"Fine. We'll make a deal."

  The words burst out of me before I've even processed the thought. Mrs. Quiet's eyes narrow slightly, like she's assessing whether I'm bluffing. Mr. Retribution's expression doesn't change at all, but he shifts his weight, redistributing it from one foot to the other. Neither of them looks particularly surprised.

  Honestly, I'm the one who's most surprised by what just came out of my mouth.

  "I thought you might," Mrs. Quiet says, the gun still trained on my midsection. "What kind of deal?"

  My brain races to catch up with my mouth. What exactly am I offering here? What am I trying to accomplish? Buy time? Protect Kate? Save my own skin? All of the above?

  I swallow, my throat suddenly bone dry. "No money," I say, my voice steadier than I would have expected, but not steady enough. "Two terms. No, three."

  "We're listening," Mr. Retribution says, folding his massive arms across his chest.

  "One—I want a meeting with your boss. Not the boss of Philly, the boss of the Kingdom." As I say it, I realize I really do want this. "I want a meeting with your top guy, and assurance that he is not going to kill me during that meeting. I want to know the piece of shit at the top who's been ruining my city, and have him look me in the eye."

  Mrs. Quiet's eyebrows rise slightly, the first real indication of surprise she's shown. "Ambitious," she murmurs, almost to herself.

  "Two," I continue, building momentum now. "I want a sample of Hypeman. No, two samples. One for me. One to turn over to the police."

  Why am I asking for Hypeman? Why two? The words just tumbled out. I don't want to use it—at least, I don't think I do—but having an extra feels... prudent. Information. Options. A potential bargaining chip. I'm not sure, and I don't have time to interrogate the impulse.

  "If you guys are the expert criminals you say you are, this shouldn't provide too much of a roadbump in your operations," I add, trying to sound confident.

  Mr. Retribution's eyes narrow. "And the third term?"

  "Three—I will give you everything I know after this. Not a moment before." I look directly at Mrs. Q. "If I'm lying, you can shoot me dead right there on the spot."

  I grab Mrs. Quiet's wrist and thrust the gun against my stomach with both hands. "You can even get in a freebie now if you want."

  For a frozen moment, the three of us stand like that—me holding Mrs. Quiet's hand, pressing her gun into my own abdomen, her eyes locked on mine, Mr. Retribution watching us both.

  Then Mrs. Quiet does something truly unsettling. She smiles, a real, genuine smile that reaches her eyes, transforming her face from something severe into something almost beautiful. Angelic. In an instant, the monkey grimace vanishes, replaced by a cherub beaming at me with closed-lips.

  "I like her," she says to Mr. Retribution, not pulling the gun away. "She's got guts."

  Mr. Retribution doesn't look as impressed. "You're making some significant requests, Sam. I can't promise I'll be able to acquiesce to all of them, especially the meeting. Upper Management doesn't meet with just anyone."

  "Then I guess I'm not just anyone," I say, my heart hammering against my ribs but my voice somehow level. "80 million dollars is a lot of damages."

  Mrs. Quiet gently extricates her gun from my grip, though she doesn't put it away. "We'll contact Upper Management and be in touch to negotiate next steps," she says. "I do hope you realize how irregular this whole arrangement is. We don't typically handle things this way."

  "But if you want to get a little, you'll have to give a little," Mr. Retribution adds. "A down payment, so to speak. Let us know you mean business."

  They want information now. Some small piece to prove I'm not just stalling.

  My mind races. What can I say that's accurate and truthful on the surface but won't actually hurt Kate? It needs to sound like new information, something they can't easily verify but can't easily disprove either. I can't betray her. I can't say anything that can put her in more danger. The problem... becomes a puzzle.

  What can I say that sounds like something, but gives them nothing?

  "I don't know much about Soot, like I said, I wasn't lying to you about that" I admit, which is technically true. "All I know is the stuff I've gleaned from running into them. You guys have been fucking up the neighborhood so much I haven't had time to investigate."

