I wake up staring at the ceiling of the DVD medical bay, a place I'm becoming way too familiar with. Nurse Sylvia hovers above me with a penlight, shining it in my eyes.

  "Follow the light," she says, moving it back and forth. I track it dutifully. "Good. No concussion, just syncope from overexertion. How's the jaw feel?"

  I work my mouth open and closed, wincing at the clicking sound. "Like I tried to eat a bowling ball."

  "That's because you essentially locked every muscle in your neck and jaw at maximum tension for several minutes," she says, making a note on her tablet. "Even with your regeneration, that's going to hurt."

  "Worth it," I mumble.

  "Was it?" Multiplex asks from the doorway, arms crossed. "You passed out."

  "After landing more shots on you than in all our previous sessions combined," I counter.

  He doesn't deny it, which I take as a victory. "You'll need to build up endurance for that technique. The jaw clenching itself isn't the main problem—it's the cascade effect through your neck and shoulder muscles. Sustained contraction restricts blood flow."

  "Is that your professional medical opinion, Elijah?" Nurse Sylvia asks dryly.

  "Just my observation," he says. "How long until she's cleared?"

  "She's clear now. Ibuprofen for the muscle soreness, plenty of fluids, and maybe consider not teaching teenagers to absorb blows with their face?" There's gentle reproach in her tone, but also a hint of amusement.

  "Noted," Multiplex says, not sounding particularly chastened. "Ready for round two, Small?"

  I swing my legs over the side of the exam table, testing my balance. The room stays put, which I count as a win. "Give me fifteen minutes."

  "You've got thirty," he says. "Get something to eat."

  "I was thinking Wawa."

  His face remains impassive, but I swear I see the ghost of a smile. "Whatever works. Be back by noon."

  As I follow him out of the medical bay, I spot Crossroads and Rampart in the main hall, deep in conversation with Bulwark. They notice me and wave. I detour in their direction, curious about how they're adjusting to the "big leagues."

  "Look who's still standing," Rampart says with a grin. "Multiplex going easy on you?"

  "Hardly," I say. "But I landed a few hits today."

  "Progress," Crossroads says, nodding approvingly. "First week's the hardest."

  "How's life as a full-fledged Defender?" I ask, genuinely curious. These guys were my mentors in the Young Defenders, and now they're working alongside heroes they used to idolize.

  "Different," Crossroads says. "Less training, more paperwork."

  "More responsibility," Rampart adds. "But also more respect. People actually listen when I suggest something, instead of patting me on the head and saying 'good idea, kid.'"

  "Fury Forge still does that," Bulwark points out.

  "Fury Forge does that to everyone under thirty," Rampart counters.

  Crossroads shifts his weight, that familiar tell when he's about to drop something important. "You should know, the surveillance on your house has increased."

  My stomach tightens. "Kingdom or feds?"

  "Both," he says, running a hand through his braids to settle them. "NSRA's been more visible, probably to discourage the Kingdom, but there's at least one Kingdom car rotating through your neighborhood every few hours. Not near your house, just in Mayfair and Tacony. I get the impression you're not the one being looked for. Yet."

  "Great," I mutter. "Just what I need."

  "Keep your head down," Bulwark advises. "And finish your training with Multiplex. If they do come for you, you'll want every advantage."

  On that cheerful note, I head out for my Wawa run. Nothing says "preparing for possible criminal organization hit squad" like a turkey hoagie and a strawberry smoothie.

  By the time I return, Multiplex has the gym set up differently. There's a heavy bag in one corner, focus mitts and pads laid out on a table, and what looks like a makeshift obstacle course using gym equipment. I guess so - the actual obstacle course is packed away. Feels a little silly to just set up another one, but what do I know?

  "Nurse Sylvia said she'll stab me in the jugular if I do any more sparring with you, so instead, today, we're going to work on integrating your powers more fully into your fighting style," he says without preamble. "The jaw technique was a good start, but it's just scratching the surface."

  "I thought it was pretty effective," I say, feeling somewhat defensive.

  "It was—for about three minutes," he replies. "Then you passed out. And next time we spar, I'll be ready for it. I'll target your body, wear down your arms, exhaust the muscles supporting that rigid neck posture. You need more than one trick."

  He's right, of course, which just makes it more annoying.

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  "What did you tell me when we first started?" he continues. "You have shark teeth, blood sense, regeneration, and the ability to grow teeth from your skin. But I bet you don't even know what you can really do with those abilities."

  "I know plenty," I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds unconvincing.

  "Really? Then answer me this—" He creates a duplicate, and both versions of him put on focus mitts. "Have you ever made a tooth that wasn't shaped like a shark tooth?"

  I blink, caught off guard by the question. "I... no. I've only ever made shark teeth."

  "Then get in position. We're going to work combinations while we talk."

  I wrap my hands, put on my gloves, and square up in front of him. The duplicate circles behind me, occasionally tapping my shoulders or back to correct my posture.

  "Jab, cross, hook," Multiplex calls out, and I deliver the combination to the mitts with practiced precision. "Again. Faster."

  I pick up the pace, the familiar rhythm of punches landing on mitts filling the gym.

  "So you've only ever made shark teeth," he continues. "Why? Are sharks the only predators with teeth?"

  "No, but—"

  "Double jab, cross, body hook."

  I execute the new combination, focusing on keeping my form tight.

  "But what? Do you even know anything about sharks? How many species are there? What different tooth morphologies exist within the group? Are your teeth tiger shark teeth, or great whites? Could you make baleen?"

  "I—" I start, but he cuts me off.

  "Five, five, six," he calls, indicating punch combinations. My arms are already starting to burn from the sustained effort.

