"I don't know what you're talking about," I say, trying to sound confident despite the alarm bells practically deafening me from inside my own skull. "I've never heard of any Soot."

  Mr. Retribution's eyebrows rise almost imperceptibly. "Never? That seems unlikely. The vigilante's been operating in your neighborhood for several months now."

  "My neighborhood's a big place." I glance around, looking for potential escape routes, witnesses, anything that might help. There's a couple walking on the other side of the street, and a few cars passing by, but nobody's paying attention to us. Of course not. This is Philly. You could have a full-on lightsaber duel in the middle of Torresdale Avenue and people would just walk around you, muttering about tourists.

  "Samantha," Mrs. Q says, her voice making my name sound like something that might crawl out from under your bed at night. "We know who you are. We know you patrol this area regularly. We know you're Bloodhound."

  "I think you have me confused with someone else," I say, taking another step back. "I'm just a high school student."

  "A high school student with shark teeth and regenerative abilities," Mr. Retribution says, his tone almost conversational. "Who has been spotted at multiple vigilante incidents over the past year. Who regularly patrols late at night. Who has been observed in altercations with Soot on at least seven occasions."

  My mind races. Seven occasions? That doesn't sound r-- wait. They don't know as much as they're pretending to. They're fishing.

  Mrs. Q reaches into her vest pocket and pulls out what looks like a small stack of photos. "Perhaps these will refresh your memory."

  She holds them out, and despite my better judgment, I edge close enough to see. The first photo shows a blurry figure in what looks like my old Bloodhound costume, a blur of black body armor, brown jacket, red helmet, walking along a rooftop. The second shows a cloud of dark smoke and a figure leaping away from it. The third is just a blur of motion near what looks like the corner of Torresdale and Disston.

  "These prove nothing," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Could be anyone or anything."

  "Let's not waste time," Mr. Retribution says, that same eerily calm tone. "We know who you are. We know what you do. And we know you've had run-ins with Soot." He gestures to the photos. "What we don't know is who Soot is. That's the information we're interested in trading for."

  My eyes dart between them, trying to read their intentions. Mr. Retribution seems almost relaxed, but there's a coiled tension in his stance that reminds me of a snake about to strike. Mrs. Q is perfectly still, her eyes never leaving my face, like she's memorizing every micro-expression.

  "Look," I say, deciding to change tactics. "Even if I was this Bloodhound person, which I'm not admitting to, why would I know anything about Soot?"

  "Because vigilantes talk," Mr. Retribution says simply. "You work the same areas. You fight the same people. And sometimes, you fight each other." He shrugs those massive shoulders. "It's a small community."

  "I don't know anything about Soot," I insist. "And if you're going to threaten me, you should know I scream really loud."

  Mr. Retribution actually chuckles at that. "We're not here to threaten you, Samantha." He pats his jacket, and I catch a glimpse of what's definitely a gun holstered under his arm. "We're armed, yes, but that's for our protection. You have a habit of breaking people's clavicles with your teeth, after all."

  "You've done your homework," I mutter.

  "Mr. Polygraph is still a little mad at you, but that's why they sent us, and not him. We're simply here to discuss a business proposition," he continues. "Why don't you walk with us? We can talk as we go. In fact," he gestures vaguely in the direction of my house, "we'll escort you home. Lots of feds out tonight. Walk and talk."

  I narrow my eyes. "Feds?"

  Mrs. Q's thin lips stretch into that unsettling smile again. "You've noticed the surveillance, I'm sure. The sedans. The men in suits who think they're being inconspicuous."

  "Those are feds?" I ask, my surprise momentarily overriding my caution.

  "NSRA, mostly," Mr. Retribution says, nodding. "Though there might be some real FBI in the mix. You did blow up a warehouse full of chemicals. That tends to attract attention from multiple agencies."

  "I didn't—" I start, then catch myself. "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Sure, sure," Mr. Retribution says, waving a dismissive hand. "Walk with us, Sam. Really."

