨C so much shit all the time? What did we ever do to you?"


    For several seconds, he doesn''t respond. Then, to my surprise, he motions toward a bench set against the wall. "You might want to sit for this. That boot looks uncomfortable."


    I hesitate, then hobble over and sink onto the bench. Multiplex doesn''t join me; he remains standing, maintaining his slight height advantage.


    "Before I joined the DVDs," he begins, "I was a professional boxer. Cruiserweight division, top ten ranking, on track for a title shot."


    This is news to me. I try to picture Multiplex in boxing shorts and gloves, imagining him dancing around a ring. It''s not as incongruous as I would have expected.


    "Then my powers manifested," he continues. "Truck accident on I-95. I was pinned under the wreckage, sure I was going to die. Next thing I know, there were three of me, pushing the debris away."


    "Activation event," I murmur. We all have one ¨C that moment when death comes calling and our powers answer.


    He nods. "Two weeks later, the Boxing Commission found out. I was banned from competition immediately. No appeals, no exceptions. Doesn''t matter that my power doesn''t make me physically stronger or faster ¨C just the fact that I have powers was enough."


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    "That''s not fair," I say automatically, though I understand the reasoning. I can''t exactly play soccer anymore - my powers are an unfair advantage too. I mean, I don''t see it that way, but I''ve asked, and Tacony Charter politely encouraged me to not participate in school sports for the sake of fairness. Already, my empathy meter for him spikes up like fifteen ticks. I''d be pissed too.


    "Life rarely is," he says with a shrug that''s too deliberate to be casual. "But that''s not the point of this story. The point is what came after."


    He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I was angry. Resentful. I''d lost everything I''d worked for through no fault of my own. So when Liberty Belle approached me about joining the DVDs, I saw it as a chance to hit back at a world that had taken my dreams away."


    I can see where this is going. "You were reckless."


    "Extremely," he confirms. "I thought being a hero meant charging into every fight, taking down every bad guy, proving I was still worth something. And Belle ¨C she encouraged it. Not the recklessness specifically, but the passion, the drive. She believed in letting heroes find their own path."


    His gaze shifts away from me, focusing on some invisible point in the distance. "Six months in, I led a raid on a weapons smuggling operation. Didn''t wait for backup, didn''t follow protocol. I was so sure I could handle it."


    There''s a heaviness to his words that makes my stomach tighten. "What happened?"


    "Three of my duplicates died. Gunfire, mostly. But one of them..." He pauses, his jaw working. "One of them was taken hostage, tortured for information, then executed. When he died, all his memories transferred back to me."


    I feel sick. "Jesus."


    "I experienced my own death," Multiplex says flatly. "I felt everything they did to him ¨C to me. And because of my arrogance, three civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time also died. When it''s gunfire, it''s quick. I don''t get a lot of the sensory feedback. Just sort of a sharp flash and then it''s over, like an itch. But the other one..."


    He looks back at me, his eyes hard. "That''s when I understood that heroism isn''t about inspiration or individual glory. It''s about systems. Protocols. Doing things the right way so that people ¨C innocent people ¨C don''t get hurt because of your mistakes."


    I don''t know what to say. This is more than I ever expected Multiplex to share, and it''s making me uncomfortable. I don''t like thinking about him as anything other than the resident hardass. Feels weird.


    "So when you ask why I give you a hard time," he continues, "it''s because I see in you and your friends the same dangerous combination of good intentions and overconfidence that nearly destroyed me. And because I''ve spent the last decade trying to build a better approach, only to watch Belle undermine it by recruiting teenagers into a life they aren''t prepared for."


    "That''s not fair," I protest. "We''ve done good work. We''ve helped people."


    "You have," he acknowledges. "But at what cost? And for how long? How many warehouse explosions before someone doesn''t make it out? How many confrontations with Patriot before he does worse than crush an ankle? We have to do something better, to train properly, to understand the threats, to coordinate with legitimate authorities, and to act decisively when the time is right. Not to rush headlong into every fight that presents itself."


    "And while you''re busy building your perfect system," I counter, "people are getting hurt. Now. Today. Someone has to do something. God, I feel like I''ve had this conversation fifteen times in the past three days."


    Multiplex blinks, momentarily thrown by my interruption. "Excuse me?"


    "No, seriously." I shift my weight on the crutches, the frustration suddenly bubbling over. "My parents gave me this exact same speech last night. Nurse Sylvia gave me a version five minutes ago. Jordan''s been hammering it for weeks. I get it. I really do."


    His expression hardens. "This isn''t¡ª"


    "A game? Another lecture point I''ve heard verbatim." I shake my head. "Look, I respect what you''re saying about your experience. That sounds genuinely awful, and I''m sorry it happened to you. But I don''t need another adult telling me to slow down and follow the rules while the bad guys keep operating with impunity."


    "That''s not what I''m¡ª"


    "It kind of is, though." I''m on a roll now, the words pouring out before I can filter them. "Everyone wants me to be more careful, more strategic, more patient. Everyone has a better way for me to be a hero. But nobody seems to have an actual plan for stopping people like Richardson now, today, while they''re actively hurting people."


    Multiplex crosses his arms, his jaw tight. "You think the DVDs don''t have plans in motion?"


    "I think if you did, we''d have seen results by now." I readjust my grip on the crutches. "And maybe you do. Maybe there''s some grand strategy I know nothing about. But from where I''m standing ¨C or, you know, hobbling ¨C it looks a lot like bureaucratic paralysis."


    "You don''t know what you''re talking about," he says, his voice cooling several degrees.


    "Maybe not," I concede. "But I do know that while everyone''s been telling me to be more careful, my team has disrupted Kingdom operations, gathered evidence against Richardson, and tracked Rogue Wave''s distribution network. What we lack in protocols, we make up for in actual results."


    For a moment, Multiplex just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he does something I don''t expect ¨C he laughs. It''s short, barely more than a huff of air, but definitely a laugh.


    "What?" I ask, confused by this response.


    "You sound exactly like Belle when she was arguing for starting the Young Defenders," he says, shaking his head. "Almost word for word."


    I''m not sure how to take that. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"


    "Both. Neither." He shrugs, a surprisingly casual gesture from someone usually so rigid. "It''s just an observation."


    An awkward silence stretches between us. I''ve clearly derailed whatever speech he was building to, and now neither of us seems to know where to go from here.


    "Look," I say finally, "I appreciate you sharing your story with me. I really do. And maybe there''s a middle ground between your approach and mine. But right now, my ankle is killing me, and I need to get home before my parents realize I''ve been gone too long."


    Multiplex nods, his professional demeanor settling back into place. "Of course."


    I start to turn away, but he speaks again. "Bloodhound."


    I look back at him. "Yeah?"


    "When that ankle heals," he says, "come back here. The training room, not the medical office."


    I raise an eyebrow. "For more lectures?"


    The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "For sparring. If you''re going to insist on doing things your way, you should at least know how to throw a proper punch."


    That catches me off guard. "Seriously?"


    "Completely serious." His expression is steady, evaluating. "Your technique is sloppy, your footwork is amateur, and you rely too much on your regeneration to absorb punishment you should be avoiding altogether."


    "Wow. Tell me how you really feel."


    "I just did." But there''s no malice in his tone, just matter-of-fact assessment. "I can help with that, if you''re willing to learn. No strings attached. Rampart and Playback and everyone else - they''ve been effective teachers, but they''re all teaching you secondhand hand-me-downs from my lessons. Come to my gym and I''ll whip you into proper shape. You think Crossroads knows how to dodge?" He chuckles a little bit. "I''ll show you dodging."


    I study him for a moment, trying to figure out if there''s some angle I''m missing. This version - this boisterous, almost proud version of Multiplex, feels like a very sudden and different person, but I like it a lot more. I''m not sure what to make of it. "Why would you do that?"


    "Because whatever our philosophical differences, we''re on the same side," he says simply. "And because if you''re determined to keep putting yourself in danger, I''d prefer you survive the experience."

 Chapter 2.3

    I study his face, looking for some sign that this is a trick or a trap. "Just like that? No lectures about respecting authority or following the rules?"


    "Would those lectures work?" Multiplex asks, raising an eyebrow.


    "No."


    "Then what would be the point?" He shifts his weight, his posture relaxing slightly. "Belle used to say there''s more than one way to be effective. I didn''t always agree with her methods, but I respected her results. Maybe there''s something to be said for your approach too, even if it gives me heartburn."


    "That''s... surprisingly reasonable of you."


    "Don''t sound so shocked. I''m capable of adapting when presented with new information." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "It''s called growth."


    I can''t help but snort at that. "Well, I''ll think about it. The sparring, I mean."


    "Good." He nods once, decisively. "And Bloodhound? Whatever you and your team are planning next ¨C be careful. Richardson has resources we don''t fully understand yet, and now she has reason to target you specifically."


    "They''ve all had good reasons to target me specifically. Like, for two years now. Reasons just keep getting better," I say, automatically adding "and I''m always careful."


    Multiplex gives me a pointed look, then glances down at my ankle in its bulky boot.


    "Okay, fair point. I''ll be more careful."


    "See that you are." He turns to go, then pauses. Then, he second guesses himself, and keeps going.


    I adjust my grip on the crutches and make my way to the exit, my mind churning with everything that just happened. This morning has already been more eventful than I anticipated, and I still haven''t even checked what Jordan''s been blowing up my phone about.


    Outside, the Sunday morning air is crisp and clear, the sky a perfect spring blue. I pull out my phone and see seven unread messages from Jordan, each marked with the little green padlock icon that means they''re using the fancy new encryption.


    I tap on the most recent one as I settle onto a bench at the bus stop outside headquarters.


    The number 66 bus pulls up just as I''m checking my messages. I awkwardly maneuver myself and my crutches onboard, flash my student pass at the driver, and find a seat near the back where I can stretch my leg out into the aisle a bit.


    As the bus lurches into motion, I open the secure chat and dive into Jordan''s messages. The first one came in around 6 AM, followed by a string of increasingly impatient follow-ups.


    "Where are you? Read these ASAP!" the earliest one says.


    I can almost see Jordan hunched over their laptop, hair falling into their eyes as they type furiously, that intense look of concentration they get when they''re deep in a problem. The Jordan in my head glances up impatiently, waiting for my response.


    "Sorry, was getting my ankle checked," I text back. "Medical boot and crutches. Should be fine in a week or so."


    The little animation shows the message encrypting, a process that takes an annoyingly long fifteen seconds before it finally sends. Jordan''s reply comes after a similar delay.


    "A week? That''s not bad. Anyway, focus. I pirated some chemistry software and biomed software and opened some of these files up and I don''t understand a god damn thing. I think we''re gonna need to give this to someone smarter."


    Imaginary Jordan runs a hand through their hair, frustrated. The real Jordan is probably doing the exact same thing right now.


    "Someone smarter than YOU? Now I''m worried," I reply.


    "Ha ha. Yes, someone smarter than me IN CHEMISTRY. I''m great at lots of things but organic chemistry isn''t one of them."


    "Like what? What are we looking at exactly?" I ask.


    The bus hits a pothole and I wince as the jolt travels up my leg. I glance out the window to check where we are ¨C still about fifteen minutes from my stop.


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    "Chemical formulas. Molecular structures. Lab reports with test subjects just identified by numbers. Lots of medical jargon about ''metabolic response rates'' and ''neural pathway stimulation.'' Nothing explicitly says what they''re making, but it''s definitely pharmaceutical research. And most of the files are locked behind serious encryption ¨C I''m talking government-grade RSA keys. Can''t crack those without either a supercomputer or a technopath."


    "Could be the stuff in those black autoinjectors?" I suggest. "I don''t know what RSA keys are."


    The Jordan in my mind shrugs, leaning back in an imaginary chair. "Don''t worry about it. Maybe? Could just as easily be heart medication or acne cream from the documentation I can access. Everything''s written in that dry, technical language scientists use. No handy labels saying ''secret illegal super-drug'' unfortunately."


    "So what do we do with this? Davis?" I text back.


    "Maybe. Or we could try Amelia. She''s pre-med, knows more biochem than any of us."


    "Pre-med doesn''t mean she understands, like, real life mega chemistry," I point out.


    The imaginary Jordan in my head leans forward, expression serious now. "Fair point. Plus, if this is as dangerous as I think it might be, maybe we shouldn''t drag her into it."


    "What about Sylvia? You just saw her, right?" Jordan suggests after a moment.


    "She''s a nurse. Same thing with Amelia. I don''t think being a doctor automatically means you understand medical chemistry." I reply.


    "Hmm. True. Wait, what about your grandfather? Doesn''t he have like engineering friends or something? Might know someone in chemistry?"


    I actually laugh out loud at this suggestion. "You want me to give illegal drug formulas we stole from a criminal organization to my 70-something grandfather?"


    "...when you put it that way, maybe not," Jordan concedes.


    I snort loud enough that the old lady across the aisle gives me a look.


    "Let me think about it. This isn''t a decision we should rush. In the meantime, keep the files secure," I tell them.


    "Obviously. Oh, and one more thing - think we should tell the others about this? Blink, Maggie, etc.?"


    "Not yet. Let''s figure out what we''re dealing with first. More eyes means more risk, just because Mr. ESP is... around. Annoying."


    "Agreed. How was Sylvia, by the way? And how''d you end up talking to Multiplex? That must have been weird."


    The bus slows for my stop, and I struggle to gather my crutches while keeping my phone in hand.


    "It was... educational. I''ll fill you in later. Gotta go, at my stop," I type quickly.


    "K. Need anything before I head to campus tomorrow?" Jordan asks.


    "I''m good. Parents seem chill. Think they''re just happy I''m grounded and can''t go anywhere."


    "Silver linings. Later."


    I shove my phone in my pocket and make the awkward descent from the bus to the sidewalk, nodding thanks to the driver who waits patiently for me to get clear before pulling away.


    The walk home from the bus stop takes twice as long as usual with the crutches, but the boot makes it manageable. By the time I reach my front door, I''m sweating slightly despite the cool air.


    My mom opens the door before I can even get my key out. "There you are! How''s the ankle?"


    "Much better," I say, maneuvering past her into the house. "Got a boot and some crutches. Should be healed in a week or so."


    Dad looks up from his newspaper at the kitchen table. "What did the doctor say?"


    "Multiple fractures, some ligament damage. Nothing too serious." I ease myself onto the couch, propping my foot up on the coffee table. "They said to stay off it as much as possible."


    "That''s the plan," Mom says firmly. "You''re not going anywhere anyway, remember? Grounded."


    "I remember," I sigh, though honestly, after everything that''s happened in the last 24 hours, staying home doesn''t sound half bad.


    Dad folds his newspaper and sets it aside. "We were thinking of ordering in for lunch. Any preferences?"


    "Pizza?" I suggest hopefully.


    "Pizza it is," he agrees, reaching for his phone. "The usual?"


    I nod, suddenly aware of how hungry I am. I skipped breakfast in my rush to get to the DVD headquarters without my parents noticing.


    Mom sits down next to me, her expression softening. "You know, it''s been a while since we''ve had a family movie night. Want to pick something for after lunch?"


    I blink, surprised by the suggestion. "Uh, sure. That sounds... nice."


    And the weird thing is, it does sound nice. No warehouses exploding, no supervillains to track, no life-or-death situations to navigate. Just pizza and a movie with my parents on a Sunday afternoon. I can''t remember the last time my life felt this normal. It''s almost disconcerting, like I''ve stepped into some parallel universe where I''m just a regular teenager with a sprained ankle instead of a vigilante with an ever-growing list of enemies.


    Dad orders the pizza while Mom starts scrolling through our streaming options. I lean back against the cushions, feeling the tension slowly drain from my shoulders.


    Whatever''s in those files Jordan found, whatever Richardson is planning, whatever Multiplex meant about Pittsburgh ¨C it can all wait for a few hours. Right now, I''m just going to be Sam Small, grounded teenager with a busted ankle and a sudden craving for pepperoni pizza. Later that evening, after the movie and dinner and a surprisingly pleasant afternoon with my parents, I retreat to my room. Kate still isn''t back ¨C probably out as Soot, though we''re all maintaining the fiction that she''s at a study group.


    I close the door and drop to the floor, balancing on my good leg. The boot is clunky but provides enough support that I can manage a set of push-ups without jostling my ankle too much. Physical activity helps clear my head, and after a day of sitting around, I need it. As I lower myself to the floor and push back up, I try to process everything ¨C Multiplex''s unexpected offer, Jordan''s discovery, the strange calm of a normal Sunday with my family.


    Twenty push-ups in, I realize I''m smiling. Not because anything is particularly funny, but because for the first time in months, I feel like I might actually have a path forward. Not a clear one, certainly not an easy one, but a path nonetheless. I finish my set, roll onto my back, and stare up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of the house settling around me.

 Chapter 3.1

    The thing nobody tells you about having a healing factor is that the in-between stages are weird. Not the beginning, when you''re all broken and bleeding ¨C that part sucks, but it''s straightforward. And not the end, when you''re back to normal and everything works again. It''s the middle part that''s strange, where you''re mostly healed but not quite. That''s where I am now, three weeks (ish) after Patriot crushed my ankle. The boot came off five days ago, but there''s still a lingering tenderness, a phantom memory of pain that flares up whenever I put too much weight on it or twist wrong.


    It''s not bad, just... annoying. Like an itch you can''t quite reach, or a word on the tip of your tongue.


    "Miss Small, are you with us?"


    My teacher''s voice snaps me back to class. He''s standing at the board, marker in hand, eyebrows raised expectantly. The molecular formula he''s written means absolutely nothing to me, which isn''t great considering finals are in two weeks.


    "Sorry," I mumble, straightening up in my chair. "Could you repeat the question?"


    A few snickers ripple through the classroom, but they''re good-natured. I''ve been back at school for nearly a month now, and the novelty of "Sam Small''s mysterious injury" has mostly worn off. Nobody knows exactly what happened, though the rumor mill has been working overtime. Current favorite theory: I was in a street racing accident. Not sure where that came from, but it''s better than the truth.


    Mr. Nunez sighs, but there''s no real frustration behind it. "I asked if you could identify which functional group would be most reactive in this compound."


    I stare at the formula, willing the jumble of letters and numbers to make sense. Chemistry isn''t my worst subject, but three weeks of painkillers and restless sleep haven''t exactly kept me at the top of my game.


    "Uh..." I squint at the board, recalling yesterday''s lecture through my mental fog. "The carboxyl group? Because of the higher acidity?"


    "That''s correct," Mr. Nunez says, sounding mildly surprised. "Can you explain why?"


    I cobble together something about electron-withdrawing effects and resonance stabilization that must be close enough, because he nods approvingly before continuing the lesson. My attention drifts again almost immediately.


    Outside the window, a dark sedan is parked across the street. It''s been there for at least twenty minutes. Probably nothing ¨C just someone waiting to pick up a student ¨C but I''ve been noticing cars like that more often lately. Same make, same tinted windows, sometimes the same license plate. Could be coincidence. Could be paranoia. Could be the Kingdom keeping tabs on me.


    Ever since the warehouse explosion, I''ve had the prickling sensation of being watched. Nothing I can prove, just... patterns. A car that stays too long. A person who glances over one too many times. The same guy getting coffee at the same shop three days in a row, always when I''m there.


    I hadn''t realized I was still staring out the window until the bell rings, startling me back to the present.


    "Don''t forget, review sheets are due Monday!" Mr. Nunez calls over the sudden commotion of twenty-six teenagers packing up their things. "And we''ll be having a practice quiz on titration calculations!"


    I shove my mostly blank notebook into my backpack, wincing as I accidentally knock it against my ankle. Still tender.


    The hallway is a crush of bodies and noise, everyone eager to escape to the weekend. I navigate through with practiced ease, keeping close to the wall to avoid getting jostled. The security desk at the main entrance has a new face behind it ¨C Officer Gross, according to her nameplate. She''s young, probably just a few years out of the academy, with watchful eyes that scan the passing students.


    No sign of Officer Ridley, which isn''t surprising. I heard he''s gotten fired. Good.


    "ID check," Officer Gross says as I approach the door, holding out her hand with a polite but firm expression. Random ID checks have become more frequent since the courthouse attack last year, but they''ve really ramped up in the past month. Another piece of the pattern ¨C heightened security everywhere, especially around schools.


    I fish my student ID from my pocket and hand it over. She studies it for a moment, comparing my face to the photo, then hands it back with a nod. "Have a good weekend, Miss Small."


    "Thanks, you too," I reply automatically, already looking past her to the doors. Freedom, so close I can taste it.


    Outside, the May afternoon is bright and warm, a perfect spring day. Students scatter in all directions, some heading for buses, others walking or biking home. I scan the parking lot, a habit I''ve developed recently. Looking for what, I''m not exactly sure. Suspicious vehicles. Familiar faces that shouldn''t be familiar. Anything out of place.


    The dark sedan I spotted earlier is gone, which doesn''t necessarily mean anything. I shake off the paranoia and start my walk home. My parents offered to pick me up for the first week after I got out of the boot, but that got old fast. I''m fine to walk now, even if my pace is a little slower than usual.


    I check my phone as I walk, scrolling through messages. Nothing from Jordan today, which is unusual. They''ve been checking in almost every morning with updates on the data from the warehouse ¨C or rather, updates on the lack of progress with the data. For someone as tech-savvy as Jordan, hitting a wall like this has been frustrating. The files are a mixture of encrypted gibberish, scientific jargon, and partial information that doesn''t make sense without context. Three weeks of effort, and we''re no closer to understanding what the Kingdom was cooking up in that warehouse.


    There''s a text from Maggie, though: "Got permission to come over after school! See you around 4:30 if the bus isn''t late."


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    I smile, the first real one all day. Maggie''s parents have had her on lockdown that makes my grounding look like a vacation. This will be the first time I''ve seen her in person since the warehouse incident, though we''ve texted almost daily. The O''Briens are apparently starting to relent slightly, likely worn down by three weeks of what I imagine has been Maggie''s relentless campaign of good behavior and persuasion and throwing objects with her powers.


    I''m so busy texting back that I almost miss it ¨C another dark sedan, parked half a block ahead on the opposite side of the street. Same make and model as the one at school. As I approach, the engine starts, and the car pulls smoothly away from the curb, merging into traffic without hurry. Just before it turns the corner, I catch a glimpse of the driver: a woman with short blonde hair and sunglasses, unremarkable except for the deliberate way she doesn''t look in my direction.


    My pulse quickens, but I force myself to keep walking at the same pace. It could be nothing. It could be something. Either way, freaking out in the middle of the street won''t help.


    The rest of the walk home is uneventful, but I find myself checking over my shoulder more often than usual. By the time I reach my house, the paranoia has faded to a low-grade buzz in the back of my mind ¨C always there, but manageable.


    Home is quiet when I walk in. Dad''s at work until five, and Mom''s probably still at the library. Kate and her dad have been spending a lot of time looking at houses lately ¨C apparently the insurance money finally came through, though Kate remains vague about the details whenever I ask. Their absence means I have the place to myself for a couple of hours, which would normally be great, but after three weeks of being grounded, the novelty of alone time has worn thin.


    I drop my backpack by the stairs and head to the kitchen, grabbing a yogurt from the fridge. As I eat, I pull out my phone again, this time to check the news. It''s become a daily ritual ¨C scanning local headlines for anything that might be connected to the Kingdom, to Rogue Wave, to Richardson, to anything that might give us a clue about what''s coming next.


    Today''s top story is about increased security measures across Philadelphia public schools ¨C apparently Tacony Charter isn''t the only one with new faces at the security desk. There''s also a piece about a spike in gang activity in certain neighborhoods, though it''s frustratingly vague about specifics. The mayor is quoted expressing "deep concern" about "recent incidents," which could, yet again, mean literally anything. I hate living in ambiguous times!


    I''m midway through an article about city budget allocations (boring, but Richardson serves on the finance committee, so I force myself to read it) when the doorbell rings. Glancing at the time ¨C 4:22 ¨C I realize it must be Maggie, earlier than expected.


    When I open the door, she launches herself at me in a hug that nearly knocks me off balance. "Sam! Oh my god, it''s been forever!"


