I hit the metal with a noise that should be illegal, my spine compressing like an accordion. The dumpster rocks backward, straining against its rusty wheels, then settles with an echoing clang that sends nearby pigeons exploding into the night sky.

  My brain's still piecing together what just happened - one second I'm walking, the next I'm intimately acquainted with Philadelphia's waste management infrastructure. Did I just get hit by a car? A metahuman? The hand of G-d?

  "Don't worry, love. Backup's here," says a voice, smooth as butter and twice as greasy.

  I blink stars from my vision and focus on the figure standing over me - a man in his late twenties, early thirties, lean and wiry in a red track jacket with a matching beret perched at a precise angle. Yellow-tinted glasses reflect the streetlights. He's bouncing on the balls of his feet like a welterweight who's had too much caffeine, never quite settling in one spot.

  Rush Order. The one who was arguing with Marathon at the Sunoco. The pickup.

  "What the hell?" I manage, pushing myself up from the dumpster. My back protests with a series of pops that sound like bubble wrap being massacred.

  "Sorry about the dramatics," he says, not sounding sorry at all. "Just wanted to get your attention." He makes a sweeping gesture toward the mouth of the alley. "Shall we? Better lighting out there."

  My instincts scream trap, but there's something in his posture - the looseness of his shoulders, the casual way he's giving me space - that suggests he's not looking for an ambush. He wants a show. I shoot him an "are you serious?" sort of look, and then remember I'm wearing a helmet. "Are you serious?"

  "As serious as a cancer diagnosis, baby, and twice as lethal. Come on. Alleyway fights are so cliche," he drawls.

  "The diagnosis isn't what kills you," I shoot back, and he just grins.

  I step forward cautiously, every muscle tensed for another impact. But he just backs up, maintaining distance, that bounce never leaving his step. It's like watching someone who can't decide if they're a boxer or a ballet dancer.

  "After you," he says with an exaggerated bow.

  I move past him toward the street, where South Street's chaos has taken on a new dimension.

  "You're Rush Order," I say, keeping my voice level despite the adrenaline now flooding my system. "Rogue Wave's distribution specialist."

  He grins, taking a mocking bow. "My reputation precedes me! And you're the Big Bad Wolf of Tacony." He taps his chin thoughtfully. "Though last time I saw you, your helmet wasn't on. Face shots okay?"

  "Elias," I say, ignoring his question. "Where is he?"

  Rush Order laughs, a sharp bark that cuts through the ambient noise. "Do you think we'd just let some cape capture our new mad scientist his first day on the job?" He shakes his head like I've disappointed him. "Amateur hour."

  My fists clench at my sides. "People are getting hurt because of your little scavenger hunt. They're dying."

  "People die every day," he says with a shrug. "At least we're giving them a choice in how they live first."

  The crowd has noticed us - or more accurately, they've noticed Rush Order. Some people are backing away, others pulling out phones. A drone buzzes overhead, its camera eye fixed on us. Cars slow, drivers rubbernecking. In the distance distance, I see a riot cop or two.

  Great. An audience.

  "This isn't about choice," I spit. "This is about chaos. You're using people as lab rats."

  "Semantics," he dismisses with a wave. "Speaking of which, do you know the difference between criminals and supervillains?"

  The question catches me off-guard, my brain auto-piloting to the textbook definition. "Having a pseudonym and using superpowers in the commission of a crime?"

  Rush Order blinks, genuinely caught off-guard by my literal answer. He recovers quickly, flashing that too-wide grin. "Style!"

  And then he's moving, a blur of red as his fist connects with my jaw before I even register he's thrown a punch. My head snaps back, teeth clacking together despite the helmet's padding. The impact reverberates through my skull, setting off fireworks behind my eyes.

  Keep your guard up. Chin tucked. Weight on the balls of your feet. Multiplex's voice in my head, calm and instructional even as I stagger back.