  I weigh my options. I'm exhausted from training. I'm outnumbered. They clearly know who I am and where I live. Running would just postpone this confrontation, and fighting... well, that would be stupid given the circumstances.

  And I can't say I'm not a little curious about what they think I'll snitch for.

  "Fine," I say, falling into step beside them but maintaining as much distance as possible. "But just because I'm walking with you doesn't mean I know anything about Soot."

  "Of course not," Mr. Retribution says, his tone indicating he doesn't believe me for a second.

  We begin walking north on Torresdale, the three of us forming a strange procession. Me on one side of the sidewalk, them on the other, all of us pretending this is a normal evening stroll and not a potentially life-threatening negotiation with Kingdom operatives.

  "So you think all those cars are feds?" I ask, trying to keep my tone casual. "Not Kingdom?"

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  Mr. Retribution snorts. "You think we have the membership to field that many nice sedans? We're not a mom and pop operation, but we're not that rich either. Only the top rollers get nice cars."

  There's something about his tone and his accent that reminds me, unmistakably, of some of the street cart guys hawking Halal food up and down North Philly, especially near Temple. I really couldn't tell you what it is, though. Wait, is that racist of me to think? Priorities, Sam. Derail this train of thought. Next line!

  "If you want information about Soot," I say carefully, "why not just ask the 'feds'? Seems like they'd have better intel than some random teenager."

  "Federal agencies have certain... limitations," Mrs. Q says, her voice so quiet I have to strain to hear it. "And they don't appreciate our methods."

  "Plus, they don't know what we know," Mr. Retribution adds. "They're looking at the big picture. We're looking at a very specific problem."

  "Which is?"

  "Soot has been systematically targeting our operations throughout North Philadelphia," Mr. Retribution explains. "Disrupting shipments, destroying product, attacking our people. It's becoming a significant financial liability."

  "Sounds like a you problem," I mutter.

  Mrs. Q turns those piercing eyes on me. "It's about to become a you problem as well, if you continue to obstruct our investigation."

  "Hey, I thought this wasn't a threat," I say, shooting a pointed look at Mr. Retribution.

  He sighs, like a disappointed teacher. "What my colleague means is that we're prepared to make this worth your while." He stops walking, turning to face me directly. "Let's be clear here: we don't want to hurt you. We want information that might lead to the identification and... handling of Soot. If you can provide that information, we're willing to compensate you generously."

  I cross my arms. "So you're trying to bribe me now?"

  "We prefer to think of it as a business transaction," he says. "Information has value. We're willing to pay for that value."

  "And if I don't have any information to sell?"

  Mrs. Q's eyes narrow slightly. "Then this conversation is a waste of time for all of us."

  There's an implied threat there, but I can't quite pin down exactly what it is. Are they going to attack me if I can't give them what they want? Or just walk away disappointed? It's impossible to read Mr. Retribution's placid expression, and Mrs. Q's face might as well be carved from stone.

  I decide to keep playing dumb while probing for more information. "Even if I did know something, which I don't, why would I help the Kingdom? You guys are basically the reason nobody can order pizza after dark in half of Philly."

  Mr. Retribution actually looks offended at that. "That's a gross exaggeration. We provide stability to neighborhoods that would otherwise be chaotic. We create jobs. We invest in communities."

  "You sell drugs and intimidate people," I counter.

  "We provide goods and services that the traditional economy can't or won't," he says smoothly. "And as for intimidation, well... sometimes it's necessary to maintain order. I'm sure a law-abiding citizen like you understands."

  We've started walking again, and I realize we're getting closer to my neighborhood. The thought of these people knowing exactly where I live makes my skin crawl, but, well... they've known where I've lived. The only reason they haven't just blown up my house with a bomb is because I think they aren't willing to tolerate the heat.

  "Look," I say, trying a different approach. "I genuinely don't know who Soot is. I've seen them around, sure, but we're not exactly grabbing coffee together to chat about vigilante stuff."

  "Even criminals talk to each other," Mrs. Q says softly. "Especially when they cross paths."