    "Careful," I laugh, returning the hug while steadying myself on the doorframe. "Still a little tender."


    Maggie pulls back, eyes wide with concern. "Sorry! I forgot about your ankle. How is it? You''re not still in the boot, right? Can you walk okay? Does it hurt?"


    "It''s fine, just a little stiff sometimes," I assure her, ushering her inside and closing the door. "More importantly, how did you convince the prison wardens to let you out on parole?"


    Maggie rolls her eyes dramatically as she follows me to the living room. "Three weeks of straight-A grades, extra chores without being asked, and a detailed schedule of exactly where I''ll be and who I''ll be with at all times. Plus Mom is going to call your mom at 6:30 to verify I''m still here, and Dad''s picking me up at 8:00 sharp."


    "Harsh," I say, flopping onto the couch. "But at least they''re letting you out at all. That''s progress, right?"


    "Barely," she sighs, dropping her backpack and joining me. "I think they''re only agreeing because your parents will be home. They''re convinced we''re going to immediately run off and get arrested again the second they take their eyes off us."


    "To be fair, we did kind of blow up a warehouse."


    "We did not! Soot did. We just happened to be there. Oh, they didn''t catch me, by the way, so don''t bring that up to your parents, I wasn''t there," She whispers, glancing around. "Speaking of, where''s Kate? Still convinced she''s our smoke-powered friend?"


    I lower my voice, even though I know we''re alone. "More convinced than ever. She''s still denying everything, but there''ve been too many coincidences. Night before last, she came home at like 3 AM ¨C I pretended to be asleep, but I heard her. And this morning the news reported that someone matching Soot''s description interrupted a drug deal near the Schuylkill River last night."


    "That''s not exactly proof," Maggie points out.


    "No, but add it to the pile of evidence ¨C the chemical smell on her clothes, the mysterious ''study groups'' that always seem to happen when Soot is active, the money for a new house appearing out of nowhere..."


    Maggie considers this. "Okay, yeah, that''s pretty suspicious. You think she''s been, what, stealing from drug dealers?" She looks genuinely impressed at the possibility.


    "Probably. The Robin Hood approach to vigilante funding. Not that I can judge, given how much Jordan''s funded our shit basically the same way. But we don''t carbon monoxide people to do it,"


    Maggie opens her mouth to respond but is interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. "Your parents?"


    I check my phone ¨C 4:45. "Just my mom. Dad won''t be home for a while yet."


    Sure enough, my mom walks in carrying a bag of groceries. "Oh, hello Maggie!" she says, smiling. "I thought you weren''t coming until later."


    "Bus came early for once," Maggie replies, immediately shifting into what I think of as her "adult impression" voice ¨C slightly higher, more polite, extra enunciation. It''s subtle but hilarious to me every time.


    "Well, it''s lovely to see you. Sam''s been climbing the walls with only us boring adults for company." Mom sets the groceries on the counter and begins unpacking them. "How are your parents?"


    "They''re good, thanks for asking. Overprotective, but good."


    Mom laughs. "I think that''s in the parental job description these days. Especially when your children keep finding creative ways to get into trouble."


    "Mom," I groan, "we''ve been model citizens for three weeks."


    "Yes, and I''m very proud," she says, putting vegetables in the fridge. "Though I''m not sure how much credit you get for following the rules when you''re physically prevented from breaking them."


    I can''t really argue with that logic. "Any word from Jordan today?" I ask, changing the subject. "They usually check in by now."


    Mom shakes her head. "Not that I know of. Maybe they''re busy with MIT preparations?"


    I''m about to respond when something outside the window catches my eye ¨C a white Honda parked across the street that wasn''t there when I got home. Inside, a man sits alone, reading something ¨C or pretending to.


    "Sam?" Maggie asks, noticing my sudden distraction. "What''s wrong?"


    I nod subtly toward the window. "White car across the street. Guy''s been sitting there a while."


    Maggie casually glances out while pretending to stretch. "Huh. Probably nothing, right?"


    "Probably," I agree, though my instincts are saying otherwise. This fits the pattern I''ve been noticing ¨C the same kind of unobtrusive surveillance that''s been popping up around school, on my walks home, near Jordan''s place.


    Mom catches our exchange and moves to the window, her expression shifting from confused to concerned as she spots the car. "Are you sure it''s not just someone waiting for someone else? Or a taxi driver on break?"


    "Maybe," I say, though I don''t believe it. "But I''ve been seeing cars like that a lot lately. Just... watching."


    Mom''s posture changes, a subtle shift that reminds me she grew up with a cop for a father. "Well, let''s not stand by the window staring at them, whatever they''re doing," she says, her voice casual but with an undercurrent of tension. "Maggie, would you like something to drink? I got that sparkling water you liked last time."

 Chapter 3.2

    Mom sets out a plate of crackers and hummus on the coffee table ¨C stress snacking is a Small family tradition ¨C and settles into the armchair across from us with her own plate of food. "So what have you girls been up to, besides serving time for good behavior?"


    "School, mostly," I say, reaching for a cracker. "Finals are coming up."


    "I''ve been catching up on that new TV show about the haunted boarding school," Maggie adds. "The one everyone was talking about before we got grounded?"


    "Oh, ''Blackwood Academy''?" Mom perks up. "I just finished that! The twist in episode eight was incredible."


    And just like that, we''re having a completely normal conversation about TV shows and actors and plot holes, like we''re just regular people without secret identities or government conspiracies to worry about. It''s nice, actually. Almost makes me forget about the white car outside or the ache in my ankle or the encrypted files we still can''t crack.


    My phone chimes with an incoming video call just as Mom is explaining why the boarding school janitor is clearly the ghost of the founding headmaster or something. It''s Jordan, right on cue.


    "Mind if I take this?" I ask, holding up my phone.


    Mom gestures for me to go ahead. "Make sure your volume''s up so we can all say hi."


    I accept the call, and Jordan''s face fills my screen. They''re sitting at their desk in the MIT dorm room they''ll be moving into next month ¨C they''ve been sending us pictures of the setup for weeks now. A stack of textbooks teeters precariously in the background, and their hair is pulled back in what I''ve started thinking of as their "serious business" style. I didn''t even know they had enough hair to pull back, but apparently they do, into the world''s stubbiest, shittiest ponytail.


    "Hey, what''s up?" I ask, angling the phone so Maggie can see too.


    "Not much progress, unfortunately." Jordan''s frustration is clear even through the tiny phone speaker. "I''ve been running these files through every decryption algorithm I can find, and I''m still getting nowhere with most of them. The few I can access are just fragments ¨C lab notes, some chemical formulas that might as well be hieroglyphics to me, and a bunch of reference numbers that don''t mean anything without context."


    "We''re still working on those warehouse files?" Mom asks from her armchair, somehow managing to make it sound like we''re struggling with a school project rather than stolen data from a criminal organization.


    "Yes, Mrs. Small," Jordan says, their tone shifting slightly more formal. "The USB drives Sam ¨C I mean, that we recovered ¨C they''re proving to be challenging."


    "After three weeks, I think we can officially say they''re more than challenging," I sigh. "They''re impossible."


    "Nothing''s impossible," Jordan corrects automatically. "Just... extremely difficult with our current resources. I''ve got some specialized software running now to try breaking through another layer of encryption, but honestly? I''m starting to think we need someone with actual expertise in data forensics."


    Dad walks in from the kitchen, drying his hands on a dish towel. He''s been home for about an hour now, and after greeting Maggie, he dove straight into making dinner ¨C his usual way of unwinding after work. "Data forensics? Sounds serious."


    "Hi, Mr. Small," Jordan says, waving through the screen. "Yeah, it''s pretty specialized stuff. I''m good with computers, but this is professional-grade encryption. Military or intelligence agency level."


    "I thought you were some kind of hacker prodigy," Maggie teases.


    Jordan rolls their eyes. "Media exaggeration. I''m a script kiddie with above-average pattern recognition, not Kevin Mitnick."


    "Who?" Maggie asks.


    "Famous hacker from the 90s," Dad and Jordan say simultaneously, then grin at each other.


    "The thing is," Jordan continues, "even if I could crack the encryption ¨C which, to be clear, would take me years, if not decades, if not... never ¨C I wouldn''t necessarily understand what I''m looking at. The files I have been able to access are full of biochemical jargon and technical specifications that might as well be written in Klingon."


    "So we need someone who knows both computers and chemistry?" I ask, already trying to think of who in our extended network might fit that description.


    "Or better yet, someone who specializes in making sense of encrypted data and obscure technical documents," Jordan says. "Someone with training in investigative analysis."


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    Mom sets down her plate, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "You know, this reminds me of a problem we had at the library a few years ago. We received a donation of research materials from a retired professor, but all his notes used a personal classification system that made no sense to us. We couldn''t even tell which subject areas they belonged to."


    "What did you do?" I ask, suddenly interested.


    "We brought in a specialist in archival organization. Someone trained to look for patterns, to understand how information fits together even when it''s not labeled in conventional ways." She shrugs. "It''s a specific skill set ¨C the ability to make sense of information that''s deliberately or accidentally obscured."


    Something clicks in my brain. "Like... a detective?"


    "Essentially, yes," Mom agrees. "Someone trained to see patterns where others just see random information."


    Jordan''s face lights up on the screen. "That''s actually not a bad idea. We don''t need a hacker or a chemist ¨C we need an investigator. Someone who can take fragmented, incomplete information and construct a coherent picture from it."


    "I''m not sure the police would be too happy to help with data from a, um, unauthorized operation," Dad points out diplomatically as he leans against the doorframe.


    "Not police," I say, my mind already racing ahead. "Private investigators. People who specialize in connecting dots without official channels."


    Maggie straightens beside me, clearly catching my drift. "You''re thinking about¡ª"


    "Maybe," I cut her off before she can say names. "It''s worth considering, at least."


    Dad frowns slightly. "Private investigators cost money, Sam. And they tend to ask questions about where information comes from."


    "Not these ones," I say carefully. "They... owe us a favor."


    Mom and Dad exchange one of those parental telepathy looks that I''ve never quite been able to decipher.


    "I could connect with the computer remotely if needed," Jordan adds helpfully. "So Sam wouldn''t even need to physically transport the drives anywhere."


    Dad pushes away from the doorframe and moves toward the window, peering out through a gap in the curtains. "Speaking of suspicious activities, that white car is still there."


    We all turn to look, conversation momentarily forgotten. The Honda hasn''t moved, and the man inside appears to be talking on a phone now.


    "Has he been there this whole time?" Mom asks, joining Dad at the window.


    "At least since I got home," I confirm, the familiar prickle of unease returning to my spine.


    "Could be press," Dad suggests. "There was that article about the warehouse explosion in North Philly in the Inquirer this morning. Maybe they''re fishing for connections."


    "Or government," Mom adds. "NSRA or FBI or whoever keeps tabs on these things."


    "Or Kingdom," I say quietly. "They haven''t exactly been subtle about watching us before."


    Dad snorts. "Hard to be less subtle than sending a dinosaur to our house."


    I can''t help but grimace. It''s been almost two years, but the absurdity of Mr. T-Rex''s attack on our home still hits me sometimes, at least when people remind me about it in the hallway. Starting with a bunch of gross hybrid animals and then ending with a Tyrannosaurus Rex leaves an impression. I wonder what the insurance adjusters had to think about it? I should see if I can ask them sometime.


    "Maybe I should go talk to him," Dad suggests. "Ask what he''s doing."


    "No," Mom and I say simultaneously.


    "If it is Kingdom, confronting them won''t help," I explain. "And if it''s feds, they''ll just deny everything and move the surveillance somewhere less obvious."


    "So we just... ignore them?" Maggie asks, sounding skeptical.


    "For now," Mom says firmly. "But I''m calling Diana at the precinct. She might be able to find out if there''s any official surveillance authorized for this area."


    Dad keeps watching out the window. "He''s leaving."


    We all crowd around to see the white Honda pulling away from the curb, merging smoothly into traffic and disappearing around the corner.


    "That was... oddly anticlimactic," I mutter.


    "Maybe he realized we spotted him," Maggie suggests.


    "Or his shift ended," Jordan adds through the phone, which I''ve been holding up so they can still be part of the conversation. "Most surveillance operations work in rotations."


    "The fact that we''re having this conversation at all," Dad says, letting the curtain fall back into place, "is exactly why I''m concerned about you kids getting deeper into whatever this is."


    "We''re already in it, Dad," I point out. "Has been for a while now. And all we''re talking about is getting expert help interpreting information we already have."


    "Information you stole," he reminds me.


    "From a criminal organization manufacturing drug enhancers," I counter. "It''s not like we robbed a library."


    Mom sighs. "Let''s table the PI discussion for now. Dinner will be ready soon, and I believe you all have finals to study for? Jordan, would you like to join us? I think Ben made enough pasta to feed a small army."


    "Thanks for the offer, Mrs. Small, but I''ve got a video meeting with my MIT advisor in twenty minutes. Raincheck?"


    "Of course, honey. Take care."


    After we end the call, Dad returns to the kitchen to finish dinner preparations, and Mom heads upstairs to change out of her work clothes. Maggie and I are left alone in the living room, the conversation about PIs and encrypted data temporarily on hold but definitely not forgotten.


    "So," Maggie says quietly, "you''re thinking Playback and Puppeteer, right? For the data analysis?"


    I nod. "They''ve been apprenticing with that detective agency for months now. If anyone in our circle has the skills to make sense of this stuff, it''s them."


    "And your parents would actually be okay with that? Involving more people?"


    I consider this. "They''re not thrilled about any of it, but I think they''d prefer a controlled handoff to professionals over us stumbling around blind. Plus, they''re already connected to all this ¨C it''s not like we''d be dragging in civilians."


    Maggie looks toward the window where the car had been parked. "You really think that was Kingdom out there?"


    "I don''t know," I admit. "Could be them, could be government, could be paranoia making us see patterns that aren''t there. But after everything that''s happened, I''d rather be paranoid than careless."


    The smell of garlic and tomato sauce wafts in from the kitchen, momentarily distracting us both. My stomach growls, reminding me that stress and paranoia are no match for teenage hunger.


    "Whatever it is," I say, reaching for another cracker, "we''ll figure it out. We always do."

 Chapter 3.3

    Dad''s spaghetti isn''t fancy. It''s not artisanal or gourmet or whatever other buzzwords food blogs would use. It''s the kind of pasta that comes in a blue box, the sauce from a jar that he doctors up with extra garlic and some dried herbs that have probably been in our cabinet since before I was born. The meatballs are pre-made, from the freezer section, heated up in the microwave before being tossed into the sauce for the last few minutes of simmering.


    But holy shit, does it smell amazing.


    Steam rises from the pot as Dad drains the pasta in the sink, the starchy cloud momentarily fogging up the kitchen window. The sauce bubbles lazily in its pan, thick and red with little islands of melted cheese he sprinkled in "for extra richness." The garlic bread ¨C just grocery store Italian bread split and smeared with butter, garlic powder, and more of those ancient dried herbs ¨C is turning golden brown in the oven, the smell mixing with the tomato and garlic to create that perfect Italian-American food perfume that makes my mouth water automatically.


    Mom sets the table while Maggie and I wash our hands. By the time we sit down, Dad is serving up heaping piles of spaghetti onto our plates, the noodles glistening with olive oil, the sauce ladled generously on top. He''s grated some parmesan ¨C the kind from the green canister, not the fancy stuff ¨C and it melts slightly as it hits the hot pasta.


    "Dig in before it gets cold," Dad says, sliding into his seat.


    I twirl a massive forkful, watching the strands wrap around the tines, catching bits of meat and sauce in the process. The first bite is exactly what I need ¨C simple, comforting, familiar. The pasta is maybe a little overdone, the sauce a touch too sweet from the jarred base, but it''s perfect in its imperfection. This is the taste of family dinners, of normalcy, of the life I sometimes forget still exists alongside all the superhero chaos.


    "So good," Maggie mumbles around her own mouthful, and I realize she''s piled her spaghetti with extra cheese, creating a small mountain of parmesan that''s slowly melting into the sauce.


    "Ben''s spaghetti got Sam through her shark teeth adjustment period," Mom says with a smile. "For a while, it was the only thing she could eat without making a complete mess."


    "Mom," I groan, but there''s no real embarrassment behind it.


    "You should have seen her trying to eat a burger," Dad adds, tearing off a piece of garlic bread. "It was like watching a nature documentary."


    Maggie snorts, nearly choking on her pasta, and I kick him lightly under the table.


    Between bites, I decide it''s time to circle back to our earlier conversation. "So, about the data analysis thing..."


    Mom and Dad exchange another one of those looks. Dad takes a sip of water, buying time, then sighs. "You have specific people in mind, don''t you?"


    "Devonte and Akilah," I admit. "They were on the Young Defenders with me ¨C Playback and Puppeteer. They''ve been apprenticing with a private investigation firm for the past few months. I guess because of Akilah''s... got a medical thing that means she''s barred from becoming a govvie superhero, this is the next best thing for her."


    "Chambers and Woo Investigations," Mom says, surprising me with her knowledge. "On Diamond Street, near Temple. They specialize in corporate fraud cases, mostly."


    I blink at her. "How did you¡ª"


    "I read the news, Sam. They were mentioned in that expose about the pharmaceutical price-fixing last month." She twirls her fork in her pasta. "Seems like a reputable firm."


    "They are," I say. "I trust both of them with my life. And, uh, I mean, I have, several times. Even if we don''t talk that much."


    Dad chews thoughtfully. "And you think they''d help without... escalating things?"


    "That''s what they do now," I point out. "Gather information, analyze patterns, build cases. Not running around in costumes fighting supervillains."


    "Mostly," Maggie adds quietly.


    "Mostly," I concede with a half-smile. "But the point is, they''re trained for exactly this kind of work now. And they already know about the Kingdom, about Richardson, about everything. We wouldn''t have to catch them up."


    Mom dabs at a spot of sauce with her napkin. "I''m not opposed to getting professional help with this. But I do have conditions."


    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    Of course she does. "Like what?"


    "One: we go with you. I want to meet these people and their mentors in person." She holds up a finger, then adds a second. "Two: we do this through proper channels. No sneaking around, no vigilante nonsense. This is a consultation with professional investigators."


    "Three," Dad adds, "you share everything they find with us. No filtering information because you think we''ll worry."


    "And four," Mom continues, "this doesn''t change the terms of your grounding. You''re still not patrolling, not investigating on your own, not putting yourself in danger."


    The conditions are exactly what I expected, maybe even a little more lenient. "That''s fair," I agree. "So I can set up a meeting?"


    "Yes," Mom says. "For this weekend. Your father and I are both off on Sunday."


    "I''ll text them tonight," I say, trying not to sound too eager. "See if they''re available."


    "Don''t get your hopes up too high," Dad cautions. "They might not be able to help, or they might need resources we don''t have."


    "I know," I say, though privately I''m already envisioning Devonte and Akilah cracking the encryption like it''s a kindergarten puzzle, revealing all the Kingdom''s secrets in spectacular fashion. I still don''t exactly know what encryption is - Jordan''s explanations have all flown totally over my head - but if anyone can solve it, it''s them, right? "But it''s worth trying."


    The conversation shifts to other topics after that ¨C school, finals, the upcoming summer break. Normal family dinner talk, punctuated by the scrape of forks against plates and the occasional request to pass the garlic bread. By the time we finish eating, the white car and all it represents has faded to the background of my concerns, not forgotten but temporarily overshadowed by the simple pleasure of a family meal.


    Maggie helps clear the table while I text Akilah and Devonte, careful to keep my message vague but urgent enough to warrant a quick response. Within minutes, Akilah replies: "Sunday at 1pm works. Come to the office. Bring Jordan remotely if possible. Don''t share details over text."


    "They''re in," I announce to the room. "Sunday at one."


    "Perfect," Mom says, loading the dishwasher. "That gives us time to prepare questions and organize what we know."


    The rest of the evening passes quietly. Maggie and I attempt to study for her history final, though we spend more time reminiscing about past missions than actually reviewing the material. At eight sharp, the doorbell rings ¨C Mr. O''Brien, right on time to pick up Maggie.


    "Remember, we never talk about the warehouse," she whispers as we hug goodbye. "As far as they know, I was never there."


    "Secret''s safe with me," I promise. "See you Monday at school."


    After Maggie leaves, I head upstairs to my room, pretending I don''t notice Mom checking all the locks and Dad casually glancing out the windows every few minutes. The white car hasn''t returned, but its brief presence has left a lingering unease in our household routine.


    Kate still isn''t home when I go to bed. Her absence is both a relief ¨C no awkward conversation to navigate ¨C and a concern. Is she out as Soot? Is she okay? Or is this just still house-shopping with her dad? Apartment-shopping? Despite... everything, I still want her to be safe.


    <hr>


    Sunday arrives with unexpected sunshine after a week of light and dreary May rain. Dad drives, with Mom in the passenger seat checking Geeps Maps even though we all know the way to Temple. I''m in the back, fidgeting with the sleeve of my jacket, my stomach fluttering with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.


    "Remember," Mom says as we approach our destination, "we''re just consulting. No commitments, no rushed decisions."


    "I know, Mom," I say for what feels like the hundredth time since breakfast. "We''re being careful."


    Diamond Street is quieter than usual for a Sunday afternoon. Most of the storefronts are closed, their security gates pulled down. Temple students move in small groups, backpacks suggesting they''re headed to or from study sessions. A few locals sit on stoops, enjoying the rare sunshine, occasionally smoking weed as un-hiddenly as possible.


    "There it is," Dad says, slowing as we approach a narrow storefront wedged between a laundromat and a cell phone repair shop. The sign is small and understated: "Chambers & Woo Investigations" in simple black lettering against a frosted glass background. Below that, in smaller text: "Corporate, Civil, and Personal Inquiries."


    "Looks very... professional," Mom comments, sounding mildly surprised.


    "What were you expecting? A neon sign saying ''Superheroes R Us''?" I can''t help but tease.


    "Frankly, with your crowd, I never know," she replies dryly.


    Dad pulls up to the curb across the street. "I''ll find parking and join you in a minute," he says. "Keep an eye out for... well, anything unusual."


    Mom and I cross the street, approaching the unassuming entrance. Through the glass door, I can see a small reception area ¨C a desk, a few chairs, some potted plants that have seen better days. Nothing about it screams "superhero headquarters." It looks like exactly what it is: a modest private investigation office.


    "Ready?" Mom asks, her hand on the door handle.


    I take a deep breath, mentally preparing for the reunion with my former teammates. It''s been months since I''ve seen Devonte and Akilah in person. We''ve texted, stayed connected through the group chat, but that''s not the same as face-to-face conversation.


    "Ready," I confirm.


    As Mom pushes the door open, a small bell chimes above our heads. The reception area smells faintly of coffee and old paper. Behind the desk, a middle-aged woman glances up from her computer.


    "Can I help you?" she asks.


    Before I can answer, a door to the back office opens, and Akilah steps out. Her hair is different ¨C shorter, with purple highlights I''ve only seen in profile pictures until now. She''s wearing glasses I know she doesn''t need and a button-up shirt that makes her look older, more professional than the young adult I remember.


    For a moment, we just stare at each other, the months of separation stretching between us like a physical thing. Then she smiles, that familiar lopsided grin that suddenly makes her look exactly like the Akilah I know.


    "Sam," she says, and somehow packs a world of meaning into that one syllable. "Right on time. Come on back ¨C Devonte''s got the system all set up."

 Chapter 4.1

    Akilah leads us through the reception area, past the confused-looking receptionist, and into a narrow hallway lined with filing cabinets. My first impression is that this place looks way more like an actual business than I expected. There''s no superhero memorabilia, no fancy tech on display, not even a hint that some people who work here used to wear costumes and fight crime. It''s just... an office. A slightly shabby, clearly underfunded office with water stains on the ceiling tiles and a carpet that''s seen better decades.


    "We''re in the back room," Akilah says, gesturing for us to follow. "Devonte''s got everything set up."


    Mom stays close behind me, her hand occasionally brushing my shoulder like she''s reminding herself I''m still there. I can feel her taking everything in ¨C the certificates on the walls (all very official-looking), the neat organization of the files, the complete normalcy of it all. I think she''s relieved. This looks like exactly what she wanted: a legitimate business run by professionals, not a secret vigilante lair.