  Mr. Retribution's expression doesn't change, but I get the sense he's not impressed by my equivocation.

  "But I bet they have a grudge against you guys, in particular," I continue. "Start looking into people who you've victimized. Shouldn't be a hard list to narrow down. I keep finding them whenever I go to try and bother people I know are tied to you. They're there first, or have already been through and knocked out everyone else."

  "That's not information," Mrs. Quiet says softly. "That's speculation."

  "You shouldn't be mentioning that you're targeting us, but I'll let that slide for now. Small fries," Mr. Retribution quip.

  "Fair enough," I say, buying a few more seconds to think. Should I mention that Soot is a girl? No. That would cut the list of potential suspects in half. I need to give information that minimizes the amount that things get narrowed down by. Blonde? No. Knows jiu-jitsu? They'd know they couldn't investigate that. I need to mislead them with stuff that I can't be proven to lie about. Or, give them the smallest, least identifiable bit of information.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Jordan mentioned this to me once. Info... information theory?

  "I think Soot is a guy," I say, the lie coming more easily than I'd like to admit. "They wear pink nail polish and fingerless gloves, but everything else is covered up totally. Why? I think it's intentionally trying to mislead people. I've bumped into them. We've judo thrown each other." I hesitate, then add, "They're flat as a board and they wear a cup. They're shorter than me, and the bits of their fingers I've seen are like... Tan. Voice is totally muffled."

  How could they possibly verify that? And if it turns out I'm wrong, how could they blame me? I only said "I think" and "they wear a cup" is nearly impossible to confirm or deny without, well, a very thorough investigation. I'm being clever here. I think.

  "So," I say, trying to control the slight tremor that's developing in my hands. "Do we have a deal?"

  Mr. Retribution exchanges a look with Mrs. Q, some unspoken communication passing between them.

  "Provisionally," he says finally. "I'll need to consult with Upper Management before confirming the meeting or the Hypeman samples. But I can tell you now, the chances of meeting them are slim."

  "I'll work on my curtsying," I mutter.

  "I should emphasize," Mrs. Quiet interjects, "that this arrangement is contingent on the quality of information you ultimately provide. If we determine you've misled us..." She trails off, the threat implicit. I note, trying not to wobble, the lack of the word 'deliberately' before misled. "You've given us some powerful narrowing factors. You should hope, for your sake, that they're legitimate. And that you have more to give us after our end of the bargain comes through."

  "I understand," I say.

  "Do you?" she asks, tilting her head slightly. "Because it seems to me you might not fully grasp the seriousness of this situation. We're not police officers bound by rules of conduct. We're not government agents limited by constitutional constraints. We're people who solve problems permanently."

  "I get it," I reply, trying not to sound sarcastic.

  "Good," she says. "Because I would very much prefer not to have to kill a child. The paperwork alone is a nightmare."

  "One more question," Mr. Retribution says. "Why the meeting? What do you hope to gain by looking Upper Management in the eye?"

  It's a good question. Why do I want to meet the head of the Kingdom? What purpose would it serve? I could say it's to gather intelligence, to understand the enemy better, to potentially find weaknesses. All true, but not the whole truth.

  "Because I want to know if he's a monster," I say finally. "Or just a man."

  Mrs. Quiet's lips curve into that unnerving smile again. "And what if he's both?"

  "Then at least I'll know what I'm fighting," I say.

  "Brave," Mr. Retribution says, but it doesn't sound like a compliment.

  "How will you contact me?" I ask, hoping my voice doesn't betray my nervousness.

  "We'll find you," Mrs. Quiet says. "Don't worry about that."

  "Make sure "Upper Management" knows I'm not interested in money, and I'm not afraid of you and your merry band of alphabetized henchmen. I bite through concrete for practice." I try to sound tougher than I feel, and maybe it's working, because Mr. Retribution actually smiles.

  "I'll pass along the message," he says.

