I compose myself, smoothing down my hair and straightening my blazer. "I'll need details," I say, professional demeanor fighting to reassert itself. "Facility layout, security protocols, staffing patterns. And most importantly, Deathgirl's exact location within Daedalus."

  "All of that information is being compiled," Mr. Antithesis replies. He gets another stress ball from his desk, squeezing it methodically like he's milking venom from a snake. "But there's another matter we need to discuss first. The timeline."

  "Let me guess," I say. "Porcelain wants this done yesterday."

  "September 10th."

  I blink, the date registering with immediate significance. "During the state senate hearings?"

  "Precisely," Mr. Antithesis confirms. "Porcelain specifically requested that date. It appears he's aware of the parents' coalition movement and its... potential for distraction."

  What? The state senate hearings on the anti-youth-vigilantism bills, at least in Pennsylvania, are scheduled for September 8th through the 12th. That much is seared into my brain like a nice steak. Parents from across the Northeast will be flooding Harrisburg to protest, creating exactly the kind of chaos that would stretch law enforcement thin. Security details reassigned from their normal posts to handle protesters. Media attention focused on legislative buildings rather than prison facilities. And the general public too fixated on the hearings to immediately process a prison break.

  But.

  Pennsylvania makes sense - half the federal agencies up here have regional offices in Philly or Harrisburg, and they’ll be busy running security. But Vermont? Massachusetts? They don’t even have sessions scheduled. And New York’s legislature is out until January. It doesn't actually make sense. If he wanted to ensure maximum resources were away from the Adirondacks, he'd wait until January. So either he hates me, specifically, or he needs Deathgirl now. Or maybe even both.

  "Rachel Small," I say, trying to distract myself. "Her coalition is the perfect smokescreen."

  "Indeed." Mr. Antithesis says, quietly. "Interesting how a middle-class family of two uninteresting adults and their somewhat interesting child is providing such fascinating second order effects. And Porcelain seems quite well-informed on domestic politics. Maybe there's something he sees in this situation that we don't."

  Porcelain could have chosen any date. Why this one? Does he want to make sure I don't attend the hearings? That I can't champion my own ideas? Maybe it's his way of telling me to turn my profile down. Trying to swat me down like a fly. Remind me where I'm supposed to land. Condescending bitch.

  "In addition," he continues, "the extraction will occur at approximately 0200 hours, taking advantage of the guard shift change and reduced staffing. The night of the 9th, technically."

  "So we have less than two weeks to plan the most impossible break-in in history," I summarize. "Fantastic."

  "Less than ideal," he acknowledges, "but Porcelain was... insistent on the timeline."

  The stress ball in his hand finally gives way with a soft pop, rubber fragments scattering across his desk. He doesn't seem to notice, automatically sweeping it aside with an arm and retrieving another one from his endless supply. "Now, about your role specifically. Your weather manipulation abilities will be crucial for--"

  "My political position," I interrupt. "What happens to Councilwoman Richardson during all this? I can't exactly be in two places at once."

  Mr. Antithesis pauses, clearly irritated at the interruption but recognizing the validity of the question. "What do you propose?"

  "Mrs. Doppelganger," I say, watching his reaction carefully. "Have her take my place while I'm at Daedalus. Just for the day of the operation."

  His expression doesn't change, but his left eye twitches slightly. Displeasure. Or maybe just more stress leaking through his normally perfect control.

  "As it so happens, Mrs. Doppelganger is one of the operatives Porcelain specifically requested. To have a woman on the inside, as he put it," Mr. Antithesis says.

  "Between you, me, and the wall, Porcelain is a fucking idiot. Does he think D is the only person in the world with shapeshifting powers? It's a contingency the Daedalus peeps are probably well aware of. What he don't know won't hurt him," I challenge, feeling my hair frizz out with frustration.

  "I don't disagree with you," Mr. Antithesis replies, nodding.

  "Besides," I add, "I was the one who put the ordinance up in the first place. It would look mighty suspicious if I wasn't around for the hearings."

  Mr. Antithesis's fingers twitch slightly against the desk, a rare tell. He's annoyed. Not at the request itself, which is logical, but at the situation that necessitates it. At the fact that my political ambitions, which he initially viewed with skepticism, have created this vulnerability.

  "Very well," he says after a moment. "I'll speak with Mr. ESP about temporarily reassigning Mrs. Doppelganger to Philadelphia."

  Relief washes through me, though I'm careful not to show it. "Thank you," I say, simply and professionally. "She doesn't need to make any political decisions - just be visibly at work, attending meetings, signing the occasional document. I'll brief my staff to expect minimal engagement."

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  "I'll communicate those parameters," he agrees. "Anything else?"

  One complication at a time. "Just the operational details," I say. "When can I expect those?"

  "Within 48 hours," he replies. "We're compiling everything now - satellite imagery, building schematics, guard rotations, internal security measures. Red Calf is providing additional intelligence on Daedalus's power countermeasure systems and prisoner containment protocols. I've allowed him to get into contact with Mr. ESP - they'll be in constant communication for as much time as ESP can spare it."

  "And what about Deathgirl specifically? Where is she housed within the facility? You said that information was being compiled."

  "Excellent question," he replies. His phone buzzes. He takes a moment to check it. "North Wing, Level 3, Cell Block D. In the isolation ward, specifically," Mr. Antithesis answers coolly.

  Damn. Solitary confinement for a 13 year old? "Good. The isolation will be helpful. You know, theoretically, you could just airlift Mr. Mudslide in and have him melt through the walls. That's sort of his bread and butter. Don't need anything crazy."

