"What do you mean?" I ask, stalling for time while I try to think of a satisfactory answer, but he sees right through it.

  "Don't play dumb," he says, his voice low. "You waltz in here, to my neighborhood, to my people, with your evidence and your accusations and your moral certainty. But I need to know - when the shit hits the fan, are you going to stand with South Philly? Or is this just about your vendetta against Patriot and Richardson?"

  I want to fire back that of course I care about his community, about all communities. But something stops me. Maybe it's the look in his eyes - like he's seen a hundred kids like me come and go, all full of righteousness and fire until the cost became too high.

  "I," I start, then reset. "I want to do the right thing."

  "The right thing," he repeats, almost mockingly. "According to who? You? Patriot? The law?"

  "According to the truth," I say, my conviction finding its footing again. "Richardson is part of the Kingdom. She's manipulating Patriot, or maybe they're working together. That's the truth, and people should know it."

  Bulldozer nods slowly, as if I've just proven his point. "The truth." He says it like it's a naive concept. "Let me tell you something about the truth, kid. Truth is a luxury in neighborhoods like this."

  He stands up, moving to the small, grimy window that looks out onto a narrow alley behind the bar.

  "See that building across the way? Last year, it was a crack house. Ten overdoses in six months. Three deaths. The police knew. Everyone knew. But nothing happened." He turns back to me. "You know what fixed it?"

  I shake my head.

  "Me. And not the way Patriot would have done it. Not with warrants and arrests and due process. I went in there with five of my guys and we cleared it out. Made it clear what would happen if they came back." His massive hands curl into fists at the memory. "Was that the truth? Was that justice? Or was it just what the community needed?"

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat. "That's different."

  "Is it?" he challenges. "The world Richardson wants - where everything happens by the book, where there's a form to file and a rule to follow and if you don't like it then you can shove it - that world doesn't work for places like South Philly. Never has."

  "So you're saying we should just let Richardson get away with it? Let the Kingdom win because fighting them might be messy?"

  He shakes his head. "I'm saying you need to consider the cost. Not just to you. To everyone. What happens to the neighborhoods like mine when heroes are banned or regulated out of existence? What happens to the people who depend on me?"

  "They suffer," I admit. "That's why we have to stop the bill."

  "And what happens when you kick the hornets' nest? When you go public with accusations against someone as powerful as Richardson? When you pull Patriot into it? You think the Kingdom's just going to roll over?"

  "They'll retaliate," I say quietly.

  "Not against you," he says. "You can regenerate," he says, and I'm left wondering how much he knew going into this. He looks at my expression, clearly puzzled. "What, did you think I didn't know? They'll go after the people you love. The places you care about. They'll make examples. Send messages. Make people regret ever supporting you. That's why superheroes had secret identities in all the comics, and it turns out, that's even truer in the real world. No, they can't hurt you. But they can hurt your mommy, daddy, and neighbors."

  My throat tightens. "So what's the alternative? Just let them win?"

  "No," he growls, and there's a sudden fierceness in his voice that reminds me why people follow him. "But you fight smart. You pick your battles. You protect what's yours first."

  "And what's yours is South Philly," I say, trying to achieve clarity. "Not the whole city. Not some abstract principle. This neighborhood, specifically. You are not using subtext."

  He nods once, sharply. "My people. My responsibility. And if I help you, if I go against Richardson and Patriot, I'm putting them at risk. I'm pulling the rest of the Pals into it, too. Because that's what being part of something bigger than you means."

  I try to imagine what that weight feels like - to have an entire community depending on you and your organization. To know that your choices could save them or doom them. It's so much bigger than what I've been carrying.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "I get it," I say, and I mostly do. "But here's what I don't understand. If Richardson and the Kingdom get their way, if the bill passes, what happens to your people then? You won't be able to protect them anyway."

  Something shifts in his expression, a grudging acknowledgment, maybe, of a point made. A graze on his cheek. He almost winces. "It's a gamble either way."

  "So why not gamble on the truth?" I press. "On what's right?"

  He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "Because I've seen how this plays out before. The big heroes, the ones with the fancy headquarters and the government connections, they fight their battles, they make their grand stands, and then they go home to their penthouses. And the rest of us are left to deal with the fallout. You hear Captain Plasma is going on a country tour, now? You know how many cats he saved? How many drunks he dusted off while he was here?"

  I have a feeling that if I told him that Rodney kept track of every one, and humblebragged about his count whenever he could, he'd get mad. I'm not that socially inept. He's making a rhetorical point, not literally asking me how many people Captain Plasma saved.