    The back room turns out to be larger than I expected, with four desks arranged in a loose square. Three of the walls are covered in corkboards pinned with documents, photos, and maps connected by colored strings ¨C basically another conspiracy board, but neater and more organized than Jordan''s chaotic version. The fourth wall has a whiteboard covered in what looks like financial data and company names, many of which I recognize from our own research into the Kingdom''s shell companies.


    Devonte is hunched over a computer in the corner, headphones on, fingers flying across the keyboard. He doesn''t notice us at first, too absorbed in whatever he''s doing. He''s grown his hair out since I last saw him, the tight curls now forming a very small afro, and he''s traded his Young Defenders-issued gear for a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. It''s weird seeing him in civilian clothes. Especially in button downs.


    "Devonte," Akilah says, tapping him on the shoulder. "They''re here."


    He jumps slightly, turning around and pulling off his headphones. When he sees me, his serious expression breaks into a wide grin. "Well, if it isn''t Shark Girl herself!" He stands up, arms spread wide. "Come here, you troublemaking lunatic."


    I can''t help but smile as I step into his hug. It''s been a while since I''ve seen him in person, and I hadn''t realized how much I missed him until right now.


    "How''s the ear?" I ask as we separate, nodding toward the small device visible behind his right ear. The implant helps, but I know it''s not the same as having his natural hearing.


    He taps it lightly, grimacing. "Still deaf. Sound still doesn''t... sound right, but I''m getting used to it. It has some new features now so I feel a little cyborgesque," He grins again, but there''s a tightness around his eyes that wasn''t there before. "How''s the ankle? Jordan told us Patriot did a number on you."


    "You''ve already been in touch?" I ask, mildly surprised.


    He looks at me like I''m the stupid one. "Yes?"


    "Anyway, it''s mostly healed," I say, flexing my foot to demonstrate. "Still a little tender if I twist it wrong, but the boot''s off, so that''s something."


    "You kids and your regeneration," he says with exaggerated envy. "Must be nice."


    "Still hurts, dickhead," I mumble. Mom nudges me on the side for the cuss word.


    "Yeah, yeah, I know." Devonte waves a hand dismissively before turning his attention to Mom. "Mrs. Small, right? I''m Devonte Harris. Former Young Defender, current office gremlin, future greatest detective in Philadelphia. Nice to meet you properly."


    Mom looks a little taken aback by his casual demeanor, but she recovers quickly, extending her hand. "Rachel Small. I''ve heard a lot about you from Sam."


    "All terrible things, I hope," he says with a wink, shaking her hand.


    "Actually, she speaks very highly of you," Mom replies, and I feel my cheeks warm slightly. I didn''t realize she''d been paying that much attention to my superhero stories.


    "That''s disappointing. I''ll have to work harder," Devonte gestures to the chairs set up around a small conference table in the center of the room. "Have a seat. Akilah''s got the good manners in this operation, so she''ll probably offer you coffee or something."


    "I was about to before you decided to be a trash can," Akilah says dryly. "Mrs. Small, would you like coffee, tea, or water? I believe we''ve got some snacks somewhere, but I make no guarantees about their age or edibility."


    "Water would be fine, thank you," Mom says, settling into one of the chairs.


    I remain standing, too keyed up to sit. Instead, I drift toward the nearest corkboard, studying the information pinned there. It''s a complex web of companies, names, and locations, some familiar, others new to me. In the center is a logo I recognize ¨C a stylized tree that appears on Kingdom shell company documents. They''re mapping the same network we''ve been trying to track.


    "Pretty impressive, huh?" Devonte says, coming up beside me. "Months of work right there. Every time we uncover one layer, we find three more hiding underneath. It''s like the world''s most annoying Russian nesting doll."


    "We have something similar at our headquarters," I say, noting a connection they''ve made that we haven''t. "Though ours isn''t as... comprehensive."


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    "That''s what happens when you''ve got professionals on the job," he says with mock smugness.


    I turn back to face Akilah, who''s returned with a glass of water for Mom. Their dynamic is immediately apparent ¨C Devonte the irreverent jokester, Akilah the composed professional. It''s the same as it was on the team, but somehow more pronounced now. Akilah especially seems to have fully embraced her new identity, from her crisp button-down shirt to her carefully styled hair. She looks older, more serious, even though she''s only like 22. Her hair has been braided into neat little... braids, and then those braids bunched together in a high, loose ponytail.


    "So," Akilah says, sitting down across from Mom, "Sam mentioned you have data from a Kingdom facility that you need help analyzing."


    "Yeah," I confirm, finally taking a seat. "Jordan should be joining us remotely any minute. They''ve got all the technical details."


    "How is Jordan?" Akilah asks, her tone carefully neutral.


    "Good. Stressed about MIT, but good," I say. "They''ll be moving there in a few weeks."


    "MIT?" Devonte looks impressed despite himself. "Damn. Always knew they were smart, but that''s next level."


    My phone buzzes ¨C speak of the devil. It''s a text from Jordan: "Ready when you are. Send video link."


    I pull up the secure video chat app we''ve been using and send the invitation. A moment later, Jordan''s face appears on my screen, looking slightly grainy but clear enough. Something something, end to end encryption ruins the picture quality. Okay, man, sure. I prop the phone up against a water bottle on the table so everyone can see them.


    "Hey," Jordan says, giving a small wave. "Akilah, Devonte. It''s been a while."


    "Williams," Akilah acknowledges with a slight nod. "Congratulations on MIT."


    "Thanks," Jordan replies, equally formal. Then, to Devonte: "Nice haircut. Very 70s detective show."


    Devonte runs a hand over his afro, grinning. "I''m bringing it back. Ladies love the disco detective look."


    "Is that why you''re perpetually single?" Akilah asks innocently.


    "Ouch," Devonte clutches his chest in mock hurt. "And in front of company too."


    I can''t help but smile at the familiar banter. For all their differences, the Young Defenders were a team ¨C sometimes dysfunctional, often chaotic, but a team nonetheless. Seeing them interact again, even in this new context, makes me remember strategy sessions and post-mission debriefs, the many, many rescued escaped cats, and the occasional fistfight with a random purse snatcher or Z-list supervillain. Of which there were many.


    Mom watches the exchange with a slightly bemused expression, clearly trying to reconcile these seemingly normal young adults with the costumed heroes I''ve described in my stories. I wonder what she expected ¨C something more dramatic, perhaps, or more overtly "super." Instead, she''s getting an office worker in professional attire and a computer guy with a snarky attitude.


    "So," Devonte says, clapping his hands together. "I hear you''ve got some encrypted Kingdom data that''s giving Jordan fits. Let''s see what we''re working with."


    Jordan launches into an explanation of what we found at the warehouse, how they''ve been trying to crack the encryption, and the fragments of information they''ve been able to access. As they talk, Devonte wheels his chair over to the table, his expression growing increasingly serious. Akilah takes notes on a small pad, occasionally asking clarifying questions about file formats and security protocols.


    I tune out some of the technical details, my attention drifting back to the conspiracy board. There''s something familiar about one of the company names ¨C Orpheus Holdings. I''ve seen it before, but I can''t quite place where. Maybe in the files Belle left me? Or something Jordan uncovered during our research? It niggles at the back of my mind, an itch I can''t quite scratch.


    "...and that''s pretty much where I''m stuck," Jordan concludes. "I''ve tried every decryption method I know, but this is military-grade protection. It would take years to brute force it, and I don''t have the expertise for anything more sophisticated."


    Devonte leans back in his chair, pursing his lips. "Yeah, that tracks. You''re dealing with AES-256 encryption at minimum, probably with some custom modifications. Not something you can crack with consumer-grade tools and determination, no matter how much you''d like to."


    "What''s AES-256?" I ask, rejoining the conversation.


    "Advanced Encryption Standard," Devonte explains, his face scrunching up like he''s trying to remember something. "It''s one of the most secure encryption protocols out there. Basically, imagine a lock that has 2 to the power of 256 possible combinations. A padlock with 256 spinners." He pauses, seeing my blank look. "That''s a number with 78 digits. For comparison, the number of atoms in the observable universe is estimated to have about 80 digits. So yeah, not something you''re going to guess your way through."


    "So it''s impossible?" Mom asks, her hope that we might be giving up on this whole investigation barely concealed.


    "Nothing''s impossible," Devonte says, unconsciously echoing Jordan''s words from yesterday. "Just extremely difficult without the right resources. Which, unfortunately, we don''t have at our disposal."


    "We can''t just..." I make a vague hacking motion with my hands. "You know, like in the movies? Hack the mainframe or whatever?"


    Devonte snorts. "Yeah, sure, let me just type really fast while dramatic music plays. That''ll definitely work."


    Akilah gives him a look, then turns to me. "What Devonte is trying to say, in his charmingly abrasive way, is that modern encryption doesn''t work like that. It''s mathematically designed to be unbreakable without the correct key."


    "So we''re totally screwed?" I ask, disappointment settling in my stomach like a lead weight. Three weeks of effort, a warehouse explosion, and we''ve got nothing to show for it.


    "I didn''t say that," Devonte clarifies. "Firstly - you still have the other data, which isn''t useless. Secondly, I said we can''t break the encryption with what we have. But there are other approaches."


    "Like what?" Jordan asks through the phone, leaning forward with interest.


    "First," Devonte says, "we''d need a copy of all the data you''ve recovered. Even the encrypted stuff. Sometimes there are patterns or vulnerabilities that aren''t obvious at first glance."


    "I''ve got everything on these," Jordan says, holding up a small external hard drive to the camera. "I can upload it to the secure server I set up, if you''ve got something similar."


    "We do," Akilah confirms. "I''ll send you the connection details after this meeting."


    "Second," Devonte continues, "we might need to look into finding someone with more... specialized capabilities. A technopath, maybe."


    "A what now?" I ask.


    "Technometrist," Akilah corrects. "Or a technolect. Technopathy is more about acquiring sensory data, while technometry is about acquiring information."


    "I am going to hit you with a car," Devonte says as straight-facedly as possible. "Stop talking to Dr. Harris, he''s rotting your brain with his taxonomy bullshit."


    Akilah ignores him. "The point is, there are people with powers specifically suited to this kind of challenge. They''re rare, but they exist. And we might have some contacts who could help. But we''ll need to find someone, likely get the permission of the federal government, and then ship it out. And then get the data back. It''ll take a while, but this isn''t nothing."

 Chapter 4.2

    "So what''s our best move here?" I ask, trying to get us back on track. "With the data, I mean."


    "Well," Akilah says, pulling out a laptop from beneath her desk, "first things first ¨C let''s get what you do have transferred over so we can at least analyze the unencrypted portions. Jordan, I''m setting up a secure file transfer now."


    She opens the laptop and begins typing rapidly. Devonte wheels his chair back to his desk, grabs a USB drive, and tosses it to her. She catches it without looking up from her screen, which I''m pretty sure involves some subtle telekinesis. Show-off.


    "What''s the server address?" Jordan asks through the phone, their own typing audible in the background.


    "One seventy-two dot sixteen dot sixty-eight dot twenty-one, port twenty-two," Akilah replies, still focused on her screen. "I''m sending you my public key now."


    "Got it," Jordan confirms. "Setting up the SFTP connection. This might take a while ¨C we''re talking about almost two hundred gigabytes of data."


    "Two hundred gigabytes?" Devonte whistles. "You guys really did smash and grab everything that wasn''t nailed down, huh?"


    "We didn''t really have time to be selective while the place was getting gassed," Jordan murmurs.


    Mom shifts uncomfortably at the mention of my near-death experience, but doesn''t comment. She''s been remarkably quiet throughout this whole thing, just observing and taking it all in. I''m not sure if that''s a good sign or not.


    "Transfer initiated," Jordan announces. "ETA... about forty-five minutes to an hour, depending on connection stability."


    A loading bar appears on Akilah''s screen, creeping slowly from left to right. The laptop fans kick in with a gentle hum, settling into what''s going to be a long process.


    "So," Devonte says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk, "while we wait for the digital equivalent of watching paint dry, how''s life in the vigilante fast lane? Besides, you know, nearly getting killed."


    He winks at my Mom, so I kick him under the table. He grimaces.


    "Could be worse," I shrug. "I''m grounded for blowing up a warehouse, there''s... a new vigilante out who hates me in particular, and there''s a criminal organization watching my house. But hey, my ankle''s almost healed, so I''ve got that going for me."


    For a moment, I almost say ''my roommate is a vigilante'', but I catch myself before I have to do a lot of explaining to my Mom.


    "Wait, what?" Akilah''s head snaps up. "Who''s watching your house?"


    "Kingdom, we think," I explain. "White sedan, dark Honda, different cars but similar patterns. Nothing overtly threatening yet, just... surveillance."


    "They''re probably trying to figure out if you were involved in the warehouse incident," Akilah says thoughtfully. "The official story is that it was an industrial accident, but they know better."


    "Yeah, well, they can watch all they want. Not like I can go anywhere anyway," I gesture to Mom.


    "Home restriction," Mom addresses the room. "Also, it''s not guaranteed to be... bad guys. Three letter agencies use plenty of unmarked white sedans, too. As do private investigators."


    "This is true," Akilah mumbles.


    "Speaking of injuries," Devonte says, tapping the device behind his ear, "how are the shark teeth treating you? Any new developments in the dental department?"


    I run my tongue over my teeth self-consciously. "Nothing interesting yet. Still just popping them out like knuckledusters. How''s the ear?" I ask, changing the subject. "For real, I mean. I know the cochlear implant helps, but..."


    Mom glances back and forth between the two of us. I watch her face twitch a little bit at the mention of knuckledusters, but she keeps her mouth closed.


    Devonte''s expression shifts, the perpetual smirk fading for a moment. "It''s a mixed bag. On one hand, being mostly deaf sucks. The implant is uncomfortable, makes everything sound tinny and artificial. Like listening to the world through a cheap drive-thru speaker." He taps the device gently. "On the other hand, Fury Forge made this custom for me, free of charge. And the hearing aid for the other ear, too."


    "Fury Forge?" I ask, mildly surprised. "She said she''d, like, hook you up. She made them?"


    "I mean, I guess. The hearing aid, at least, since it''s supposedly fireproof and non-heat-conducting and has this weird echolocation mode I have yet to understand how to use. She probably did not make the cochlear implant. Frankly, I''m not sure what hearing aids have to do with firefighting, but if she was able to pull it out..."


    "That''s handy," I say, genuinely impressed.


    "Plus, if I mark the hearing aid, because it''s recording and transmitting sound, I can use it to capture stuff for my powers. So I can record things now. If I don''t mind going deaf in that ear again."


    Akilah tugs on her earlobe pointedly. "Pennsylvania is a two-party consent state for recording, Devonte."


    "Yes, thank you, Junior Deputy District Attorney," he says with exaggerated patience. "I''m aware of the legal implications. I don''t use it for anything that would get me in trouble." He grins suddenly. "Much."


    "I''m just reminding you that recording without consent is¡ª"


    "A felony, yes, I remember the PowerPoint presentation. All seventy-three slides of it." Devonte turns back to me. "Anyway, it has its uses. How about you, Jordan? Excited for MIT?"


    "Incredibly," Jordan says from the videophone. "The physics program alone is worth it, but I''m more interested in the computational applications. Plus, there''s the internship."


    "What internship?" Akilah asks, her attention briefly diverted from the slowly advancing loading bar. Yeah, what internship, Jordan?


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    "The Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences," Jordan says, trying and failing to sound casual about it. "I''ll be working with them part-time while I''m studying."


    Akilah''s jaw actually drops. "You got an internship with DAAS? How? They don''t take undergrads, let alone... I mean¡ª"


    "Let alone what?" Jordan asks, an edge to their voice. "Let alone high school graduates? Let alone people without formal education? Let alone what, exactly?"


    "I was going to say ''let alone people without previous published research,''" Akilah says stiffly. "It''s extremely competitive."


    "What''s DAAS?" I ask, glancing between Akilah''s shocked face and Jordan''s prideful one on the screen.


    "Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences," Devonte explains. "Government think tank near MIT. They basically take superhumans with external powers, especially those who can create weird materials, and stick them together in labs hoping they''ll accidentally discover something new about physics."


    "It''s not ''sticking them together in labs,''" Akilah corrects. "It''s a highly sophisticated research facility dedicated to understanding the fundamental mechanisms behind anomalous materials and powers. The work they''re doing could revolutionize our understanding of physics and materials science."


    "So... sticking powered people in labs," Devonte reiterates with a grin. "And smashing them together in a big tunnel to make all the particles come out."


    "And you got an internship there?" I ask Jordan, impressed despite myself. I knew they were smart, but this sounds like a big deal.


    Jordan shrugs on screen, but I can tell they''re pleased by my reaction. "My space manipulation abilities are of interest to their theoretical physics department. And I looked up what the people on the application team had papers in and made like a two-weekend website that I pretended I was interested in the entire time. You know?"


    "You''re way smarter than I thought you were," I blurt out before I can stop myself.


    "Wow, thanks," Jordan says dryly.


    "I just mean ¨C you never talked about it. About being that into physics or whatever. The computers I knew."


    "Because people don''t generally want to hear about eigenvalue decomposition or quaternion rotation matrices when we''re trying to avoid getting shot," Jordan points out. "But yeah, I''m pretty good with computers."


    "Understatement of the century," Devonte mutters.


    The computer pings softly, drawing our attention back to the loading bar. It''s at about thirty percent now, plodding along steadily.


    "So what kind of data do you actually have that''s not encrypted?" Akilah asks, tapping a pen against her notepad. "From what Jordan was saying, it sounds like most of the valuable information is locked away."


    "We''ve got facility blueprints," Jordan answers. "Some shipping manifests, a partial staff directory, and a few fragmented research notes. Nothing that explicitly states what they were producing, but enough to confirm it was some sort of pharmaceutical operation."


    "And you think it''s related to these black autoinjectors?" Devonte asks, gesturing to a printout on his desk showing a sleek black device resembling an EpiPen.


    "We''re pretty sure," I confirm. "We''ve seen them used by Kingdom enforcers to boost existing powers. A guy named Bash used one during a confrontation we witnessed. It basically supercharged his abilities within seconds."


    "Like Jump, but for people who already have powers," Jordan adds.


    "Yeah, I''ve heard reports about these," Akilah says, her brow furrowing. "They''re calling it ''Hypeman'' on the street. Very expensive, very exclusive, mildly addictive. Not something your average powered individual can get their hands on."


    "You''ve heard of it?" I ask, surprised. "Why didn''t you say anything?"


    "In general, or in this conversation?" Akilah snarks back, not answering me.


    "That''s why having a name to a face is so interesting," Devonte adds. "We''d been tracing financial records that suggested the Kingdom was funneling significant resources into some kind of research and development project. But we could never pinpoint exactly where or what it was. Stheno Biopharma..."


    "Very cool sounding name if you have never read any mythology," Akilah jokes.


    "Well, now you know," I say. "Or knew, I guess, since we kind of blew it up."


    "About that," Akilah says, her tone shifting to something more serious. "The warehouse explosion has created a lot of attention. Local news, environmental inspectors, insurance investigators ¨C they''re all over it. The official story is that it was an accident caused by improper chemical storage, but there are plenty of people who don''t buy that."


    "Including the Kingdom," Devonte adds. "They''re not stupid. They know it wasn''t an accident, and they''re looking for someone to blame."


    "Which is probably why they''re watching your house," Akilah concludes. "Probably."


    "So what do we do?" Mom asks, breaking her long silence. Her voice is steady, but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers grip her water glass just a little too tightly.


    "For now?" Devonte shrugs. "Keep your heads down. Don''t do anything to confirm their suspicions. You have an alibi. It''s not necessary for non-cops but given that Councilwoman Richardson just banned youth superheroes, the longer you go without doing anything, the more they think you might just have... given up the ghost. Get back to you in a couple of years when you graduate."


    "And we''ll keep digging," Akilah adds. "With the data you''re providing, we might be able to map more of their network, identify key players and vulnerabilities."


    "What about the Hypeman formula?" I ask. "Even if we can''t decode the technical details, isn''t there something we can do to disrupt production? Now that the warehouse is gone?"


    "That''s the thing about organizations like the Kingdom," Devonte says grimly. "They never keep all their eggs in one basket. The warehouse was a significant facility, sure, but it was almost certainly just one node in a larger production chain. They''ve probably already shifted operations to backup locations."


    The computer pings again, the loading bar now at seventy percent.


    "You know," Jordan says thoughtfully from the screen, "even without cracking the encryption, we might be able to track the supply chain through the shipping manifests. Follow the chemicals to their source, or trace where the finished products were being sent."


    "Exactly," Akilah nods. "And once we have those locations, we can expand our surveillance net, gather more evidence, and start building a comprehensive case."


    "A case for who?" I ask skeptically. "The cops? The DVDs? The whole point of us doing this ourselves is that normal channels are compromised. Maya Richardson is on the city council, for god''s sake."


    "Not all channels are compromised," Akilah says. "There are still honest people in the system, people who would act on solid evidence if it were presented to them."


    "Like who?" I challenge.


    "Like Chambers and Woo, for starters," Devonte says, gesturing around the office. "The principals here have connections in both law enforcement and federal agencies. People who operate outside Richardson''s sphere of influence."


    "And there''s the press," Akilah adds. "With enough evidence, the right journalist could blow this wide open, make it too public for anyone to sweep under the rug."


    It''s not a bad idea, but I''m still skeptical. "Wouldn''t that just force the Kingdom further underground? Make them harder to track?"


    "Maybe," Devonte acknowledges. "But it would also disrupt their operations, force them to rebuild networks, reestablish connections. That buys time, creates opportunities."


    "And it puts public pressure on Richardson," Akilah points out. "Makes it harder for her to operate openly."


    Mom clears her throat, drawing our attention. "This all sounds very... strategic. But what about immediate concerns? Like the people watching our house? Or Sam''s safety at school?"


    "We can help with that too," Akilah says, her voice softening slightly. "Counter-surveillance measures, security protocols, emergency response plans. Part of what we do here is protect our clients, not just investigate for them."


    "We''re not clients," I point out. "We can''t afford to hire you."


    "I mean, we could, but not for very long," Mom jokes nervously, fanning her face with her hand.


    "Pro bono," Devonte says with a wave of his hand. "Consider it payment for the data. This might be the break we''ve been looking for in our ongoing Kingdom investigations."


    The computer pings again, more insistently this time. The loading bar has completed, flashing green.


    "Transfer complete," Akilah announces, turning the laptop around so we can all see the screen. A folder has appeared, filled with dozens of subfolders and files with incomprehensible names. "Now we can really get to work. Tell me again about Stheno?"

 Chapter 4.3

    "Tell me again about Stheno?" Akilah asks, her fingers hovering over the keyboard, ready to take notes.


    I shift in my chair, trying to organize my thoughts. It seems so obvious to me now, but explaining how I made the connection might be tricky.


    "It started with Aaron McKinley''s lawyer," I begin. "Katherine Huang, from Tremont & Fairfax."


    "The New York firm?" Akilah interrupts, her eyebrows shooting up.


    "Yeah. When I gave my deposition about Aaron''s arrest, I overheard something weird. Another lawyer asking Huang why someone from Tremont and Fairfax was in Philly handling a pro bono defense case for a random fire-powered thug."


    "That is weird," Devonte agrees, wheeling his chair closer. "T&F doesn''t typically do criminal defense, and they definitely don''t do pro bono work for nobodies. Their hourly rates start at like four figures."


    "I mean, any firm worth its salt does pro bonos, and some of them even do criminal defense. But some random case from Philly raises eyebrows," Akilah corrects.


    "Exactly," I nod. "So that got me thinking about why a fancy New York law firm would care about Aaron. And then, when Richardson announced Argus Corps, I noticed something in the paperwork filing."


    "Let me guess," Akilah says, already typing. "Huang was the attorney of record."


    "Bingo. Same lawyer representing both Aaron and filing the paperwork for Richardson''s personal superhero squad? That can''t be a coincidence," I continue.


