It's been a long, weird two weeks since the warehouse went up. The Kingdom and Rogue Wave have both been suspiciously quiet—no major operations, no flashy attacks. Just this uneasy silence that feels like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. But their fingerprints are still everywhere if you know where to look.

  Hypeman's been hitting the streets in earnest. Black autoinjectors showing up in the hands of gang lieutenants, turning regular turf wars into superhuman cage matches. When I asked Councilman Davis about the DVD's investigation into the samples I gave them, he just gave me that smile and said they were "following up on several promising leads," which is adult-speak for "none of your business, kid," or, more charitably, "we can't tell you because you're going to go off and do something about it and we have too many plates in the air".

  Aaron McKinley got sentenced last Tuesday. Thirty-eight years in Daedalus. Not officially a life sentence, but might as well be. The weird thing is, I don't feel as good about it as I thought I would. I keep picturing him in that little cell, staring at the walls, all that rage with nowhere to go. I'm not saying he doesn't deserve it—he does. But something about the whole thing just sits wrong in my stomach, like food that isn't fully cooked.

  Jordan's settling into their new life at MIT. Their texts are all exclamation points and anime references these days. "The DAAS is like a playground, Sam! There's this guy who can literally see inside quantum particles! And at least two people got my Blame! references!!!" I'm happy for them, really. But it still feels like someone cut off my right arm. Except my right arm is annoying and sends me memes at 3 AM.

  Kate—sorry, "Kay" now—moved into her new apartment in Center City. She's registered for public school under her new name, though classes don't start until September. She texts me occasionally, casual stuff about neighborhood restaurants or weird people she sees on the subway. Nothing about smoke or chemicals or vigilante work. Nothing about hell or damnation. Nothing about her feelings for me. It's like we're both pretending the last year never happened.

  My gunshot wounds are healing well, at least. The one on my flank is completely closed up, just a pink, puckered lineto add to my collection. The one in my belly is mostly there—still tender when I press on it, but the internal damage has knitted itself back together. Nurse Sylvia says my healing factor is "remarkable, if somewhat erratic."

  The rehab itself is brutal. Sylvia's got me doing these core stabilization exercises that make my abs scream, plus all these weird movements with resistance bands to rebuild shoulder mobility. Twice a week she makes me do this thing called "proprioceptive retraining" where I have to stand on a wobble board while she throws tennis balls at me. She says it's to rebuild my balance and coordination. I say it's because she enjoys watching me fall on my ass.

  Then there are the episodes. They come randomly—sudden headaches that feel like someone's driving an ice pick through my eye socket, followed by my hands shaking so bad I can't hold a glass of water. They last anywhere from five minutes to half an hour. Sylvia's run blood tests, I'm scheduled for an MRI, everything. The works. Nothing concrete yet, but I catch her and Multiplex exchanging these worried looks when they think I'm not paying attention.

  Meanwhile, Philly's slowly heating up again. Gang violence creeping back to pre-warehouse levels. Police presence getting heavier in the neighborhoods that can't afford lawyers to complain about it. Everyone's - and I do mean everyone - pretending not to notice, like we're all agreeing to ignore the elephant in the room.

  At least until Argus Corps blows up another drug lab on live TV.

  They're everywhere now - Richardson's pet heroes, making headlines, taking down C-list villains with practiced ease. Patriot giving solemn interviews about "the new age of accountable superheroism." Turbo Jett posing for forum photos with confiscated contraband. Captain Devil standing ominously in the background of press conferences, never speaking, just... being intimidating. And Miasma, who I thought I knew, lending his apparent credibility as one of Liberty Belle's colleagues to the whole operation.

  It makes my skin crawl. But what can I do? As far as the law's concerned, I'm just a kid with shark teeth who should be focusing on her college applications.

  Which brings me to today's fresh humiliation.

  "Again," Multiplex says, circling me like a shark. Ironic, considering. "This time, keep your guard up. You're dropping your right elbow."

  I'm dripping sweat onto the gym mats, my t-shirt plastered to my back. We've been at this for almost two hours, and I'm pretty sure my arms are about to fall off. I adjust my stance, raising my right elbow a quarter-inch higher, and throw another combination at the pads he's holding.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Jab. Cross. Hook. Slip.

  My fists thud against the mitts, each impact sending a jolt up my arms. The rhythm is almost hypnotic at this point—jab-THUD, cross-THUD, hook-THUD, slip the counterpunch that never comes.

  "Better," Multiplex says, which from him is basically a standing ovation. "Your form's improving. Still telegraphing the hook, though."

  "I've been at this for two hours," I say between gasps. "I think my body's about to go on strike. Possibly with picket signs."

  "You think the Kingdom cares if you're tired?" he asks, not unkindly. "You think Richardson's goons are going to call a time-out because you've had a long day?"

