"It sounds like a lot of work to launder money through my family's accounts," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. "Aren't you worried about exposure?"

  "Risk management is our specialty," Mr. Retribution says. "Your family would never know where the money came from. As far as they're concerned, they'd just have some extremely fortunate investments right before a market upswing. Or become the beneficiaries or some long lost relatives. You have a lot of those, don't you, Sam?"

  My face scrunches up, and a thrill of panic that I'm not sure the origin of drips through my underarms, before settling somewhere right above my stomach.

  "Don't you want to meet your other grandfather? We can make that happen - he's currently handling long-haul deliveries in Louisana. Mr. E did some digging after that unfortunate incident with Mr. Federov. Hope you don't mind." Mrs. Q near-whispers, like a venomous snake trying to plop increasingly-enticing pomegranates into my lap.

  I ignore her, trying to ignore the weird way my heart palpitates.

  We're walking again, approaching the intersection of Torresdale and Magee. I make a point of gesturing broadly down Magee. "We turn here," I say, loudly enough that a couple passing by looks at us curiously. Good. Witnesses. "This way to my house."

  Mrs. Q gives me a look that suggests she knows exactly what I'm doing. Mr. Retribution just nods and follows my lead, seemingly unconcerned by my obvious attempt to stay in public view.

  "Think about what your family could do with that kind of money, Sam," he continues as we walk. "Your parents could retire early. Your grandfather could travel. You could attend any college you want, without worrying about student loans. Your friends could attend any college they want. You can even donate it all, if you want."

  "I'm already going to get scholarships," I counter, though it's not entirely true. My grades are decent, but not Ivy League material, especially after the distractions of the last two years. Honestly, I'll probably go to Temple. Realistically. Just... what I can manage.

  "Sure, but why struggle? You could focus on your studies without working part-time jobs. Travel abroad. Start a business after graduation." He spreads his hands. "Three million dollars isn't just money. It's freedom."

  "Freedom bought by selling someone else out," I say, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

  "Someone who's causing millions in property damage," he counters smoothly. "Someone who's disrupting neighborhoods, endangering civilians, playing vigilante without accountability."

  I shake my head. "You're really trying to sell me on the idea that the Kingdom cares about collateral damage and civilian safety? That's rich."

  "We care about stability," Mrs. Q says softly. "Chaos is bad for business."

  "We could set up a foundation in your name," Mr. Retribution suggests, ignoring my skepticism. "Fund community programs. Build parks and recreation centers. Scholarships for local kids." He watches my face carefully. "You could do a lot of good with three million dollars, Sam. Make a real difference in Tacony."

  I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "So your pitch is that I should sell out another cape so that the Kingdom can... what? Continue selling drugs and intimidating people, but with slightly less competition? Why don't you do it if it matters so much to you?"

  "Our pitch is that we can make you very wealthy in exchange for information you already have," Mr. Retribution says. "What you do with that wealth is entirely up to you. Save the world. Help your family. Buy a mansion on the beach. We don't care. Our organization already has its hands full with its philanthropy wing - unless you think people turn a blind eye to our operations for some other reason?"

  "People aren't turning a blind eye," I weakly counter. We cross the street, and I deliberately steer us toward a busier stretch of sidewalk. "We turn again here," I say loudly, pointing down Princeton Avenue where several people are walking dogs and children are playing in a front yard. Safety in numbers.

  "Look," I say, turning to face them both, "even if I was inclined to 'sell my soul' as you put it, which I'm not, I genuinely don't know anything about Soot. I've never spoken to them. I don't know who they are. I've barely even seen them up close."

  "People like you and Soot tend to run in the same circles," Mr. Retribution says. "You must have heard something. Rumors. Speculation. Maybe a friend of a friend mentioned something suspicious."

  I shake my head. "Nope. If I was being slick, I'd just make up some information to throw you off and take your money. But I'm not going to lie to you, because I actually don't know anything, and I'm guessing you'd figure it out and come back angry."

  Mr. Retribution lets out a short laugh, surprisingly genuine. "Smart girl. You're right. We would."

  "Altering the terms slightly," Mrs. Q interjects. "We'll pay for leads, not just direct identification. Patterns of appearance. Base of operations. Associates."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "Three million if you give us a name or an address, two million for solid leads," Mr. Retribution clarifies. "Still enough to change your life."

  "Still nothing I can tell you," I say, spreading my hands. "I'm not holding out for more money. I literally have no information to sell."

  Mr. Retribution sighs, looking genuinely disappointed. It's almost like he's a regular guy talking about a bad break at work, not a criminal enforcer trying to bribe a teenager. For a second, I almost forget he's a gigantic scary mobster.

  "That's a shame," he says, and I catch a glimpse of that same street vendor vibe again. "Would've been a good investment all around. You get set for life, we solve our Soot problem, everybody wins."

  "You could always try asking nicely," I quip. "Maybe put out an ad: 'Wanted: Gas Mask Vigilante. Reward for Information Leading to Identity.'"

  He actually chuckles at that. "Not a bad idea. Maybe we could get one of those planes with the banner ads to fly over the beach this summer."