  "I'm not a criminal," I snap before I can stop myself. Then, realizing what I've just implicitly admitted, I hastily add, "And neither is Bloodhound. Heroes fight crime, we don't commit it."

  "'We'?" Mr. Retribution repeats, raising an eyebrow.

  "Figure of speech," I snap back.

  "Soot has caused us approximately $80 million in damages to our operation alone, and more to the wider community at large," Mr. Retribution says, dropping the number so casually it takes me a moment to process the scale. "And they'll keep damaging us more with each passing week. Areas where they've fought need expensive decontamination. They become no-go zones for days if not weeks. At this point, we consider any information leading to their capture to be an investment. And we take our investments very seriously."

  "?Investments and dealers," Mrs. Q adds, singing quietly. "Investments and dealers, cold wives and mistresses...?"

  Eighty million dollars? That can't possibly be right. How could one person with smoke powers cause that much damage? Unless... maybe they're counting the warehouse explosion? Do they know Soot was involved in that? Or is this not including that?

  "Even if I did know something, which I don't," I say slowly, "what exactly would you be offering in return?"

  Mr. Retribution smiles, and I get the distinct impression I've just given him exactly what he wanted—an opening.

  "How much money would you sell your soul for, Samantha?" he asks, his voice deceptively gentle.

  The question catches me off guard with its bluntness. "What?"

  "It's a simple question. Everyone has a price. What's yours?"

  "Get real," I scoff. "What, are you gonna buy me for ten thousand bucks? Keep dreaming."

  "I was thinking more on the scale of $500,000 upfront," he says, watching my reaction carefully. "With another million upon Soot's capture."

  I can't hide my shock. One and a half million dollars? That's enough to pay for college, buy a house, set my family up for years. It's a life-changing amount of money. No. Stop. This is Kate we're talking about. I'm not going to sell her out, no matter how much money they offer, and no matter how complicated our relationship is.

  But wait—I haven't actually confirmed that Soot is Kate. I don't have concrete proof. Just strong suspicions and circumstantial evidence. What if I'm wrong? What if Soot is someone else entirely?

  Stop. Stop that. No, selling people for money is what bad people do.

  Mr. Retribution watches the internal war play out on my face, his expression unnervingly patient. "Think about all the good you could do for your family with that kind of money, Samantha. For your community. Soot is a danger. A cowboy cop. A criminal robbing bodegas just as much as they're attacking our soldiers."

  "I don't know anything," I repeat, trying to maintain composure.

  "Are you sure whatever you know isn't worth $1.5 million dollars?" he presses. There's a long pause, and then, almost casually: "What about $3 million? Half up-front."

  Three million dollars. The number hits me like a physical blow. That's enough to change everything. More money than most people see in a lifetime. All for information about Soot.

  About Kate.

  I stare at Mr. Retribution, trying to read any hint of deception in his face, but he meets my gaze steadily. My brain reels at the scale. The most money I've seen in one place are the stacks of twenties Jordan and I have... liberated from the local criminal element. Maybe ten thousand dollars at a time. This is... ten, a hundred, that's a million, three hundred times more than that. Math? Yeah, three hundred times. An absurd amount of money.

  He stares me back. They're serious.

  Which means they're desperate. And desperate people are dangerous.

  "Three million dollars," I repeat slowly, buying time to think. If I outright refuse, I have a feeling these two won't just tip their hats and walk away. But if I string them along, maybe I can figure out a way to warn Kate without actually giving them any useful information.

  "Three million," Mr. Retribution confirms. "Tax-free, of course."

  "Of course," I mutter. "And how exactly would that work? You just hand me a briefcase full of cash?"

  "We have more sophisticated methods," Mrs. Q interjects. "Nothing you'd need to worry about. Ben, Rachel, and Moe would find themselves very lucky people all of a sudden. A good spike in their retirement portfolios."

  Nice. Subtle way to remind me that they know who my parents are. You're real slick.

  "Totally not suspicious for a teenager to suddenly come into millions," I say.

  "We're very good at what we do," Mr. Retribution says simply.