    "So you connected Tremont & Fairfax to Richardson, and by extension, to the Kingdom," Devonte says, following my logic. "But how did you get to Stheno specifically?"


    "That part was mostly Jordan," I admit, gesturing to the phone screen where Jordan is still watching. "They figured that if Tremont & Fairfax were doing legal work for Kingdom shell companies, there might be business filings that would show the connection."


    "I pulled all the new LLCs registered in Pennsylvania over the last year," Jordan explains, taking over. "Then I filtered for any that listed T&F attorneys as their legal representatives. That narrowed it down from almost fifteen thousand to like seventy something."


    "From there, we basically had to guess," I continue. "We looked for companies that seemed like they might be involved in pharmaceutical production or research. Stheno Biopharma stood out because its registration paperwork was filed by Martin Calloway, a junior partner at T&F."


    Akilah and Devonte exchange a look that I can''t quite interpret.


    "What?" I ask. "Did we miss something?"


    "No," Akilah says slowly. "It''s just... impressive. And a little annoying, honestly."


    "Annoying?" Mom asks, speaking up for the first time in a while.


    Devonte laughs. "Yeah, because we''ve been tracking Kingdom shell companies for months, we''ve never been able to pin them to T&F - we noticed the filing, of course, but figured that was just Maya flexing her money - and this just sort of falls into your lap?"


    "Pure luck," I shrug. "If Aaron hadn''t attacked me, if Huang hadn''t been assigned to his case, if I hadn''t overheard that conversation... we never would have known."


    "Dayenu," Mom mumbles, chuckling.


    "That''s how investigations work sometimes," Akilah says, a hint of grudging respect in her voice. "One lucky break can unravel a whole operation."


    "So now what?" I ask. "I mean, even with Stheno out of commission, the Kingdom still has other facilities, right? Other shell companies?"


    "Almost certainly," Devonte confirms, turning to his computer and gesturing at a complex diagram. "Based on what we know about their money structure, they''re likely operating through at least a dozen different fronts. But knowing about Tremont & Fairfax gives us a new angle to attack."


    "This definitely needs further research," Akilah says, jotting notes in her small pad. "I''ll have to run this by Chambers and Woo on Monday, see if they''ll approve the budget for additional corporate records searches. These filings don''t come cheap, especially across multiple states."


    "And we''ll need to look beyond Pennsylvania," Devonte adds. "Delaware, New Jersey, Maryland... they probably have operations far beyond the Philly region, especially for distribution."


    "What about Rogue Wave?" I ask, remembering our other major problem. "Have you guys been tracking them too, or just focusing on the Kingdom?"


    Akilah and Devonte exchange another look.


    "We''ve got a file on them," Devonte says cautiously. "But substantially less information than we have on the Kingdom. They''re newer, more erratic in their operations. Harder to pin down."


    "What do you know about their contracts?" I press, leaning forward. "The way Monkey Business can basically mind-control people who sign with him?"


    "Not much," Akilah admits. "We know about as much as everyone else does - we saw that news hijacking - but the people we interviewed wouldn''t explain exactly how it works."


    "Wouldn''t or couldn''t?" Jordan asks from the phone.


    "Both, I think," Devonte says. "We didn''t press too hard. I remember you talking about with Rampart, how you found some drug dealers that went zombie mode. And I heard there was some incident at a high school where someone pressed a contracted security guard?"


    I glance at the webcam, hoping Jordan sees me.


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    "That tracks with what we''ve seen," I say. "They basically turn into zombies if you push them too hard about it."


    "Do you think there''s any connection between the two?" Mom asks, leaning in like she''s actually interested in the conversation. "Between the Kingdom and Rogue Wave, I mean."


    "We''ve been wondering the same thing," Devonte admits. "They seem to be operating in direct competition, fighting over territory and market share. But sometimes..."


    "Sometimes it feels like they''re avoiding each other too neatly," Akilah finishes. "Like there might be some unspoken arrangement. But that''s pure speculation at this point."


    "If there is a connection," I say slowly, "that would mean Richardson might have ties to both organizations."


    "Which would explain a lot about her anti-vigilante legislation," Jordan points out. "Keeping heroes off the streets benefits both the Kingdom and Rogue Wave."


    "That''s a big leap," Akilah cautions. "We need evidence before we start building conspiracy theories."


    "But it tracks with what we already know," Devonte adds. "Richardson could be positioning Argus Corps as a ''solution'' to a problem she helped create, or at least exacerbate."


    "Legally authorized to detain people without warrants, no less," Akilah mutters darkly.


    Mom clears her throat, drawing our attention. "This is all very... intricate. But what does it mean for Sam''s safety? If the Kingdom thinks she was involved in destroying one of their facilities..."


    "They''ll be watching, but I doubt they''ll move against her directly," Akilah says, her tone reassuring. "High-profile attacks aren''t their style ¨C too much attention. They prefer to work through proxies or legal channels."


    "Like siccing Argus Corps on us," I suggest grimly.


    "Exactly," Akilah nods. "But now that we know more about their network, we can start building countermeasures. Surveillance detection, security protocols, maybe even some legal preemption."


    "Legal preemption?" Mom asks.


    "Filing reports about suspicious vehicles near your home," Akilah explains. "Creating a paper trail that establishes harassment patterns. Not enough to trigger immediate police action, but enough to build a foundation if things escalate."


    "Sort of like ¨C if I get attacked later we have a preexisting chain of ''this was premeditated'', rather than this just being sudden?" I guess. "So someone other than, like, Argus Corps, and the Kingdom, might take us seriously?"


    "Exactly," Akilah nods.


    Devonte yawns.


    "D, can you pull up the Kingdom financial flow chart?" Akilah asks suddenly, turning back to the whiteboard. "I want to see where Stheno fits in relation to their other pharmaceutical operations."


    Devonte swivels to his computer, fingers flying across the keyboard. "There was that cluster of companies registered in Delaware last year ¨C PharmaSyn, NextGen Biologics, Helix Innovations..."


    While they dive into their research rabbit hole, my attention wanders to a framed photo on Akilah''s desk. It shows the Young Defenders at what I recognize as our first official team photo ¨C all of us in costume, awkwardly posed in front of the DVD headquarters. Liberty Belle stands in the center, her face serious but her eyes crinkled at the corners in a subtle smile. Everyone looks so young, so uncertain, even Akilah and Devonte. I wonder what Belle would think of us now ¨C Akilah and Devonte as investigators, , me... well, still getting into trouble, honestly.


    "Sam?" Mom''s voice brings me back to the present. "You okay?"


    "Yeah, just..." I gesture vaguely at the photo. "Remembering."


    Mom follows my gaze, her expression softening. "She meant a lot to you, didn''t she? Liberty Belle."


    "To all of us," I say quietly. "She saw... something in me. Still not sure what."


    "She saw a bullheaded teenager with a death wish and thought ''perfect superhero material,''" Devonte calls over his shoulder, but there''s no bite to it.


    "Takes one to know one," Akilah murmurs, eyes still on her screen.


    "I heard that," Devonte says, spinning in his chair.


    "You were meant to," Akilah replies primly.


    "Jeez, you two still bicker like an old married couple," Jordan observes from the phone.


    "Don''t insult either me or the institution of marriage, Safeguard," Devonte says, pointing a finger at the screen. "Besides, I only go for white and Asian,"


    "DEVONTE!" Akilah shouts, invisible threads of shimmering telekinetic force yanking on his hair, pulling coils loose.


    "Ow! I go for Hispanic chicks too!" he shouts, waving his hands and trying to tangle them into Akilah''s threads so that he can yank them loose. Her telekinetic attack subsides as she composes herself, smoothing her blouse with exaggerated dignity.


    "You are, without question, the least professional person in this office. And that includes the spider plant in the reception area."


    "That plant has a doctorate in being boring," Devonte retorts, fixing his hair with an injured expression. "While I have a PhD in keeping things interesting."


    Mom stifles another laugh behind her hand, clearly finding their antics both amusing and a bit overwhelming. She catches my eye with a look that says we should probably leave before Devonte says something even more outrageous. I nod slightly in agreement. She checks her watch and starts gathering her purse. "It''s getting late, and I think these two are going to be busy handling Jordan''s. Data. I should call your father and see if he''s ready to pick us up."


    I sort of just tune out Akilah and Devonte arguing with each other in the background, while Jordan gets the picture and hangs up nonchalantly and unceremoniously. A tiny bolt of anxiety shoots through me as she pulls out her phone. Dad''s been out there a while. What if something happened? What if the Kingdom found him? What if¡ª


    "Ben? Yes, we''re about wrapped up here. Can you pull around front? Great, see you in a few." Mom ends the call and turns to me. "He''ll be here in a minute."


    The relief is immediate but embarrassing. I''m being paranoid. Dad''s fine. Everything''s fine. Just because bad things have happened before doesn''t mean they''re happening now. "So we have a plan moving forward?" I ask, trying to refocus. I clap my hands a couple of time to get Devonte and Akilah''s attention. She blinks at me.


    "We do," Akilah confirms. "We''ll analyze the data you''ve provided, continue tracing the Kingdom''s shell network through the Tremont & Fairfax connection, and look into finding someone who might be able to help with the encryption."


    "And in the meantime, keep your head down," Devonte adds, suddenly serious. "I know that''s not your style, but with Argus Corps and the Kingdom both potentially gunning for you, it''s the smart play."


    "I''m grounded anyway," I remind him. "Not like I have much choice."


    "Being grounded hasn''t stopped you before," Akilah points out with a raised eyebrow.


    I glance at Mom, who gives me a look that clearly says "don''t even think about it."


    "This time it will," I promise. "Scout''s honor."


    "You were never a scout," Devonte snorts.


    "It''s the principle of the thing," I say loftily.


    Mom stands, extending her hand to Akilah. "Thank you for your help. It''s... reassuring to know Sam has people looking out for her."


    "She''s one of us," Akilah says simply, shaking Mom''s hand. "Even if she is a pain in the ass sometimes."


    "Language," Devonte mock-scolds, grinning as Akilah shoots him a death glare.


    After confirming plans to stay in touch and promising to be careful at least seventeen times, Mom and I finally head for the door. Devonte gives me another quick hug, whispering, "Don''t do anything I wouldn''t do," which is basically permission to do almost anything.


    "Keep us updated," Akilah calls as we leave. "And Sam? Good work. Belle would be proud."


    My face scrunches up. I try to pull it into a smile but it doesn''t quite work.


    Outside, Dad''s car is just pulling up to the curb. The streets around Temple are quiet for a Sunday afternoon, a few students wandering between buildings with backpacks and coffee cups, but otherwise calm. No suspicious vehicles, no men in suits watching from corners, no signs of danger at all.


    Just a normal day in Philadelphia. For now, anyway.


    As we climb into the car, Dad turns to look at us expectantly. "Well? How did it go?"


    Mom and I exchange a glance, a whole conversation passing between us in that single look.


    "Productive," Mom says carefully.


    "We have a direction," I add.


    Dad nods, accepting this cryptic summary without pushing for details. As he pulls away from the curb, I watch Chambers & Woo Investigations recede in the side mirror, wondering what Akilah and Devonte will find in our data.

 MR.6.1

    The reports land on my desk like dead weight.


    Three separate manila folders, each stamped with the Philadelphia Police Department seal, plus a fourth from the city''s Department of Licenses and Inspections. All of them neatly compiled by my staffers, presented with the kind of careful neutrality that tells me they think they''re being subtle. As if I wouldn''t notice they''re trying to gauge my reaction to an industrial fire in North Philly that just happens to be a few blocks from my district.


    I wait until Lisa, my chief of staff, closes the door behind her before I open the first folder.


    The initial police report is disappointingly sparse. Officers responded to multiple 911 calls about an explosion at a warehouse on Trenton Avenue at approximately 2:18 AM. First responders arrived to find the building already engulfed, with secondary explosions continuing intermittently for nearly forty minutes. No civilian casualties reported. Property damage estimated at $3.2 million, with environmental assessments still pending.


    No mention of capes. No mention of Argus Corps.


    I tap my fingers against the desk, letting the pressure build and disperse in tiny, controlled waves. The air in my office grows heavier, then lighter, heavier, then lighter, in rhythm with my breathing.


    The L&I report is more detailed. Stheno Pharmaceuticals had all the proper permits, all filed through the proper channels. Building code inspections. Safety certifications. Environmental impact assessments. Everything in perfect order¡ªbecause I made damn sure it was. On paper, they were developing "novel analgesics through bioreactive compounds." All was well. God was in his heaven, and so on, and so forth.


    And now that facility is gone. Not our only production node, thank god¡ªwe have redundancies built into the supply chain¡ªbut a significant setback nonetheless. The equipment alone will cost millions to replace, not to mention the lost research data. Mrs. Xenograft is going to be insufferable about this, and the whole damn operation was her idea. Urgh.


    My phone buzzes. Text from Davis: Need to talk about last night. Call when you can.


    Not now, Jamal. I''ve got bigger problems than placating the Delaware Valley Defenders. Besides, he knows as well as I do that calls can be traced, texts can be screenshotted. We''ve managed to maintain our delicate dance for this long by being careful, and I''m not about to slip up over something as trivial as hurt feelings.


    I set my phone face-down and turn to the most substantive report: Fire Marshal''s preliminary assessment. This one gets interesting.


    Multiple points of origin for explosion, indicating deliberate sabotage... Chemical accelerants present... Evidence of chlorine gas release prior to ignition... Warehouse security system compromised... Surveillance footage corrupted or destroyed...


    The air in the room grows thicker, the molecules pressing closer together as my irritation mounts. I force myself to relax before someone notices the barometric pressure in my office doing something scientifically improbable.


    The final document in the stack is immediately recognizable as not belonging with the others. It''s printed on plain paper, no letterhead, no official stamps. Just a clean, simple report in a font that screams government work. The telltale formatting of an Argus Corps after-action brief.


    This, at least, should have some actual information.


    I flip through pages of redacted names and blacked-out paragraphs. Even in an internal report, Patriot''s paranoia shows through. The unredacted portions paint a frustratingly incomplete picture: Argus Corps responded to an silent alarm triggered at the warehouse, plus an anonymous tip (mine)... Encountered multiple hostile metahumans... Engaged in combat... Suspects escaped during subsequent explosion... Investigation ongoing.


    It''s what''s missing that tells me more than what''s there. No mention of Soot, the vigilante who''s been a thorn in our side for months. No mention of the Kingdom''s enforcers who''d been stationed at the site. And absolutely nothing about exactly what was being produced at the warehouse, or why Argus Corps would be interested in a seemingly legitimate pharmaceutical operation.


    I drop the report back onto my desk and lean back in my chair, staring up at the acoustic ceiling tiles. The story doesn''t add up. Stheno wasn''t just some random target¡ªsomeone knew exactly what they were hitting. The timing, the precision, the targeting of our server room specifically... This wasn''t opportunistic. This was calculated.


    And where the hell was our inside man? The PPD night shift supervisor should have given us advance warning of any police activity in that area. Either he sold us out, or someone went around official channels.


    A knock at the door interrupts my thoughts.


    "Come in," I call, straightening up and adopting the posture of Competent Public Servant.


    It''s Marcus, one of our better street-level associates. He''s cleaned up nicely in a charcoal suit that almost makes you forget he used to boost cars in Strawberry Mansion. Almost.


    "Councilwoman Richardson," he says, closing the door behind him. "I''ve got some updates for you on that... community redevelopment project."


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    I gesture for him to sit. "I''m listening."


    "It''s not great," he admits, glancing around the office like he half-expects someone to be hiding behind the potted fern. "The boys aren''t talking. Lenny and Bash got picked up by the PPD that night, charged with B&E, criminal trespass, and some other bullshit. They''re sitting tight, waiting for their get-out-of-jail card, but they ain''t saying shit to nobody."


    "And the others? The security?" I ask, keeping my voice level.


    "In the wind." Marcus shifts uncomfortably. "Word is they scattered after things went sideways. Nobody''s seen ''em."


    I tap my finger against the desk, a slow, deliberate rhythm. "And have we identified who hit us?"


    "That''s where it gets weird," he says, leaning forward. "Most people are saying it was that smoke kid, Soot. Been hitting dealers all over North Philly, right? But the timing don''t make sense. Our boy Mikey swears he saw Soot clear on the other side of town when the warehouse went up, and that there were a bunch of capes in black jumping out the windows before the whole place blew. None of them looked like Soot. Got away on a moped or foot."


    "So we have nothing," I say flatly.


    Marcus squirms. "Not nothing. We got rumors."


    "I can''t take rumors to Upper Management." The pressure in the room ticks up a notch. Papers on my desk flutter.


    "People are saying..." Marcus hesitates, obviously weighing the risk of delivering bad news. "They''re saying it was just kids."


    "Kids," I repeat, my voice dangerously soft.


    "Yeah, like... teenage vigilantes. The ones that used to run with the DVD."


    The Young Defenders. Or what''s left of them, anyway. I dismissed them as a threat after the new legislation went through, figuring they''d be too busy with high school drama to cause real trouble. Clearly, I underestimated them.


    Or perhaps just one of them.


    The grey-helmeted figure Patriot reported fighting¡ªcould it be her? The Small girl with the shark teeth? But last I saw her, she was running around in bright colors with that ridiculous dog-themed getup. None of them have explosive powers. The only one that could''ve caused it to go up in flames is probably Puppeteer. Maybe Crossroads.


    Still, it fits her profile. She''s been a persistent irritation since she first showed up on our radar, and she has a personal vendetta against the Kingdom. If she''s evolved from annoyance to actual threat, that changes things. But the chlorine gas is an interesting wrinkle... no, it has to be Soot. The streets are wrong. I know Soot can use more dangerous stuff than just smoke, and chlorine is easily made from household cleaning chemicals. They must''ve been using all the money they''ve been stealing to daisy chain up the home synthesis ladder, to make shit like that for an operation like this.


    Are Soot and Bloodhound working together? An interesting possibility.


    "Any word on our Boston friends?" I ask, changing tack.


    Marcus shifts uncomfortably. "Yeah, about that. They''re here."


    "Already?" I hadn''t expected them until tomorrow at the earliest. Boston branch doesn''t mess around.


    "Landed this morning. They''re setting up at that apartment we keep on Diamond Street. Said they''d report to you directly once they''ve got the lay of the land."


    I nod slowly, considering the implications. Mr. Retribution and Mrs. Quiet aren''t just any operatives¡ªthey''re Mr. ESP''s personal problem-solvers. Our best pair of knee-breakers. The fact that he sent them so quickly suggests the Boston branch is taking this more seriously than I anticipated.


    Good.


    "Anything else I should know?" I ask.


    Marcus glances around nervously before leaning in. "Word on the street is Rogue Wave''s been quiet. Too quiet. Some people think they might''ve had something to do with the warehouse."


    "Based on what evidence?" I say, restraining the urge to roll my eyes at the cliched phrase.


    "Nothing solid," he admits. "Just... nobody else would be stupid enough to hit us like that. You saw that announcement. Anyone who they''ve got a contract with is gonna try to undermine us. If they''ve got anyone on the inside..."


    On the inside indeed. I tap my finger against the desk, thinking. "I want you to put the word out. Carefully. Double the usual bounty for any solid information on who was at that warehouse. And I mean solid¡ªnames, descriptions, powers. Not just rumors or speculation."


    "Yes, ma''am." He takes the envelope and stands. "Anything else?"


    I consider for a moment. "Yes. Find out what happened to our night shift contact at the PPD. I want to know if he sold us out or if he was simply bypassed."


    After Marcus leaves, I turn back to the reports, flipping once more through the Argus Corps assessment. The details that Patriot chose to include and exclude tell their own story. He''s hiding something¡ªprobably to avoid admitting that his elite team struggled against a bunch of teenagers.


    My phone buzzes again. Another text from Davis: Need to talk. Now.


    I ignore it. Let him stew. He''s useful, but he''s not indispensable.


    I''m more concerned with the fallout from this debacle. Mr. A was... displeased when I informed him about the warehouse. He didn''t raise his voice¡ªhe never does¡ªbut his frigid silence spoke volumes. It wasn''t just the loss of the facility that bothered him; it was the principle. Someone had the audacity to strike at us, to destroy one of our operations in the heart of Philadelphia.


    "This is unacceptable, Zenith," he''d said this morning, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. "Not the loss of the facility¡ªthat can be replaced. But the failure in security, in intelligence... that concerns me. You have a leak."


    I argued that it could have been chance¡ªvigilantes stumbling onto something bigger than they realized. But even as I said it, I knew it wasn''t true. The precision of the attack, the targeting of our server room... No, this was deliberate. Someone knew exactly what they were hitting.


    There''s a soft knock at my door.


    "Come in," I call, expecting Lisa with my afternoon schedule.


    Instead, the door opens to reveal two figures who most definitely aren''t city hall staffers.


    The man is built like a bull¡ªfive and a half feet of solid muscle packed onto a frame that seems perpetually tensed for impact. His expensive suit strains across his shoulders, the red dragon-patterned tie a splash of crimson against the otherwise somber ensemble. His black hair is pulled back in a tight bun that emphasizes the hard lines of his face, the perpetual scowl that seems carved into his features. He looks like he bench presses Cadillacs for warm-ups.


    Beside him stands a woman of striking contrasts¡ªdark grey hair with a dramatic white streak pulled into a sleek ponytail, sharp eyes that miss nothing, and black lipstick that accentuates her permanent smirk. Her gray and black business attire is crisp, professional, and carefully tailored to accommodate what I immediately recognize as a medical corset beneath.


    The air in the room immediately feels different¡ªheavier, charged with potential violence.


    "You''re looking snatched today, Q," I say, nodding appreciatively at her cinched waist. "The corset''s a nice touch. Very professional."


    Mrs. Quiet''s smirk deepens slightly, the only acknowledgment she offers. Mr. Retribution stands perfectly still beside her, arms crossed, expression unchanging.


    "You rang, boss?" he says, voice low and gravelly, like stones being crushed.

 MR.6.2

    I wave them in, closing the door behind them with a gentle push of atmospheric pressure. "How was your flight?"


    "Bumpy," Mr. Retribution says, remaining standing as Mrs. Quiet slides gracefully into one of the visitor chairs. "Delta''s service ain''t what it used to be."


    His accent flows thick and rich, Puerto Rican vowels stretched long, consonants clipped short. The contrast with his imposing physical presence always strikes me as interesting¡ªthe voice of someone''s favorite t¨ªo coming from a man who could snap a baseball bat with his bare hands.


    "You ever think about getting a Kingdom jet?" Mrs. Quiet asks, crossing her legs at the ankle. Her voice is crisp, measured, the faintest hint of a New England accent barely detectable. "Private travel would solve so many problems."


    "Not in the budget," I reply, settling back into my chair. "And harder to keep off the books. But I appreciate your efficiency in getting here so quickly."


    "ESP wasn''t exactly giving us a choice," Mr. Retribution mutters, finally lowering himself into the second chair. It creaks ominously beneath him. "He woke us up at four in the morning, said pack for three days, philly branch needs cleaning."


    I raise an eyebrow. "Cleaning?"


    "His words, not mine." He shrugs those massive shoulders. "We figured you''d fill us in on the details."


    I tap the files on my desk. "Someone hit one of our pharmaceutical operations. Stheno Pharmaceuticals."


    Mrs. Quiet''s eyes narrow. "The Hypeman facility?" I nod, impressed but not surprised that she''s aware of the project. "What''s the damage?" she asks, leaning forward slightly.


    "Total loss. Building''s gone, equipment destroyed. Almost all of the research data was backed up offsite, but there were elements that can''t be replaced. Mrs. Xenograft is... displeased."


    "Sounds like a her problem," Mr. Retribution says bluntly.


    "It''s an all of us problem," I correct him. "Hypeman''s already in limited distribution to our enforcers. Beta testing has been promising¡ª30% increase in power effectiveness, minimal side effects compared to Fly. This facility was a key production node. We have redundancies, but losing it will slow down our wider rollout significantly."


    "How bad?" Mrs. Quiet asks, leaning forward slightly.


    "Bad enough to give Rogue Wave breathing room we can''t afford them," I say. "But that''s not why you''re here. I need to know who did this, and I need irrefutable proof."


