"Great. Let's push that new technique of yours until it breaks," Multiplex says, resetting the timer.

  "Wait, what?" I gulp down the last of the sports drink as he guides me back to the center of our makeshift ring. "I thought we were done?"

  He gives me a look that makes me feel stupid for even suggesting it. "You just discovered a major new application of your abilities, and you want to stop? This is exactly when we need to keep going."

  "My ribs disagree," I mutter, but I get into position anyway.

  The timer beeps, and round three begins.

  This time, Multiplex is methodical, almost scientific in his approach. He's not trying to overwhelm me anymore. Instead, he's systematically testing the limits of my armor, throwing different combinations at different speeds, targeting specific areas and watching how quickly I can armor up in response.

  "So," he says, throwing a testing jab that I manage to block with a small patch of teeth on my forearm. "Let's talk about capestuff."

  "About what?" I ask, confused by the term and the casual conversation mid-fight.

  "Capestuff. Anomalously originated materials." Another jab, this one faster. "The technical term for things like your teeth, or Gossamer's fabrics. Materials that shouldn't exist according to conventional physics."

  I try to focus on both his words and his movements, which is like trying to pat your head and rub your stomach while reciting the Pledge of Allegiance backwards. "Okay, and?"

  He throws a hook that I fail to armor against in time, the impact sending a fresh bolt of pain through my side. "And every power has a cost. The main thing that defies physics is the energy violation—you burn calories, but not nearly as many as would be required for what you're doing."

  "So...?" I sort of lead in, trying to anticipate his next move.

  "Nothing is free. Cheap, maybe," He launches a body shot that I manage to armor against, the teeth shattering on impact, scattering into that fine white mist. "But definitely not free. Every power has some sort of cost."

  I'm starting to feel the dehydration more acutely now. My mouth is desert-dry, my lips sticking to my teeth. "Like what?"

  Multiplex circles, watching me carefully. "Sometimes it's just calories. But Captain Plasma needs to take way more iron supplements than are healthy because the iron gets burned off when he uses his electromagnetic powers." He gestures toward where Fury Forge is back to her workout. "Forge gets headaches for days if she pushes her brain too hard. Spontaneous nosebleeds."

  "And you?" I ask, genuinely curious.

  "I experience everything my duplicates do when they reabsorb. Every pain, every sensation." He says it casually, like he's commenting on the weather, but it lands like a gut punch. "If one dies, which has happened, I feel that too. That seems like a cost to me."

  He resumes his attack, throwing combinations that force me to armor different parts of my body in rapid succession. I can feel myself getting slower, my reactions dulled by exhaustion and dehydration.

  "If you're experiencing anything other than simple exhaustion when using your powers, it's likely you need to figure out what you're paying," Multiplex continues. "Maybe get some bloodwork done. Make sure you stay topped off on whatever you're missing."

  The timer beeps, signaling the end of the round. I practically collapse onto the bench, grabbing for another sports drink.

  "Is that, like, a legit area of study?" I ask between gulps. "Does Dr. Harris know about this? Should I be worried about, I don't know, calcium deficiency or something from making all these teeth?"

  Multiplex takes a seat across from me, unwrapping his hand to check the cuts. "No, it's more of a philosophy than established science. There's so much we don't understand about powers that you couldn't rigorously work it out." He rewraps his hand with fresh gauze. "I'm not making a statement of scientific rigor regarding capestuff. It's more of a thing to think about. A philosophy. No free lunches, only discounted."

  "A thing to think about," I repeat, trying not to sound like a sarcastic teenager and failing.

  "There's no such thing as money for free. When you have powers, you can get money for cheap, but not free." He looks at me seriously. "Same principle. Understanding your costs helps you manage them."

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  I nod, filing that away alongside all the other cryptic wisdom Multiplex has dropped on me lately. The timer beeps again, but when I start to rise, he waves me back down.

  "We're done for today. You need to hydrate before you pass out again"

  I don't argue, just keep drinking my sports drink, which tastes like someone dissolved a handful of Sweet Tarts in sweat. Multiplex hands me a protein bar that has the texture and flavor of compressed sand. Apparently, proper nutrition tastes like punishment.

  "Next week, I want to focus on your ability to transition between different defensive techniques," he says, helping me gather my things. "The jaw clench and the armor are both useful, but right now, you can only use one at a time, and switching between them leaves you vulnerable."

  "Got it. More pain in my future."

  "Pain is just weakness leaving the body," he says with what might actually be a hint of a smile.

  "Pretty sure that's not medically accurate, Buddha," I mutter, shouldering my bag.

  "Never said it was." He heads toward the door. "Get your bloodwork done, Small. Better to know what you're burning through than find out the hard way. And no, Sylvia is not that kind of nurse."