  Mr. Antithesis's expression shifts slightly, almost imperceptibly, towards what I've come to learn is 'happiness', or maybe just 'relief'. "According to our intelligence, she's been responding well to therapy. The Daedalus psychiatric team has been working with her extensively. Her parents have been permitted limited visitation rights."

  "Therapy," I repeat, the word feeling strange in my mouth. "They're trying to rehabilitate her."

  "Apparently so." His tone remains neutral, but something in his eyes suggests... what? Doubt? Skepticism? "Deathgirl is still legally a minor. The juvenile justice protocols apply, even within Daedalus."

  "If she's in therapy," I say slowly, "she might not want to leave. She might resist extraction."

  "A complication we'll need to account for," Mr. Antithesis agrees. "Mrs. Heartbeat and Mrs. Synapse will also be present as part of the extraction team."

  The implications of what we're discussing hit me suddenly. We're not just breaking someone out of prison - we're potentially kidnapping a child who might finally be getting the help she needs, to return her to people who see her only as a weapon. The moral bankruptcy of it... I shove it down like trash in the compactor. Sometimes you don't get clean choices. Sometimes all you get is the least fucked-up option in a lineup of nightmares.

  "One more thing," I say, tapping my fingernails against the armrest. "What about the other prisoners?"

  Mr. Antithesis raises an eyebrow slightly. "What about them?"

  "Daedalus houses hundreds of the most dangerous supervillains in the country. What happens if, in the process of extracting Deathgirl, others escape? Are we supposed to do this clean, or does Porcelain expect a mess?"

  For the first time since I entered his devastated office, something like genuine emotion crosses Mr. Antithesis's face. Something a bit like disgust.

  "That would be... unfortunate," he says carefully. "But Porcelain didn't specify quietness. The presence of Tarbaby, in particular, indicates that he fully expects to go loud."

  Jesus fuck. He's already thinking about it.

  "You're not seriously considering--"

  "I'm considering all variables," he cuts me off. "As should you, Mrs. Zenith. This operation carries significant risk, regardless of how precisely we execute it. We must be prepared for all potential outcomes."

  "Of course," I say, keeping my voice steady. "All variables."

  "You understand what's at stake here," he says finally, not quite a question.

  "I do," I reply. "Both personally and for the organization."

  "Good." He nods once, brisk and businesslike despite the destruction surrounding us. "Because failure is not an option, Mrs. Zenith. Porcelain was quite explicit about the consequences."

  "I understand," I say again, rising from my chair. "When do we begin planning in earnest?"

  "Tomorrow, 0900 hours. There's a safehouse in Midtown I'd like your presence at. Mrs. Blue Velvet will send you the details." He adjusts his cufflinks, a small gesture of normalcy amid the chaos. "Mrs. Doppelganger will be briefed separately. Mr. ESP has already agreed to the arrangement."

  That was fast. Almost suspiciously so, as if Mr. Antithesis had anticipated my request. Or perhaps he'd already been considering the same solution. Either way, I'll take the win.

  "I'll be there," I say, moving toward the door. As I reach for the handle, I pause. "Mr. Antithesis?"

  "Yes?"

  "What happened when Porcelain was here?" I ask, curiosity overriding better judgment. "I've never seen your office like this."

  For a long moment, I think he won't answer. His expression remains perfectly composed, giving nothing away. Then, almost imperceptibly, his shoulders tighten.

  "Porcelain and I had a... philosophical disagreement," he says carefully. "Regarding appropriate use of resources."

  "He threatened you," I translate.

  "He made his position clear," Mr. Antithesis corrects, "as did I. We reached an understanding."

  "An understanding that left your office in shambles."

  "No, Maya. That was all me. You know I don't handle anger well," He says, smiling.

  It's the closest thing to a personal confession I've ever heard from him. A tiny window into the man behind the immaculate suit and clinical detachment.

  "I suppose we do," I acknowledge. "See you tomorrow, sir."

  We just look at each other until it feels weird. I slip out the door, closing it quietly behind me. The reception area feels almost aggressively normal after the destruction I've just witnessed - pristine white walls, soft lighting, the faint hum of air conditioning. Like nothing unusual has happened at all.

  As I wait for the elevator, I find my mind racing through contingencies. Ways to minimize damage, protect assets, ensure that whatever happens at Daedalus doesn't blow back on the Kingdom - or on me specifically. There's no way to make this clean, no way to make it safe. The best I can do right now is survive, and hope that in a year from now there's still a city of Philadelphia to be on the council for.

  The elevator arrives with a soft chime. I step inside, press the button for the lobby, and watch the numbers count down as I descend back toward the ordinary world. Towards Hell.

  I have less than two weeks to prepare for the world's most impossible jailbreak.

  Outside, the late summer air hits me like a wall of heat. I slip on my sunglasses, checking my phone as I walk toward the waiting town car. Three missed calls from my office. Two texts from Lisa about tomorrow's committee meeting. A news alert about increased security measures for the upcoming state senate hearings.

  "Where to, Councilwoman?" my driver asks as I slide into the backseat.

  "Back home. I need a pretzel like I need a lobotomy, and they can't make 'em right here," I reply, squeezing as much of my hair as I can grab into a hair tie.

  As the car pulls away from the curb, I watch the Manhattan skyline through tinted windows. Gleaming towers of glass and steel, monuments to power and ambition and money. So much like the Kingdom itself - impressive from a distance, cold and calculating up close.

  I wonder, briefly, what Mr. Antithesis is doing now. Cleaning his office, probably. Restoring order, reimposing control. Calling in specialists to repair the damage, remove every trace of his momentary lapse.

  We all have our methods.