By the time I get home, I've replayed the conversation with Mr. Retribution and Mrs. Quiet about seventeen times in my head. Each time, I come up with better comebacks, smarter answers, more clever ways to handle the situation. None of which changes the fact that I just made a deal with the Kingdom of Keys while staring down the barrel of a silent gun.

  The house smells like spaghetti and garlic bread when I walk in. Mom and Dad are in the kitchen, Dad stirring sauce on the stove while Mom sets the table. Like nothing happened. Like I wasn't just negotiating for my life with criminal enforcers. Like there isn't a cut on my palm that was there fifteen minutes ago and is now almost completely healed.

  "There she is," Dad says, looking up from the pot. "How was training? Ready for your first pro boxing match yet?"

  I manage a laugh that sounds almost normal. "Just about. Multiplex destroyed me, though. As usual."

  "You're making progress, though?" Mom asks, placing silverware with mathematical precision. "Learning things?"

  "Yeah," I say, washing my hands at the sink. I try to keep my palm tilted away from them, even though there's barely a pink line there now. "Definitely learning things."

  "Good, good," Dad says absently, his attention already back on the sauce. "Dinner in five. Can you grab the parmesan from the fridge?"

  This is so surreal. Twenty minutes ago, I was pressing a gun into my own stomach to prove a point to Kingdom enforcers, and now I'm getting parmesan cheese from the fridge like it's a normal Saturday evening.

  I slide into my usual seat at the table, trying to act natural while my insides feel like they've been run through a blender. Maybe it's the adrenaline crash. Maybe it's the delayed shock of what just happened. Maybe it's the realization that I've committed to a meeting with the head of the most dangerous criminal organization in the city. Whatever it is, I feel distinctly unstable, like I might laugh hysterically or burst into tears at any moment.

  Instead, I stuff my face with spaghetti.

  "Hungry?" Mom asks, raising an eyebrow as I twirl a third massive forkful.

  "Mmph," I confirm through a mouthful of pasta. "Training. Burns calories."

  "So how long until Kate gets home tonight?" Dad asks, reaching for the garlic bread.

  I nearly choke on my spaghetti. Kate. Soot. The deal. The information I gave them. My brain short-circuits momentarily before I pull it together.

  "Not sure," I manage after a quick sip of water. "Later, probably. She said something about a study group. I'm glad they'll be back in a new place soon."

  In reality, I have no idea where Kate is. Probably out doing Soot things, which is exactly what I need to warn her about. But I can't exactly say that to my parents.

  "That girl studies too much," Dad says, shaking his head. "I mean, summer break just started. Time to relax a little."

  "Different strokes," Mom says with a shrug. "Some people find studying relaxing. I was that way in college."

  "You're still that way," Dad counters with a grin. "I saw you reading that legal textbook in bed last night. Don't think I didn't notice."

  "It helps me sleep," Mom protests. "The dry language, the complex sentences—better than any sleeping pill."

  They continue this comfortable banter while I mechanically shovel food into my mouth, trying to stay present in the conversation while my mind spins elsewhere.

  Did I do the right thing? Making that deal, giving that information? I didn't tell them anything that would definitively identify Kate—in fact, I deliberately misled them with the gender stuff—but what if they figure it out anyway? What if—

  "Sam?" Dad's voice breaks through my spiral. "You with us?"

  "Hm? Yeah, sorry. Just... tired. Training was intense today."

  "I was asking if you're joining us for Movie Night. Your mom picked Casablanca."

  Movie Night. Right. This is something we do now? I guess we do. Did. Do. Has the rest of my life just been slipping by while I've been busy trying to be a superhero?

  "Of course," I say, summoning a smile. "Wouldn't miss it."

  Two hours. I can fake normal for two more hours. Then I can go upstairs, wait for Kate, and warn her about the Kingdom. About the danger she's in. About what I've done.

  The movie is good. I think. I don't actually absorb much of it. I watch Humphrey Bogart move across the screen, hear the dialogue, even laugh at the right moments, but it's like I'm watching through a fog. My body is here on the couch between my parents, but my mind keeps drifting back to the feel of Mrs. Quiet's gun against my stomach, the cold calculation in her eyes, the casual way she sliced open my palm.

