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—apparently I don't "merit that level of investment yet"—but 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.

  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—one of three I've seen circling the school today—pulls 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 tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

  "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.

  This time, I try to apply what I've been learning all week—better 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—block, 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—and 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—not 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—it'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.