  "Just make sure you include the dollar amount," I say, playing along despite myself. "Three million might get some attention. But, I gotta say, the more you keep raising the price, the more desperate you seem. Not exactly negotiating from a position of strength here, are you?"

  Mrs. Q's eyes narrow slightly. "We're negotiating because we don't want to make a mess. This is charity, Sam. It could be a shakedown, but we choose otherwise. Don't mistake courtesy for weakness."

  "Right, super charitable of you to not just kidnap me and beat the information out," I snark back. "Real philanthropists. Plus, I still don't know anything," I repeat, shrugging. "And honestly, is this your approach? Just throwing money at me because I'm Jewish? Is that why you think I'm so bribeable?"

  Mr. Retribution's eyes widen, and for the first time since we've met, he looks genuinely thrown off-balance. His mouth opens and closes once before he finds his voice again.

  "What? No! That's not—why would you even—" He stops, visibly regrouping. "That's an offensive assumption. We're offering you money because you have information we want, not because of your religion. Which, frankly, I wasn't even aware of until just now."

  "But you know who my grandpa is and that he's in Louisana. Right," I know it's a cheap shot, but seeing his composure crack gives me a tiny surge of satisfaction. Maybe I can keep them off-balance enough to end this conversation safely.

  Mrs. Q, however, doesn't seem fazed at all. While Mr. Retribution is still recovering from my goofball accusation, she steps closer and taps me lightly on the shoulder.

  The tap is gentle, almost friendly. But when I turn to look at her, there's nothing friendly in her eyes. With movements so fluid they seem almost choreographed, she reaches into her vest and draws a sleek, compact pistol. She checks the chamber, flicks off the safety, and points the barrel toward the ground between us.

  Mr. Retribution has gone silent, watching.

  Mrs. Q raises her free hand to her lips, extending one finger in the universal gesture for "quiet." Then she smiles, a cold, predatory expression.

  "Shhh," she whispers. "Quiet."

  Before I can react, she pulls the trigger. The tiny flick of her wrist is so casual it takes me a second to realize what's happening. There's a muzzle flash - a quick, bright spark -and the sharp ping of a bullet striking concrete, followed by the metallic ricochets as it bounces off nearby surfaces. I see her wrist jerk slightly, feel the air shift, see the flash - and nothing. No sound. Not even a click. Just the sudden, echoing ping of metal on concrete, like the world had forgotten the middle of the sentence, and the heat of the pressure wave, and the twitch of recoil into her shoulder.

  But there's no gunshot. No explosion of sound. Nothing but that quiet ping and the echo of the ricochets as the bullet lands -- somewhere. She aimed vaguely in the direction of the nearest alleyway, and out of the corner of my eye I see a spark clack out from a dumpster.

  My heart nearly stops. She just fired a gun, in broad daylight, on a residential street—and nobody even turned to look. The people walking their dogs, the kids playing in the yard, they all continue as if nothing happened. Because as far as they can tell, nothing did.

  Mrs. Q rotates her wrist, and suddenly the barrel is pointing at my midsection. Not directly touching me, but close enough that I can feel the phantom heat of the metal.

  Ah. Mrs. Quiet. Now I get it.

  "Listen," she says, her voice low but perfectly audible to me. "We're very busy people." She steps closer, forcing me to either back up or let the gun press against me. I choose to back up. "If you don't have anything, don't string us along, and we'll let you off with a warning."

  Her free hand flicks out, and suddenly there's a knife, inelegant, thick, designed more for cutting steak at a camp and sawing through tree limbs. The sort of switchblade that usually comes with a wrench attached. "A warning," she repeats, spinning the knife around in her free hand, keeping the gun trained on me.

  "If you do have something," she continues, "give it to us. If it's fake, we'll find out and kill you. If it's not, you will be rewarded." She leans in, close enough that I can smell her perfume—something expensive and subtle, with notes of sandalwood and something metallic. "This is your last chance to stop dicking around. I am expecting your sincerity now that you understand we mean fucking business."

  The gun never wavers from its position, aimed at a point just below my sternum. I'm acutely aware that if she pulls the trigger again, the bullet will tear through my body without a sound, and I could be bleeding out on the sidewalk before anyone even notices I've fallen.

  Mr. Retribution watches impassively, all trace of our almost-friendly banter gone from his face. He's not going to intervene. This is clearly part of their good cop/quiet cop routine.

  I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. The bullet in the concrete was a demonstration, but the next one won't be. I have seconds to decide how to respond, and no good options seem available.

  Tell them about Kate and take the money? Absolutely not.

  Keep insisting I know nothing? Mrs. Q doesn't seem like the type to accept that answer, not at gunpoint. Or what about that "warning" - will I bite a stab wound today? A fresh disemboweling?

  Try to fight back? With a gun at point-blank range and my body already exhausted from Multiplex's training, that's practically suicide.

  Run? Same problem. I'm fast, but bullets are faster.

  My regeneration might save me from a gunshot wound eventually, but "eventually" doesn't help if my brains are splattered across the sidewalk, or if they decide to put multiple rounds in me once they see I can heal.

  Time seems to stretch as these options flash through my mind, each one worse than the last. Mrs. Q's eyes never leave mine, cold and calculating, waiting for my answer.