  I should feel cool, right? I stood up to Kingdom enforcers. I negotiated a deal on my terms. I didn't crumble under pressure. I even grabbed Mrs. Quiet's gun and pressed it to my own gut, showing I wasn't afraid. In the moment, I'd felt almost powerful—redirecting the conversation, taking some control back.

  But now? Now it just feels stupid. Reckless. I deliberately antagonized people who kill for a living. People who aren't constrained by laws or ethics. People who could decide at any moment that I'm more trouble than I'm worth and solve that problem permanently.

  What was I thinking?

  The credits roll, and I realize I've missed the ending. Something about Paris, and letters of transit, and "here's looking at you, kid." I've seen it before, so I can fake an intelligent comment.

  "Gets me every time," I say, stretching. "The noble sacrifice and all that."

  "It's a classic for a reason," Mom agrees, collecting our empty popcorn bowl. "Though I still think Ilsa should have stayed with Rick."

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  "That's because you're a romantic," Dad says, standing to eject the DVD. "I think she made the right choice. Sometimes the noble thing is to let go."

  They continue discussing the movie as we clean up, and I manage to participate just enough to avoid suspicion. By the time I'm heading upstairs, claiming exhaustion from training, I feel like I've run a marathon. Acting normal is exhausting when you're anything but.

  "Night, sweetheart," Mom calls after me. "Don't forget we're going to Moe's for brunch tomorrow."

  Great. More acting normal. "Wouldn't miss it," I call back, already halfway up the stairs.

  In my bedroom, I strip off my sweaty clothes and step into the shower, letting scalding hot water pound against my skin. I scrub my palm where Mrs. Quiet cut me, even though there's no visible mark left. Still, I can feel it—a phantom sensation where her knife sliced through my skin, where her cold hand gripped mine in that mockery of a handshake.

  Clean and dressed in pajamas, I sprawl across my bed and stare at the ceiling. My phone buzzes with texts—probably Jordan, wanting updates on my training with Multiplex—but I can't bring myself to check. The idea of explaining what happened today, of putting it into words for someone else, makes my stomach churn.

  Time stretches. Nine becomes ten. Ten becomes eleven. I should sleep. I should call Jordan. I should do something productive. Instead, I just keep staring at the ceiling, replaying the day's events, second-guessing every decision, every word.

  At some point, I must drift off, because I jolt awake to the sound of the front door quietly opening and closing downstairs. Footsteps on the stairs, soft but audible in the quiet house. Kate.

  I glance at my phone. 2:47 AM. She's been out late, even for her.

  My pulse quickens. This is it. The conversation I've been dreading and desperately needing to have all evening. I sit up, switching on my bedside lamp as Kate's footsteps approach our door.

  She enters quietly, freezing when she sees me awake and sitting up.

  "Jesus, Sam," she whispers. "You scared me. What are you doing up?"

  Kate looks... normal. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, she's wearing jeans and a hoodie, and she's carrying her backpack over one shoulder. Nothing about her screams "I've been out all night as a vigilante fighting crime." Then again, that's probably the point.

  There's something off, though. A smell. Like she's wearing too much deodorant or body spray, the kind of chemical floral scent people use when they're trying to cover up something else. Like smoke, maybe.

  "Waiting for you," I say, my voice slightly rusty from disuse. "We need to talk."

  Kate's expression tightens. "It's late, Sam. Can it wait until morning?"

  "No," I say, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. "It really can't."

  She sighs, dropping her backpack by her desk. "Fine. What's so important it couldn't wait?"

  I take a deep breath. I've rehearsed this conversation in my head a dozen times, but now that she's standing in front of me, I'm not sure where to begin. Start with the Kingdom? With my suspicions about her being Soot? With the deal I've just made?

  "Look," I finally say, deciding to just dive in. "I don't care what you admit to me or not. I'm going to tell you what happened to me today, and you're going to fucking listen."

  Kate's eyebrows shoot up. "Okaay," she says slowly, leaning against her desk. "I'm listening."

  "You're in danger," I continue, the words coming faster now. "The Kingdom is looking for Soot. They've got people watching the neighborhood, collecting information. They're offering rewards for tips. And they're not messing around."

  Kate's face gives nothing away. "And you're telling me this because...?"

  "Because I told them some stuff about Soot today. Misdirection, mostly—I said Soot was a guy, that they wear fingerless gloves and pink nail polish. But they're going to be looking hard, and they're going to be looking in our neighborhood."

  Now there's a flicker of something in her eyes—alarm, maybe, or calculation. "Why would you tell them anything at all?"