  I make a non-committal sound as I follow him out. The idea of needles doesn't exactly thrill me, but he might have a point. If I'm depleting something specific when I use my powers, it would be smart to know what.

  The walk home from Center City to Tacony is a long one, but I don't mind. Philadelphia in June has its own particular charm—the smell of food trucks and hot asphalt, the symphony of car horns and distant sirens, the warmth of late afternoon sun reflecting off glass skyscrapers. It's my city, for better or worse, and walking through it helps me feel connected to the place I'm trying to protect.

  As I cross Spring Garden Street, I text Jordan to let them know I'm on my way back. They respond almost immediately, a phantom over my shoulder. "How'd it go?" they text.

  "Good," I reply.

  "Instant armor?" They ask.

  My thumbs tap away. "Instant Armor, capitalized, bolded ideally. It's a proper noun. Treat it that way."

  "OK loser," they reply. "I hope you get hit by a truck,"

  I smile and pocket my phone, continuing north. My body aches from Multiplex's training, but it's a good ache, the kind that means progress. The armor technique is far from perfect—it drains me quickly, only lasts for a single impact, and I can't maintain it alongside my jaw clench—but it's something new, something uniquely mine.

  By the time I reach Allegheny Avenue, the sun is starting to dip toward the horizon, long shadows stretching across the street. It's pushing 7 PM, and my stomach growls, reminding me that I've burned through a lot of calories today. Maybe I'll pick up a hoagie on the way home.

  I'm so busy contemplating food options that I almost don't notice the two figures waiting at the corner where Erie Avenue meets Torresdale. Almost, but not quite. Something about their posture—too still, too deliberate—triggers my warning bells even before I register that they're watching me.

  One of them is a man shorter than me by a couple inches, maybe 5'5". He's got tan skin, almost burnished, with dark hair pulled back into a small, tight bun and a neatly trimmed chinstrap beard. There's something almost samurai-esque about his bearing, a controlled stillness that suggests danger, and big-ass bushy eyebrows that seem permanently locked at like a scowling angle while the rest of his face is neutral. Over that sits a red button-down covered in Asian dragons, although I couldn't tell you which particular kind they are, and then a black suit and black tie. Oh, and he's built like a fucking Sumo wrestler, with arms I probably couldn't even wrap both hands around if I tried.

  The woman beside him is tall, probably six feet or more, with a willowy build that looks like she's about to get blown over by the wind. She's got like a sort of Marilyn Monroe-style beauty mark and black lipstick, black vest-pantsuit, black hair, lots of black going on. But then, little white accents too - a white skunk stripe in her hair, all the way from single sidelock drooping over her face to the messy, tangled bun sitting on the whorl of her scalp, and the white, long-sleeve undershirt, and white gloves. She's got a face that, and I really couldn't tell you why, makes me think of a bear. Maybe something about the way it protrudes?

  They're too well-dressed to be random pedestrians, too intentional in their positioning to be coincidence. My heart rate spikes, and I consider just turning around and walking the other way. But before I can decide, the man raises a hand in greeting.

  "Samantha Small?" he calls out, his voice carrying a thick Hispanic accent and a gravelly texture, like stones grinding together.

  I stop, keeping a good fifteen feet between us. "Who's asking?"

  The man smiles, though it doesn't reach his eyes. "My name is Mr. Retribution," he says, giving a small nod. "And this is my associate, Mrs. Q." The woman inclines her head slightly but doesn't speak. "We're here on behalf of the Kingdom, as I'm sure you've guessed."

  My muscles tense, ready to run or fight. I didn't expect them to be so brazen, but I guess learning my habits, waiting for me to be exhausted, and then stalking me like lions stalking a tired gazelle is pretty rational, all things considered. My mind races through options—I'm totally wiped from training, outnumbered, and probably outgunned. Running seems like the smartest choice.

  As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Retribution raises both hands in a placating gesture. "We're not here for you," he says. "If we were, you wouldn't know it."

  I'm not exactly a fan of his casual threat. I try to get that across with my face, keeping my distance, and trying to hide the slight, vague surprise at them not stepping closer. "Then what do you want?"

  "We're here to make a trade agreement," he says, taking a small step forward. "You might have access to stuff we want. And we might have access to stuff you want."

  "Not interested," I reply automatically.

  Mrs. Q speaks for the first time, her voice low. What's the word - contralto? It's almost androgynous. "You might be when you hear what we're offering."

  "I doubt it," I say, taking another step backward.

  "We're looking for information," Mr. Retribution continues, either not noticing or not caring about my retreat. "About the vigilante known as Soot. We can either trade for it, or beat it out of you."

  Mrs. Q's teeth curl up into a smile, like a monkey grimacing, stretching wrinkles into her face.