  "No, but—"

  The gym door swings open, and Nurse Sylvia walks in with her clipboard. She's about to say something when she stops, eyebrows lifting slightly. I follow her gaze over my shoulder.

  Captain Plasma is standing in the doorway, dressed in civilian clothes—khakis and a blue button-down that stretches tight across his shoulders. He's carrying a gym bag in one hand. His blonde hair is perfectly combed, because of course it is.

  "Am I interrupting?" he asks, voice carrying easily across the gym.

  "Rodney," Multiplex nods. "No, we're just finishing up. Sam's rehabilitation session."

  I straighten up, suddenly self-conscious about how sweaty and gross I must look.

  "Heard you were back on your feet," Rodney says, giving me a genuine smile as he walks over. "Glad to see it. That was a hell of a stunt you pulled with the warehouse."

  "You heard about that?" I ask, slightly mortified that Captain Plasma knows about our definitely-not-sanctioned operation.

  "Hard not to," he chuckles. "Though the official reports were... creatively edited. Something about a chemical leak and unspecified 'non-governmental actors'?"

  "That's one way to put it," I mutter.

  Multiplex removes the punch mitts, setting them aside. "Sam, Captain Plasma is heading out tomorrow. NSRA's requested his presence in New York, then a tour of the major cities."

  Rodney sets his gym bag down. "Government wants a more coordinated response to the emerging metahuman criminal syndicates. They think I can help establish best practices across jurisdictions."

  "So you're leaving," I say, unable to keep the flatness out of my voice. "Great. Another adult hero bailing on Philadelphia right when everything's going to hell."

  Nurse Sylvia clears her throat pointedly, but Rodney just gives me a patient look. "I understand your frustration, Sam. Really, I do. But the situation is more complicated than just Philadelphia."

  "Seems pretty simple to me," I counter. "Kingdom of Keys expanding their territory. Rogue Wave literally mind-controlling civilians. Richardson's storm troopers masquerading as heroes. What am I missing?"

  "Context," Rodney says gently. "These organizations have operations in at least eight major cities that we know of. Their supply chains cross state lines, international borders. Philadelphia is a battleground, yes, but not the only one."

  "So we're just supposed to fend for ourselves?"

  "No. That's why coordination matters." His voice stays level, reasonable. "We pool intelligence, share resources, establish response protocols that work across jurisdictions. It's not abandonment—it's strategy."

  Multiplex steps between us before I can argue further. "Actually, before you go, Rodney and I were discussing something that might be valuable for your training."

  I eye them both suspiciously. "What kind of something?"

  "A sparring match," Multiplex says. "You and Captain Plasma."

  I bark out a laugh before I can stop myself. "You're joking, right? He can bench press a cement truck. I'm pretty sure he could flick my head off my shoulders with his pinky."

  "Don't worry," Rodney says with a smile. "I won't hit back. The goal isn't for you to win—it's for you to try landing an effective blow."

  "What's the point?" I ask, gesturing at the absurdity of it all. "No offense, but isn't this like asking a toddler to knock out a nuclear bomb?"

  "The point," Multiplex says, "is for you to experience what it's like to face someone who isn't pretending to be baseline human. Someone who's operating at a completely different level."

  "I couldn't be there during the warehouse situation," Rodney explains, his expression turning more serious. "I was back in L.A. dealing with some... complications from that prison transport. That Kingdom lieutenant with the gelatinous powers—what was her name?"

  "I believe she's known as Mrs. Jellyjam," Multiplex answers.

  "Right. Well, when she engulfed me, I inhaled some of her goo and it went places that... 'gelatinous protein matrices' aren't supposed to go. Developed a nasty case of pneumonia, spent three weeks in and out of hospitals. By the time I was cleared to return, you'd already handled the situation." He looks genuinely apologetic. "Consider this my parting gift before I head to New York. A chance to test yourself against someone operating at a different weight class entirely."

  I glance at Multiplex, who nods encouragingly. "Captain Plasma won't fight back. Just try to land a solid hit. See what works, what doesn't."

  Nurse Sylvia, who has been observing silently, finally speaks up. "Is this medically advisable? She's still recovering from multiple gunshot wounds."

  "I'll be careful," Rodney assures her. "And as I said, I won't be hitting back."

  I look between them all, weighing my options. On one hand, this seems like a complete waste of time. On the other... when am I ever going to get another chance to spar with basically the strongest hero in America?

  "Fine," I say finally. "But when this inevitably ends with me flat on my back staring at the ceiling, I want it noted that I predicted it."

  Multiplex's lip twitches in what might be a smile. "Noted. Now go get some water and stretch. You've got five minutes."

  As I head to the water fountain, I can hear Rodney behind me, his voice carrying the easy confidence of someone who's never known what it's like to be truly outmatched.

  "Don't worry, Sam. I'll take it easy on you."

  Somehow, that just makes me want to punch him even more.