Dinner at the Small house has become a strange performance art piece that none of us auditioned for. Dad's still in his wheelchair at the head of the table, though the doctors say he should transition to a cane in the next week or two. Mom sits across from me, methodically cutting her pot roast into precise, even pieces. Pop-Pop Moe is visiting, occupying the fourth chair with his usual quiet dignity, occasionally offering a comment about the weather or asking about school.

  On the surface, we're the picture of a normal American family. Except for the fact that Mom keeps glancing at her phone every thirty seconds, Dad has a legal pad filled with testimony notes beside his plate, and the TV in the background is reporting on another Rogue Wave-linked shooting in Kensington.

  "--authorities believe the incident may be connected to the recent Jump distribution in the area," the news anchor is saying. "Gun sales have increased by 215% since the incident with local vigilante Bloodhound and the individual that forums have dubbed 'Gun Dad'--"

  Dad winces slightly at the nickname. Mom reaches over and squeezes his hand.

  "Can we please change the channel?" I ask, pushing the pot roast around my plate. It's from one of the many frozen meals Grandma Camilla left in our freezer before returning to her own life in West Philly. The woman may be a judgmental nightmare, but she can cook.

  "It's important to stay informed," Mom says, though she doesn't object when Dad uses the remote to switch to a cooking competition.

  "So," Pop-Pop Moe says after a moment of awkward silence, "how was the first day of junior year, Sam?"

  "Fine," I shrug. "The usual."

  "Any interesting classes?"

  "Physics might be okay. The teacher seems to actually care."

  Mom perks up at this. "Mr. Santiago? I've heard good things about him from other parents."

  The conversation limps along like this for a while - stilted, overly polite, carefully avoiding the elephants in the room. No one mentions the upcoming hearings directly. No one brings up Richardson or Jump or vigilantes. We're all just... waiting.

  Dad's phone buzzes, and he checks it under the table, thinking we don't notice. Mom pretends not to see, but I catch the slight tightening around her eyes.

  "Pass the salt, please," Pop-Pop Moe says.

  After the dishes are cleared, Dad returns to his laptop in the living room, working on his testimony for the hearings. Mom disappears into the home office, where I can hear her murmuring into her phone - coalition business, no doubt. Pop-Pop Moe settles into the armchair with a book about the history of infrastructure development, occasionally glancing at me with a knowing expression that makes me wonder exactly how much he's figured out.

  I retreat to my room, ostensibly to finish unpacking my school supplies, but really to prepare for tonight's patrol. The compromise with my parents allows for limited, non-confrontational vigilante activities as long as I:

  

  
1. Tell them where I'm going


  
2. Keep the tracker active


  
3. Don't engage directly with criminals


  
4. Stay within predetermined boundaries


  
5. Come home by midnight


  

  It's better than nothing, but it still feels like being a dog on one of those invisible fence systems. Every time I approach the boundary, I feel the phantom shock of potential consequences.

  At 9:30, I head downstairs in my Bloodhound costume, the lightweight summer version Amelia designed that allows for better airflow and flexibility. It's technically still August, after all.

  "I'm heading out," I announce to the living room at large.

  Dad looks up from his laptop, his expression a complex mix of concern, resignation, and something like pride. "Approved route only," he says. "And be careful."

  "Always am," I reply, which we both know is a lie.

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  "Check in with Tasha every thirty minutes," Mom calls from the office doorway. "And remember--"

  "Observation only, no intervention, be back by midnight," I recite. "I know the rules."

  "And you'll follow them," she says, not a question but a statement.

  "And I'll follow them," I agree, crossing my fingers behind my back like a little kid.

  The night air is thick with humidity as I make my way across the rooftops of Tacony. My ankle twinge from the City Hall escape has mostly faded, and my ribs barely protest as I leap between buildings. Small mercies.

  "Checking in," I murmur into my comms device. "On patrol in Sector Three."

  "Copy that," Tasha's voice comes through my earpiece. "All quiet so far. Lily and Amelia are monitoring Sectors One and Four. What are you seeing?"

  "Normal Tuesday night activity," I reply, crouching on the edge of an apartment building to survey the street below. "Couple of kids hanging out at the corner store. Old guy walking his dog. Not much else."