  Rush Order hasn't moved from his spot – or rather, he's already back in the same position, bouncing lightly as if nothing happened. "Too slow, pup. Thought you'd at least see that coming."

  The crowd around us is growing, forming a loose circle. Phones up, recording everything. Some people are even waving cars away from the intersection, clearing space. Like they're expecting a show.

  I shake my head, trying to clear it. He's fast - faster than anyone I've fought before. Not teleporting, not disappearing, just... accelerating. One second he's five feet away, the next he's in my face, then back again. Like someone's editing frames out of a video.

  He's throwing from the shoulder. No hip rotation. All arm. Multiplex again, analytical even in my imagination. Speed without proper form. Relies on momentum, not technique.

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  I raise my guard, settling into a boxer's stance. Weight distributed evenly, hands up, elbows in. Basic stuff that's been drilled into me over countless training sessions. I'm watching his movements. This isn't a The Flash type situation. I can see him moving, I just... I just can't react fast enough. The nerves aren't shooting quickly enough.

  "Ooh, getting serious now?" Rush Order teases, still bouncing. "Cute."

  The crowd has grown thicker, people shouting encouragement - though I can't tell who they're rooting for. Probably doesn't matter. They just want blood. The glow of phone screens creates a technological firefly swarm around us as the sun finally finishes vanishing completely, bathing us in moonlight and streetlight.

  Rush Order doesn't telegraph his next move at all. He just... happens. One moment he's in front of me, the next his fist is buried in my stomach, forcing the air from my lungs in an undignified whoosh. I double over, gasping.

  He's overextending on the cross. No guard on the return. Multiplex's imaginary coaching continues as I struggle to breathe. Look for the pattern. Get in his wingspan.

  Pattern? What pattern?

  I straighten up just in time to catch another jab to the face. My helmet absorbs some of the impact, but it still rattles my brain. I swing back instinctively, a wide hook that meets nothing but air as Rush Order simply isn't there anymore.

  "Too predictable," he taunts from three feet away. "I thought the mighty Bloodhound would be more of a challenge."

  My temper flares. I lunge forward with a straight right, putting my weight behind it. He sidesteps effortlessly, letting my momentum carry me past him. As I turn, his elbow catches me in the back, sending me stumbling into the crowd, which parts like the Red Sea.

  Don't chase. Make him come to you. Multiplex's advice cuts through my frustration. Find your range. Establish your rhythm.

  I reset my stance, focusing on my breathing. Rush Order is playing with me, showing off for the crowd. Each strike is calculated for maximum spectacle, not efficiency. He wants to embarrass me, not beat me.

  "Getting tired already?" he calls, voice dripping with mock concern. "We've barely started!"

  The crowd roars, feeding off his energy. Someone throws a beer can that arcs over our heads, splattering foam on the pavement. The drone buzzes lower, hunting for the perfect angle.

  "Why Jump?" I ask, stalling for time, trying to study his movements. "Why not just sell normal drugs? Less heat."

  Rush Order laughs. "Normal drugs can't change a nation," He zips in close, too fast to track, and flicks the side of my helmet - a deliberate miss, before a hook catches the snout of my helmet, driving the polymer into my cheek.

  I swipe at him, catching nothing but air again. Frustration builds in my chest, a tight knot that threatens to overwhelm my training. Don't let him bait you. Stay disciplined.

  "What's the matter, puppy? Can't keep up?" Rush Order taunts, circling me. Not just walking in a circle, but twirling, bouncing around, pirouetting. "You kids are all the same. Running around in costumes, thinking you're making a difference."

  He materializes in front of me, face uncomfortably close to mine. "Spoiler alert: you're not."

  I headbutt him.

  It's not elegant. It's not strategic. It connects with his nose with a satisfying crunch.

  Rush Order reels back, hands flying to his face. Blood spurts between his fingers. "Fuck me! I think you broke it, Christ" he sounds more surprised than angry.

