"It doesn't bite," Amelia says, holding up what looks like a pile of black and red fabric.

  "Says you," I mutter, eyeing the costume sprawled across the workbench. The Music Hall feels emptier without Jordan's junk scattered everywhere, but Amelia's been making herself at home. The workshop looks more like a tailor's workshop these days—fabric swatches pinned to corkboards, thread spools organized by color, and at least three different sewing machines that I'm pretty sure weren't here last week.

  "I mean it literally doesn't bite," Amelia says, smoothing the material with practiced hands. "No teeth. Unlike some people we know."

  I roll my eyes but step closer to inspect her work. The new suit looks... professional. Not homemade like my original costume or purely functional like the winter version. This is something else entirely. Mostly black with dark red accents and brown panels that remind me of leather, even though I'm pretty sure it's not. I mean, every costume Amelia has made has been homemade but she sure is getting better at it every time.

  "So this is the finished product?" I ask, running my fingers over the material. It feels weird—like nylon but smoother, almost slippery.

  "As finished as anything ever gets in our line of work," Amelia says with a hint of pride. "Try it on. I need to see if the weak points are positioned correctly."

  "Weak points sounds incredibly reassuring," I say, but I'm already grabbing the suit and heading toward the bathroom. "Can't wait to learn how my costume is intentionally defective."

  "They're features, not bugs!" she calls after me.

  The bathroom in the Music Hall is still a disaster area. Jordan may be gone, but their legacy of never throwing away empty shampoo bottles lives on. I have to shove aside a precarious tower of toilet paper rolls just to have enough space to change. The suit slides on easier than I expected, hugging my body without feeling constrictive. It's lighter than it looks, too. I flex my arms, twist at the waist, do a few experimental squats. Everything moves with me.

  When I emerge, Amelia gives me an appraising look, circling me like a fashion designer on Project Runway. "How does it feel?"

  "Like I'm wearing nothing at all," I say, then immediately regret the Simpsons reference when she just stares blankly. Note to self - don't pick up pop culture references from my parents. "It's comfortable. Breathes better than the winter suit."

  "That's one of the two microscope breakers," she says, kneeling to adjust something around my ankle. "The fabric doesn't just repel water—it actively circulates air based on your body temperature. I think. Honestly, I don't know how it works exactly. But the fabric does, in fact, breathe a little."

  "You made something you don't understand?"

  "Welcome to the wonderful world of Brain powers," she sighs, standing back up. "I know how to make it, but if you asked me to explain the chemistry or physics? No idea. It's like... my hands just know what to do with these materials, but my brain can't translate it into words." She taps my shoulder. "Now, the important part—the weak points."

  She guides my hand to specific areas of the suit—the knuckles, the outer edges of my wrists, the points of my elbows, the sides of my knees. They feel slightly different, almost like perforated paper.

  "These are designed to give way when you grow teeth," she explains. "The material is thinner here but reinforced around the edges. And here's the cool part—" She grabs a water bottle from the workbench, unscrews the cap, and pours a tiny amount onto my knuckles. The water beads up, then seems to sink into the fabric, which tenses up slightly like a muscle. "When it gets wet—blood, water, whatever—the fibers realign themselves. Self-repairing fabric."

  "Holy shit," I mutter, watching the damp spot fade to nothing. "That's pretty cool."

  She tries to look nonchalant, but I can tell she's pleased. "It's not perfect. Takes about thirty seconds for a full repair, and it won't work if the tear is too big. But for your tooth-punching thing? Should be ideal."

  I flex my hand, feeling the slight give in the knuckle area. "So I can just... pop teeth through these spots and they'll seal up afterward?"

  "That's the idea. Give it a try."

  I focus on my right knuckles, feeling that familiar itch as teeth push up through my skin. There's a moment of resistance from the fabric, then three sharp points tear through, gleaming white against the dark material.

  "Perfect," Amelia says, examining the tears. She produces a small spray bottle and mists the area. The fabric around the tears darkens, then seems to crawl inward, slowly closing the holes as I push the teeth fully out of my hand, hearing them tink on the wooden floor. "Thirty-one seconds. Not bad."

  "This is some Iron Man shit," I say, genuinely impressed.

  "Please," she scoffs. "I don't know who that is. You've been paying too much attention to Jordan."

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  "Guilty," I confess, not pointing out that it was Marcus, like three years ago, who told me about Iron Man. "So what else does it do?" I ask, still marveling at my knuckles, which now show no sign of having been pierced.

  "The fabric is tear-resistant and provides decent puncture protection—not bulletproof, mind you, but better than regular clothes. There's extra padding at common impact points." She taps my shoulders, ribs, and spine. "Breathable but insulated enough for cool nights. The hood has a cowl that can be pulled up separately from your helmet."

  My two wolf-shaped helmets sit on the table nearby, the original red one from every previous costume, having been thoroughly ship-of-theseus'd into something new, and the black version for stealth operations. Both have been subtly modified to match the new suit's aesthetic.

  "And it's designed to fit under your bulletproof vest," she adds, pointing to the barely visible reinforcement under the arms and across the torso. "Speaking of which..."

  She retrieves a sleek black vest from a shelf, definitely not the clunky police surplus I've been using. "Upgraded armor. Lighter, more flexible, better coverage. The ceramic plates are curved to fit your body instead of just flat slabs."

