Patty's Bar squats on the corner of Wolf and 11th like a brick fortress, its windows narrow and tinted against the late afternoon sun. The neon sign in the window flickers "OPEN" in an anemic blue, but everything else about the place screams "STAY OUT" to anyone who doesn't belong. And I definitely don't belong.

  I stand across the street, watching. Three men exit, laughing about something I can't hear, their muscled shoulders brushing the doorframe as they leave. One of them wears a faded "BRADSHAW FOR PRESIDENT" hat, another has a "Back The Blue" patch on his denim jacket. The third just looks mean. This is the heart of Patriot's old territory - South Philly, where heroes tend to be conservative, white or black doesn't much matter, and nobody much cares for teenage vigilantes with liberal parents, regenerative powers, and a bone to pick.

  My heart hammers against my ribs as I cross the street. I'm not in costume - that would be suicide - but my face has been on enough news reports that anyone paying attention would recognize me. Sam Small. The kid who got the shit kicked out of her by Patriot and got it recorded on a cell phone. The troublemaker.

  I push the door open before I can talk myself out of it.

  The first assault is sensory. The smell hits me like a wall - beer and whiskey, sweat and leather, cheap cleaning products barely masking decades of spilled drinks ground into the floorboards. The jukebox blares something country and aggressive, all twanging guitars and lyrics about dirt roads and American pride. The lighting is dim enough to hide sins but bright enough to spot threats.

  The second assault is silence.

  It rolls through the room like a wave as conversations die mid-sentence. A glass clinks too loudly against a table. Someone's chair scrapes against the floor. Twenty pairs of eyes swivel toward me, and not a single one looks welcoming.

  I keep my chin up and my shoulders back, fighting the urge to hunch into myself, to look small and unthreatening. That wouldn't help here. Weakness is blood in the water.

  A man at the bar slowly sets down his beer, his knuckles whitening around the glass. The bartender's hand disappears beneath the counter, where I'd bet good money there's a shotgun mounted. A woman in the corner booth whispers something to her companion, her eyes never leaving my face.

  Alright, I thought this was not going to be like a spaghetti western but apparently I do not have that luxury. All I did was open the door, jeez.

  They know exactly who I am.

  I scan the room, cataloging threats, escape routes, potential weapons. The exits: front door behind me, likely a back door through the kitchen, maybe a fire exit near the bathrooms. The patrons: mostly men, mostly large, many with the hard eyes and confident posture of people who know how to handle themselves in a fight. No visible powers, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.

  And then I see him.

  Bulldozer. The Demolition Man. And, if a cursory glance at local forums is to be believed, the person in charge of the Pals since Patriot's... promotion?

  He sits at a round table in the back corner, a position that gives him clear sightlines to both exits. Even seated, his presence dominates the room. He's built like a brick shithouse - not sculpted like a bodybuilder but solid, rectangular, imposing. His broad shoulders stretch his plain black t-shirt, forearms like steel cables resting on the table beside a half-empty glass of what looks like bourbon. His dark skin gleams under the bar lights, his head closely cropped, his expression unreadable.

  Four men sit with him, their conversation now paused, all watching me. One nods slightly toward me, a silent question. Bulldozer doesn't respond, doesn't move, doesn't even blink. Just watches. I glance around for the other Pals. Egalitarian, mostly, but also that one detective guy that chased us and shut off our powers. Nobody.

  I force my feet to move, crossing the floor that suddenly seems to stretch for miles. Every step echoes in the unnatural quiet. Someone coughs. The jukebox transitions to another song, this one slower but no less pointed in its lyrics about outsiders and consequences.

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  I stop three feet from his table. Close enough to speak without shouting, far enough to dodge if things go sideways.

  "Mr. McNulty," I say, my voice steadier than I feel. "I need to talk to you."

  He studies me for a long moment, his dark eyes giving nothing away. Then he leans back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight.

  "Is that right?" he says finally, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the floorboards. "Seems to me you've got a funny definition of 'need,' showing up in this neighborhood uninvited."

  My palms are sweating. I resist the urge to wipe them on my jeans.

  "It's important," I say. "About Patriot. And Maya Richardson."