  "Because I didn't have much choice," I snap, feeling defensive. "They cornered me on my way home from training. A man called Mr. Retribution and a woman called Mrs. Quiet. Or just Mrs. Q. But probably Mrs. Quiet. They knew who I was—who Bloodhound is. They had photos. And Mrs. Quiet had a gun that she demonstrated could fire silently by shooting a bullet into the concrete right in front of me."

  That gets a reaction. Kate's casual posture stiffens, her face paling slightly. "They threatened you with a gun? And wait—you're Bloodhound?"

  "Yes and yes. And then I did something really stupid. I made a deal with them."

  "You what?" Kate's voice rises, and she quickly catches herself, lowering it again. "What kind of deal?"

  "I told them I'd give them information about Soot, but only after they arrange a meeting between me and their boss—the actual head of the Kingdom, not just the Philadelphia branch—and give me two samples of Hypeman."

  Kate stares at me like I've grown a second head. "You... asked to meet the boss of those Tacony loan sharks? And what's Hypeman?"

  "It's not just loan sharks, Kate," I say, realizing how little she actually knows. "And Hypeman is a power-enhancing drug they're developing."

  "You're making deals with drug dealers for... super-drugs?" Kate looks genuinely confused now. "Over some vigilante? Do you have any idea how dangerous these guys are? They've got. Guns!"

  "You think we're just talking about the local mob," I retort. "The goons in suits who shake down local businesses and sell drugs out of the burger place on Almond Street. But the Kingdom is bigger than that. They're a supervillain-led criminal organization trying to take control of the entire eastern seaboard. They have branches everywhere. They have people with powers in every branch—people who can detect lies, control weather, turn into dinosaurs, you name it."

  I watch as the blood drains from Kate's already pale face, her eyes widening with each detail I share. The cocky posture she had moments ago completely evaporates.

  "The Philly branch is run by Councilwoman Maya Richardson. Their boss—the one I asked to meet—is some guy, or maybe a girl, they only refer to as 'Upper Management.' They've got connections with dirty cops, fake businesses all over the city, and they're developing a drug called Hypeman that enhances powers. We're not talking about street thugs, Kate. We're talking about an organized criminal empire with super-powered enforcers."

  Kate's mouth opens and closes several times before she manages to speak. "And Soot's been... fighting them? Just walking into their businesses and destroying their stuff?"

  "Yeah," I say grimly. "Now you see the problem."

  She sinks down onto her bed, her fingers clutching the edge of the mattress. "Oh my god."

  "Now, I don't care if you're denying it, I'm making this leap. I think you're Soot. And if I tell you what happened, even if you're not Soot, I have this crazy feeling it will make its way toward Soot somehow. So just fucking listen to me, you stupid bitch," I almost growl - it just sort of comes out of me. "Okay?"

  Kate's expression freezes, a complex mix of emotions flitting across her face too quickly to read. For a moment, I think she's going to keep denying everything. Then her shoulders slump slightly.

  "What exactly did you tell them?" she asks, her voice carefully neutral.

  "Like I said, mostly misdirection. That Soot is a guy. That they wear fingerless gloves with pink nail polish. That they wear a cup. Stuff they can't easily verify, and that sends them looking in the wrong direction."

  "And what makes you think I'm Soot?" Kate asks, still not confirming or denying.

  "I'm not relitigating this with you. I've told you everything already," I respond.

  "Everything you've got is circum--" Kate starts, before I cut her off with a swipe of my hand.

  "I don't care," I say, running a hand through my hair in frustration. "I don't care if you never admit it to me. Just... be careful. The Kingdom is serious about finding Soot. They're offering millions for information. And they have people with powers who are specifically looking for you now."

  "For Soot," Kate corrects automatically.

  "Whatever," I snap. "The point is, you—or Soot—need to lay low for a while. These people are dangerous. You have no idea what you're dealing with."

  Kate is quiet for a long moment, her gaze fixed on some middle distance as she processes everything I've told her. Finally, she looks at me directly.

  "Come with me," she says, straightening up and grabbing her backpack.

  "What? Where?"

  "Just... come with me. There's something I need to show you."

  I glance at the clock—3:12 AM—and then back at Kate.

  "Now?" I ask, even as I'm already reaching for my hoodie.

  Kate nods, already moving toward the door. "Now."