  As I deliver the punches, he keeps pushing. "Your powers came from a shark, yes, but they're yours now. Who says you're limited to just one tooth shape? Have you tried visualizing different structures? Canines? Molars? Incisors?"

  The thought genuinely hadn't occurred to me. I'd just assumed shark teeth were what I got—razor-sharp triangles designed for cutting and tearing. But if I can grow them wherever I want, why couldn't I control their shape too?

  "Switch," Multiplex says, and the duplicate takes his place with the mitts while the original moves behind me. "Blood sense now. You've described it as visual—you 'see' blood through walls, through skin. But you've also described Jump users' blood as feeling 'carbonated.' Which is it?"

  "Both, I guess?" I say between punches. "It's hard to explain."

  "Have you heard of the concept of modality in neuroscience?" he asks. When I shake my head, he continues. "Different people process information primarily through different senses—visual, auditory, kinesthetic. But most powers don't fit neatly into one sensory channel."

  I land a particularly solid cross, and the duplicate nods approvingly.

  "Your brain is trying to interpret extrasensory perception using familiar frameworks," Multiplex explains. "But it's probably not just visual. When you imagine tasting a lemon, your mouth waters, right? That's because your brain activates many of the same neural pathways whether you're actually experiencing something or just vividly imagining it."

  "What does this have to do with my blood sense?" I ask, throwing another combination, trying to ignore the pucker in my mouth as I think about chewing on a lemon. God. Gross, I'm all saliva-y now.

  "I'd bet good money that if we put you in an MRI while you're using your blood sense, it would light up areas associated with multiple senses, not just visual processing. You're getting more information than you realize, but your conscious mind is filtering most of it out."

  That actually makes a weird kind of sense. Sometimes when I'm tracking someone with my blood sense, I get impressions that aren't quite visual—a feeling of thickness or thinness, a sense of rhythm that must be their heartbeat.

  "So?" I ask, landing a hook with enough force to make the duplicate take a half-step back. "You gonna put me in an MRI?"

  "No. What other information might you be picking up that you're not consciously processing? Can you tell if someone has a blood disease? Can you sense differences in blood pressure? Hormone levels? Adrenaline spikes before someone attacks? Can you see the oxygen getting carried to muscles before they tense for a blow?"

  These questions hit me like a punch to the nose. I've never even considered most of these possibilities. Then, Multiplex bops me in the nose, just a little love tap with his focus mitts.

  "Break," Multiplex says. "Water, then heavy bag."

  I grab my water bottle, gulping down half of it in one go. My arms feel like lead weights, but my mind is racing with new possibilities. When I try to ask him a question in return, though, he just ignores me. Like, stares at me, and then turns around and does something else. What the hell?

  At the heavy bag, Multiplex has me working on power shots while he continues his interrogation.

  "Your regeneration," he says. "Have you tried directing it? Focusing it on specific injuries?"

  I throw a cross that makes the bag swing. "It doesn't work like that. It just... happens."

  "Hmm. And what about your other shark adaptations? Sharks have incredible smell, electroreception, specialized skin, salt tolerance. Have you explored any of that?"

  "I don't think I have those," I say, landing a combination on the bag. "No, wait, I can swallow a lot of saltwater without a problem. It makes me unable to process alcohol, too," I say between breaths, trying my hardest to finish a sentence while also getting run ragged.

  "Are you sure? Or have you just never looked for them?" He adjusts my elbow position slightly. "Does your salt tolerance give you advantages in hydration? Makes it harder for you to get exhausted from sweating? Can you go longer without water? What about inflammation responses?"

  I really don't know what to say to him. He keeps quizzing me, and it's harder and harder to think about responses while I'm exhausted. Next break hits, and then--

  "I don't expect answers now," Multiplex says, seemingly reading my overwhelmed expression. "These are things to think about, to explore. Powers aren't static—they evolve with use, with understanding. They might not change over the course of your life, but how you relate to them and use them will."

  The session continues for another grueling hour, moving from the heavy bag to the obstacle course, where Multiplex has me performing fighting movements while navigating various physical challenges. Throughout it all, he keeps pushing me with questions about my powers, making me consider aspects I've never thought about. And every break, he becomes a mute wall, refusing to let me ask a single question or even just engage him with light conversation.

  But that's probably the point. He wants me to be able to think under pressure. This isn't just making me overthink my powers, it's making me overthink at all. The faster I can consider these things under fire, the more opportunity I will have to save my own ass.

  Damn, though, does he have to be such a douchebag about it?

  By the end, I'm drenched in sweat and my muscles are screaming, but my mind feels strangely energized, humming with new possibilities.

  "Same time Sunday, then you get a break," Multiplex says as I gather my things. "And Sam?"

  "Yeah?"

  "Homework. I want you to really think about these questions. Try experimenting—safely—with tooth shapes, with your blood sense. See what you can discover."

  "Is there a quiz?" I ask, only half-joking.

  "Life's the quiz," he says flatly. "And the Kingdom doesn't give partial credit."

  That thought stays with me as I head to the locker room for a shower. Under the hot water, I find myself running my tongue over my teeth, feeling their familiar sharpness, and wondering what else they might become.

  As I'm leaving the DVD headquarters, my phone buzzes with a text from Jordan: Suspicious car on Torresdale again. Black sedan, tinted windows.

  I text back: Probably NSRA. Crossroads mentioned increased surveillance.

  Or Kingdom, Jordan replies. Maybe both. Be careful.

  I slip my phone into my pocket and scan the street outside the building. Nothing obvious, but that doesn't mean they're not watching.

  I start walking home, eyes out for wayward crowbar swings.