Richardson's office occupies the southeast corner of City Hall, with windows that catch the morning sun. A power move disguised as architectural preference. Everything about the space is calculated - the modern furniture with just enough traditional touches to appeal to both demographics, the carefully chosen photographs showing Richardson with community leaders, the neat stack of policy briefings on her desk.

  She's already seated when I arrive, typing rapidly on her laptop. She doesn't look up immediately, making me wait a full thirty seconds before acknowledging my presence. Her hair makes me think of Liberty Belle's, a little bit. But she's less curly. Diane would've had almost an afro at this length, Maya just looks a bit like a bouffant.

  "Richard," she says, finally closing her laptop. "Thank you for coming early."

  "You said it was important." I remain standing, hands clasped behind my back. Parade rest. Old habits.

  Richardson gestures to the chair across from her. "Please. This won't take long."

  I sit, noting the fresh coffee service on the side table. Two cups. She was expecting me, planned for this. Very Maya of her.

  "Coffee?" she offers.

  "No, thank you."

  She pours herself a cup, the movement precise and economical. "I had a cancellation with the transit authority. Thought we could use the time to discuss the upcoming tour for the registration bill."

  So that's it. Just a schedule change. Not a reaction to McNulty or Small or any of it. I feel a twinge of something - relief? disappointment? - but push it aside. God damn that Small girl, she's got me jumping at ghosts. I feel my dear old pop hanging somewhere over my shoulder, or maybe a little version of him yelling at me in my head. So I focus my stare and drown it out.

  "We're ready," I confirm. "Itinerary's set for Harrisburg, Pittsburgh, Erie. Security protocols in place."

  "Excellent." She takes a small sip of her coffee, watching me over the rim. "The governor's office is optimistic about passage, but we need to make a strong showing. Public support is crucial."

  "Understood. Will that be all, ma'am?"

  She tilts her head slightly, studying me with her grey owl eyes. "You seem distracted this morning, Richard. Something on your mind?"

  The question hangs between us, deceptively casual, like a kicking body. My training kicks in - threat assessment, risk calculation, strategic response. If McNulty is right, if she is Kingdom, then mentioning Small could put a target on the kid's back. But if he's wrong, if this is all just conspiracy theories from a teenage vigilante...

  It's not about what I'm telling her. It's about what I'm telling myself. Which angle am I throwing? Where do I want to place my chips? Are we bunting or swinging?

  "Just thinking about the tour," I lie. "Logistics."

  Richardson sets down her cup with a soft clink. "Are you sure that's all? Because you look like a man with something to say."

  I meet her gaze, searching for... what? Some sign of duplicity? Some confirmation of McNulty's accusations? Her eyes reveal nothing but polite interest.

  "Actually," I hear myself saying, "I had an interesting conversation this morning. With McNulty."

  Something flickers across her face - so brief I almost miss it. Concern? Irritation? I just can't read her, even with my perfect eyes and perfect reaction time. I get the distinct impression I'd never beat her at a poker game without cheating.

  "Sean McNulty? From Pattinson's Pals?" She leans back slightly. "I wasn't aware you two were still in contact."

  "We go back a long way." I watch her carefully. "He had some concerns to share."

  "Oh?" Her tone remains perfectly neutral, but her fingers tap once against the desk. A tell, maybe. Or nothing.

  "About Small. Bloodhound." The name tastes sour in my mouth. "She's been spreading some rather wild accusations."

  Richardson's expression shifts to one of mild exasperation, jaw hanging open for a split second. Legitimately off-guard. That'd be hard to fake. "Are you for fucking serious?" she sputters, totally incredulous. If she's faking anything, she's doing a great job at it. "That girl again? I thought we'd settled that matter after the homecoming incident."

  "Apparently not." I lean forward slightly. "She seems to think you're connected to the Kingdom of Keys."

  I expect denial. Outrage. Defensive posturing. Instead, Richardson laughs - a genuine, full-bodied laugh that catches me off guard. That's good. Indicator that Small is wrong.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  "The Kingdom?" She shakes her head, still smiling. "Good Lord. And McNulty brought this to you with a straight face?"

  "He found some connections that concerned him." I keep my tone neutral. "Tremont and Fairfax representing both Argus Corps and Aaron McKinley. Duvall's death. Nothing that wasn't public information already."

  I mean, I didn't know about it. I especially didn't know about McKinley. I met Huang once and she seemed to not find it worth bringing up that she was also pro bono-ing a serial arsonist. Very nice.

  Richardson's amusement fades, replaced by something harder. "I see. And you thought these were worth bringing to my attention?"

  "I thought you should know what's being said." I hold her gaze. "Knowledge is tactical advantage."

  She studies me for a long moment, then sighs. "Richard, are you still bitter about getting caught beating that girl up at her school? Because that one's on you."

  The comment lands like a slap. "This isn't about that."

  "Isn't it?" She raises an eyebrow. "Because it seems like you're giving credence to conspiracy theories from a teenager with a grudge. The same teenager who humiliated you in front of her entire school."

