The McDonald's on South Street is practically empty, which is probably for the best, because we look like we crawled out of a horror movie. There's only a couple of employees behind the counter who look like they're one customer away from a mental breakdown, and a guy in the corner who's either meditating or sleeping upright, it's hard to tell from here. The fluorescent lights buzz and flicker above us, making the already surreal situation feel even more dreamlike.

  "Holy shit," Jordan says, unwrapping their third cheeseburger with the mechanical precision of someone who's practiced this exact motion hundreds of times. "I can't believe we actually pulled that off."

  I stretch my ankle under the table and immediately regret it. Pain shoots up my leg like I just stepped on a Lego made of fire. When Patriot grabbed me on that stairwell, I felt something crunch. It's not the worst injury I've had - not even top five, honestly - but it definitely ranks in the top ten most annoying.

  "Pulled it off is a stretch," I mutter, grabbing a handful of fries. "We nearly died. Again."

  Blink picks at her McFlurry, which looks mostly melted at this point. "How many times does this make now? I think I've lost count."

  "Tonight specifically, or overall?" Maggie asks, her face illuminated by her phone screen as she scrolls through something. "Cause overall, I'm pretty sure Sam's at like, double digits by now."

  "Hey," I protest weakly, but honestly, she's probably right. My life has become a series of near-death experiences punctuated by school and detention.

  Jordan finishes swallowing a massive bite and points at me with the remainder of their burger. "So what exactly happened in that office with the security guard? One minute I'm trying to keep the staircase from collapsing, and the next you're jumping out a window."

  "Patriot showed up. I cut the guard loose, and then I had to get out of there fast." I don't mention how Patriot crushed my ankle, or how I'm pretty sure something's broken in there. No point worrying them when we're all riding the high of not being dead. Besides, if my healing factor kicks in properly, it'll be fine by morning. Maybe. Probably. I'll deal with it later.

  Above the sound of wrapper crinkling and soda slurping, I hear the distant whump-whump-whump of helicopter blades. We all look up instinctively, even though we can't see through the ceiling.

  "News choppers," Jordan says, reaching into their backpack and pulling out their phone. "They're already on it." They tap a few times and turn the screen toward us. The local news has a live feed going - aerial shots of the warehouse engulfed in flames, emergency vehicles with lights flashing surrounding the perimeter.

  "Fuck," Blink whispers, leaning in closer to see. "That's... a lot bigger than I expected."

  "Chemical chain reactions will do that," Jordan replies, all casual, like they're talking about the weather and not about how we just blew up a warehouse full of industrial chemicals. "But hey, the Kingdom's out a few million, and we've got whatever's on these." They pat the front pocket of their backpack, where I know they've stashed at least three USB drives they yanked from various computers in the facility.

  "Should we like... worry about the neighborhood?" Blink asks, already looking like she's about to start crying.

  Jordan shakes their head. "Look, see, the warehouse is still almost entirely intact, the smoke is just pouring out the windows. Because all the chemicals were in sealed containers, we got a bunch of little, smaller explosions that popcorned like fireworks instead of one giant fireball that blew up the entire neighborhood. I'm sure the block will be a no-go zone for a while, but I think in terms of collateral damage this is probably as good of a situation as we could've hoped for."

  "What's on those drives, though?" Maggie asks, leaning forward with interest.

  Jordan shrugs, smirking. "No idea. I didn't exactly have time for a thorough review while under pressure. I just ran a script to grab whatever I could. Could be the secret formula to the black autoinjectors, could be someone's vacation photos. And you grabbed whatever USBs you could, right?"

  Maggie smiles a toothy smile and pulls out several handfuls of USB drives, gently dumping them on the table for Jordan to take and shove in their backpack.

  "So what's the plan now?" Blink asks, glancing nervously at the door like Patriot or Captain Devil might burst through at any moment. I understand the feeling - my senses keep spiking at nothing, my body still convinced we're in danger.

  Jordan crumples their wrapper and tosses it onto the tray with surprising accuracy. "We lay low. For at least a week. No patrols, no investigations, nothing that puts us on anyone's radar. We don't know if they got a good look at any of us in there, and I don't particularly want to find out by having Patriot kick down my door."

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see a notification from our HIRC chat.

  "Tasha and Amelia are clear," I tell the others, scrolling through the message. "They made it back to base without being followed. Amelia says she can help look at my ankle tomorrow if it's still bothering me."

  Jordan snorts. "Because what this team really needed was psychic powers." I stick my tongue out at them.

  "What about the USBs?" I ask, circling back to the more important issue. "Are we just gonna sit on those for a week too?"

  "We'll need to be careful with those," Jordan says, suddenly serious. "The Kingdom has people everywhere. We try to analyze those ourselves, chances are we're just going to end up with a bunch of encrypted files we can't crack. And if we give them to the wrong person..." They make a slicing motion across their throat.

  "Davis?" I suggest. Councilman Davis has been one of our few reliable allies in this mess, even if he can't always help us directly.

  Jordan makes a noncommittal noise. "Maybe. Let's see what we're dealing with first, then decide who needs to see it."

