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—because 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—we have redundancies built into the supply chain—but 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, even if it's a month late. The kids are out of school already, dog. Sure took your time dragging your feet in between shaking down Rogue Wavers.

  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—someone 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—could 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—they'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—names, 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—probably 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—he never does—but 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—that 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—vigilantes 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—five 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—dark 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—heavier, 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.