  This pattern continues for the next hour - me reporting mundane observations, Tasha confirming receipt, occasionally sharing intelligence from other team members. It's mind-numbingly boring, but I keep reminding myself that information gathering is valuable. That's what I tell myself, at least.

  The monotony breaks when I spot a woman stumbling out of a bar on Longshore, clutching her chest. My blood sense immediately kicks in - irregular heartbeat, concerning arrhythmia. Possible heart attack. She's on her period too, which is how I can tell. Poor woman.

  "Possible medical emergency at Longshore and Tulip," I tell Tasha. "I'm going to check it out."

  "Remember the rules," she cautions.

  "This is helping, not fighting," I reply, already descending to street level.

  I approach the woman carefully, keeping my body language non-threatening. "Ma'am? Are you okay?"

  She looks up, startled to see a masked figure, but her discomfort is clearly outweighed by whatever she's feeling physically. "I... I think something's wrong with my heart," she gasps.

  "I'm going to call an ambulance," I tell her, already dialing 911 on my phone. "But first, I need you to sit down against this wall."

  While waiting for emergency services, I help her into a comfortable position, check her pulse (rapid, irregular), and keep her talking to prevent shock. Within minutes, an ambulance arrives, and I fade back into the shadows before the paramedics can ask too many questions.

  "Medical assistance rendered," I report to Tasha. "Ambulance on scene."

  "Good work," she replies. "By the way, there's a report of a mugging in progress two blocks south of you. I'm alerting the Titans."

  "Roger that," I say, already moving in that direction. "I'll observe only."

  This is the new normal - seeing crime happen and letting someone else handle it. I arrive just in time to see two men cornering a third against a brick wall, one of them holding what looks like a knife.

  My muscles tense, ready to leap into action, but I hold back, kicking myself constantly while I do so. I take a picture with my phone. Within less than a minute, Moonshot falls in at terminal velocity from the overcast sky, grabbing both of the muggers by their collars and depositing them safely on a nearby roof.

  Didn't stop the first guy from getting a good cut on the ribs, though. I'm in with first aid while Moonshot handles... the exciting part.

  The rest of the patrol follows this pattern - observe, report, occasionally render basic assistance, but never engage directly. It feels wrong, like wearing shoes on the wrong feet. Like I'm playing at being a hero without actually being one.

  At 11:45, I head home, making it through my bedroom window with ten minutes to spare before curfew. I send a final check-in to Tasha, confirming my safe return, then peel off my mask and gloves.

  My body is restless, full of unspent energy and adrenaline. I drop to the floor and start doing push-ups, counting under my breath. One, two, three...

  By the time I reach a hundred, my arms are shaking and sweat drips onto the carpet. I switch to sit-ups, then pull-ups using the bar I installed in my doorway. The physical exertion helps quiet my mind, at least temporarily.

  After a quick shower, I sit at my desk and stare at the calendar pinned to my wall. September 8th is circled in red, the date of the state senate hearings. Just thirteen days away. Less than two weeks until whatever comes next.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Lily: Spotted Kingdom suits near the marina again. Same pattern as last week. Planning recon tomorrow night?

  I type back: Will try. Depends on parental approval. Send details to Tasha.

  Another buzz, this time from Amelia: Finished repairs on your winter suit also. And your fall suit.

  I respond: Thanks for keeping me seasonal. Will pick up soon.

  From the back window in my room, I can see a police car cruising slowly down our street, headlights cutting through the darkness. It's the third time I've seen them tonight. Are they keeping an eye on "Gun Dad" - legitimate protection for a citizen who stood up to Rogue Wave? Or are they Rogue Wave contractors themselves, watching our house under the guise of official surveillance?

  There's no way to know. Not without breaking the rules and following them, which I've promised not to do.

  I lean my forehead against the cool glass, watching the patrol car disappear around the corner. Everyone's waiting - Mom with her coalition, Richardson with her legislation, the Kingdom with whatever they're planning, Rogue Wave with their anarchist vision.

  I return to my exercises, pushing my body beyond exhaustion, preparing for a fight I know is coming but can't see yet.