  Something flickers across his face, too quick to read, before his expression hardens again. He glances at the men around him, a silent communication passing between them. One by one, they stand, collecting their drinks, and disperse to other tables. Not far, I notice. Just far enough to give the illusion of privacy while remaining within intervention distance.

  Bulldozer rises to his feet in one fluid motion that underestimates his size. He towers over me, at least six-foot-six and solid muscle. And I am starting to reach the point where I'm towering over some people. No wasted movement, no showmanship in the way he occupies space - just the absolute certainty that it's his to command.

  "Tony," he calls to the bartender without taking his eyes off me. "Get the kid a Coke."

  He gestures to the now-empty chair across from his. "Sit."

  It's not an invitation. It's an instruction.

  I sit. The chair feels too big for me, the table between us both barrier and battlefield. Around us, conversations gradually resume, though notably quieter, with frequent glances in our direction. The background noise provides a thin veneer of privacy, but I'm under no illusion that every person in this bar isn't straining to hear what's about to be said.

  Bulldozer lowers himself back into his chair, the wood protesting under his weight. He positions himself with his back to the wall, angled to keep both exits in his peripheral vision. His massive hands rest flat on the table - a deliberate choice, I realize. He's showing me he's not reaching for a weapon, not preparing to strike. Yet the posture radiates power rather than conciliation. He doesn't need to ball his fists to remind me what his hands do (generate concussive blasts not dissimilar to Maggie's force fields).

  "You got taller," he notes, matter-of-factly.

  "I hit puberty," I crack back.

  The bartender approaches, sets a glass of Coke in front of me with more force than necessary, liquid sloshing over the rim. Then, he retreats.

  I don't touch the drink.

  "You've got thirty seconds," Bulldozer says, voice low enough that it won't carry beyond our table. "Then I decide whether you walk out that door or get thrown out."

  His shoulders roll forward slightly - not a threat, exactly, but a reminder of the physical reality between us. Even with my regeneration, there are some people who are just too physically well built. Aaron is not one of those people. Daisy is not one of those people. Maya? Unsure. But Sean, Bulldozer? He is one of those people.

  Around us, the other patrons have created a loose perimeter. They pretend to be engaged in their own conversations, their own drinks, but their positioning is too perfect to be coincidental. Three men at the bar have shifted to keep me in their line of sight. A woman by the jukebox has angled her chair. Two guys playing pool have paused their game, cues held just a little too purposefully.

  The message is clear: this is Bulldozer's domain. These are his people. I am the intruder.

  I lean forward slightly, keeping my voice steady.

  "Patriot is working with the Kingdom. I don't think he knows, and I think the stupid bill shit Richardson is pushing is part of the Kingdom's plan. So. I..."

  I stop for a second, trying to think about what, exactly, I need for him to do. Tell Patriot hey, cut it out? Go blow Maya's head off? Excuse me, propriety - go blow Richardson's head off?

  His expression doesn't change, but I catch the microscopic tightening around his eyes, the almost imperceptible shift in his breathing. He knows exactly how significant that accusation is.

  He takes a deliberate sip of his bourbon, ice clinking against glass. Sets it down with precision, not slamming.

  "That's a big claim from a little girl," he says finally. "The kind that gets people hurt."

  I don't flinch at "little girl." That's bait, and I'm not here to fight about respect. I'm here for something more important.

  "I have proof," I say.

  He raises an eyebrow, the gesture somehow more intimidating for its subtlety. "Do you now."

  It's not a question. It's a challenge.

  From across the room, one of his associates catches his eye. A slight head tilt - someone new has entered the bar. Bulldozer acknowledges with the barest nod, never taking his focus off me. The silent communication flows around us like current, reminding me that while I see only the man in front of me, I'm really facing a network, a community, a small army of loyalty.

  "Yeah," I say. "I do. And I think you're going to want to hear it, because whatever you think of me, I'm pretty sure you don't want Argus Corps working with the biggest supervillain group in the Northeast."

  He studies me for a long moment, measuring me with his dark, unreadable eyes. Then he shifts in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. He spreads his hands on the table - another territorial gesture, claiming the space between us.

  "All right, Small," he says, putting some real, deliberate emphasis on it. Like, yeah, I know your last name. What are you gonna do about it? "You've bought yourself another five minutes. Make them count."