I study his face, looking for some sign that this is a trick or a trap. "Just like that? No lectures about respecting authority or following the rules?"

  "Would those lectures work?" Multiplex asks, raising an eyebrow.

  "No."

  "Then what would be the point?" He shifts his weight, his posture relaxing slightly. "Belle used to say there's more than one way to be effective. I didn't always agree with her methods, but I respected her results. Maybe there's something to be said for your approach too, even if it gives me heartburn."

  "That's... surprisingly reasonable of you."

  "Don't sound so shocked. I'm capable of adapting when presented with new information." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "It's called growth."

  I can't help but snort at that. "Well, I'll think about it. The sparring, I mean."

  "Good." He nods once, decisively. "And Bloodhound? Whatever you and your team are planning next – be careful. Richardson has resources we don't fully understand yet, and now she has reason to target you specifically."

  "They've all had good reasons to target me specifically. Like, for two years now. Reasons just keep getting better," I say, automatically adding "and I'm always careful."

  Multiplex gives me a pointed look, then glances down at my ankle in its bulky boot.

  "Okay, fair point. I'll be more careful."

  "See that you are." He turns to go, then pauses. Then, he second guesses himself, and keeps going.

  I adjust my grip on the crutches and make my way to the exit, my mind churning with everything that just happened. This morning has already been more eventful than I anticipated, and I still haven't even checked what Jordan's been blowing up my phone about.

  Outside, the Sunday morning air is crisp and clear, the sky a perfect spring blue. I pull out my phone and see seven unread messages from Jordan, each marked with the little green padlock icon that means they're using the fancy new encryption.

  I tap on the most recent one as I settle onto a bench at the bus stop outside headquarters.

  The number 66 bus pulls up just as I'm checking my messages. I awkwardly maneuver myself and my crutches onboard, flash my student pass at the driver, and find a seat near the back where I can stretch my leg out into the aisle a bit.

  As the bus lurches into motion, I open the secure chat and dive into Jordan's messages. The first one came in around 6 AM, followed by a string of increasingly impatient follow-ups.

  "Where are you? Read these ASAP!" the earliest one says.

  I can almost see Jordan hunched over their laptop, hair falling into their eyes as they type furiously, that intense look of concentration they get when they're deep in a problem. The Jordan in my head glances up impatiently, waiting for my response.

  "Sorry, was getting my ankle checked," I text back. "Medical boot and crutches. Should be fine in a week or so."

  The little animation shows the message encrypting, a process that takes an annoyingly long fifteen seconds before it finally sends. Jordan's reply comes after a similar delay.

  "A week? That's not bad. Anyway, focus. I pirated some chemistry software and biomed software and opened some of these files up and I don't understand a god damn thing. I think we're gonna need to give this to someone smarter."

  Imaginary Jordan runs a hand through their hair, frustrated. The real Jordan is probably doing the exact same thing right now.

  "Someone smarter than YOU? Now I'm worried," I reply.

  "Ha ha. Yes, someone smarter than me IN CHEMISTRY. I'm great at lots of things but organic chemistry isn't one of them."

  "Like what? What are we looking at exactly?" I ask.

  The bus hits a pothole and I wince as the jolt travels up my leg. I glance out the window to check where we are – still about fifteen minutes from my stop.

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

  "Chemical formulas. Molecular structures. Lab reports with test subjects just identified by numbers. Lots of medical jargon about 'metabolic response rates' and 'neural pathway stimulation.' Nothing explicitly says what they're making, but it's definitely pharmaceutical research. And most of the files are locked behind serious encryption – I'm talking government-grade RSA keys. Can't crack those without either a supercomputer or a technopath."

  "Could be the stuff in those black autoinjectors?" I suggest. "I don't know what RSA keys are."

  The Jordan in my mind shrugs, leaning back in an imaginary chair. "Don't worry about it. Maybe? Could just as easily be heart medication or acne cream from the documentation I can access. Everything's written in that dry, technical language scientists use. No handy labels saying 'secret illegal super-drug' unfortunately."

  "So what do we do with this? Davis?" I text back.

  "Maybe. Or we could try Amelia. She's pre-med, knows more biochem than any of us."

  "Pre-med doesn't mean she understands, like, real life mega chemistry," I point out.

  The imaginary Jordan in my head leans forward, expression serious now. "Fair point. Plus, if this is as dangerous as I think it might be, maybe we shouldn't drag her into it."

  "What about Sylvia? You just saw her, right?" Jordan suggests after a moment.

