The basketball arcs through the air in a perfect parabola, hitting the backboard with a satisfying thunk before dropping through the chain net. Nothing but net would've been cooler, but I'll take it.

  "Three-pointer!" Malik shouts, pumping his fist. "That's game!"

  His little brother DeShawn groans dramatically, flopping onto the cracked asphalt of the Mayfair community court like he's been shot. "No fair! You got a superhero on your team!"

  I wipe sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand. "Pretty sure dribbling isn't a superpower, DeShawn."

  "Yeah, but you're like seven feet tall," he protests from his prone position.

  "I'm five-ten," I correct him, offering a hand to pull him up. "You're just short. And I'm not a superhero."

  He takes my hand, letting me haul him to his feet. "For now. Mom says I'm gonna hit my growth spurt any day."

  "Dream on, shrimp," Malik teases, ruffling his brother's hair. "Sam, you staying for another game?"

  I check my phone. Almost six. "Can't. Dinner's at six-thirty, and I need to shower first."

  "Tomorrow then?" DeShawn asks, already dribbling the ball between his legs with surprising skill for a ten-year-old.

  "Maybe," I hedge. "Got a lot going on."

  That's the understatement of the century. Between Bulldozer, Rogue Wave, and the Kingdom's growing reach, pickup basketball shouldn't even be on my radar. But sometimes normal feels good, you know? Just being a kid shooting hoops, not Bloodhound chasing conspiracies.

  "Later, superhero!" Malik calls as I grab my hoodie from the fence.

  I wave without turning around. The boys know I have powers – half the neighborhood does at this point – but they've been cool about it. Easy to pretend I've got just the teeth because Bloodhound wears a helmet. Plus, I have shark teeth. Bloodhound is obviously, like, a dog. Right? It's all just basketball and trash talk, like before.

  The court sits at the edge of a small playground, surrounded by oak trees that provide patchy shade in the late afternoon sun. As I head toward the exit, I notice a man leaning against the fence near the gate, watching the games. White guy, early thirties, built like a brick wall, wearing khakis and a navy polo that stretches tight across his shoulders. Hat on. Total undercover cop vibes.

  Something about his posture sets off warning bells in my head. Too rigid. Too... controlled. I slow my pace, scanning for threats, mapping escape routes. The basketball court has three exits – the main gate where he's standing, a gap in the fence on the east side that kids use as a shortcut, and the playground connection to the south. Four if you count climbing the fence, which I absolutely could do if needed.

  I alter my trajectory slightly, angling toward the playground exit instead. It's casual enough not to look deliberate, but puts more distance between us.

  The man straightens when he sees me change direction, and that's when I recognize him. No wonder I didn't before, given the lack of red white and blue. Out of costume but unmistakable now that I'm really looking. The bald buzz cut. The ramrod-straight posture. The cold eyes that tracked me across a warehouse floor last Halloween.

  Patriot.

  My heart rate kicks up, but I force myself to keep walking at the same pace. No running. Running triggers chase instincts.

  "Samantha," he calls, his voice carrying across the court. Not shouting, but pitched to reach me.

  The boys look over, curious. Great. Witnesses are good, but I don't want them involved if this goes sideways.

  "Mr. Johnson," I respond, equally loud, making sure the kids hear the normal name. See? Just a regular adult talking to me. Nothing to worry about. "What brings you to Mayfair?"

  He approaches with measured steps, each footfall precise and controlled. His hands are visible, empty. Non-threatening. But everything else about him radiates danger.

  "Just in the neighborhood," he says when he reaches me. "Thought we could have a chat."

  "About what?" I keep my stance casual, hands in my hoodie pockets, but my muscles are tensed, ready to move.

  His eyes flick to the boys, who are pretending not to watch while obviously straining to hear every word. "Maybe somewhere more private?"

  "I'm good right here," I say firmly. "Public places are great for conversations."

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

  A muscle twitches in his jaw. "Fine. I'll be direct then. I've heard you've been spreading some... concerning accusations about Councilwoman Richardson."

  So that's what this is about. I maintain eye contact, keeping my expression neutral. "Have I?"

  "Don't play games, Small," he says, voice low and dangerous. "You know exactly what I'm talking about."

  "Freedom of speech," I counter. "Last I checked, that was still a thing."

  "Freedom of speech doesn't cover defamation," he counters. "Or interfering with official government business."

  I raise my eyebrows. "Is that what I'm doing? And here I thought I was just asking questions."

  He takes a step closer, and it takes everything in me not to back up. "Questions have consequences when they undermine public trust in elected officials."

  "Wow, that's real funny, because even high school sophomores know that questioning authority is a cornerstone of democracy," I reply. "What part of the government do you work for again? I forget."

  His eyes narrow at my sarcasm. "I'm part of a duly authorized task force dedicated to public safety."

  "So you're not actually government," I clarify. "Just government-adjacent. Convenient."

