The next day, Tasha and Maggie crowd around my desk, staring at the small white motion sensor on my windowsill like it's an alien artifact. Tasha's laptop is open to a NetSphere search on "Wilson SecurHome Pro-X2" - the brand name we found on the bottom of one of the sensors when Mom was in the shower.

  "So it's connected to her phone?" Maggie asks, poking at her tablet.

  "And the house alarm system," Tasha confirms, scrolling through technical specifications. "Military-grade encryption, backup battery that lasts 72 hours if the power goes out, and..."

  "And what?" I prompt when she trails off.

  Tasha sighs, pushing her glasses up her nose. "And it's tamper-proof. Like, seriously tamper-proof. If you try to disable it, cover it, or even move it too much, it sends an alert directly to the connected phone."

  "What about jamming the signal?" I suggest.

  "Sure, if you want to trigger an immediate alarm." Tasha points to a line in the specs. "It has anti-jamming protocols. If it can't connect to the base station for more than thirty seconds, it assumes it's being jammed and triggers the alarm."

  Maggie flops back in her chair. "What kind of paranoid tech is this?"

  "The kind the government uses to protect classified sites," Tasha mutters. "Your mom didn't mess around."

  I lean back, wincing as my ribs protest the movement. "There has to be a way around it."

  "There isn't," Tasha says flatly. "I've been through the entire technical manual. These things are designed to keep people in high-security facilities from sneaking out. Short of cutting the power to the entire house and hoping the backup battery is defective - which, by the way, would also trigger an alarm - we're out of options. I mean, you could disable it, but she'd know."

  "What about--"

  "Sam." Tasha closes her laptop with a decisive click. "You cannot unfuck this motion sensor. It's not happening."

  We sit in defeated silence for a moment. Then I say, "So I'll just have to accept the consequences."

  Maggie's eyes widen. "You mean..."

  "I'll set off the alarm. Mom will know. Dad will know. I'll deal with it when I get back."

  "If they don't call the cops on you," Tasha points out. "Or Argus Corps."

  I shrug, trying to project more confidence than I feel. "They won't. They'll be pissed, but they won't sell me out."

  Tasha and Maggie exchange dubious looks. "You sure about that?" Maggie asks.

  "I'm sure," I lie. "Now let's talk about the real problem - I'm nowhere near fighting shape, and the town hall is in six days."

  "Again," Multiplex barks.

  I reset my stance on the training mat, ignoring the protest from my ribs. My breathing is heavy, sweat dripping into my eyes despite the protective headgear. Across from me, one of Multiplex's duplicates circles like a shark.

  "You're dropping your right elbow," he observes. "And you're still favoring your left side."

  "Broken ribs will do that," I mutter, earning a disapproving look.

  "Pain is information," Coach says, a phrase I've heard approximately fifty times in the last hour. "Process it, acknowledge it, work around it."

  Easy for him to say. If one duplicate gets injured, he can just dismiss it and create another. Must be nice.

  We circle each other, my muscles burning from exertion. It's only my third day back in training, and while my accelerated healing has done wonders for the worst of my injuries, I'm still nowhere near 100%. Which Coach knows perfectly well, but insists on pushing me anyway.

  "What's your objective?" he asks as we exchange light jabs, more for form than impact.

  "Survive. Escape. Minimize damage."

  "And when are you combat-ready?"

  I hesitate, which earns me a light tap on my guard. "When I can execute basic offensive and defensive maneuvers without compromising form," I recite.

  "Are you there yet?"

  Another hesitation. Another tap, this one to my ribs - gentle, but enough to make me wince. "No."

  "No," he agrees. "You're at maybe 60%. Acceptable for training, not for field work."

  Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

  If only he knew. But I just nod, continuing the drill.

  Later, as Nurse Sylvia wraps fresh bandages around my torso in the medical bay, she eyes me with suspicion. "You're pushing too hard," she says. "Those ribs need time."

  "I'm being careful," I protest.

  "No, you're not." She tightens the bandage, making me wince. "You're planning something."

  I try to keep my expression neutral. "Just trying to get back in shape."

  "Mm-hmm." She secures the bandage with practiced efficiency. "And I'm the Queen of England. Whatever it is, make sure it's worth the setback to your recovery."

  I say nothing, which is answer enough. I look her in the eye like I'm being honest, and grin.

  Amelia's workroom in the Music Hall is a riot of fabrics, tools, and half-finished projects. She sits cross-legged on the floor, my Bloodhound suit spread before her like a patient on an operating table.

  "The damage was extensive," she says, not looking up from her work. Her fingers move with practiced precision, reinforcing seams with some kind of specialized thread. "Multiple tears, blood saturation, impact damage."

  "Sorry," I offer, which earns me a dismissive wave.

  "It's what the suit is for. Better it than you." She holds up the helmet, which has been completely reconstructed. "I've reinforced the jaw section where most of the impacts occurred. Added a layer of impact gel between the outer shell and the inner lining."

  I take the helmet, surprised by its weight – heavier than before, but not significantly. "How's the visibility?"