  "She's a nurse. Same thing with Amelia. I don't think being a doctor automatically means you understand medical chemistry." I reply.

  "Hmm. True. Wait, what about your grandfather? Doesn't he have like engineering friends or something? Might know someone in chemistry?"

  I actually laugh out loud at this suggestion. "You want me to give illegal drug formulas we stole from a criminal organization to my 70-something grandfather?"

  "...when you put it that way, maybe not," Jordan concedes.

  I snort loud enough that the old lady across the aisle gives me a look.

  "Let me think about it. This isn't a decision we should rush. In the meantime, keep the files secure," I tell them.

  "Obviously. Oh, and one more thing - think we should tell the others about this? Blink, Maggie, etc.?"

  "Not yet. Let's figure out what we're dealing with first. More eyes means more risk, just because Mr. ESP is... around. Annoying."

  "Agreed. How was Sylvia, by the way? And how'd you end up talking to Multiplex? That must have been weird."

  The bus slows for my stop, and I struggle to gather my crutches while keeping my phone in hand.

  "It was... educational. I'll fill you in later. Gotta go, at my stop," I type quickly.

  "K. Need anything before I head to campus tomorrow?" Jordan asks.

  "I'm good. Parents seem chill. Think they're just happy I'm grounded and can't go anywhere."

  "Silver linings. Later."

  I shove my phone in my pocket and make the awkward descent from the bus to the sidewalk, nodding thanks to the driver who waits patiently for me to get clear before pulling away.

  The walk home from the bus stop takes twice as long as usual with the crutches, but the boot makes it manageable. By the time I reach my front door, I'm sweating slightly despite the cool air.

  My mom opens the door before I can even get my key out. "There you are! How's the ankle?"

  "Much better," I say, maneuvering past her into the house. "Got a boot and some crutches. Should be healed in a week or so."

  Dad looks up from his newspaper at the kitchen table. "What did the doctor say?"

  "Multiple fractures, some ligament damage. Nothing too serious." I ease myself onto the couch, propping my foot up on the coffee table. "They said to stay off it as much as possible."

  "That's the plan," Mom says firmly. "You're not going anywhere anyway, remember? Grounded."

  "I remember," I sigh, though honestly, after everything that's happened in the last 24 hours, staying home doesn't sound half bad.

  Dad folds his newspaper and sets it aside. "We were thinking of ordering in for lunch. Any preferences?"

  "Pizza?" I suggest hopefully.

  "Pizza it is," he agrees, reaching for his phone. "The usual?"

  I nod, suddenly aware of how hungry I am. I skipped breakfast in my rush to get to the DVD headquarters without my parents noticing.

  Mom sits down next to me, her expression softening. "You know, it's been a while since we've had a family movie night. Want to pick something for after lunch?"

  I blink, surprised by the suggestion. "Uh, sure. That sounds... nice."

  And the weird thing is, it does sound nice. No warehouses exploding, no supervillains to track, no life-or-death situations to navigate. Just pizza and a movie with my parents on a Sunday afternoon. I can't remember the last time my life felt this normal. It's almost disconcerting, like I've stepped into some parallel universe where I'm just a regular teenager with a sprained ankle instead of a vigilante with an ever-growing list of enemies.

  Dad orders the pizza while Mom starts scrolling through our streaming options. I lean back against the cushions, feeling the tension slowly drain from my shoulders.

  Whatever's in those files Jordan found, whatever Richardson is planning, whatever Multiplex meant about Pittsburgh – it can all wait for a few hours. Right now, I'm just going to be Sam Small, grounded teenager with a busted ankle and a sudden craving for pepperoni pizza. Later that evening, after the movie and dinner and a surprisingly pleasant afternoon with my parents, I retreat to my room. Kate still isn't back – probably out as Soot, though we're all maintaining the fiction that she's at a study group.

  I close the door and drop to the floor, balancing on my good leg. The boot is clunky but provides enough support that I can manage a set of push-ups without jostling my ankle too much. Physical activity helps clear my head, and after a day of sitting around, I need it. As I lower myself to the floor and push back up, I try to process everything – Multiplex's unexpected offer, Jordan's discovery, the strange calm of a normal Sunday with my family.

  Twenty push-ups in, I realize I'm smiling. Not because anything is particularly funny, but because for the first time in months, I feel like I might actually have a path forward. Not a clear one, certainly not an easy one, but a path nonetheless. I finish my set, roll onto my back, and stare up at the ceiling, listening to the quiet sounds of the house settling around me.