  "I'm not Patriot," I say, trying to stay firm in the face of his ideological body blows. "I don't have a penthouse or a headquarters. I have a bedroom with posters on the wall and parents who worry about me. I'm just trying to do what's right with the powers I have."

  "And that's exactly the problem," he says, his voice softer now. "You don't know what you're getting into. You're a kid playing a grown-up game, and you don't understand the stakes."

  I bristle at that. "I understand plenty. My family's house got destroyed. My best friend got shot and thrown into the Delaware. My girlfriend broke up with me. I've been hunted, attacked, targeted. Don't tell me I don't understand stakes."

  "Personal stakes," he corrects. "Not community stakes. Not the weight of knowing that if you make the wrong move, a hundred people suffer for it. That's the Titans' job, not yours. You and your... little black ops team. You just focus on the big picture and then let every other problem trickle back down onto our heads."

  A long, uncomfortable silence passes between us.

  "So you won't help," I say, trying to keep the disappointment from my voice.

  He's quiet for another long moment, studying me. "I didn't say that."

  My heart skips. "Then you will?" G-d, I do sound like such a child.

  "I'll look into what you've told me," he says carefully. "I'll verify it myself. If - and only if - I'm convinced Richardson is Kingdom, I'll talk to Patriot."

  It's more than I expected, honestly. "Thank you."

  "Don't thank me yet," he warns. "And understand something: if I do this, I do it my way. No grandstanding. No public accusations. No dragging South Philly into a war it didn't ask for."

  "What does that mean exactly?"

  "It means if this goes south, if Richardson is as connected as you say, there will be blowback. And when that happens, you don't get to run away from it. You stand and face it. You protect the people who get caught in the crossfire. Even if it costs you. Can you do that?" he presses. "Can you live with collateral damage? With innocent people getting hurt because you decided the truth was more important than their safety?"

  I want to say yes automatically, to promise that I can handle whatever comes. But the question deserves more than a reflexive answer.

  "I don't know," I tell him, just as firmly. "I can't exactly make promises on stuff like this. Whatever happens, I've already made my decisions. It's either act with consistent values, or live as a husk. And if you're not willing to help, I'll find another way, because I'm a stubborn asshole and I'm always convinced I'm right."

  Bulldozer nods, and there's something like respect in his eyes. Definitely not for my bravery, but I think the honesty earns him points.

  "At least you're not lying to yourself," he says. "That's something."

  He moves toward the door, signaling that our meeting is over. "I'll look into Richardson. Give me a week. If what you've told me checks out, I'll talk to Patriot."

  "And if he doesn't listen?"

  Bulldozer pauses, hand on the doorknob. "Then we're all in trouble."

  As he opens the door, letting the sounds of the bar filter back in, he turns to me one last time. "You've got heart, kid. And you're not wrong about the truth mattering. But truth without wisdom is just another weapon. And truth isn't universal. Not everything is about facts, Hans Asperger. Remember that."

  I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and not really understanding whatever name he just threw at me at the end. I've gotten what I came for, sort of. Bulldozer will look into Richardson. He might even talk to Patriot. As I follow him back into the bar, I feel the eyes of his people on me again.

  Bulldozer walks me to the door, maintaining the charade of animosity for the benefit of onlookers. "Don't come back here," he says loudly. "South Philly's got enough problems without kids like you stirring up trouble."

  I nod, playing along. "Thanks for the drink," I say, gesturing to the Coke I never touched.

  He grunts in response, then leans in slightly as he opens the door. "One week," he murmurs. "And kid? Watch your back. If Richardson is what you say she is, you've already got a target on you."

  "I know," I say. "I've gotten used to it."

  As I step out into the night, back onto streets that suddenly feel more dangerous than they did an hour ago, I can't help but wonder if I've just made things better or worse. The truth matters. I still believe that. But what if Bulldozer's right? What if the truth isn't enough? What if pursuing it means putting others at risk - not just myself, but people who never asked to be part of this fight?

  For the first time since I started down this path, I wonder if I'm in over my head. Not because I'm afraid, but because I'm responsible. For whatever happens next. For whoever gets caught in the crossfire.

  I pull my phone out and text the group chat: Meeting done. Heading home.

  A response comes seconds later, from Amelia: How'd it go?

  I stare at the screen, trying to figure out how to answer. Finally, I type: Complicated. As usual.

  I tuck my phone away and start walking, aware of every shadow, every sound. One week to prepare. One week to decide if the truth is worth the cost.

  The night air is cool against my face as I make my way home, the weight of South Philly's eyes still lingering on my shoulders. Time's a wasting.