  "Make sure you tell them exactly what I want, though," I insist. "I'm not looking to join you, or get rich, or whatever other deals you usually make. I'm doing this because I think I will get more out of this deal than you will. And you're doing this because you think you'll get more out of the deal than I will. We'll have to see who ends up on top. But I like my odds."

  "I'm sure you do," she says, smiling a little wider.

  "So we're done here?" I ask, trying to keep the relief from my voice.

  "For now," Mr. Retribution says. "Expect to hear from us within two to three business days."

  Ah.

  Two to three business days to figure out how to warn Kate, how to prepare for this meeting that may or may not happen, how to explain to my friends why I've made a deal with the Kingdom. Not to mention what I'm going to tell my parents if I disappear for a mysterious meeting with the head of a criminal organization.

  Just another typical week in the life of a teenage superhero.

  "One last thing," Mrs. Quiet says, holstering her gun at last. "A formality, really."

  She steps closer, and before I can react, her hand darts out, gripping my wrist. With her other hand, she produces the knife—that utility blade with its wicked edge. In one swift motion, she draws it across my palm, a shallow but precise cut that sends a bright flare of pain up my arm.

  I try to pull away, but her grip is iron.

  "What the hell?" I gasp.

  Mrs. Quiet simply takes my bleeding hand and wraps her own around it, forcing me into a handshake. Her palm is dry and cool against mine, the blood making our skin stick together in a grotesque parody of a business agreement.

  "We'll be in touch," she says, finally releasing my hand. A thin smear of my blood stains her pale skin, which she wipes casually on a handkerchief produced from nowhere.

  "That was unnecessary," I mutter, examining the cut. It's already beginning to close, my accelerated healing sealing the edges together.

  "On the contrary," Mrs. Quiet says. "Blood oaths are the oldest form of contract."

  "Should we escort you the rest of the way home?" Mr. Retribution asks, gesturing in the direction we were headed.

  "I think I can manage," I say, suddenly desperate to be away from these people.

  They exchange a glance, then nod in unison.

  "Until next time, then," Mr. Retribution says. He tips an imaginary hat, a gesture so incongruously old-fashioned it would be comical in any other context. Then he turns and begins walking in the opposite direction.

  Mrs. Quiet lingers for a moment longer, her pale eyes studying me with that unnerving intensity. Then, without a parting comment, she turns and follows Mr. Retribution, her heels clicking softly against the pavement. I watch them go, my heart still hammering in my chest, my palm tingling as the shallow cut knits itself together.

  As I turn and begin the long walk home, I try to make sense of the last half hour. I've made a deal with the Kingdom—the very organization I've been fighting against. I've potentially put myself in the crosshairs of the most dangerous criminal enterprise in Philadelphia. I've agreed to meet with their leader, a man so mysterious he's known only by a single letter.

  And I've done it all while giving them just enough information to make them think I'm cooperating, without actually betraying Kate. At least, I hope so. The gender misdirection feels clever, but did I give away anything else inadvertently? Was I being too careful, too neutral?

  I glance down at my palm. The cut is almost gone now, leaving only a faint pink line that will likely disappear within the hour. If only the memory of Mrs. Quiet's cold hand gripping mine could fade as easily.

  The sun is sinking lower in the sky as I walk, casting long shadows across the street. My body aches from Multiplex's training session, my mind races with the discomfort of what I've just agreed to, and my stomach growls with a hunger that seems almost absurdly normal given the circumstances.

  I should call Jordan. I should warn Kate. I should tell my parents I might be meeting with the head of a criminal organization in the near future. I should do a lot of things. I keep walking, trying to process it all. Is this... Trauma? Did I just get traumatized?

  Maybe I'll start with a sandwich. World-changing decisions are best made on a full stomach.

  As I approach my street, a black sedan drives past slowly. I tense, ready for another confrontation, but it continues on, the driver not even glancing in my direction.

  I'm being watched. Whether it's the Kingdom, the feds, or someone else entirely, my every move is under scrutiny.

  Welcome to life as a teenage superhero. Powers optional, constant surveillance guaranteed.