    Mr. Retribution cracks his knuckles, the sound like breaking twigs. "And once we know?"


    "Then we handle it appropriately."


    Mrs. Quiet''s lips curl into a thin smile. "That''s our specialty."


    "We need absolute certainty," I stress. "Breaking the wrong legs doesn''t just look bad¡ªit''s counterproductive. If the real perpetrators get wind that we''re chasing ghosts, they''ll know they''ve gotten away with it. That emboldens them and others."


    Mr. Retribution nods. "Names and confessions. Got it."


    I slide the Fire Marshal''s report across the desk. "The interesting part is here. The preliminary chemical analysis found traces of chlorine gas at the scene. Not enough to be accidental¡ªsomeone released it deliberately, probably as a distraction or an attack method."


    Mrs. Quiet picks up the report, scanning it with practiced efficiency. "Gas-based powers are rare," she comments, echoing my own thoughts. "Probably less than 2% of the powered population."


    "Exactly," I say. "And there''s a vigilante who''s been causing problems around North Philly. Goes by Soot. Gas manipulation, or creation, not sure yet, specifically smoke and chemical vapors."


    Mr. Retribution''s scowl deepens. "So we got a name. Why do you need us?"


    "Because it''s not that simple," I reply. "Witness reports are inconsistent. Some place Soot elsewhere at the time of the attack. Others mention multiple attackers in black, including at least one with a grey wolf helmet."


    "Bloodhound," Mrs. Quiet says immediately. "I''ve heard about her."


    "Potentially. But she usually wears red, not grey. And Patriot''s report was... suspiciously vague about who Argus Corps encountered at the scene."


    Mr. Retribution shifts in his chair, which gives another warning creak. "You think someone''s protecting these kids?"


    "I think Patriot either doesn''t want to admit that his elite team got their asses handed to them by a bunch of teenagers, or he''s too stupid to notice a costume change," I say with a dismissive wave. "Having a medically perfect brain doesn''t magically raise your IQ. Either way, the timing, the precision of the attack... this wasn''t random. Someone knew exactly what they were hitting."


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    "Inside job?" Mrs. Quiet suggests.


    I shake my head. "Possible, but unlikely. Our security protocols are tight, and the staff are well-compensated. It would take someone with significant resources to turn one of our people."


    "Or someone with significant blackmail material," she counters.


    "Or Monkey Business," Mr. Retribution growls.


    "Either way, we need to know. And more importantly, we need evidence."


    Mr. Retribution leans forward, resting his massive forearms on his knees. "So let me get this straight. You want us to track down this Soot character, figure out if they''re working with Bloodhound''s crew, and get a confession?"


    "Essentially, yes. But quietly. We can''t afford another public incident right now, not with the attention the warehouse explosion is already getting."


    "Quiet is my middle name," Mrs. Quiet says with a slight smirk, touching her sleek ponytail where the white streak contrasts sharply with the grey.


    "You don''t have a middle name," Mr. Retribution mutters.


    She shoots him a withering look. "It''s called a joke, R."


    I clear my throat. "I need you two focused. This isn''t just about finding the culprits¡ªit''s about understanding how they knew what to target. If we have a leak, we need to plug it."


    "What''s the operational leash?" Mrs. Quiet asks, all business again. "Full freedom, or are there limits?"


    "Standard protocols apply. No civilians, no unnecessary casualties, nothing that traces back to the Kingdom or my office."


    Mr. Retribution nods, then hesitates. "What about the kids? If Bloodhound and her crew are involved, they''re minors. Upper Management''s been clear about that line."


    I fix him with a steady gaze, ready to push back. "Upper Management said no involving minors in Kingdom business. No recruiting them, no using them as assets or pawns. He never said anything about defending our operations from teenagers who choose to play vigilante."


    "So if they''re the ones who hit Stheno..." Mrs. Quiet begins.


    "Then they opted in," I finish for her. "I''m not saying kill them¡ªthat would bring down heat we don''t need. But I am saying get the information by whatever means necessary. If they''re bleeding out and need medical attention, maybe they''re a little more talkative, no?"


    Mr. Retribution sits back, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I knew I liked working with you, Zenith."


    "Just remember¡ªevidence first, punishment second," I clarify. "I need to know exactly who was involved and how they found out about the facility. Once we have that, then we can discuss... consequences."


    Mrs. Quiet taps a perfectly manicured nail against the arm of her chair. "What resources do we have at our disposal?"


    "Whatever you need. Cash, weapons, safe houses. I''ve got a list of local assets who can provide support¡ªdrivers, lookouts, muscle if necessary. And access to city records, police databases, the works."


    "We''ll need surveillance equipment," she says. "The good stuff, not the commercial garbage."


    "Already arranged. It''s waiting at the Diamond Street apartment."


    Mr. Retribution cracks his neck, the sound disturbingly similar to his knuckles. "What about Rogue Wave contracts? We should check our own people too, right?"


    I nod. "You have full permission to question any Kingdom personnel about Rogue Wave connections. If someone''s under contract, multiple questions about Rogue Wave will trigger the attack clause."


    "Perfect testing ground," he says with a smile. "My powers handle that situation very efficiently."


    "Just be discreet," I caution.


    "And if we need to get rough with external sources, how much cleanup are you willing to provide?" Mrs. Quiet asks.


    "Depends on who it is," I say candidly. "Street-level informants, gang members, low-level capes? Full coverage. Someone with connections or public visibility? We''d need to be more careful."


    "And if it''s one of the kids?" Mrs. Quiet asks, her gaze sharp.


    I pause, considering. "If it comes to that, we extract the information first. Then call me. I''ll make the decision on next steps personally."


    She nods, satisfied with the answer.


    "Any other questions?" I ask.


    Mr. Retribution stands, the chair finally relieved of his bulk. "When do we start?"


    "Now," I say, sliding a USB drive across the desk. "That has everything we know so far. Witness statements, chemical analysis, security footage from nearby businesses. It''s not much, but it''s a start."


    Mrs. Quiet pockets the drive smoothly. "We''ll start with establishing a pattern for this Soot character. Recent sightings, operational tendencies, likely hangouts."


    "And we''ll need to know more about the Bloodhound angle," Mr. Retribution adds. "If she''s involved, what''s her connection to Soot? Why team up now?"


    I nod, pleased with their immediate strategic thinking. This is why Boston branch handles internal investigations¡ªthey don''t waste time with grandstanding or politicking. They just get it done.


    "One more thing," I add as they prepare to leave. "Timing is critical here. We need answers before Rogue Wave realizes there''s an opportunity. If they figure out we''ve lost Hypeman production capability, they''ll move to fill the gap."


    "Two weeks," Mrs. Quiet says, assessing realistically. "Maybe sooner if we catch a break, but we''ll have something substantial by then."


    "Good. Report only to me, through secure channels. If Marcus or any other local contacts reach out, verify with me first before sharing anything."


    They both nod, understanding the implication. Trust no one, not even our own people. Not until we know where the leak is coming from.


    As they turn to leave, Mrs. Quiet pauses. "Those kids," she says, her voice slightly softer than before. "If they did this... they''re either very brave or very stupid."


    "Those aren''t mutually exclusive," I reply. "Either way, they''ve made a serious mistake."


    "We''ll find them," Mr. Retribution promises, his massive hand resting on the doorknob. "And when we do..." He leaves the sentence unfinished, but the meaning is clear.


    After they depart, I sit back in my chair, feeling the air pressure in the room gradually return to normal. I hadn''t even realized I was manipulating it. A bad habit, letting my powers leak when I''m tense. But then, everyone''s entitled to a little slip now and then. Especially after losing a multi-million dollar facility to what might very well be a bunch of uppity teenagers.


    My phone buzzes yet again¡ªDavis, for the third time today. I sigh and pick it up. Some fires can''t be ignored forever.


    "What?" I answer, not bothering with pleasantries.


    "We need to talk about what happened at the warehouse," Davis says, his voice tight with barely controlled anger. "My people are saying Argus Corps was there. Your people."


    "And your point is...?"


    "My point," he practically hisses, "is that you assured me there would be a clear line between your... extracurriculars and your official positions. This crosses that line."


    "I''ll meet you at the usual place. One hour," I say, then hang up before he can argue.


    I glance at the stack of reports one more time before sliding them into my desk drawer. Two weeks until we have answers. Two weeks until we know exactly who thought they could strike at the Kingdom and walk away unscathed.


    I almost pity them. Almost.

 Chapter 5.1

    I spend two long seconds trying to decide if I should block or dodge, which is how I end up doing neither effectively. The punch crashes into my forearms with enough force that I swear I can feel my radius and ulna grinding together. Despite the padded gloves, impact reverberates all the way up to my shoulders.


    "Jesus!" I yelp, backpedaling clumsily. First weekend in June and I''m already getting the shit beaten out of me.


    "I told you I was going to punch you hard," Multiplex says, his voice even and unaffected. The clone circling around me is silent, focused entirely on finding openings in my defense, which¡ªlet''s be real¡ªis basically just me desperately trying not to get hit in the face again. Meanwhile, the "real" Multiplex stands off to the side, arms crossed, watching with the kind of detached assessment that makes me feel like I''m being dissected.


    "We just did an hour of cardio and weights," I protest, trying to catch my breath. "I''m already gassed before we even started the actual training part."


    "Bad guys aren''t going to wait for you to be in peak condition before they attack," the observing Multiplex says flatly. "You''ll either learn to fight while exhausted or you''ll get used to getting your ass kicked. Your choice."


    I dodge a jab¡ªactually dodge it this time¡ªand feel a flutter of accomplishment until a hook comes out of nowhere and catches me in the ribs. Even with the body protector, it knocks the wind out of me.


    "Less telegraphing," the silent clone suddenly speaks, resuming his circling. "You''re showing me everything before you do it."


    The Delaware Valley Defenders'' gym feels cavernous today, our voices echoing slightly off the high ceiling. The obstacle courses that the Young Defenders used to run are being dismantled and packed into storage containers, which sends a weird pang through my chest every time I notice it. End of an era, I guess. Two of the four adult Defenders are working out on the far side¡ªBulwark doing something with kettlebells that defies physics, and Fury Forge stretching on a yoga mat¡ªbut otherwise, it''s just us. That feels weird. Otherwise? Most of the team is here. Wait! Crossroads and Rampart. They''re out. Three of the six. Okay, that''s why it feels empty.


    Anyway.


    Me and two Multiplexes.


    Lucky me.


    "The pro boxer-puncher struggles against an equally matched slugger," the observing Multiplex lectures as I barely slip a straight right. "But this isn''t an equal match. I have effectively decades of boxing experience, plus height, reach advantages. I''m three inches taller than you and my wingspan is much wider. You''re growing like a beanpole but your arms are short. You need to get in too close."


    I throw a jab that should be lightning fast¡ªand it is, my fist moving like a bullet¡ªbut somehow he sees it coming a mile away, slipping to the side so effortlessly it''s like I''m punching in slow motion. I follow with a cross that has all my weight behind it, the kind of punch that''s dropped plenty of goons in the past, but he blocks it with a forearm and counters with a body shot that makes me stumble back.


    "Your punches are strong," Multiplex acknowledges. "But power doesn''t matter if you can''t connect. Your arms aren''t the problem¡ªit''s everything else."


    "What''s that supposed to mean?" I ask, circling warily.


    "It means you throw hard punches without proper setups. It means you''re so focused on your arms and upper body that you forget your legs exist. It means you have no sense of timing, rhythm, or distance."


    He''s not wrong. Since I got my powers, I''ve focused on what comes naturally¡ªhitting hard, taking hits thanks to my regeneration, and using my teeth when things get desperate. But I''m realizing how far that is from actual fighting technique. Aikido throws and BJJ shoots are fun and interesting, but when it comes to knuckle on knuckle, against someone like Multiplex I''m realizing very fast just how hopelessly I''m outmatched.


    The sparring Multiplex feints a jab that I completely bite on, flinching back and raising my guard for a punch that never comes. Instead, he steps in and delivers a flurry of light body shots that I have no answer for. My regeneration means I''ll heal fast, but it doesn''t make getting hit any more fun in the moment.


    "Stop reacting to what you see right in front of your face," the observing Multiplex says. "You''ve got good reaction time and peripheral vision¡ªbut you''re using them as a crutch. You''re not thinking ahead. You''re offloading too much to your reflexes."


    Something clicks as I manage to block another set of jabs and crosses, this one lighter, barely a tickle - testing me, probing me. I realize I''ve gotten used to Jordan using their space powers to make enemies miss. I can''t remember the last time I actually had to properly dodge something. My style has always been to wait for an opening, or create one by tanking a hit, then counter with everything I''ve got.


    "So what if I am?" I retort, throwing another combination that Multiplex easily evades. "It''s worked so far."


    "Against random thugs, sure," he says, echoing my thoughts in a way that''s almost creepy. "But any halfway decent fighter with some experience will wipe the floor with you. And that''s before we even get to powered opponents."


    I grunt in frustration, trying to cut off his movement with a hook that misses by a mile.


    "Your only advantages here are your regeneration, your strength, and your bone density," Multiplex continues. "You''re still doing the bone conditioning, right?"


    I nod, spitting out my mouthguard into my hand to answer. "Yeah, I beat a bag of gravel every weekend. My regeneration keeps my bones rock hard."


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    "Good. Put that back in," he says, pointing to the mouthguard.


    I comply, just in time to catch another shot to my padded headgear. My ears ring, and I realize I''ve walked right into his rhythm. Pop-pop, bang, pause, pop, swoosh¡ªthere''s a pattern to his combinations, but I can''t seem to read it fast enough to counter effectively.


    "It doesn''t matter how hard you throw a punch if you can''t hit me," he says, dancing around me with the grace of someone half his size. For a guy built like a refrigerator, he moves like water. "Your form is decent. Your footwork is tolerable. But you have no sense of timing or rhythm. All I need to do is a little variance, like this,"


    Pop-pa-swoosh, landing maybe a centimeter from my nose - his elbow cocked, clearly ready to actually smash my face in if he wasn''t just demonstrating. Right between both of my arms, like my guard doesn''t even exist. He pulls his elbow back and gets back into stance, "and you''re toast."


    I throw a jab that he slips like it''s nothing, then try to follow with a cross that he blocks with his forearm before countering with a body shot that makes me feel like my kidneys are trying to exit through my spine.


    "Fundamentals," the other Multiplex says. "Always back to fundamentals. Your stance is still too wide. You''re planting your feet."


    I adjust, trying to keep my weight on the balls of my feet like he taught me. My legs are screaming at this point. My regeneration handles the painful aftermath of lactic acid buildup better than normal humans, but there''s only so much mental exertion I can take. My brain is starting to feel like it''s wrapped in cotton.


    "Don''t overthink it," Multiplex says, somehow reading my mind. "Boxing isn''t chess. It''s rhythm. It''s instinct. You''re too in your head."


    "Hard not to overthink when you''re constantly telling me everything I''m doing wrong," I mutter through the mouthguard.


    The boxing Multiplex smirks. "You want me to stop pointing out mistakes? Fine. Figure it out yourself."


    He launches into a new combination, and I try to track his hands, looking for the pattern in his movements. I see his weight shift, his right shoulder drop slightly¡ªhe''s loading up for a cross. I raise my guard, ready to block.


    And then somehow, faster than I can process, I''m flat on my ass on the mat, staring up at the ceiling, my jaw throbbing despite the headgear and mouthguard.


    It takes me a second to piece together what happened. He feinted the cross, I bit on it, and then his left jab caught me clean before I could even register the deception.


    "That''s enough for today," the observing Multiplex says, stepping onto the mat as the other one backs away, both of them rolling their shoulders in the exact same motion. It''s weirdly mesmerizing to watch.


    "Already?" I ask, removing my mouthguard and sitting up. "But I didn''t even land a single solid hit."


    "That wasn''t the point of today," he says, offering me a hand up. I take it, letting him pull me to my feet. "The point was diagnostics. Don''t worry, you''ll get to lay it back into me just as hard later."


    "Diagnostics?"


    "Seeing what you know, what you don''t know, and how you respond to pressure," he explains. "Liberty Belle taught you some basics, but she was building a team of young heroes, so she needed to run the gamut of skills for everyone. I''m trying to keep you alive when you''re outmatched in a street fighting situation."


    I roll my shoulders, wincing at the stiffness already setting in. "So what''s the verdict, doc? Am I a hopeless case?"


    The boxing Multiplex rejoins with the original, melding back into a single person in that weird way that always makes my eyes hurt a little to watch. Multiplex rolls his neck, then fixes me with a calculating stare.


    "You''re not hopeless. You have some natural gifts. Your punches are fast and powerful when they land. Your pain tolerance is exceptional, even accounting for your regeneration. And you don''t give up, which matters more than technique sometimes." He starts unwrapping the tape from his hands. "But you have three fundamental problems we need to fix."


    "Only three?" I say, trying for humor. "I would''ve guessed at least a dozen."


    "Three main categories," he clarifies. "First, you don''t know how to dodge. You either block or take the hit, but proper evasion? Nonexistent."


    "I dodge," I protest weakly.


    "No, you flinch. It''s not the same thing." He demonstrates with a slight movement, his upper body barely shifting as he mimes slipping a punch. "Real dodging is efficient. Minimal movement, maximum effect. You''re all over the place."


    I can''t really argue with that.


    "Second," he continues, "you''re relying too much on your tankiness, and it won''t last you forever."


    That brings me up short. "Excuse me? My what?"


    "I''m not here to teach you regulation boxing or get you into a new sport," he says. "I''m here to teach you how to end fights in one or two shots maximum before they become a brawl. How to avoid damage to stretch your effective HP."


    "My what?"


    "Video game term. Hit points. The amount of damage you can take before you''re done," he explains, sounding almost embarrassed to use the terminology. "With your regeneration, you can take more hits than average, but that doesn''t mean you should. Think of them as multiplying each other. If you can take twenty hits, each one you don''t take at all by dodging it is effectively giving you one extra hit to spend in your budget later, for a feint, or a cross-counter, or to get in close with those crazy Mack truck haymakers you like to throw. Your regeneration might stretch your budget further, but you''ve still got a budget of hits, and you need to economize it."


    I nod slowly, understanding dawning. "And the third problem?"


    "You''re not cheating enough. No power use, at all."


    "I use my powers," I say defensively. "My knuckle-teeth¡ª"


    "Are an afterthought. A last resort when conventional fighting fails you. Bonus on-hit damage and little else," He shakes his head. "That''s backwards. Your powers should be integrated into everything you do. They should change how you approach the very concept of fighting. You can''t just think of them as extras to your... statistics. Your tooth-knuckledusters are impressive but all it does is add a little extra zip to an otherwise normal punch, gives it some puncturing and cutting power. You''ve barely scratched the surface."


    I frown, not entirely sure what he means. "So... I should just bite everyone right from the start?"


    "No. But you should recognize that I''m already cheating," he says, a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "I can watch you from two angles at once, more if I''ve got more out. When my duplicate rejoins me, I learn more about you than you can possibly learn about me. I can switch out a tired duplicate for a fresh one. I''m cheating the basic rules of a fair fight."


    "And I should...?"


    "Cheat back," he says simply. "Use every advantage you have. Just don''t slit my throat¡ªI need that."


    I can''t help but laugh, the tension of the session finally cracking like egg yolk over my head. "Okay. So what does cheating look like for me?"


    "That''s what we''re going to figure out." He tosses a towel at me, which I catch (barely) and use to wipe the sweat from my face. "Your blood sense, your regeneration, your teeth¡ªall of these need to become tools, not just abilities you happen to have."


    "When do we start?"


    "Next session. For now, go home, rest up, and think about this: what can you do with your powers that no one would expect? What advantages can you create that bypass conventional fighting entirely?"


    I nod, already tired but feeling a strange excitement about the challenge. "Alright. Consider my brain gears turning."


    "Good. And Sam?" he adds as I turn to leave.


    "Yeah?"


    "You''re stronger than you think. You''ve just been playing the wrong game."


    I''m not entirely sure what to make of that, but it feels like a compliment, so I''ll take it. As I head toward the locker room, I can''t help but cast one last glance at the packing boxes containing the Young Defenders'' obstacle course components.


    Maybe it really is the end of an era.

 Chapter 5.2

    A week later, and my entire body feels like one giant bruise, even though there''s barely any actual visual evidence of damage thanks to my regeneration. I''ve been here every single day for the past week. Multiplex hasn''t been sparring with me¡ªapparently I don''t "merit that level of investment yet"¡ªbut he''s been riding my ass about training and conditioning even though I''m already at peak form. Diminishing returns on athletic improvement, as he calls it.


    "Again," Multiplex says as I finish my twentieth set of burpees. "And this time, keep your form. Your back''s sagging."


    "What''s the point of this?" I ask between heaving breaths, hands on my knees as sweat drips onto the mat. "I''m already faster and stronger than 99 percent of people I''ll ever fight. I''m benching twice my body weight. My mile time is under seven minutes. What more do you want?"


    "I want you to be able to do all that when you''re exhausted," he says, not even looking up from his clipboard. "You need to function when your body is screaming at you to stop. Mental fortitude."


    "Why?"


    "Because powers fail. Skills don''t." He glances up. "Twenty-first set. Now."


    I drop into position, hating him a little, but I don''t actually mind as much as I''m letting on. This brutal conditioning feels like a reasonable replacement for soccer, my first love that I haven''t been able to play since Tacony Charter Academy High School doesn''t have a girls'' soccer program. And I''m sure as hell not playing field hockey.


    By the time I finish the last burpee, my legs are trembling and my arms feel like overcooked pasta.


    "Hit the showers," Multiplex says, finally showing mercy. "Saturday. Nine AM. Don''t be late. We''re going to put all this conditioning to use."


    "Can''t wait," I mutter, but he''s already walking away.


    <hr>


    School feels like a waste of oxygen these days. Final exams are over, and even the teachers have checked out. Most classes consist of movies on the smartboards and pizza parties. In chemistry, Mr. Nunez puts on Bill Nye and then spends the entire period scrolling through his phone.


    It''s during lunch on Friday that Jordan and I finally get a chance to talk about powers in relative privacy. We''re sitting at our usual table with the goths, but they''re deep in a heated debate about whether My Chemical Romance''s reunion was a mistake, so Jordan and I can speak freely as long as we keep our voices down.


    "You look like you''ve been hit by a truck," Jordan observes, poking at their mystery meat lunch with suspicious caution.


    "Thank Multiplex for that," I say, wincing as I shift position. "The man''s a sadist."


    "But a helpful sadist?"


    I consider this. "Maybe. He keeps telling me I''m not using my powers effectively. That I need to ''cheat'' more."


    Jordan grins. "Don''t you remember what I told you when we first met and I creamed your crop? You''ll lose every time to someone who''s mastered every inch of their powers."


    I snort, nearly choking on my chocolate milk. "I seem to recall me winning that fight by scaring the shit out of you after biting open a bathroom stall."


    "Details, details," Jordan waves dismissively. "The point stands. You''re still thinking about your powers as add-ons to being human, not as fundamental changes to what you are."


    I frown, taking another bite of my cafeteria pizza. "What does that even mean?"


    Jordan leans forward, lowering their voice further. "Has all this time wearing a dog helmet made you forget that you''re a shark, not a dog?"


    I open my mouth to respond, but my eyes catch on something past Jordan''s shoulder, through the lunchroom window. A dark sedan¡ªone of three I''ve seen circling the school today¡ªpulls into a visitor spot in the parking lot. A man in a suit steps out, adjusts his tie, and approaches one of the school resource officers stationed at the entrance.


    "Company again," I mutter, nodding slightly in their direction.


    Jordan doesn''t turn to look, just takes a casual sip of their drink. "Alex got some drone footage yesterday. Men in suits, mostly. Occasionally women. Too professional for Rogue Wave, too obvious for Kingdom."


    "Feds?" I guess.


    "Most likely. NSRA, probably." Jordan shrugs. "Doesn''t matter. They can''t do anything without evidence. And we haven''t done anything... lately."


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    "Speaking of not doing anything lately, are you coming to the thing tonight?" asks Devin, one of the goths, suddenly rejoining our conversation.