  Maggie yawns widely, not bothering to cover her mouth. There's a massive bruise forming around her left eye from where she took a hit during the confusion at the warehouse. "What time is it, anyway?"

  I check my phone. "Almost three. Shit." My parents are going to kill me if they're still up. And they might be - they've been on high alert ever since I got attacked by Aaron.

  "We should all head home," Jordan says, gathering up their trash. "Get some sleep while we can. Tomorrow's gonna be... interesting."

  "That's one word for it," Blink mutters.

  Jordan reaches into their backpack again and pulls out their wallet. They count out bills, dividing them into neat little stacks. "Forty each for taxis. Should be enough to get you home from here."

  "I could just skate," Blink says, rolling her eyes, but Jordan shakes their head.

  "Safer inside a car, I think. You could get ambushed on the streets a lot more easily."

  Blink nods at that.

  I pocket the money and stand up, immediately wincing as weight hits my bad ankle. Yep, definitely something more than a sprain in there. Blink notices and raises an eyebrow, but I just shake my head slightly. Not now.

  "Same time tomorrow?" Maggie asks as we shuffle toward the door, our bodies feeling ten years older than they did a few hours ago.

  "No," Jordan says firmly, eyes sort of swirling upwards in thought. It takes a couple of seconds for them to compile it into words. "We meet Sunday morning at the Music Hall to go over what we found and figure out next steps. Given that the Kingdom has a guy with randomly generated ESP varieties, we can't guarantee anything we say over HIRC isn't being monitored if we're not in the Faraday room, since we have to act like he might have technopathy at any moment. Normally they wouldn't have a good reason to be pointing that guy at us, but we just gave them a great one."

  Maggie nods.

  We step outside into the cool night air. South Street is never truly quiet, even at three in the morning, but it's as close as it gets. A few straggling bar-hoppers, the occasional taxi cruising for fares, street cleaners making their rounds.

  "Everyone good?" Jordan asks, looking at each of us in turn. We all nod. "Then let's split. Different directions, different taxis."

  We do a quick exchange of fist bumps.

  "Auditors adjourned," Jordan says, giving a little salute before steering Maggie toward Market Street to catch a cab there.

  I watch them go, then turn to Blink. "You okay getting home?"

  She nods. "Yeah. Just be careful with that ankle, okay? And text me when you get in."

  "Will do. And hey," I add, "nice work tonight. That slingshot shot on Patriot was a thing of beauty."

  She grins, some of the exhaustion lifting from her face. "Gotta justify my place on the team somehow."

  We part ways, and I find myself alone on the corner, trying not to put too much weight on my bad ankle while I pull up the taxi app on my phone. A few minutes later, a yellow cab pulls up to the curb.

  "Where to?" the driver asks as I slide into the back seat. He's an older Indian guy with a neatly trimmed beard and family photos taped to his dashboard.

  I give him my address in Mayfair, then lean back against the seat, letting the gentle motion of the car and the drone of late-night talk radio wash over me. The adrenaline is finally starting to fade, leaving me hollowed out and heavy-limbed.

  The city slides by outside the window, all light and shadow in a streaky, tiger-stripe mix. My ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat. I wonder what Kate will say when I get home - assuming she's there and not still out as Soot. I have so much circumstantial evidence at this point that it would be ridiculous to keep pretending I don't know, but she's made it clear she won't admit anything without irrefutable proof.

  The taxi takes the ramp onto I-95, and I watch the Center City skyline recede in the side mirror. The warehouse fire is visible even from here, a distant orange glow against the night sky with helicopters circling like moths around a flame.

  I let my eyes drift closed, just for a moment. The image of Patriot's face as he fell off the stairs sticks in my head like a jump scare - the cold fury in his eyes, the slight curl of his lip, the absolute certainty that he was right and I was wrong.

  My phone buzzes, jolting me back to alertness. It's a text from Jordan.

  `Made it to Maggie's, all clear. Check in when you're home.`

  I text back a thumbs-up emoji, then notice another notification. It's Tasha, sending me a link to a live news stream about the explosion. I don't click on it. I don't need to see what I just lived through, filtered through the lens of reporters who have no idea what really happened.

  The taxi takes the Cottman Avenue exit, heading toward Tacony. We're getting close to home, and I still have no idea what I'm going to tell my parents if they're awake. The truth? A half-truth? Some completely implausible lie about losing track of time at a friend's house?

  I've gotten better at lying over the past year and a half, but I'm still not great at it, especially when I'm this tired. And there's Liam to consider too - Kate's dad has been a gracious houseguest, but I don't know how much longer he's planning to stay, and if he'll be awake.

  My life has gotten so complicated since that day on Pop-Pop Moe's boat. Sometimes I wonder what I'd be doing right now in some alternate universe where I never fell overboard - probably sleeping peacefully in bed, worrying about normal teenage stuff like homework and prom and college applications, instead of government conspiracies and supervillain drug operations.

  The taxi turns onto my street, and I feel my muscles tense. The lights are on in the living room. Someone's still up.