  I glance around, trying to see if Elias stuck around in the chaos. But, no. He's gone. Fuck! Now I'm going to need to track him all over again. If my parents don't kill me first.

  "Too predictable?" I mock, settling back into my stance.

  The crowd goes wild, someone letting out a wolf whistle that cuts through the general commotion. Rush Order wipes blood from his face, staring at the orange smear on his glove like he can't believe it's real. The moment stretches, blood rushing in my ears, my heart pounding against my ribs.

  I can see him.

  Then he grins, teeth stained Fanta yellow. "Now we're talking."

  What happens next isn't so much a punch as a meteorite impact. One frame he's ten feet away, the next his fist connects with my sternum with enough force to launch me backward. I hit the ground, sliding on my back across rough asphalt that tears at my costume.

  Roll with it. Absorb the impact. Get back up. Multiplex's instructions are automatic now, ingrained through countless training sessions. I kip up to my feet, ignoring the protest from my abused muscles.

  Rush Order is watching me with new interest, the blood from his nose now a deliberate war paint that he's smeared across one cheek. "Got some tricks after all, huh? Good. I was worried this would be boring."

  I don't respond, focusing instead on analyzing what I just witnessed. Zero to sixty in a heartbeat, then back to zero just as quickly. No build-up, no wind-down. Just on/off, like a light switch.

  Watch his feet. Multiplex's voice again, cutting through my thoughts. Everyone telegraphs somewhere. Find his tell. You're a superhuman, aren't you? Fight like one.

  Rush Order's feet. I shift my focus downward, watching his constant bouncing. Is there a pattern there? A hesitation before he attacks? It's hard to tell with how he never stops moving, always shifting weight, always-

  There. He's planted both feet. His heartbeat quickens just once. Of course - he can't punch without his feet on the ground. I barely have time to process this observation before pain explodes across my jaw again, his right hook landing with brutal precision. But I was expecting it this time, already turning with the punch to rob it of some force.

  Good. Now counter.

  I throw a jab of my own, not expecting to hit him but establishing my range. Rush Order blinks back to his previous position, that same bouncing stance, feet constantly in motion. I keep my eyes on them, waiting.

  The plant comes again. This time I'm ready, bringing my guard up just as his fist materializes where my face was a split second before. The impact jars my forearm but doesn't break through my defense.

  Rush Order's eyebrows raise above his yellow glasses. "Oh ho?"

  "Maybe you're getting predictable," I taunt back.

  He laughs, genuine amusement in his voice. "Oh, I like you."

  The crowd has grown even larger, forming a complete circle around us now. I can hear chants starting up, some people calling for blood, others shouting encouragement. The drone has been joined by two more, forming a buzzing triangle overhead.

  The plant of his foot comes again, but this time it's a feint. I raise my guard for a punch that never comes, and instead his foot sweeps mine out from under me. I hit the ground hard, the back of my head bouncing off the asphalt despite the helmet.

  Always watch both feet, not just the lead. Multiplex sounds exasperated even in my imagination.

  Rush Order stands over me, no longer bouncing. "You know what your problem is, Bloodhound? You think small. Neighborhood-sized. You and your little friends running around putting out fires while the whole forest burns."

  I start to push myself up, but his foot presses lightly on my chest, keeping me down.

  "Stay in Tacony," he advises, almost friendly now. "Stick to what you know. The adults are reshaping the world, and you're just going to get hurt if you keep getting in the way."

  The pressure on my chest increases slightly, then vanishes as he steps back, giving me room to stand. I get to my feet slowly, wary of another attack.

  But Rush Order just adjusts his beret, straightens his jacket, and wipes the remaining blood from his nose with a theatrical flourish. "This has been fun, but I've got deliveries to make. Places to be, people to empower."

  "This isn't over," I warn him.

  "Oh, I know." His grin returns, sharp and predatory. "That's what makes it interesti--" is all he gets out before my fists collide with his jaw.