    "What thing?" I ask.


    "Venom Tears is playing at The Foundry. It''s 18+, but Liz knows the bouncer."


    "Can''t," I say. "Training early tomorrow."


    "Lame," says Liz, flicking a french fry in my direction. I catch it and pop it in my mouth, which gets a grudging nod of respect.


    The conversation drifts to bands and weekend plans, but part of my mind keeps circling back to the bathroom stall. To shark teeth. To what it means to be fundamentally different. Thinking about the way my jaw felt when I bit through solid material.


    Huh.


    <hr>


    This time, I try to apply what I''ve been learning all week¡ªbetter footwork, improved guard position, proper weight distribution. It helps, but Multiplex is still leagues beyond me in skill and experience. He slips most of my shots, counters with precise strikes that find their way through my defense, and controls the distance masterfully.


    "You''re still fighting like a normal," the observing Multiplex lectures as his clone lands another clean jab to my headgear. "Where''s the cheating? Didn''t you give this any thought at all?"


    My jaw tightens at his tone. I know he''s coaching me. I know he''s trying to push me. I know, intellectually, that I shouldn''t take it personally. But something about the condescension in his voice makes heat flare in my chest, the angry part of my brain lighting up like a Christmas tree.


    Another jab slips through my guard, snapping my head back. "This is pointless if you''re not even trying," he says. "You want to keep getting your ass kicked? Because that''s what''s going to happen out there."


    Somewhere beyond the anger, I recognize that I''m having this internal dialogue while actively fighting, which would have been impossible a week ago. My focus is improving, even if my performance isn''t showing it yet. But that realization just irritates me more, because if I am improving, why can''t I land a single solid hit?


    Multiplex feints a jab, and when I react, follows through with a straight right aimed at my face. My brain jumps through options¡ªblock, duck, roll, weave.


    I step directly into the punch.


    I clench my jaw. Hard. Harder than I''ve ever clenched it before. Every muscle in my neck locks into place. My teeth press together with enough force to crush bone.


    His fist connects with my headgear¡ªand bounces off. My head doesn''t move. My neck doesn''t bend. I absorb the impact completely, like hitting a brick wall.


    In the split-second of surprise that follows, I launch forward, driving a left hook into his body followed by a straight right to the headgear, both shots landing clean for the first time in our training. I follow with an uppercut that just misses as he backpedals, but I press forward.


    He recovers quickly, stepping back to reset, but I don''t let him. I stay in close, crowding him, taking up his space. Another punch comes at my head, and instead of backing away, I duck into it, taking the impact on my forehead while my jaw remains clenched like a vise. The shot barely registers, and now I''m inside his guard completely, close enough to smell his sweat.


    This is where his advantage in reach becomes a disadvantage. He can''t fully extend his arms to generate maximum power, can''t get proper leverage. Meanwhile, my shorter arms are perfect for this range, letting me bring all my force to bear while pressed up against his chest.


    I land a vicious body shot that makes him grunt, then another, then a short hook that glances off his headgear. He tries to create space, but I follow relentlessly, staying glued to him like a shadow. When he does manage to throw a punch, I intentionally lean into it, absorbing the impact with my locked jaw and neck muscles, using the moment of contact to land counters of my own.


    It''s like I''ve suddenly found the correct cheat code. Every time I would normally back up, I push forward instead. Every time a punch would normally snap my head back, my clenched jaw and rigid neck turn it into a non-event, a no-sell. Multiplex is still the better boxer by miles, but I''ve changed the game entirely. My ears are ringing - I''m still getting punched in the face - but my eyes aren''t wobbling, my neck isn''t snapping. When he''s expecting me to become dazed from the concussive impact, to whip my head back and lose focus for a split second, it''s just not happening. He doesn''t have any options for breathing room.


    He adjusts, trying to tie me up in clinches and using footwork to create angles, but I keep pursuing, accepting glancing blows to land solid ones of my own. For the first time, I can see uncertainty in his eyes¡ªnot fear, but the recalculation of a fighter who suddenly realizes his opponent has a new trick.


    "Time!" calls the observing Multiplex as the three-minute round ends and the alarm goes off. "That''s enough."


    The sparring Multiplex steps back, breathing harder than I''ve ever seen before. I spit out my mouthguard, a wild grin spreading across my face.


    "That," I say, "was cheating."


    The original Multiplex approaches as his clone dissipates, rejoining with him in that weird fluid way, sort of just... phasing into his skin. His expression shifts from surprise to something almost approaching respect.


    "It was," he acknowledges, grabbing a towel. "Effective, too. How''d you figure it out?"


    I shrug, not wanting to give away all my secrets at once. "Just something that occurred to me."


    "You leveraged your jaw strength and bone density to nullify my advantage in reach and power," he says, analyzing the technique. "Then used it to close distance and work inside. If you can bite like a polar bear, as Dr. Harris''s notes have so politely informed me, it stands to reason you can keep your mouth shut like a polar bear too. Clever."


    "Thanks," I say, still riding the high of actually landing solid shots on him.


    "Don''t get too cocky," he warns, but there''s no real heat in it. "I''ll adjust. Next time, I''ll be ready for that trick. And the people you fight on the street will adapt too, if they''re any good."


    "So I''ll just have to keep coming up with new tricks," I say.


    He nods, a hint of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "Now you''re getting it. Boxing isn''t just about punches and blocks¡ªit''s about adaptation, about changing your approach when the old one stops working." He tosses me a water bottle. "Take five, then we''re going again."


    As I gulp down water, I feel the pain start to set in - my jaw muscles aching, starting to click in weird ways. Even with powers, they''re just not meant to be abused like that, and I can heal, but I can''t heal instantly. A deep, throbbing migraine starts to bloom behind my eyes, and the lights start becoming sparkly. I don''t feel the uncomfortably familiar sensation of a concussion, but when I hit the floor anyway it feels like it''s not a surprise at all.


    Ow.

 Chapter 5.3

    I wake up staring at the ceiling of the DVD medical bay, a place I''m becoming way too familiar with. Nurse Sylvia hovers above me with a penlight, shining it in my eyes.


    "Follow the light," she says, moving it back and forth. I track it dutifully. "Good. No concussion, just syncope from overexertion. How''s the jaw feel?"


    I work my mouth open and closed, wincing at the clicking sound. "Like I tried to eat a bowling ball."


    "That''s because you essentially locked every muscle in your neck and jaw at maximum tension for several minutes," she says, making a note on her tablet. "Even with your regeneration, that''s going to hurt."


    "Worth it," I mumble.


    "Was it?" Multiplex asks from the doorway, arms crossed. "You passed out."


    "After landing more shots on you than in all our previous sessions combined," I counter.


    He doesn''t deny it, which I take as a victory. "You''ll need to build up endurance for that technique. The jaw clenching itself isn''t the main problem¡ªit''s the cascade effect through your neck and shoulder muscles. Sustained contraction restricts blood flow."


    "Is that your professional medical opinion, Elijah?" Nurse Sylvia asks dryly.


    "Just my observation," he says. "How long until she''s cleared?"


    "She''s clear now. Ibuprofen for the muscle soreness, plenty of fluids, and maybe consider not teaching teenagers to absorb blows with their face?" There''s gentle reproach in her tone, but also a hint of amusement.


    "Noted," Multiplex says, not sounding particularly chastened. "Ready for round two, Small?"


    I swing my legs over the side of the exam table, testing my balance. The room stays put, which I count as a win. "Give me fifteen minutes."


    "You''ve got thirty," he says. "Get something to eat."


    "I was thinking Wawa."


    His face remains impassive, but I swear I see the ghost of a smile. "Whatever works. Be back by noon."


    As I follow him out of the medical bay, I spot Crossroads and Rampart in the main hall, deep in conversation with Bulwark. They notice me and wave. I detour in their direction, curious about how they''re adjusting to the "big leagues."


    "Look who''s still standing," Rampart says with a grin. "Multiplex going easy on you?"


    "Hardly," I say. "But I landed a few hits today."


    "Progress," Crossroads says, nodding approvingly. "First week''s the hardest."


    "How''s life as a full-fledged Defender?" I ask, genuinely curious. These guys were my mentors in the Young Defenders, and now they''re working alongside heroes they used to idolize.


    "Different," Crossroads says. "Less training, more paperwork."


    "More responsibility," Rampart adds. "But also more respect. People actually listen when I suggest something, instead of patting me on the head and saying ''good idea, kid.''"


    "Fury Forge still does that," Bulwark points out.


    "Fury Forge does that to everyone under thirty," Rampart counters.


    Crossroads shifts his weight, that familiar tell when he''s about to drop something important. "You should know, the surveillance on your house has increased."


    My stomach tightens. "Kingdom or feds?"


    "Both," he says, running a hand through his braids to settle them. "NSRA''s been more visible, probably to discourage the Kingdom, but there''s at least one Kingdom car rotating through your neighborhood every few hours. Not near your house, just in Mayfair and Tacony. I get the impression you''re not the one being looked for. Yet."


    "Great," I mutter. "Just what I need."


    "Keep your head down," Bulwark advises. "And finish your training with Multiplex. If they do come for you, you''ll want every advantage."


    On that cheerful note, I head out for my Wawa run. Nothing says "preparing for possible criminal organization hit squad" like a turkey hoagie and a strawberry smoothie.


    <hr>


    By the time I return, Multiplex has the gym set up differently. There''s a heavy bag in one corner, focus mitts and pads laid out on a table, and what looks like a makeshift obstacle course using gym equipment. I guess so - the actual obstacle course is packed away. Feels a little silly to just set up another one, but what do I know?


    "Nurse Sylvia said she''ll stab me in the jugular if I do any more sparring with you, so instead, today, we''re going to work on integrating your powers more fully into your fighting style," he says without preamble. "The jaw technique was a good start, but it''s just scratching the surface."


    "I thought it was pretty effective," I say, feeling somewhat defensive.


    "It was¡ªfor about three minutes," he replies. "Then you passed out. And next time we spar, I''ll be ready for it. I''ll target your body, wear down your arms, exhaust the muscles supporting that rigid neck posture. You need more than one trick."


    He''s right, of course, which just makes it more annoying.


    Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    "What did you tell me when we first started?" he continues. "You have shark teeth, blood sense, regeneration, and the ability to grow teeth from your skin. But I bet you don''t even know what you can really do with those abilities."


    "I know plenty," I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds unconvincing.


    "Really? Then answer me this¡ª" He creates a duplicate, and both versions of him put on focus mitts. "Have you ever made a tooth that wasn''t shaped like a shark tooth?"


    I blink, caught off guard by the question. "I... no. I''ve only ever made shark teeth."


    "Then get in position. We''re going to work combinations while we talk."


    I wrap my hands, put on my gloves, and square up in front of him. The duplicate circles behind me, occasionally tapping my shoulders or back to correct my posture.


    "Jab, cross, hook," Multiplex calls out, and I deliver the combination to the mitts with practiced precision. "Again. Faster."


    I pick up the pace, the familiar rhythm of punches landing on mitts filling the gym.


    "So you''ve only ever made shark teeth," he continues. "Why? Are sharks the only predators with teeth?"


    "No, but¡ª"


    "Double jab, cross, body hook."


    I execute the new combination, focusing on keeping my form tight.


    "But what? Do you even know anything about sharks? How many species are there? What different tooth morphologies exist within the group? Are your teeth tiger shark teeth, or great whites? Could you make baleen?"


    "I¡ª" I start, but he cuts me off.


    "Five, five, six," he calls, indicating punch combinations. My arms are already starting to burn from the sustained effort.


    As I deliver the punches, he keeps pushing. "Your powers came from a shark, yes, but they''re yours now. Who says you''re limited to just one tooth shape? Have you tried visualizing different structures? Canines? Molars? Incisors?"


    The thought genuinely hadn''t occurred to me. I''d just assumed shark teeth were what I got¡ªrazor-sharp triangles designed for cutting and tearing. But if I can grow them wherever I want, why couldn''t I control their shape too?


    "Switch," Multiplex says, and the duplicate takes his place with the mitts while the original moves behind me. "Blood sense now. You''ve described it as visual¡ªyou ''see'' blood through walls, through skin. But you''ve also described Jump users'' blood as feeling ''carbonated.'' Which is it?"


    "Both, I guess?" I say between punches. "It''s hard to explain."


    "Have you heard of the concept of modality in neuroscience?" he asks. When I shake my head, he continues. "Different people process information primarily through different senses¡ªvisual, auditory, kinesthetic. But most powers don''t fit neatly into one sensory channel."


    I land a particularly solid cross, and the duplicate nods approvingly.


    "Your brain is trying to interpret extrasensory perception using familiar frameworks," Multiplex explains. "But it''s probably not just visual. When you imagine tasting a lemon, your mouth waters, right? That''s because your brain activates many of the same neural pathways whether you''re actually experiencing something or just vividly imagining it."


    "What does this have to do with my blood sense?" I ask, throwing another combination, trying to ignore the pucker in my mouth as I think about chewing on a lemon. God. Gross, I''m all saliva-y now.


    "I''d bet good money that if we put you in an MRI while you''re using your blood sense, it would light up areas associated with multiple senses, not just visual processing. You''re getting more information than you realize, but your conscious mind is filtering most of it out."


    That actually makes a weird kind of sense. Sometimes when I''m tracking someone with my blood sense, I get impressions that aren''t quite visual¡ªa feeling of thickness or thinness, a sense of rhythm that must be their heartbeat.


    "So?" I ask, landing a hook with enough force to make the duplicate take a half-step back. "You gonna put me in an MRI?"


    "No. What other information might you be picking up that you''re not consciously processing? Can you tell if someone has a blood disease? Can you sense differences in blood pressure? Hormone levels? Adrenaline spikes before someone attacks? Can you see the oxygen getting carried to muscles before they tense for a blow?"


    These questions hit me like a punch to the nose. I''ve never even considered most of these possibilities. Then, Multiplex bops me in the nose, just a little love tap with his focus mitts.


    "Break," Multiplex says. "Water, then heavy bag."


    I grab my water bottle, gulping down half of it in one go. My arms feel like lead weights, but my mind is racing with new possibilities. When I try to ask him a question in return, though, he just ignores me. Like, stares at me, and then turns around and does something else. What the hell?


    At the heavy bag, Multiplex has me working on power shots while he continues his interrogation.


    "Your regeneration," he says. "Have you tried directing it? Focusing it on specific injuries?"


    I throw a cross that makes the bag swing. "It doesn''t work like that. It just... happens."


    "Hmm. And what about your other shark adaptations? Sharks have incredible smell, electroreception, specialized skin, salt tolerance. Have you explored any of that?"


    "I don''t think I have those," I say, landing a combination on the bag. "No, wait, I can swallow a lot of saltwater without a problem. It makes me unable to process alcohol, too," I say between breaths, trying my hardest to finish a sentence while also getting run ragged.


    "Are you sure? Or have you just never looked for them?" He adjusts my elbow position slightly. "Does your salt tolerance give you advantages in hydration? Makes it harder for you to get exhausted from sweating? Can you go longer without water? What about inflammation responses?"


    I really don''t know what to say to him. He keeps quizzing me, and it''s harder and harder to think about responses while I''m exhausted. Next break hits, and then--


    "I don''t expect answers now," Multiplex says, seemingly reading my overwhelmed expression. "These are things to think about, to explore. Powers aren''t static¡ªthey evolve with use, with understanding. They might not change over the course of your life, but how you relate to them and use them will."


    The session continues for another grueling hour, moving from the heavy bag to the obstacle course, where Multiplex has me performing fighting movements while navigating various physical challenges. Throughout it all, he keeps pushing me with questions about my powers, making me consider aspects I''ve never thought about. And every break, he becomes a mute wall, refusing to let me ask a single question or even just engage him with light conversation.


    But that''s probably the point. He wants me to be able to think under pressure. This isn''t just making me overthink my powers, it''s making me overthink at all. The faster I can consider these things under fire, the more opportunity I will have to save my own ass.


    Damn, though, does he have to be such a douchebag about it?


    By the end, I''m drenched in sweat and my muscles are screaming, but my mind feels strangely energized, humming with new possibilities.


    "Same time Sunday, then you get a break," Multiplex says as I gather my things. "And Sam?"


    "Yeah?"


    "Homework. I want you to really think about these questions. Try experimenting¡ªsafely¡ªwith tooth shapes, with your blood sense. See what you can discover."


    "Is there a quiz?" I ask, only half-joking.


    "Life''s the quiz," he says flatly. "And the Kingdom doesn''t give partial credit."


    That thought stays with me as I head to the locker room for a shower. Under the hot water, I find myself running my tongue over my teeth, feeling their familiar sharpness, and wondering what else they might become.


    As I''m leaving the DVD headquarters, my phone buzzes with a text from Jordan: Suspicious car on Torresdale again. Black sedan, tinted windows.


    I text back: Probably NSRA. Crossroads mentioned increased surveillance.


    Or Kingdom, Jordan replies. Maybe both. Be careful.


    I slip my phone into my pocket and scan the street outside the building. Nothing obvious, but that doesn''t mean they''re not watching.


    I start walking home, eyes out for wayward crowbar swings.

 Chapter 6.1

    "If sharks have been around for over 450 million years, why don''t they have, like, laser beam eyes by now?" Maggie asks, spinning lazily in one of the mismatched office chairs we''ve collected for the Music Hall''s main room.


    "That''s not how evolution works," Tasha says without looking up from her laptop. "Species don''t just keep acquiring new features forever. They develop adaptations based on environmental pressures."


    "Yeah, but 450 million years is a really long time," Maggie insists. "You''d think they''d have figured out lasers. Or telepathy. Or something cooler than just swimming and biting things."


    I snort, flipping through a printout of shark species that Jordan compiled for me. "As someone whose entire power set is basically ''swimming and biting things,'' I''m feeling a little under the microscope right now."


    The six of us are scattered around what we''ve started calling the "research table" ¨C actually just three folding tables pushed together in the middle of the Music Hall''s main room. Jordan insisted on buying a massive whiteboard last month, which is now covered in their neat handwriting, categorizing everything we know about my powers and what we might be able to do with them.


    It''s Monday afternoon, and after yesterday''s brutal training session with Multiplex, I should probably be resting. But his challenge to better understand and apply my powers has been eating at me. Hence, emergency shark research session.


    "You do way more than just swimming and biting," Lily says, looking up from where she''s sprawled on the floor, surrounded by library books. "You sense blood and stuff."


    "And grow teeth from your skin," Jordan adds from their position at the whiteboard. "Don''t sell yourself short, Small. You can''t even swim."


    "I can! I just don''t!" I protest.


    In the corner, Amelia sits cross-legged on a chair, meticulously working on what looks like a patch of fabric with tweezers and a magnifying glass. She''s been quieter than usual today, focused on whatever textile experiment she''s running. The tip of her tongue sticks out slightly as she concentrates, which is kind of adorable for someone who''s usually so composed.


    "Okay, so," I say, trying to get us back on track. "Multiplex thinks I''m limiting myself by not exploring the full potential of my powers. Apparently just growing shark teeth and sensing blood isn''t creative enough."


    "He''s not wrong," Jordan says, capping their marker. "Most powers have applications beyond the obvious. Even mine."


    "Yeah, as you keep telling me," I say, rolling my eyes. "Like that one time--"


    "Would you rather I''d gotten caught?" They smirk.


    "No, but--"


    "Anyway," Tasha interrupts, turning her laptop around to show us some kind of scientific diagram. "I think we should start by getting a better understanding of how actual shark powers work. Like, the whole blood-sensing thing. Did you know sharks can detect a single drop of blood in Olympic-sized pools of water? They don''t just have a good sense of smell ¨C they have specialized cells dedicated to detecting blood."


    "I definitely can''t do that," I say, frowning. "I can sense blood through walls and stuff, but it''s more like... I don''t know, radar? Not smell."


    "Maybe you could develop it further," Maggie suggests. "Like, train yourself to detect smaller amounts of blood."


    Jordan taps their marker against the whiteboard thoughtfully. "I don''t think it''s about sensitivity. Based on our tests, you can already detect pretty minimal amounts. It''s more about what information you''re getting from the blood you sense."


    "What do you mean?" I ask.


    "Well, when you sense blood, what exactly are you perceiving?" Jordan asks.


    I shrug. "Location, mostly. Like, I can tell where the bleeding person or animal is."


    "But remember how you described Jump users'' blood as feeling ''carbonated''?" Jordan presses. "That suggests you''re getting more information than just location. You might be unconsciously filtering out a lot of data."


    Tasha perks up at this. "That tracks with what we know about sensory processing. Your brain probably tries to interpret this extrasensory information using familiar frameworks."


    "English, please?" Lily says, rolling onto her back and staring at the ceiling.


    "She means your brain might be getting more information than you realize, but it''s ignoring most of it because it doesn''t know what to do with it," Maggie explains, surprising me with her quick understanding.


    "Exactly," Tasha says. "Like how you can see millions of colors but only have names for a few hundred. Your blood sense might be picking up all sorts of details ¨C oxygen levels, cell types, pressure, hormones ¨C but your conscious mind is only registering what it knows how to interpret."


    "Right, this is all stuff Multiplex already asked me about," I remind them. "He already gave me this spiel. Okay, cool, sharks are better at smelling blood than I am. I already did experiments with Dr. Harris a year ago to determine my, what was the word, my "parameters". What more can I learn?"


    "We could try some experiments," Tasha suggests. "I brought some blood samples¡ª"


    "You what?" I interrupt, staring at her.


    Tasha rolls her eyes. "Relax, it''s just some test tubes of my own blood. Mom let me draw it at home with her nursing kit. I was thinking we could test if you can detect differences in the same blood under different conditions."


    For the next twenty minutes, we run through various tests ¨C Tasha adds sugar to one sample, dilutes another with water, heats a third, and so on. I close my eyes and try to sense any differences between them. The results are mixed. I can definitely tell that the samples feel different, but articulating exactly how is frustratingly difficult.


    "It''s like... the sugary one feels thicker? Maybe stickier?" I try to explain, eyes still closed. "And the diluted one feels... thinner, more spread out. But it''s not really a tactile sensation. It''s just how my brain is interpreting it."


    "That''s actually significant progress," Jordan says. "It means you are receiving additional data, even if you can''t fully interpret it yet."


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    "What about the heated one?" Tasha asks.


    I focus on it, trying to put words to the strange perception. "It feels... looser? Like the diluted one. But differently. Differently looser."


    "That makes sense," Tasha nods. "Heat increases molecular movement. Maybe you''re sensing the increased kinetic energy."


    We continue like this for a while, but I can tell we''re approaching the limits of what we can accomplish in one sitting. This kind of perceptual development probably takes months or years of practice, not a single afternoon, and I''m starting to get a migraine.


    "Let''s switch to teeth," Maggie suggests when we hit a wall with the blood sensing. "That seems more immediately useful anyway."


    "Agreed," Jordan says, erasing part of the whiteboard. "So far, Sam, you''ve only grown shark teeth ¨C specifically, what look like great white teeth. Triangular, serrated. But sharks have all kinds of different tooth shapes depending on species and function."


    Tasha pulls up some images on her laptop. "Yep. Check these out."


    She shows us pictures of various shark teeth ¨C some flat and plate-like, others curved and needle-thin, some shaped like Christmas trees, others like spikes or tiny combs.


    "Tiger sharks have these notched teeth that are really good at cutting," she explains. "Cookie-cutter sharks have these wild circular lower teeth that work like a hole-punch. Nurse sharks have these tiny, densely-packed teeth for crushing shells."


    "So theoretically, I could grow different shapes?" I ask, studying the images.


    "Why not?" Jordan shrugs. "Your power gives you shark teeth. There are lots of different shark teeth. No reason to limit yourself to just one type."


    I flex my hand, focusing on the knuckles where I''ve grown teeth before. I try to visualize something different ¨C a row of small, flat crushing teeth like a nurse shark.


    Nothing happens.


    I try again, concentrating harder, picturing the teeth in detail. I feel the familiar tingling that precedes tooth growth, but when they emerge, they''re the same old serrated triangles I always produce.


    "Damn it," I mutter.


    "Don''t force it," Amelia says suddenly from her corner, not looking up from her fabric project. "The harder you try, the less it works."