  My jaw tightens. "I'm not giving credence to anything. I'm reporting relevant intelligence."

  "Intelligence." She repeats the word with a slight edge. "Let's examine this 'intelligence,' shall we? Tremont and Fairfax is one of the largest law firms in the Northeast. They handle thousands of cases, including pro bono work as required by their ethics committee. The fact that they represented both Argus Corps and some arsonist is coincidental at best."

  "And Duvall?"

  Her expression darkens slightly. "My opponent died of natural causes, as confirmed by the medical examiner. Suggesting otherwise is not just offensive but potentially libelous. What was it, again? An embolism? I can never remember the difference between that and an aneurysm. He was an old, unhealthy piece of ex-trailer trash who gargled Big Macs and smoked fancy cigars like it was going out of style. You've probably read into the reports by now. It was just a matter of if his pulmonary system or his cardiovascular system gave out first."

  Each explanation is perfectly reasonable, perfectly logical, in sequence. I keep the weather tidbit tucked away for later.

  "So Small is simply making all this up?" I ask.

  "Small is a troubled teenager playing at being a hero," Richardson says firmly. "She's created an elaborate conspiracy theory to justify her illegal vigilante activities. And frankly, I'm surprised you're entertaining any of it."

  I shift in my seat, uncomfortable under her scrutiny. "Not entertaining it. As I said, I thought you should be aware."

  "Well, I appreciate the heads-up." She leans forward, her tone softening. "Richard, I chose you to lead Argus Corps because you understand what's at stake here. The registration bill isn't just about keeping kids safe - though God knows that's important enough. It's about creating a framework for responsible superhuman governance. It's about accountability."

  "I know."

  "Do you?" Her eyes lock with mine. "Because getting distracted by baseless accusations from some teenager doesn't serve our mission. It doesn't protect the citizens who are counting on us."

  She's right, of course. Small is a distraction, a sideshow. The real work is what we're doing with Argus Corps - bringing order to chaos, structure to a system that's been running wild for too long.

  And yet.

  "You're right," I say finally. "Small isn't worth our time."

  Richardson smiles, satisfied. "Exactly. Now, about the tour - I've been thinking we should add a community forum component. Give citizens a chance to voice their support, create some positive media coverage."

  Just like that, we're back to business. As if the conversation about Small never happened. As if the questions McNulty raised have been completely resolved.

  Have they?

  I focus on the briefing, discussing logistics and security protocols while part of my mind continues to turn over the morning's revelations. Richardson's explanations make sense. They're rational, logical. There are perfectly innocent reasons for everything McNulty and Small find suspicious.

  "...and we should highlight the reporting program," Richardson is saying. "Anonymous reporting of juvenile vigilante activity. Make it clear we're protecting communities, not punishing kids."

  "The program needs a better name," I point out. "I've heard people calling it the 'snitch program'. It sounds like something from a prison yard."

  "Community Safety Reporting Initiative," she suggests smoothly. "With rewards for actionable information. We need eyes everywhere if we're going to stamp out this problem."

  Eyes everywhere. The phrase triggers something in my memory - Small, during our warehouse confrontation, accusing me of building a surveillance state. Of creating the very system I claimed to be fighting against.

  I push the thought away. "Agreed."

  Richardson glances at her watch. "I have another meeting in five minutes. Is there anything else we need to discuss?"

  I hesitate, feeling the weight of unasked questions. But what would be the point? If she is Kingdom, she'll never admit it. If she isn't, I've already insulted her by bringing it up.

  I guess I just needed to see for myself. To look a demon in the eye while they lie to me. Or maybe they're an angel telling the truth?

  This is why they gave me a handler. Take all this intellectual heavy lifting off my shoulders - but sometimes, you have to do the heavy lifting yourself. That's ok. I've got the wrinkles in my brain for it.

  "No. I'll see to the tour preparations."

  She nods, already reaching for her laptop. "Oh, and Richard? About Small."

  I pause halfway to standing. "Yes?"

  "It might be worth having a public conversation with her about these... theories of hers." Richardson's tone is casual, but her eyes are sharp. "Nothing confrontational, of course. Just a reminder that spreading false accusations has consequences."

  "You want me to talk to her?" The suggestion surprises me.

  "I want you to set the record straight," Richardson clarifies. "Before these rumors gain traction. We both know how quickly misinformation spreads in today's climate."

  I consider this. A public confrontation with Small could go either way - it might shut her down, or it might give her accusations more oxygen. But Richardson's right about one thing - left unchecked, even the most absurd conspiracy theories can take root.

  "I'll handle it," I say finally.

  "Excellent." She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "I trust your judgment completely."

  As I leave her office, my phone buzzes with a text from Jett: "Nothing on T&F yet. Still digging."

  I pocket the phone, my mind already calculating angles for approaching Small. Public space, plenty of witnesses. No room for her to twist my words or actions. Make it clear that spreading unfounded accusations about public officials has consequences.

  It's not about revenge. Not about settling scores. It's about maintaining order, protecting the system we've built. About doing what's necessary to keep everyone safe.

  Even if that means putting a teenage vigilante in her place.