Akilah leads us through the reception area, past the confused-looking receptionist, and into a narrow hallway lined with filing cabinets. My first impression is that this place looks way more like an actual business than I expected. There's no superhero memorabilia, no fancy tech on display, not even a hint that some people who work here used to wear costumes and fight crime. It's just... an office. A slightly shabby, clearly underfunded office with water stains on the ceiling tiles and a carpet that's seen better decades.

  "We're in the back room," Akilah says, gesturing for us to follow. "Devonte's got everything set up."

  Mom stays close behind me, her hand occasionally brushing my shoulder like she's reminding herself I'm still there. I can feel her taking everything in – the certificates on the walls (all very official-looking), the neat organization of the files, the complete normalcy of it all. I think she's relieved. This looks like exactly what she wanted: a legitimate business run by professionals, not a secret vigilante lair.

  The back room turns out to be larger than I expected, with four desks arranged in a loose square. Three of the walls are covered in corkboards pinned with documents, photos, and maps connected by colored strings – basically another conspiracy board, but neater and more organized than Jordan's chaotic version. The fourth wall has a whiteboard covered in what looks like financial data and company names, many of which I recognize from our own research into the Kingdom's shell companies.

  Devonte is hunched over a computer in the corner, headphones on, fingers flying across the keyboard. He doesn't notice us at first, too absorbed in whatever he's doing. He's grown his hair out since I last saw him, the tight curls now forming a very small afro, and he's traded his Young Defenders-issued gear for a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows. It's weird seeing him in civilian clothes. Especially in button downs.

  "Devonte," Akilah says, tapping him on the shoulder. "They're here."

  He jumps slightly, turning around and pulling off his headphones. When he sees me, his serious expression breaks into a wide grin. "Well, if it isn't Shark Girl herself!" He stands up, arms spread wide. "Come here, you troublemaking lunatic."

  I can't help but smile as I step into his hug. It's been a while since I've seen him in person, and I hadn't realized how much I missed him until right now.

  "How's the ear?" I ask as we separate, nodding toward the small device visible behind his right ear. The implant helps, but I know it's not the same as having his natural hearing.

  He taps it lightly, grimacing. "Still deaf. Sound still doesn't... sound right, but I'm getting used to it. It has some new features now so I feel a little cyborgesque," He grins again, but there's a tightness around his eyes that wasn't there before. "How's the ankle? Jordan told us Patriot did a number on you."

  "You've already been in touch?" I ask, mildly surprised.

  He looks at me like I'm the stupid one. "Yes?"

  "Anyway, it's mostly healed," I say, flexing my foot to demonstrate. "Still a little tender if I twist it wrong, but the boot's off, so that's something."

  "You kids and your regeneration," he says with exaggerated envy. "Must be nice."

  "Still hurts, dickhead," I mumble. Mom nudges me on the side for the cuss word.

  "Yeah, yeah, I know." Devonte waves a hand dismissively before turning his attention to Mom. "Mrs. Small, right? I'm Devonte Harris. Former Young Defender, current office gremlin, future greatest detective in Philadelphia. Nice to meet you properly."

  Mom looks a little taken aback by his casual demeanor, but she recovers quickly, extending her hand. "Rachel Small. I've heard a lot about you from Sam."

  "All terrible things, I hope," he says with a wink, shaking her hand.

  "Actually, she speaks very highly of you," Mom replies, and I feel my cheeks warm slightly. I didn't realize she'd been paying that much attention to my superhero stories.

  "That's disappointing. I'll have to work harder," Devonte gestures to the chairs set up around a small conference table in the center of the room. "Have a seat. Akilah's got the good manners in this operation, so she'll probably offer you coffee or something."

  "I was about to before you decided to be a trash can," Akilah says dryly. "Mrs. Small, would you like coffee, tea, or water? I believe we've got some snacks somewhere, but I make no guarantees about their age or edibility."

  "Water would be fine, thank you," Mom says, settling into one of the chairs.

  I remain standing, too keyed up to sit. Instead, I drift toward the nearest corkboard, studying the information pinned there. It's a complex web of companies, names, and locations, some familiar, others new to me. In the center is a logo I recognize – a stylized tree that appears on Kingdom shell company documents. They're mapping the same network we've been trying to track.

  "Pretty impressive, huh?" Devonte says, coming up beside me. "Months of work right there. Every time we uncover one layer, we find three more hiding underneath. It's like the world's most annoying Russian nesting doll."

  "We have something similar at our headquarters," I say, noting a connection they've made that we haven't. "Though ours isn't as... comprehensive."

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "That's what happens when you've got professionals on the job," he says with mock smugness.

  I turn back to face Akilah, who's returned with a glass of water for Mom. Their dynamic is immediately apparent – Devonte the irreverent jokester, Akilah the composed professional. It's the same as it was on the team, but somehow more pronounced now. Akilah especially seems to have fully embraced her new identity, from her crisp button-down shirt to her carefully styled hair. She looks older, more serious, even though she's only like 22. Her hair has been braided into neat little... braids, and then those braids bunched together in a high, loose ponytail.

  "So," Akilah says, sitting down across from Mom, "Sam mentioned you have data from a Kingdom facility that you need help analyzing."

  "Yeah," I confirm, finally taking a seat. "Jordan should be joining us remotely any minute. They've got all the technical details."

  "How is Jordan?" Akilah asks, her tone carefully neutral.

  "Good. Stressed about MIT, but good," I say. "They'll be moving there in a few weeks."