    "What do you mean?" I ask, looking over at her.


    She sighs and puts down her tweezers. "I''ve been working on creating a fabric with anomalous properties for weeks now. I can make amazing things when I''m not thinking about it ¨C clothes that resist damage, materials that shouldn''t be possible ¨C but the second I try to consciously control the process, I get normal fabric. It''s maddening."


    "So what, I should just... not think about it?" I ask skeptically.


    "Not exactly," she says. "It''s more like... you have to approach it sideways. Don''t try to grow specific teeth. Try changing something else about how you use your power, and see what happens naturally."


    "What else can sharks do?" I ask, feeling a vague, nauseous mixture of excitement and misery well up behind my sternum. I keep slowly popping teeth out like a little conveyor belt, but none of them really seem to change their shape at all. It''s really annoying!


    Tasha scrolls through her research. "Well, there''s a ton. Sharks have this thing called electroreception ¨C they can sense the electrical fields generated by other animals'' muscle movements. They have specialized organs called ampullae of Lorenzini that detect even tiny electromagnetic fields."


    "I definitely don''t have that," I say. "At least, I don''t think I do."


    "What about the lateral line system?" Tasha suggests. "Sharks have these pressure-sensitive cells running along their sides that let them detect movement and vibration in the water."


    "Definitely don''t have that either."


    "Their skeletons are made of cartilage instead of bone," Lily offers from the floor, surprising me with her knowledge. "Makes them more flexible or something."


    "My bones are definitely bones," I say. "Although they do heal really quickly."


    Tasha keeps scrolling. "Oh, here''s something interesting ¨C shark skin. It''s not smooth like other fish. It''s covered in these tiny structures called dermal denticles. They''re actually made of the same material as teeth."


    "Wait, what?" I lean over to see her screen.


    "Yeah, they''re like millions of microscopic teeth covering their skin," she explains, showing me a magnified image. "They reduce drag in water and also provide protection. They''re so rough that touching a shark in the wrong direction can actually cut your hand. Wait, didn''t we talk about this before like... two years ago?"


    "You probably remember better than I do," I chuckle. "I''ve taken too many blows to the noggin. Denticles... Scutes! We were talking about scutes?"


    "Those are for turtles!" Lily shouts, jolting up from the floor like she has something to contribute to the conversation.


    Recollection flashes across Tasha''s face. "Yeah, scutes. You don''t have scutes. You might have denticles."


    "Would those count as part of your shark powers?" Maggie asks, spinning in her chair again.


    I shrug. "Maybe? I''ve never tried to grow teeth all over my skin. Sounds painful."


    "Most power manifestations involve some discomfort," Jordan points out. "Doesn''t mean it''s not worth exploring."


    "I''ll add it to the list," I say, not particularly eager to turn my entire body into sandpaper. "What else?"


    "They have amazing livers," Tasha says, clicking to another page. "Super efficient at processing toxins. That might explain your resistance to drugs and alcohol."


    "And why I can drink saltwater," I add, remembering one of the few shark facts I actually knew already.


    "Right, they have special rectal glands and kidney functions that help with salt balance," Tasha confirms, then makes a face. "Sorry, that sounded gross."


    "No grosser than growing teeth out of my skin," I say with a laugh. "I don''t piss salt crystals, if that''s what you''re wondering,"


    "Ew," Jordan mumbles, not looking me in the eye.


    We continue like this for another half hour, going through every shark adaptation we can find and checking whether I might have some version of it. Most are clear nos, but a few ¨C like the toxin processing ¨C seem to map onto abilities I already know I have.


    While we''re discussing the possibility of whether I might be able to enhance my regeneration (sharks can''t regrow limbs, but their wound healing is impressively fast), Jordan''s phone pings with a notification.


    "Update from Chambers & Woo," they say, scanning the message. "They''ve found a technolect willing to help with the encrypted data, but they need a federal warrant to legally perform the decryption."


    "A what-o-lect?" Maggie asks.


    "Technolect. Someone whose powers relate specifically to technology," Jordan explains. "This one apparently specializes in encryption and digital systems. With their help, we could potentially crack the Kingdom files within a week or two instead of never."


    "And the warrant issue?" I ask.


    Jordan grimaces. "Under the Digital Security Act of 2017, powers-based decryption requires legal authorization unless there''s imminent threat to life. Unauthorized decryption carries hefty fines and potential jail time."


    "Great, so we''re stuck waiting for the wheels of justice to turn," I mutter.


    "Not necessarily," Jordan says. "Chambers & Woo are exploring options. They might be able to get a friendly judge to sign off based on the evidence we already have. It''ll just take time."


    "Time we might not have," I point out. "Speaking of which, have you started the lease transfer paperwork? I know you''re leaving in like, three weeks."


    "Already handled," Jordan says, waving dismissively. "The landlord just needs your signature and to talk to you about something something voidable contracts. Come meet with him at the end of the week. I''ll set something up."


    "I still can''t believe you''re going to MIT," Lily says, sitting up from her position on the floor. "Are you going to, like, build a death ray or something?"


    Jordan smirks. "It''s an internship with the Department of Applied Anomalous Sciences, not a supervillain academy. I''ll be helping study how superpowers interact with established physics."


    "So... yes on the death ray?" Maggie asks with a grin.


    "I can''t guarantee I won''t," Jordan says, but there''s a hint of a smile.


    The conversation drifts for a while, with Tasha and Jordan diving into a deep discussion about the biochemistry of my blood sense while Maggie periodically interrupts with increasingly outlandish suggestions for tooth applications. ("Could you grow a tooth key to pick locks?" "What about tooth wheels to rollerblade on?" "Tooth wings? Tooth knife?")


    Eventually, I check the time and realize I need to get going. Multiplex is expecting me for another training session, and after yesterday''s breakthrough with the jaw-clenching technique, I''m actually looking forward to seeing what else we might discover.


    "I''ve gotta head out," I announce, gathering my things. "Training with Multiplex."


    "Ooh, the hot boxer guy," Maggie says, waggling her eyebrows.


    I make a face. "He''s like, forty."


    "So?"


    "So gross, Maggie. He''s my teacher." I shoulder my backpack. "Anyway, thanks for all the shark facts. I feel like I''ve got some new things to try."


    "You want company on the walk over?" Jordan asks, their tone casual but eyes watchful. We''re all more cautious about moving around the city alone these days, especially with the surveillance we''ve noticed.


    "Nah, it''s broad daylight. I''ll be fine."

 Chapter 6.2

    The rest of the week passes in a blur of summer freedom and paranoia. School''s out, which means I suddenly have way more free time than I know what to do with, especially since I''m technically still grounded from patrols. I divide my days between training with Multiplex (who apparently doesn''t believe in summer vacation), hanging out at the Music Hall, and convincing myself that every car that drives by our house twice is Kingdom surveillance.


    I reach out to the Tacony Titans, just sort of informally - hey, guys, remember that warehouse explosion? That was us. We are now getting stalked by federal agents and trying to lay low. Please keep an eye on Mayfair. They agree to help pick up some of the slack, so that''s been nice. And I still have to think about, ugh, the lease. The lease!


    When I''m not doing superhero-adjacent stuff (since I''m not allowed to do actual superhero stuff), I''m playing pickup basketball at the playground with some neighborhood kids, trying to pretend I''m a normal teenager whose biggest concern is whether Amber is dating Tyler now. (She is. They''ve been together for like a week, which in summer-before-junior-year time is practically an engagement.)


    At home, there''s this weird tension with Kate as she and her father pack up their stuff. I help her box things up when I''m around, making the most awkward small talk imaginable about her plans for the new place.


    "So, you excited about the move?" I ask while taping up a box labeled ''KITCHEN''.


    "Yeah, it''ll be great," she says, not meeting my eyes. "Shorter commute for Dad."


    We both know that''s not why they''re moving. We both know about the mysterious benefactor who paid off their debts. We both know she spends her nights prowling the city as Soot. But we don''t talk about any of that. We just tape boxes and pretend this is normal.


    By the time Saturday rolls around, I''m almost eager to get back to Multiplex''s brutal training regimen. At least there, the pain makes sense.


    "Again," Multiplex says, circling me on the mat. We''re forty-five minutes into what he calls "conditioning" and what I call "that thing they banned under the Geneva Convention." My shirt is soaked completely through with sweat, my lungs burning with each breath, and my legs feeling like they''re made of overcooked spaghetti.


    Finally, mercifully, he calls time on the warm-up. "Get your gear on," he says, already wrapping his hands with practiced efficiency. "Three-minute rounds, one-minute breaks. No mercy today."


    I nod, too winded to waste breath on a response. As I''m lacing up my gloves, I notice Crossroads and Fury Forge have paused their own workouts on the far side of the gym and are watching with quiet interest. Great. An audience. Because what this situation really needed was additional witnesses to my humiliation.


    "Ready?" Multiplex asks, stepping into the ring we''ve created with training mats.


    I nod, bringing my gloves up into a guard position, weight on the balls of my feet like he taught me.


    The timer beeps, and he comes right at me.


    Immediately, I can tell something''s different. He''s barely aiming for my head at all. Instead, he''s targeting my torso, my shoulders, my ribs ¡ª methodically working over my body with precise shots that bypass my raised guard.


    I try the jaw-clenching technique that worked so well last time, locking my neck muscles and preparing to absorb head shots, but they never come. Instead, a quick left hook catches me in the floating rib, followed by a straight right to my solar plexus that nearly doubles me over.


    "Adaptation," he says, not even breathing hard as he continues his assault. "Last week you found a counter to my head shots. So I stopped throwing them."


    I try to circle away, but he cuts off my movement with perfect footwork, delivering another punishing body blow that makes my kidneys sing with pain. It''s like getting hit with a medicine ball thrown by a major league pitcher.


    "Have you done literally any work this week?" he asks, slipping past my jab like it''s moving in slow motion. "You brought me one trick last weekend, and I''m already past it."


    I don''t answer, partly because I''m conserving energy and partly because talking would just give him something else to counter. I can feel my regeneration working overtime, healing the deep tissue bruising almost as fast as he can cause it, but the pain doesn''t disappear ¡ª it just doesn''t linger as long as it should.


    Halfway through the round, I manage to land a decent counter when he overcommits to a body hook, but it''s one success amid a dozen failures. By the time the timer beeps for the end of the round, my entire torso feels like one giant bruise.


    "One minute rest," he says, walking to his corner. "Then we go again."


    I gulp water, trying to catch my breath. Across the gym, I can see Crossroads watching with his arms crossed, expression unreadable. Fury Forge has set down her kettlebells entirely, giving up the pretense that she''s not completely focused on our sparring session.


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    The timer beeps again.


    Round two starts much like the first ended. Multiplex has found his rhythm now, working my body with brutal efficiency. I''m defending better, keeping my elbows tucked to protect my ribs, but that just means he targets my shoulders and sternum instead. It''s like he''s got a mental map of exactly where it hurts most to get hit and he''s methodically checking off each spot.


    "Keep moving," he instructs, even as he lands another shot to my liver that makes me wonder if I''m about to throw up my breakfast. "If you stand still, you''re just a punching bag."


    I try to implement some of what he''s taught me ¡ª slipping punches, using angles, looking for counters ¡ª but the gap in our skill level is so vast that even my minor successes feel like they''re only happening because he''s allowing them. Like when you''re playing chess with a little kid and you deliberately leave your bishop unguarded so they can take it.


    Halfway through the second round, frustration boils over. I''m tired of being his punching bag, tired of feeling outclassed, tired of the pain radiating through my torso. I unleash a wild haymaker, putting every ounce of strength I have behind it. It''s sloppy, telegraphed, and Multiplex sees it coming a mile away. He easily slips to the outside, and I feel his weight shift as he prepares to deliver a punishing counter to my now-exposed ribs.


    Time slows. I can see the punch coming, a brutal right hook aimed just below my armpit that''s going to knock the wind out of me completely. I can see every bit of its angle, work every vector, feel already in my head the preemptive flinch response as my brain politely informs me what exactly getting hit at that speed is going to feel like. There''s no time to actually react. Even if I could send the nerve impulses fast enough, I physically don''t have the ability to move fast enough to stop it or dodge away from it. It''s mathematical victory.


    Half planning, half instinct, half anger.


    His fist connects with a hard WHUMP ¡ª the sound of knuckles striking concrete. Multiplex hisses, bouncing backward and shaking his right hand like he just high-fived a brick wall.


    Instant Armor.


    Where his fist struck my side, a fine layer of overlapping teeth has emerged, just barely breaking the surface of my skin. They''re still the familiar triangular shape of great white teeth, but they''re arranged in tight, overlapping rows, perpendicular to the bone, forming a natural armor plate maybe a quarter-inch thick. It still hurts like a motherfucker, especially at the root where they anchor tight to the fat and muscle under my skin, but compared to the cannonball run I was about to take to the side it''s like a gentle pat to the head.


    As Multiplex stares, the teeth crack under the impact and quickly begin to disperse into a fine white powder that drifts to the mat. My skin beneath shows several shallow cuts, more like slots than anything else, that almost immediately begin knitting themselves together.


    I slap my gloved knuckles together, feeling a surge of triumph and probably looking insufferably smug. "You like that?"


    His eyes narrow, but there''s something like approval hiding behind his scowl. "Clever. Let''s see if it holds up."


    The fight resumes, but the dynamic has shifted. Now, when I see a punch coming that I can''t dodge, I focus on armoring up the target area. Teeth emerge from my forearms to block his jabs, from my abdomen to absorb body blows, from my shoulders to deflect hooks. That''s what I''ve been calling it. Instant Armor.


    It''s not instant instant, of course. I have to prepare - the teeth take at least three seconds to grow, and I need to clench my muscles like I''m taking a shit to force them out. I''ve been practicing all week, down to the point where it''s become reactive, but it''s still exhausting, just like the jaw defense, and it still takes at least half a second for them to actually come out. So, it''s less being able to armor up at a moment''s notice, and more predicting where Multiplex is going to hit next and having to start preempting him.


    I don''t get it right every time. Multiplex adapts almost immediately, because of course he does. He''s throwing more feints, making me waste time and energy armoring the wrong spots. I get him more than I don''t, but then... I don''t. And the ratio starts to slip.


    Each impact causes the teeth to shatter and flake away, but I can grow new ones almost instantly. It makes me thirsty like a m-f-er, too - I can feel my mouth getting dryer and dryer every time, although I can''t exactly tell why, like... biologically. My body moves slower and slower, to the point where it starts getting frustrating, and the further this torture goes on - three minutes of hell - the harder it gets to predict where he''s going to hit next. Which doesn''t make sense, because I haven''t taken a single head shot, I''m just... getting slower.


    And slower, and slower.


    Every armor, attack blocked or not, is like peeling microseconds off of my reaction time as a cost. I think he''d say something about my MP bar getting low. He feints a body shot that has me instinctively armoring my stomach, then switches to a lightning-fast jab that catches me square in the headgear. Fuck. My     jaw.


    The punch snaps my head back, disorienting me. My vision swims, and my legs turn to jelly. As the timer beeps marking the end of the round, my knees buckle, and I land hard on my ass, the room spinning around me like I''m on one of those teacup rides at the fair.


    Unlike last time, though, I don''t pass out. I stay conscious, breathing hard, as Multiplex removes his gloves and examines his right hand. Even through the padding, his knuckles are split and bleeding where they connected with my impromptu armor.


    "Clever cheat," he says, reaching for the first aid kit to bandage his hand. "Pretty good."


    Coming from Multiplex, that''s practically a standing ovation.


    Fury Forge approaches, handing me a sports drink. "That''s a new one," she says. "Dermal denticles?"


    I nod, still too winded to form complete sentences. The sports drink tastes like artificial berry and salvation.


    "Shark skin," she explains to Crossroads, who''s joined us. "Covered in tiny teeth-like structures. Good adaptation."


    "Can you control the density?" Crossroads asks.


    I shrug, gulping down the electrolyte-laden drink. "No," I gasp.


    "You got lucky," Multiplex says, finishing the bandage on his hand. "In a real fight, you can''t rely on discovering new applications of your powers mid-combat."


    "I planned that," I breathe, trying not to let Electrolyte Fluid (Trademarked) drip down into my sports bra no matter how thirstily I destroy the bottle. "There was nothing ''new applications being discovered'' about it. What do you think I''ve been working on all week?"


    That gets a smile out of him.


    "Are you concussed?" He asks.


    I look around, looking for the telltale sparkly lights of a concussion, the ever-familiar headrush as I feel my neural tissue stitching itself back together from a regular braincage rattling. I look around, trying to see if Nurse Sylvia is watching.


    "Nope. I''m good," I reply. Fury Forge and Crossroads both disperse as Multiplex''s timer beeps again, and he helps me up, pausing to reset the timer.


    "Great. Let''s push that new technique of yours until you break,"

 Chapter 6.3

    "Great. Let''s push that new technique of yours until it breaks," Multiplex says, resetting the timer.


    "Wait, what?" I gulp down the last of the sports drink as he guides me back to the center of our makeshift ring. "I thought we were done?"


    He gives me a look that makes me feel stupid for even suggesting it. "You just discovered a major new application of your abilities, and you want to stop? This is exactly when we need to keep going."


    "My ribs disagree," I mutter, but I get into position anyway.


    The timer beeps, and round three begins.


    This time, Multiplex is methodical, almost scientific in his approach. He''s not trying to overwhelm me anymore. Instead, he''s systematically testing the limits of my armor, throwing different combinations at different speeds, targeting specific areas and watching how quickly I can armor up in response.


    "So," he says, throwing a testing jab that I manage to block with a small patch of teeth on my forearm. "Let''s talk about capestuff."


    "About what?" I ask, confused by the term and the casual conversation mid-fight.


    "Capestuff. Anomalously originated materials." Another jab, this one faster. "The technical term for things like your teeth, or Gossamer''s fabrics. Materials that shouldn''t exist according to conventional physics."


    I try to focus on both his words and his movements, which is like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance backwards. "Okay, and?"


    He throws a hook that I fail to armor against in time, the impact sending a fresh bolt of pain through my side. "And every power has a cost. The main thing that defies physics is the energy violation¡ªyou burn calories, but not nearly as many as would be required for what you''re doing."


    "So...?" I sort of lead in, trying to anticipate his next move.


    "Nothing is free. Cheap, maybe," He launches a body shot that I manage to armor against, the teeth shattering on impact, scattering into that fine white mist. "But definitely not free. Every power has some sort of cost."


    I''m starting to feel the dehydration more acutely now. My mouth is desert-dry, my lips sticking to my teeth. "Like what?"


    Multiplex circles, watching me carefully. "Sometimes it''s just calories. But Captain Plasma needs to take way more iron supplements than are healthy because the iron gets burned off when he uses his electromagnetic powers." He gestures toward where Fury Forge is back to her workout. "Forge gets headaches for days if she pushes her brain too hard. Spontaneous nosebleeds."


    "And you?" I ask, genuinely curious.


    "I experience everything my duplicates do when they reabsorb. Every pain, every sensation." He says it casually, like he''s commenting on the weather, but it lands like a gut punch. "If one dies, which has happened, I feel that too. That seems like a cost to me."


    He resumes his attack, throwing combinations that force me to armor different parts of my body in rapid succession. I can feel myself getting slower, my reactions dulled by exhaustion and dehydration.


    "If you''re experiencing anything other than simple exhaustion when using your powers, it''s likely you need to figure out what you''re paying," Multiplex continues. "Maybe get some bloodwork done. Make sure you stay topped off on whatever you''re missing."


    The timer beeps, signaling the end of the round. I practically collapse onto the bench, grabbing for another sports drink.


    "Is that, like, a legit area of study?" I ask between gulps. "Does Dr. Harris know about this? Should I be worried about, I don''t know, calcium deficiency or something from making all these teeth?"


    Multiplex takes a seat across from me, unwrapping his hand to check the cuts. "No, it''s more of a philosophy than established science. There''s so much we don''t understand about powers that you couldn''t rigorously work it out." He rewraps his hand with fresh gauze. "I''m not making a statement of scientific rigor regarding capestuff. It''s more of a thing to think about. A philosophy. No free lunches, only discounted."


    "A thing to think about," I repeat, trying not to sound like a sarcastic teenager and failing.


    "There''s no such thing as money for free. When you have powers, you can get money for cheap, but not free." He looks at me seriously. "Same principle. Understanding your costs helps you manage them."


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    I nod, filing that away alongside all the other cryptic wisdom Multiplex has dropped on me lately. The timer beeps again, but when I start to rise, he waves me back down.


    "We''re done for today. You need to hydrate before you pass out again"


    I don''t argue, just keep drinking my sports drink, which tastes like someone dissolved a handful of Sweet Tarts in sweat. Multiplex hands me a protein bar that has the texture and flavor of compressed sand. Apparently, proper nutrition tastes like punishment.


    "Next week, I want to focus on your ability to transition between different defensive techniques," he says, helping me gather my things. "The jaw clench and the armor are both useful, but right now, you can only use one at a time, and switching between them leaves you vulnerable."


    "Got it. More pain in my future."


    "Pain is just weakness leaving the body," he says with what might actually be a hint of a smile.


    "Pretty sure that''s not medically accurate, Buddha," I mutter, shouldering my bag.


    "Never said it was." He heads toward the door. "Get your bloodwork done, Small. Better to know what you''re burning through than find out the hard way. And no, Sylvia is not that kind of nurse."


    I make a non-committal sound as I follow him out. The idea of needles doesn''t exactly thrill me, but he might have a point. If I''m depleting something specific when I use my powers, it would be smart to know what.


    The walk home from Center City to Tacony is a long one, but I don''t mind. Philadelphia in June has its own particular charm¡ªthe smell of food trucks and hot asphalt, the symphony of car horns and distant sirens, the warmth of late afternoon sun reflecting off glass skyscrapers. It''s my city, for better or worse, and walking through it helps me feel connected to the place I''m trying to protect.


    As I cross Spring Garden Street, I text Jordan to let them know I''m on my way back. They respond almost immediately, a phantom over my shoulder. "How''d it go?" they text.


    "Good," I reply.


    "Instant armor?" They ask.


    My thumbs tap away. "Instant Armor, capitalized, bolded ideally. It''s a proper noun. Treat it that way."


    "OK loser," they reply. "I hope you get hit by a truck,"


    I smile and pocket my phone, continuing north. My body aches from Multiplex''s training, but it''s a good ache, the kind that means progress. The armor technique is far from perfect¡ªit drains me quickly, only lasts for a single impact, and I can''t maintain it alongside my jaw clench¡ªbut it''s something new, something uniquely mine.


    By the time I reach Allegheny Avenue, the sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, long shadows stretching across the street. It''s pushing 7 PM, and my stomach growls, reminding me that I''ve burned through a lot of calories today. Maybe I''ll pick up a hoagie on the way home.


    I''m so busy contemplating food options that I almost don''t notice the two figures waiting at the corner where Erie Avenue meets Torresdale. Almost, but not quite. Something about their posture¡ªtoo still, too deliberate¡ªtriggers my warning bells even before I register that they''re watching me.


    One of them is a man shorter than me by a couple inches, maybe 5''5". He''s got tan skin, almost burnished, with dark hair pulled back into a small, tight bun and a neatly trimmed chinstrap beard. There''s something almost samurai-esque about his bearing, a controlled stillness that suggests danger, and big-ass bushy eyebrows that seem permanently locked at like a scowling angle while the rest of his face is neutral. Over that sits a red button-down covered in Asian dragons, although I couldn''t tell you which particular kind they are, and then a black suit and black tie. Oh, and he''s built like a fucking Sumo wrestler, with arms I probably couldn''t even wrap both hands around if I tried.


    The woman beside him is tall, probably six feet or more, with a willowy build that looks like she''s about to get blown over by the wind. She''s got like a sort of Marilyn Monroe-style beauty mark and black lipstick, black vest-pantsuit, black hair, lots of black going on. But then, little white accents too - a white skunk stripe in her hair, all the way from single sidelock drooping over her face to the messy, tangled bun sitting on the whorl of her scalp, and the white, long-sleeve undershirt, and white gloves. She''s got a face that, and I really couldn''t tell you why, makes me think of a bear. Maybe something about the way it protrudes?