  "You've been busy," I say, taking the vest. It's noticeably lighter than my old one.

  "Leader privileges," she says with a small smile. "You get first dibs on new gear. But I'm working on upgrades for everyone."

  "Like what?"

  "Maggie's getting impact-resistant knee and elbow pads that won't slow her down when she's hoverskating. Lily's getting a new slingshot with interchangeable bands for different projectiles. Tasha's getting an expanded med kit with some custom tools." She pauses. "I miss having Jordan around to collaborate with. They had good ideas."

  I swallow past a sudden lump in my throat. "Yeah. Me too."

  "But," she continues briskly, "we adapt. Speaking of which, there's one more feature." She points to a nearly invisible pocket on the left forearm. "Emergency hidey-hole. Big enough for a burner phone, some cash, or..." She gives me a meaningful look.

  "Or what?"

  "Or one of those autoinjectors you stole from the Kingdom," she says quietly. "In case things go really sideways."

  I stiffen. "Amelia, I'm not carrying Hypeman around. I had two injectors, and I used one and gave the other away."

  "It also saved your life," she counters. "I'm not saying 'go out and grab some', just like... you know, always useful to have a hidden pocket in your arms. Just tilt them down and twist and the pocket should open up so it slides into your hand."

  "I'll think about it," I say, which is code for 'absolutely not but I don't want to argue about it now.' I change the subject. "What about you? Are you making yourself something cool too?"

  "Already did," she says with a mysterious smile. "But I'm keeping it as a surprise for now."

  I roll my shoulders, still getting used to how the suit moves with me. "So the microscope breaker stuff, is this just the beginning? Are you going to start making, I don't know, force fields or ray guns or something?"

  Amelia laughs. "I wish. It doesn't work like that. My power is very specific: textiles and materials. I can push the boundaries of what's physically possible, but only within that domain." She looks down at her hands. "Besides, even if I could make ray guns, the how would still be a mystery to me. Hard to troubleshoot something when you don't understand the principles behind it."

  "Fair enough," I say, grabbing my black helmet and testing how it fits with the new suit. Perfect, of course. "So when do we get to test this thing out in the field? And remind me one of these days to ask you what sort of near-death experience gets you textile powers."

  Amelia's expression shifts to something more serious. "That's up to you, fearless leader. But may I suggest extreme caution? Given the whole Richardson situation."

  "I know," I say, unable to keep the frustration from my voice. "But we can't just sit around while the Kingdom and Rogue Wave carve up the city. There has to be a way to operate without getting caught."

  "Well," Amelia says, "that's exactly what this suit is designed for. Low-profile operations. You're not going to be stopping muggings in broad daylight anymore, but for targeted intelligence gathering? Should be perfect."

  I nod, already planning. "Tonight. Just a quick patrol to get the lay of the land. Nothing fancy."

  "With?"

  "Maggie and Tasha," I say. "In civilian clothes. No powers unless absolutely necessary."

  Amelia doesn't look thrilled but nods. "Just be careful. I'm sure the cops are itching to make an example of someone."

  "Don't worry," I say, starting to peel off the new suit. "I'm done being an example. From now on, we're ghosts."

  Three hours later, I'm walking through Tacony with Maggie and Tasha, trying my best to look like normal teenagers out for a summer evening stroll. Which is harder than it sounds when you're hyperaware of every cop car and suspicious glance.

  "So then his mom walks in," Maggie is saying, hands gesturing wildly as she recounts some story about her cousin that I've only been half-listening to, "and she's got this whole tray of deviled eggs, right? And the dog just launches itself—"

  "Shh," I interrupt, stopping abruptly. My blood sense is tingling, picking up something about half a block ahead. Not fresh blood, but... something. "Hold up."

  "What is it?" Tasha asks, instantly alert.

  "Not sure," I murmur, scanning the street ahead. It's that weird in-between time of evening—too late for families to be out, too early for the real nightlife to start. The streetlights have just flickered on, casting everything in that sickly yellow-orange glow that makes even the nicest neighborhoods look slightly menacing.

  "Is it blood?" Maggie whispers, excitement creeping into her voice.

  "No. Maybe. It's like..." I concentrate harder, trying to make sense of what I'm picking up. "It's old blood. Dried. On something metal." I point to a dark alley between a corner store and a laundromat. "Over there."

  "Should we check it out?" Maggie asks, already starting to move.

  "Carefully," I say, falling into step beside her. "Remember, we're just normal kids. No powers, no heroics."

  "Normal kids who investigate blood stains in alleys," Tasha mutters behind us. "Totally inconspicuous."

  I ignore her and keep walking, trying to look casual while focusing my senses. As we get closer, I start picking up more details—the blood is on something long and metal, probably a pipe or a bat. There's not a lot of it, just enough to register. And it's getting closer.

  "Oh," Tasha says suddenly, looking past us toward the alley entrance. "Neighborhood watch."

  I follow her gaze and see them; four men ranging from their twenties to fifties, wearing matching red windbreakers with "TACONY COMMUNITY PATROL" printed on the back in blocky white letters. They're clustered at the mouth of the alley, one of them holding what looks like a baseball bat. Aluminum, with a washer at the end to make it swing better. My blood sense confirms it - that's what I was picking up.

  There's dried blood on that bat.

  "Let's cross the street," I say quietly, already changing direction. "I don't like the look of this."