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—the voice of someone's favorite tío 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—30% 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—it'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—someone 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."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "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—it'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—that 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—evidence 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—drivers, 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—they 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—Davis, 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.