    They''re too well-dressed to be random pedestrians, too intentional in their positioning to be coincidence. My heart rate spikes, and I consider just turning around and walking the other way. But before I can decide, the man raises a hand in greeting.


    "Samantha Small?" he calls out, his voice carrying a thick Hispanic accent and a gravelly texture, like stones grinding together.


    I stop, keeping a good fifteen feet between us. "Who''s asking?"


    The man smiles, though it doesn''t reach his eyes. "My name is Mr. Retribution," he says, giving a small nod. "And this is my associate, Mrs. Q." The woman inclines her head slightly but doesn''t speak. "We''re here on behalf of the Kingdom, as I''m sure you''ve guessed."


    My muscles tense, ready to run or fight. I didn''t expect them to be so brazen, but I guess learning my habits, waiting for me to be exhausted, and then stalking me like lions stalking a tired gazelle is pretty rational, all things considered. My mind races through options¡ªI''m totally wiped from training, outnumbered, and probably outgunned. Running seems like the smartest choice.


    As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Retribution raises both hands in a placating gesture. "We''re not here for you," he says. "If we were, you wouldn''t know it."


    I''m not exactly a fan of his casual threat. I try to get that across with my face, keeping my distance, and trying to hide the slight, vague surprise at them not stepping closer. "Then what do you want?"


    "We''re here to make a trade agreement," he says, taking a small step forward. "You might have access to stuff we want. And we might have access to stuff you want."


    "Not interested," I reply automatically.


    Mrs. Q speaks for the first time, her voice low. What''s the word - contralto? It''s almost androgynous. "You might be when you hear what we''re offering."


    "I doubt it," I say, taking another step backward.


    "We''re looking for information," Mr. Retribution continues, either not noticing or not caring about my retreat. "About the vigilante known as Soot. We can either trade for it, or beat it out of you."


    Mrs. Q''s teeth curl up into a smile, like a monkey grimacing, stretching wrinkles into her face.

 Chapter 7.1

    "I don''t know what you''re talking about," I say, trying to sound confident despite the alarm bells practically deafening me from inside my own skull. "I''ve never heard of any Soot."


    Mr. Retribution''s eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly. "Never? That seems unlikely. The vigilante''s been operating in your neighborhood for several months now."


    "My neighborhood''s a big place." I glance around, looking for potential escape routes, witnesses, anything that might help. There''s a couple walking on the other side of the street, and a few cars passing by, but nobody''s paying attention to us. Of course not. This is Philly. You could have a full-on lightsaber duel in the middle of Torresdale Avenue and people would just walk around you, muttering about tourists.


    "Samantha," Mrs. Q says, her voice making my name sound like something that might crawl out from under your bed at night. "We know who you are. We know you patrol this area regularly. We know you''re Bloodhound."


    "I think you have me confused with someone else," I say, taking another step back. "I''m just a high school student."


    "A high school student with shark teeth and regenerative abilities," Mr. Retribution says, his tone almost conversational. "Who has been spotted at multiple vigilante incidents over the past year. Who regularly patrols late at night. Who has been observed in altercations with Soot on at least seven occasions."


    My mind races. Seven occasions? That doesn''t sound r-- wait. They don''t know as much as they''re pretending to. They''re fishing.


    Mrs. Q reaches into her vest pocket and pulls out what looks like a small stack of photos. "Perhaps these will refresh your memory."


    She holds them out, and despite my better judgment, I edge close enough to see. The first photo shows a blurry figure in what looks like my old Bloodhound costume, a blur of black body armor, brown jacket, red helmet, walking along a rooftop. The second shows a cloud of dark smoke and a figure leaping away from it. The third is just a blur of motion near what looks like the corner of Torresdale and Disston.


    "These prove nothing," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Could be anyone or anything."


    "Let''s not waste time," Mr. Retribution says, that same eerily calm tone. "We know who you are. We know what you do. And we know you''ve had run-ins with Soot." He gestures to the photos. "What we don''t know is who Soot is. That''s the information we''re interested in trading for."


    My eyes dart between them, trying to read their intentions. Mr. Retribution seems almost relaxed, but there''s a coiled tension in his stance that reminds me of a snake about to strike. Mrs. Q is perfectly still, her eyes never leaving my face, like she''s memorizing every micro-expression.


    "Look," I say, deciding to change tactics. "Even if I was this Bloodhound person, which I''m not admitting to, why would I know anything about Soot?"


    "Because vigilantes talk," Mr. Retribution says simply. "You work the same areas. You fight the same people. And sometimes, you fight each other." He shrugs those massive shoulders. "It''s a small community."


    "I don''t know anything about Soot," I insist. "And if you''re going to threaten me, you should know I scream really loud."


    Mr. Retribution actually chuckles at that. "We''re not here to threaten you, Samantha." He pats his jacket, and I catch a glimpse of what''s definitely a gun holstered under his arm. "We''re armed, yes, but that''s for our protection. You have a habit of breaking people''s clavicles with your teeth, after all."


    "You''ve done your homework," I mutter.


    "Mr. Polygraph is still a little mad at you, but that''s why they sent us, and not him. We''re simply here to discuss a business proposition," he continues. "Why don''t you walk with us? We can talk as we go. In fact," he gestures vaguely in the direction of my house, "we''ll escort you home. Lots of feds out tonight. Walk and talk."


    I narrow my eyes. "Feds?"


    Mrs. Q''s thin lips stretch into that unsettling smile again. "You''ve noticed the surveillance, I''m sure. The sedans. The men in suits who think they''re being inconspicuous."


    "Those are feds?" I ask, my surprise momentarily overriding my caution.


    "NSRA, mostly," Mr. Retribution says, nodding. "Though there might be some real FBI in the mix. You did blow up a warehouse full of chemicals. That tends to attract attention from multiple agencies."


    "I didn''t¡ª" I start, then catch myself. "I don''t know what you''re talking about."


    "Sure, sure," Mr. Retribution says, waving a dismissive hand. "Walk with us, Sam. Really."


    I weigh my options. I''m exhausted from training. I''m outnumbered. They clearly know who I am and where I live. Running would just postpone this confrontation, and fighting... well, that would be stupid given the circumstances.


    And I can''t say I''m not a little curious about what they think I''ll snitch for.


    "Fine," I say, falling into step beside them but maintaining as much distance as possible. "But just because I''m walking with you doesn''t mean I know anything about Soot."


    "Of course not," Mr. Retribution says, his tone indicating he doesn''t believe me for a second.


    We begin walking north on Torresdale, the three of us forming a strange procession. Me on one side of the sidewalk, them on the other, all of us pretending this is a normal evening stroll and not a potentially life-threatening negotiation with Kingdom operatives.


    "So you think all those cars are feds?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. "Not Kingdom?"


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    Mr. Retribution snorts. "You think we have the membership to field that many nice sedans? We''re not a mom and pop operation, but we''re not that rich either. Only the top rollers get nice cars."


    There''s something about his tone and his accent that reminds me, unmistakably, of some of the street cart guys hawking Halal food up and down North Philly, especially near Temple. I really couldn''t tell you what it is, though. Wait, is that racist of me to think? Priorities, Sam. Derail this train of thought. Next line!


    "If you want information about Soot," I say carefully, "why not just ask the ''feds''? Seems like they''d have better intel than some random teenager."


    "Federal agencies have certain... limitations," Mrs. Q says, her voice so quiet I have to strain to hear it. "And they don''t appreciate our methods."


    "Plus, they don''t know what we know," Mr. Retribution adds. "They''re looking at the big picture. We''re looking at a very specific problem."


    "Which is?"


    "Soot has been systematically targeting our operations throughout North Philadelphia," Mr. Retribution explains. "Disrupting shipments, destroying product, attacking our people. It''s becoming a significant financial liability."


    "Sounds like a you problem," I mutter.


    Mrs. Q turns those piercing eyes on me. "It''s about to become a you problem as well, if you continue to obstruct our investigation."


    "Hey, I thought this wasn''t a threat," I say, shooting a pointed look at Mr. Retribution.


    He sighs, like a disappointed teacher. "What my colleague means is that we''re prepared to make this worth your while." He stops walking, turning to face me directly. "Let''s be clear here: we don''t want to hurt you. We want information that might lead to the identification and... handling of Soot. If you can provide that information, we''re willing to compensate you generously."


    I cross my arms. "So you''re trying to bribe me now?"


    "We prefer to think of it as a business transaction," he says. "Information has value. We''re willing to pay for that value."


    "And if I don''t have any information to sell?"


    Mrs. Q''s eyes narrow slightly. "Then this conversation is a waste of time for all of us."


    There''s an implied threat there, but I can''t quite pin down exactly what it is. Are they going to attack me if I can''t give them what they want? Or just walk away disappointed? It''s impossible to read Mr. Retribution''s placid expression, and Mrs. Q''s face might as well be carved from stone.


    I decide to keep playing dumb while probing for more information. "Even if I did know something, which I don''t, why would I help the Kingdom? You guys are basically the reason nobody can order pizza after dark in half of Philly."


    Mr. Retribution actually looks offended at that. "That''s a gross exaggeration. We provide stability to neighborhoods that would otherwise be chaotic. We create jobs. We invest in communities."


    "You sell drugs and intimidate people," I counter.


    "We provide goods and services that the traditional economy can''t or won''t," he says smoothly. "And as for intimidation, well... sometimes it''s necessary to maintain order. I''m sure a law-abiding citizen like you understands."


    We''ve started walking again, and I realize we''re getting closer to my neighborhood. The thought of these people knowing exactly where I live makes my skin crawl, but, well... they''ve known where I''ve lived. The only reason they haven''t just blown up my house with a bomb is because I think they aren''t willing to tolerate the heat.


    "Look," I say, trying a different approach. "I genuinely don''t know who Soot is. I''ve seen them around, sure, but we''re not exactly grabbing coffee together to chat about vigilante stuff."


    "Even criminals talk to each other," Mrs. Q says softly. "Especially when they cross paths."


    "I''m not a criminal," I snap before I can stop myself. Then, realizing what I''ve just implicitly admitted, I hastily add, "And neither is Bloodhound. Heroes fight crime, we don''t commit it."


    "''We''?" Mr. Retribution repeats, raising an eyebrow.


    "Figure of speech," I snap back.


    "Soot has caused us approximately $80 million in damages to our operation alone, and more to the wider community at large," Mr. Retribution says, dropping the number so casually it takes me a moment to process the scale. "And they''ll keep damaging us more with each passing week. Areas where they''ve fought need expensive decontamination. They become no-go zones for days if not weeks. At this point, we consider any information leading to their capture to be an investment. And we take our investments very seriously."


    "?Investments and dealers," Mrs. Q adds, singing quietly. "Investments and dealers, cold wives and mistresses...?"


    Eighty million dollars? That can''t possibly be right. How could one person with smoke powers cause that much damage? Unless... maybe they''re counting the warehouse explosion? Do they know Soot was involved in that? Or is this not including that?


    "Even if I did know something, which I don''t," I say slowly, "what exactly would you be offering in return?"


    Mr. Retribution smiles, and I get the distinct impression I''ve just given him exactly what he wanted¡ªan opening.


    "How much money would you sell your soul for, Samantha?" he asks, his voice deceptively gentle.


    The question catches me off guard with its bluntness. "What?"


    "It''s a simple question. Everyone has a price. What''s yours?"


    "Get real," I scoff. "What, are you gonna buy me for ten thousand bucks? Keep dreaming."


    "I was thinking more on the scale of $500,000 upfront," he says, watching my reaction carefully. "With another million upon Soot''s capture."


    I can''t hide my shock. One and a half million dollars? That''s enough to pay for college, buy a house, set my family up for years. It''s a life-changing amount of money. No. Stop. This is Kate we''re talking about. I''m not going to sell her out, no matter how much money they offer, and no matter how complicated our relationship is.


    But wait¡ªI haven''t actually confirmed that Soot is Kate. I don''t have concrete proof. Just strong suspicions and circumstantial evidence. What if I''m wrong? What if Soot is someone else entirely?


    Stop. Stop that. No, selling people for money is what bad people do.


    Mr. Retribution watches the internal war play out on my face, his expression unnervingly patient. "Think about all the good you could do for your family with that kind of money, Samantha. For your community. Soot is a danger. A cowboy cop. A criminal robbing bodegas just as much as they''re attacking our soldiers."


    "I don''t know anything," I repeat, trying to maintain composure.


    "Are you sure whatever you know isn''t worth $1.5 million dollars?" he presses. There''s a long pause, and then, almost casually: "What about $3 million? Half up-front."


    Three million dollars. The number hits me like a physical blow. That''s enough to change everything. More money than most people see in a lifetime. All for information about Soot.


    About Kate.


    I stare at Mr. Retribution, trying to read any hint of deception in his face, but he meets my gaze steadily. My brain reels at the scale. The most money I''ve seen in one place are the stacks of twenties Jordan and I have... liberated from the local criminal element. Maybe ten thousand dollars at a time. This is... ten, a hundred, that''s a million, three hundred times more than that. Math? Yeah, three hundred times. An absurd amount of money.


    He stares me back. They''re serious.


    Which means they''re desperate. And desperate people are dangerous.


    "Three million dollars," I repeat slowly, buying time to think. If I outright refuse, I have a feeling these two won''t just tip their hats and walk away. But if I string them along, maybe I can figure out a way to warn Kate without actually giving them any useful information.


    "Three million," Mr. Retribution confirms. "Tax-free, of course."


    "Of course," I mutter. "And how exactly would that work? You just hand me a briefcase full of cash?"


    "We have more sophisticated methods," Mrs. Q interjects. "Nothing you''d need to worry about. Ben, Rachel, and Moe would find themselves very lucky people all of a sudden. A good spike in their retirement portfolios."


    Nice. Subtle way to remind me that they know who my parents are. You''re real slick.


    "Totally not suspicious for a teenager to suddenly come into millions," I say.


    "We''re very good at what we do," Mr. Retribution says simply.

 Chapter 7.2

    "It sounds like a lot of work to launder money through my family''s accounts," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Aren''t you worried about exposure?"


    "Risk management is our specialty," Mr. Retribution says. "Your family would never know where the money came from. As far as they''re concerned, they''d just have some extremely fortunate investments right before a market upswing. Or become the beneficiaries or some long lost relatives. You have a lot of those, don''t you, Sam?"


    My face scrunches up, and a thrill of panic that I''m not sure the origin of drips through my underarms, before settling somewhere right above my stomach.


    "Don''t you want to meet your other grandfather? We can make that happen - he''s currently handling long-haul deliveries in Louisana. Mr. E did some digging after that unfortunate incident with Mr. Federov. Hope you don''t mind." Mrs. Q near-whispers, like a venomous snake trying to plop increasingly-enticing pomegranates into my lap.


    I ignore her, trying to ignore the weird way my heart palpitates.


    We''re walking again, approaching the intersection of Torresdale and Magee. I make a point of gesturing broadly down Magee. "We turn here," I say, loudly enough that a couple passing by looks at us curiously. Good. Witnesses. "This way to my house."


    Mrs. Q gives me a look that suggests she knows exactly what I''m doing. Mr. Retribution just nods and follows my lead, seemingly unconcerned by my obvious attempt to stay in public view.


    "Think about what your family could do with that kind of money, Sam," he continues as we walk. "Your parents could retire early. Your grandfather could travel. You could attend any college you want, without worrying about student loans. Your friends could attend any college they want. You can even donate it all, if you want."


    "I''m already going to get scholarships," I counter, though it''s not entirely true. My grades are decent, but not Ivy League material, especially after the distractions of the last two years. Honestly, I''ll probably go to Temple. Realistically. Just... what I can manage.


    "Sure, but why struggle? You could focus on your studies without working part-time jobs. Travel abroad. Start a business after graduation." He spreads his hands. "Three million dollars isn''t just money. It''s freedom."


    "Freedom bought by selling someone else out," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.


    "Someone who''s causing millions in property damage," he counters smoothly. "Someone who''s disrupting neighborhoods, endangering civilians, playing vigilante without accountability."


    I shake my head. "You''re really trying to sell me on the idea that the Kingdom cares about collateral damage and civilian safety? That''s rich."


    "We care about stability," Mrs. Q says softly. "Chaos is bad for business."


    "We could set up a foundation in your name," Mr. Retribution suggests, ignoring my skepticism. "Fund community programs. Build parks and recreation centers. Scholarships for local kids." He watches my face carefully. "You could do a lot of good with three million dollars, Sam. Make a real difference in Tacony."


    I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "So your pitch is that I should sell out another cape so that the Kingdom can... what? Continue selling drugs and intimidating people, but with slightly less competition? Why don''t you do it if it matters so much to you?"


    "Our pitch is that we can make you very wealthy in exchange for information you already have," Mr. Retribution says. "What you do with that wealth is entirely up to you. Save the world. Help your family. Buy a mansion on the beach. We don''t care. Our organization already has its hands full with its philanthropy wing - unless you think people turn a blind eye to our operations for some other reason?"


    "People aren''t turning a blind eye," I weakly counter. We cross the street, and I deliberately steer us toward a busier stretch of sidewalk. "We turn again here," I say loudly, pointing down Princeton Avenue where several people are walking dogs and children are playing in a front yard. Safety in numbers.


    "Look," I say, turning to face them both, "even if I was inclined to ''sell my soul'' as you put it, which I''m not, I genuinely don''t know anything about Soot. I''ve never spoken to them. I don''t know who they are. I''ve barely even seen them up close."


    "People like you and Soot tend to run in the same circles," Mr. Retribution says. "You must have heard something. Rumors. Speculation. Maybe a friend of a friend mentioned something suspicious."


    I shake my head. "Nope. If I was being slick, I''d just make up some information to throw you off and take your money. But I''m not going to lie to you, because I actually don''t know anything, and I''m guessing you''d figure it out and come back angry."


    Mr. Retribution lets out a short laugh, surprisingly genuine. "Smart girl. You''re right. We would."


    "Altering the terms slightly," Mrs. Q interjects. "We''ll pay for leads, not just direct identification. Patterns of appearance. Base of operations. Associates."


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    "Three million if you give us a name or an address, two million for solid leads," Mr. Retribution clarifies. "Still enough to change your life."


    "Still nothing I can tell you," I say, spreading my hands. "I''m not holding out for more money. I literally have no information to sell."


    Mr. Retribution sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. It''s almost like he''s a regular guy talking about a bad break at work, not a criminal enforcer trying to bribe a teenager. For a second, I almost forget he''s a gigantic scary mobster.


    "That''s a shame," he says, and I catch a glimpse of that same street vendor vibe again. "Would''ve been a good investment all around. You get set for life, we solve our Soot problem, everybody wins."


    "You could always try asking nicely," I quip. "Maybe put out an ad: ''Wanted: Gas Mask Vigilante. Reward for Information Leading to Identity.''"


    He actually chuckles at that. "Not a bad idea. Maybe we could get one of those planes with the banner ads to fly over the beach this summer."


    "Just make sure you include the dollar amount," I say, playing along despite myself. "Three million might get some attention. But, I gotta say, the more you keep raising the price, the more desperate you seem. Not exactly negotiating from a position of strength here, are you?"


    Mrs. Q''s eyes narrow slightly. "We''re negotiating because we don''t want to make a mess. This is charity, Sam. It could be a shakedown, but we choose otherwise. Don''t mistake courtesy for weakness."


    "Right, super charitable of you to not just kidnap me and beat the information out," I snark back. "Real philanthropists. Plus, I still don''t know anything," I repeat, shrugging. "And honestly, is this your approach? Just throwing money at me because I''m Jewish? Is that why you think I''m so bribeable?"


    Mr. Retribution''s eyes widen, and for the first time since we''ve met, he looks genuinely thrown off-balance. His mouth opens and closes once before he finds his voice again.


    "What? No! That''s not¡ªwhy would you even¡ª" He stops, visibly regrouping. "That''s an offensive assumption. We''re offering you money because you have information we want, not because of your religion. Which, frankly, I wasn''t even aware of until just now."


    "But you know who my grandpa is and that he''s in Louisana. Right," I know it''s a cheap shot, but seeing his composure crack gives me a tiny surge of satisfaction. Maybe I can keep them off-balance enough to end this conversation safely.


    Mrs. Q, however, doesn''t seem fazed at all. While Mr. Retribution is still recovering from my goofball accusation, she steps closer and taps me lightly on the shoulder.


    The tap is gentle, almost friendly. But when I turn to look at her, there''s nothing friendly in her eyes. With movements so fluid they seem almost choreographed, she reaches into her vest and draws a sleek, compact pistol. She checks the chamber, flicks off the safety, and points the barrel toward the ground between us.


    Mr. Retribution has gone silent, watching.


    Mrs. Q raises her free hand to her lips, extending one finger in the universal gesture for "quiet." Then she smiles, a cold, predatory expression.


    "Shhh," she whispers. "Quiet."


    Before I can react, she pulls the trigger. The tiny flick of her wrist is so casual it takes me a second to realize what''s happening. There''s a muzzle flash - a quick, bright spark -and the sharp ping of a bullet striking concrete, followed by the metallic ricochets as it bounces off nearby surfaces. I see her wrist jerk slightly, feel the air shift, see the flash - and nothing. No sound. Not even a click. Just the sudden, echoing ping of metal on concrete, like the world had forgotten the middle of the sentence, and the heat of the pressure wave, and the twitch of recoil into her shoulder.


    But there''s no gunshot. No explosion of sound. Nothing but that quiet ping and the echo of the ricochets as the bullet lands -- somewhere. She aimed vaguely in the direction of the nearest alleyway, and out of the corner of my eye I see a spark clack out from a dumpster.


    My heart nearly stops. She just fired a gun, in broad daylight, on a residential street¡ªand nobody even turned to look. The people walking their dogs, the kids playing in the yard, they all continue as if nothing happened. Because as far as they can tell, nothing did.


    Mrs. Q rotates her wrist, and suddenly the barrel is pointing at my midsection. Not directly touching me, but close enough that I can feel the phantom heat of the metal.


    Ah. Mrs. Quiet. Now I get it.


    "Listen," she says, her voice low but perfectly audible to me. "We''re very busy people." She steps closer, forcing me to either back up or let the gun press against me. I choose to back up. "If you don''t have anything, don''t string us along, and we''ll let you off with a warning."


    Her free hand flicks out, and suddenly there''s a knife, inelegant, thick, designed more for cutting steak at a camp and sawing through tree limbs. The sort of switchblade that usually comes with a wrench attached. "A warning," she repeats, spinning the knife around in her free hand, keeping the gun trained on me.


    "If you do have something," she continues, "give it to us. If it''s fake, we''ll find out and kill you. If it''s not, you will be rewarded." She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume¡ªsomething expensive and subtle, with notes of sandalwood and something metallic. "This is your last chance to stop dicking around. I am expecting your sincerity now that you understand we mean fucking business."


    The gun never wavers from its position, aimed at a point just below my sternum. I''m acutely aware that if she pulls the trigger again, the bullet will tear through my body without a sound, and I could be bleeding out on the sidewalk before anyone even notices I''ve fallen.


    Mr. Retribution watches impassively, all trace of our almost-friendly banter gone from his face. He''s not going to intervene. This is clearly part of their good cop/quiet cop routine.


    I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The bullet in the concrete was a demonstration, but the next one won''t be. I have seconds to decide how to respond, and no good options seem available.


    Tell them about Kate and take the money? Absolutely not.


    Keep insisting I know nothing? Mrs. Q doesn''t seem like the type to accept that answer, not at gunpoint. Or what about that "warning" - will I bite a stab wound today? A fresh disemboweling?


    Try to fight back? With a gun at point-blank range and my body already exhausted from Multiplex''s training, that''s practically suicide.


    Run? Same problem. I''m fast, but bullets are faster.


    My regeneration might save me from a gunshot wound eventually, but "eventually" doesn''t help if my brains are splattered across the sidewalk, or if they decide to put multiple rounds in me once they see I can heal.


    Time seems to stretch as these options flash through my mind, each one worse than the last. Mrs. Q''s eyes never leave mine, cold and calculating, waiting for my answer.