  Another muscle twitch. I'm getting to him. Good. "This isn't about my status. This is about you spreading dangerous conspiracy theories about Councilwoman Richardson."

  "If they're just theories, why do they worry you so much?" I ask, genuinely curious. There's something off about his demeanor. Something uncertain beneath the authoritarian bluster. Uncertain about what, though, I can't tell. There's no way he's harboring doubts, so I have to puzzle out what he's really here for.

  He doesn't answer directly, instead switching tactics. "You're smart, Small. Too smart to waste your time on vendettas and wild speculation. Focus on school. On your future. Even do your little superhero thing if you want. Leave the public safety issues to professionals."

  "That's funny, because I'm pretty sure I was focused on my future until someone sent a dinosaur to my house," I say, keeping my voice light despite the dark subject matter. "Kinda hard to do trigonometry when your home's getting stomped on."

  His expression flickers - surprise? doubt? - before hardening again. "If you have evidence of a crime, file a police report. Otherwise, stop spreading rumors that damage reputations and undermine the system."

  "The system," I repeat slowly. "That's what this is really about, isn't it? Not Richardson. The system."

  Something shifts in his eyes. It's subtle, but it's there. A flash of something-or-other.

  "The system exists to protect people," he says, but there's a slight hesitation, almost imperceptible.

  "Does it?" I ask quietly. "All people? Or just the ones with power?"

  He stares at me for a long moment, and I get the distinct impression he's trying to read me like a poker player. Like Diane could do - something he's playing a pale imitation of. I keep my face diplomatically neutral.

  "You're playing a dangerous game," he says finally. "People get hurt when they dig into things they don't understand."

  "Is that a threat?" I keep my voice steady, ignoring the adrenaline spike.

  "It's a reality check," he corrects. "You think you've uncovered some grand conspiracy, but you're just seeing patterns that aren't there. And spreading these theories has consequences. Not just for Richardson, but for you. For your family."

  The mention of my family sends ice through my veins. "Leave my family out of this."

  "I'm not the one putting them at risk," he counters. "You are. With every accusation, every whisper campaign."

  We stare at each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Behind him, I can see Malik and DeShawn have stopped playing, watching us with open curiosity now. Other park-goers too. Good. Witnesses make even Patriot think twice about crossing certain lines.

  "You didn't just happen to be in the neighborhood," I say finally. "You tracked me here. Why? What are you really afraid of?"

  That flicker in his eyes again. Something's off. He's not telling me everything.

  "I'm concerned about public order," he says stiffly. "About misinformation spreading unchecked."

  "Bullshit," I reply bluntly. "You're worried I might be right."

  His reaction is minuscule - a slight widening of the eyes, a tiny shift in posture. Am I hitting something, or is he just nervous to be around so many witnesses after I've pantsed him twice now?

  "Be careful, Small," he says, voice low. "Very careful. The next few weeks are critical for the registration bill. Disruptions won't be tolerated. This isn't a threat, it's a warning."

  I can't tell if he's being sincere, or if him saying it's not a threat is part of the threat.

  "Noted," I say, unable to keep a hint of triumph from my voice. "Anything else?"

  He studies me for another long moment, then simply says, "Have a good evening," and turns to leave.

  I watch him walk away, his steps measured and precise as always, but somehow less confident than when he arrived. What just happened? Did I actually crack Patriot's certainty? Or am I reading too much into microscopic reactions?

  "Who was that?" Malik asks, jogging over with DeShawn in tow. "He looked mad."

  "Just some guy who doesn't like the questions I've been asking," I say vaguely.

  "Was he threatening you?" DeShawn demands, puffing out his chest. "Cause we got your back, Sam."

  I can't help but smile at the ten-year-old's bravado. "Thanks, but I'm good. He's all talk."

  "He looked scary," Malik observes, watching Patriot's retreating figure. "Like military or something."

  "Ex-military," I confirm. "And yeah, he's scary. But so am I when I need to be."

  They both grin at that, reassured. We bump fists, and I promise to try for another game tomorrow before heading home, my mind racing.

  Patriot tracked me down personally to warn me off. Why? If he were 100% confident in Richardson, he'd ignore me or shut me down through official channels. Instead, he comes in person, out of costume, to deliver what was basically a threat wrapped in concern. Or maybe concern wrapped in a threat?

  I replay our conversation as I walk, analyzing every microexpression, every word choice. He seemed... agitated. Not just angry, but unsettled. Almost scared, in only the way ex-military people get scared. Or maybe I'm just seeing what I want to see. Maybe he's just pissed that I'm causing trouble for his boss. Maybe this whole thing is simpler than I'm making it.

  I'm still puzzling over this when I round the corner to my street and spot an unfamiliar car parked in our driveway. A sleek silver Lexus that screams "expensive" and "not from this neighborhood."

  My steps slow as I approach the house. Through the front window, I can see three figures in the living room, gesturing animatedly. Mom, Dad, and... is that Grandma Camilla?