  "Unchanged. I also added padding to the torso section." She points to the suit's midsection. "Extra protection for those ribs. You'll have slightly reduced mobility, but the tradeoff is worth it."

  I run my fingers over the reinforced sections. "This is amazing, Amelia. Thank you."

  She finally looks up, her expression serious. "It's still not enough, Sam. Not if you get in a fight with Rush Order again. Or someone above his weight class."

  "I know." I set the helmet down carefully. "But sometimes you don't get to choose your timing."

  Amelia sighs, her hands never pausing. "At least tell me you're not going alone?"

  "Lily's going to transport me," I confirm. "And the rest of you will be nearby for surveillance and backup."

  "Not ideal, but better than nothing." She looks up again, her expression softening slightly. "Just... try not to undo all my hard work, okay?"

  "I'll do my best," I promise, which isn't quite the same as agreeing.

  At home, Grandma Camilla's presence has transformed our usual dynamic into something brittle and performative. She's taken over the kitchen, filling it with aromas of childhood comfort foods - hamin, stuffed eggplant, "shakshuka" - that I've never actually eaten in my life, while engaging in what can only be described as passive-aggressive kitchen diplomacy with Mom.

  "The soup needs more salt," Camilla observes, tasting from the wooden spoon.

  "It's perfect as it is, Mom," Rachel replies, her smile not quite reaching her eyes.

  "If you like bland food, I suppose it is."

  I slip past them to the refrigerator, grabbing a bottle of water. Dad's set up in the living room, his injured leg propped on a pillow, pretending to work on his laptop while actually watching the kitchen standoff with barely concealed amusement.

  "How's the leg?" I ask, dropping onto the couch beside him.

  "Better every day," he says, though the pain lines around his eyes suggest otherwise. "How are the ribs?"

  "Healing." I take a sip of water, watching Mom and Grandma Camilla engage in silent warfare over soup seasoning. "They're really going at it today."

  Dad chuckles softly. "They've been like this since before you were born. Two strong-willed women with very different approaches to... well, everything."

  "Yeah, but they're on the same side here, right? With the whole anti-Richardson thing?"

  "Being on the same side doesn't mean agreeing on methods." He gives me a meaningful look. "Something you might want to remember."

  I wonder if he suspects what I'm planning. Hard to tell with Dad - he notices everything but comments on very little.

  From the kitchen, Mom's voice rises slightly. "I don't need help organizing my files, Mom. I have a system."

  "A system isn't the same as an effective system, dear."

  Dad sighs. "At least they're not throwing things yet. That happened once, you know."

  I wince at the thought. "That bad?"

  "Worse." He adjusts his position, grimacing as he moves his injured leg. "But they love each other, in their way. And they both love you, which matters more than their differences."

  They have a very strange way of showing love, I think to myself.

  The news plays constantly in our house now, a steady stream of increasingly concerning updates. Protests growing in major cities. Jump-related incidents spiking nationwide. Gun sales at unprecedented levels. Richardson's popularity rising in polls asking who can best handle the "superhuman crisis" - everyone's predicting she's going to angle for something a little higher next. Like Mayor. But she hasn't made any announcements, and it'd be more than a year before that election anyway.

  And through it all, Philadelphia burns in slow motion. Not literally - mostly - but each day brings new reports of confrontations between Kingdom enforcers and Rogue Wave "contractors." Neighborhoods becoming de facto territories for one side or the other. Police struggling to maintain order in the spaces between.

  When I check the forums and HIRC channels in the privacy of my room, the picture gets even darker. Videos of powered individuals fighting in the streets, ordinary citizens caught in the crossfire. Rumors of Kingdom operatives "disappearing" known Rogue Wave sympathizers. Counter-rumors of Rogue Wave sleeper agents infiltrating any organization you can think of.

  And everywhere, the looming shadow of the legislative hearings. If Richardson gets her bill passed at the state level, it becomes a template for national legislation. A model for criminalizing underage powers across the country.

  I scroll through the latest updates, my determination hardening with each new report.

  The night before the town hall, I lie awake in bed, staring at the ceiling. Every possible scenario plays through my mind on repeat - success, failure, injury, capture. What Richardson might say or do. What I might discover. What will happen when I return home to face my parents.

  My ribs ache dully, and it's hard to breathe sometimes. I'm stronger now, but still not at full capacity. Amelia's reinforced suit will help, but it's not a cure-all. If things go sideways at the town hall, I'll be at a significant disadvantage.

  From downstairs, I hear the low murmur of the TV and occasional comments from Dad and Grandma Camilla. Mom's at another organizing meeting, rallying support for her testimony. They're all fighting this battle in their own ways, while I'm planning to directly confront the source.

  Is it worth it? The risk, the deception, the inevitable fallout?

  I think about the Rush Order video, the thinly veiled threat to my family. About Richardson's legislation and what it would mean for powered teens across the state. About the Kingdom's growing influence and the chaos spreading through Philadelphia's streets.

  Yes. It's worth it.

  I think...

  I think everything in my life has been worth it. Daiyenu.