  "MIT?" Devonte looks impressed despite himself. "Damn. Always knew they were smart, but that's next level."

  My phone buzzes – speak of the devil. It's a text from Jordan: "Ready when you are. Send video link."

  I pull up the secure video chat app we've been using and send the invitation. A moment later, Jordan's face appears on my screen, looking slightly grainy but clear enough. Something something, end to end encryption ruins the picture quality. Okay, man, sure. I prop the phone up against a water bottle on the table so everyone can see them.

  "Hey," Jordan says, giving a small wave. "Akilah, Devonte. It's been a while."

  "Williams," Akilah acknowledges with a slight nod. "Congratulations on MIT."

  "Thanks," Jordan replies, equally formal. Then, to Devonte: "Nice haircut. Very 70s detective show."

  Devonte runs a hand over his afro, grinning. "I'm bringing it back. Ladies love the disco detective look."

  "Is that why you're perpetually single?" Akilah asks innocently.

  "Ouch," Devonte clutches his chest in mock hurt. "And in front of company too."

  I can't help but smile at the familiar banter. For all their differences, the Young Defenders were a team – sometimes dysfunctional, often chaotic, but a team nonetheless. Seeing them interact again, even in this new context, makes me remember strategy sessions and post-mission debriefs, the many, many rescued escaped cats, and the occasional fistfight with a random purse snatcher or Z-list supervillain. Of which there were many.

  Mom watches the exchange with a slightly bemused expression, clearly trying to reconcile these seemingly normal young adults with the costumed heroes I've described in my stories. I wonder what she expected – something more dramatic, perhaps, or more overtly "super." Instead, she's getting an office worker in professional attire and a computer guy with a snarky attitude.

  "So," Devonte says, clapping his hands together. "I hear you've got some encrypted Kingdom data that's giving Jordan fits. Let's see what we're working with."

  Jordan launches into an explanation of what we found at the warehouse, how they've been trying to crack the encryption, and the fragments of information they've been able to access. As they talk, Devonte wheels his chair over to the table, his expression growing increasingly serious. Akilah takes notes on a small pad, occasionally asking clarifying questions about file formats and security protocols.

  I tune out some of the technical details, my attention drifting back to the conspiracy board. There's something familiar about one of the company names – Orpheus Holdings. I've seen it before, but I can't quite place where. Maybe in the files Belle left me? Or something Jordan uncovered during our research? It niggles at the back of my mind, an itch I can't quite scratch.

  "...and that's pretty much where I'm stuck," Jordan concludes. "I've tried every decryption method I know, but this is military-grade protection. It would take years to brute force it, and I don't have the expertise for anything more sophisticated."

  Devonte leans back in his chair, pursing his lips. "Yeah, that tracks. You're dealing with AES-256 encryption at minimum, probably with some custom modifications. Not something you can crack with consumer-grade tools and determination, no matter how much you'd like to."

  "What's AES-256?" I ask, rejoining the conversation.

  "Advanced Encryption Standard," Devonte explains, his face scrunching up like he's trying to remember something. "It's one of the most secure encryption protocols out there. Basically, imagine a lock that has 2 to the power of 256 possible combinations. A padlock with 256 spinners." He pauses, seeing my blank look. "That's a number with 78 digits. For comparison, the number of atoms in the observable universe is estimated to have about 80 digits. So yeah, not something you're going to guess your way through."

  "So it's impossible?" Mom asks, her hope that we might be giving up on this whole investigation barely concealed.

  "Nothing's impossible," Devonte says, unconsciously echoing Jordan's words from yesterday. "Just extremely difficult without the right resources. Which, unfortunately, we don't have at our disposal."

  "We can't just..." I make a vague hacking motion with my hands. "You know, like in the movies? Hack the mainframe or whatever?"

  Devonte snorts. "Yeah, sure, let me just type really fast while dramatic music plays. That'll definitely work."

  Akilah gives him a look, then turns to me. "What Devonte is trying to say, in his charmingly abrasive way, is that modern encryption doesn't work like that. It's mathematically designed to be unbreakable without the correct key."

  "So we're totally screwed?" I ask, disappointment settling in my stomach like a lead weight. Three weeks of effort, a warehouse explosion, and we've got nothing to show for it.

  "I didn't say that," Devonte clarifies. "Firstly - you still have the other data, which isn't useless. Secondly, I said we can't break the encryption with what we have. But there are other approaches."

  "Like what?" Jordan asks through the phone, leaning forward with interest.

  "First," Devonte says, "we'd need a copy of all the data you've recovered. Even the encrypted stuff. Sometimes there are patterns or vulnerabilities that aren't obvious at first glance."

  "I've got everything on these," Jordan says, holding up a small external hard drive to the camera. "I can upload it to the secure server I set up, if you've got something similar."

  "We do," Akilah confirms. "I'll send you the connection details after this meeting."

  "Second," Devonte continues, "we might need to look into finding someone with more... specialized capabilities. A technopath, maybe."

  "A what now?" I ask.

  "Technometrist," Akilah corrects. "Or a technolect. Technopathy is more about acquiring sensory data, while technometry is about acquiring information."

  "I am going to hit you with a car," Devonte says as straight-facedly as possible. "Stop talking to Dr. Harris, he's rotting your brain with his taxonomy bullshit."

  Akilah ignores him. "The point is, there are people with powers specifically suited to this kind of challenge. They're rare, but they exist. And we might have some contacts who could help. But we'll need to find someone, likely get the permission of the federal government, and then ship it out. And then get the data back. It'll take a while, but this isn't nothing."