The next morning, I'm sitting at the kitchen table, carefully arranging my face into what I hope is a casual expression. Mom is at the counter making coffee, Dad's reading something on his tablet, and Grandma Camilla is scrutinizing the contents of our refrigerator with undisguised judgment.

  "I'm going to physical therapy this morning," I announce, keeping my voice light. "Lily's picking me up."

  Mom turns, coffee pot in hand. "Did we have that scheduled? I thought Nurse Sylvia was tomorrow."

  "It's not with Sylvia," I say, which is technically true. "Lily's been learning some stretching techniques from her mom. She thought they might help with my ribs."

  This is complete bullshit, but Mrs. Chen does teach tai chi at the community center, so it's plausible enough. Dad gives me a look over his tablet that suggests he's not entirely convinced, but he doesn't challenge me.

  "Fine," Mom says after a moment. "But be back by lunch. Your grandmother's making her quote unquote famous stuffed peppers."

  "They're not famous yet," Grandma Camilla corrects, "but they will be once your family tastes them."

  I escape before they can ask more questions, meeting Lily at the corner where she's waiting with Amelia's scooter. Which I'm not sure if you need a license to drive, but whatever.

  "Ready for our 'physical therapy'?" Lily asks, handing me a helmet.

  "As I'll ever be."

  Twenty minutes later, we're circling City Hall at a deliberate pace, helmets concealing our faces as we take in the venue for tonight's town hall. Security is already setting up - police barriers, metal detectors at the entrances, officers checking IDs. No sign of Argus Corps yet, but they'll be here by evening.

  "Not going to be easy to get in," Lily observes as we pass the main entrance for the third time.

  "I'm not planning to sneak in," I remind her. "I'll go through the front door like everyone else."

  "With a Bloodhound helmet in your pocket? Good luck with that."

  "Amelia's working on a collapsible version." I scan the building's perimeter, noting camera positions and security blind spots. "Besides, they're checking bags, not doing full body scans."

  "If you say so." Lily accelerates the scooter slightly, her powers adding extra speed without taxing the engine. "What's the exit strategy?"

  "Same as entry - through the front door if possible. I'm not planning to start a fight."

  Lily snorts. "Since when has that ever worked out for you?"

  Fair point. Every time I've tried the non-violent approach, things have escalated anyway. But this time I'm just there to make a statement, not engage. At least, that's the plan.

  We complete our circuit, noting the service entrances, emergency exits, and the flow of staff entering the building. By the time we head back to Mayfair, I have a mental map of the venue and a growing knot of tension in my stomach.

  This is really happening.

  When I get home, the atmosphere has shifted. Mom is at the dining table with her laptop open and papers spread around her, making notes with furious concentration. Dad's on the couch with his leg elevated, watching the news with the volume low. Grandma Camilla is nowhere to be seen, but I can hear her moving around in the kitchen.

  "How was therapy?" Mom asks without looking up.

  "Good. Helpful." I hover in the doorway, not sure if I should elaborate on my fictional stretching session.

  "That's nice, honey." She's distracted, highlighting something on a document and muttering under her breath.

  Dad mutes the TV. "Your mother's preparing for Richardson's town hall tonight. It's being televised."

  "Oh?" I try to sound only mildly interested. "Are you going?"

  That gets Mom's attention. She looks up sharply. "No, I'm not. And neither are you."

  "I didn't say--"

  "You didn't have to." She sets down her highlighter with deliberate care. "Sam, I know how you think. Richardson's town hall is the last place you should be right now, especially given... recent events."

  "I wasn't planning to go," I lie, meeting her gaze steadily.

  She studies my face for a moment. "Good. Because I'm explicitly forbidding it. Not as a suggestion, not as a preference - as your mother, I am telling you that you are not to go anywhere near City Hall tonight."

  "Understood," I say, the word tasting like ash. Sorry, Mom.

  "Richardson's using this event to build momentum for the state hearings," Dad explains, his tone gentler. "It's a publicity stunt, not a real discussion. Nothing productive would come from you being there."

  Except maybe exposing her as a fraud and criminal, I think but don't say.

  "It's fine," I assure them. "I get it. No town hall."

  Mom returns to her documents, seemingly satisfied. I head upstairs to my room, already calculating timing and logistics for tonight.

  The day crawls by with excruciating slowness. I text with Tasha about final preparations, check in with Maggie about her patrol route, confirm with Amelia about the collapsible helmet. Everything is ready except my nerves, which jangle like loose piano strings every time I think about what I'm about to do.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  By evening, the atmosphere in the house shifts. Mom gathers her materials - notes, laptop, recorder - into her messenger bag with precise, deliberate movements.

  "I'm heading to the town hall," she announces, checking her watch. "Just to observe, not participate. I need to see Richardson's tactics firsthand before the hearings."

  "Be careful," Dad says from the couch, where he's half-dozing, pain medication making him drowsy. "Those events can get heated."

  "I'm just going to sit in the back and take notes," Mom assures him, though the set of her jaw suggests she's ready for more than passive observation. "I should be home by ten."

  Grandma Camilla looks up from her knitting, needles pausing mid-click. "You want company?"

  "No, I need to focus." Mom kisses Dad's forehead, then squeezes my shoulder as she passes. "Sam, help your grandmother with dinner? And no sneaking out while I'm gone."

  The pointed look she gives me suggests she's not entirely joking. I force a smile. "Sure thing. Have fun taking notes."

  Once the front door closes behind her, Dad clicks on the TV to catch Richardson's pre-town hall press conference. Grandma Camilla returns to her knitting, the rhythmic clicking of her needles filling the quiet living room.

  "She's good," Dad remarks, gesturing at the screen where Richardson is fielding questions with practiced ease. "Poised, articulate, stays on message."

  "Doesn't make her right," Grandma Camilla says without looking up from her knitting.

  "No, but it makes her effective." Dad adjusts his position on the couch, wincing slightly.

  I watch Richardson for a few minutes, struck by how normal she appears. If I didn't know she was a high-ranking Kingdom operative who'd helped destroy my house and threatened my family, I might even find her compelling. She talks about "community safety" and "responsible oversight" in ways that sound reasonable if you don't look too closely at the implications.

  At 7:15 PM, I announce that I'm tired and heading to bed early. No one questions this - they've all seen me wincing and holding my ribs throughout the day. Dad mumbles something about resting well, and Grandma Camilla just nods, her attention on her knitting.

  In my room, I change quickly into dark clothes that will fit under my Bloodhound suit. Amelia's collapsible helmet is a marvel of engineering - the rigid components fold into a package about the size of a thick textbook, which I wrap in a sweatshirt and stuff into my backpack along with the rest of my costume pieces.

  At 7:30, I hear the town hall broadcast start downstairs. Richardson's amplified voice floats up through the floorboards, followed by audience applause. My window looks down on the alley behind - no direct line of sight from the living room, but no cover either. The motion sensor blinks its steady red rhythm, a silent countdown to the alarm that will trigger the moment I pull myself through the window

  7:45 PM. My phone buzzes with a text from Lily: In position.

  I take a deep breath, wincing at the pressure on my ribs. This is it. Once I leave, there's no going back. Mom will know immediately. Dad will know. There will be consequences.

  But sometimes, doing the right thing means accepting those consequences.

  Fuck me.

  I slide the window open in one smooth motion. The sensor's light changes from blinking red to solid, and somewhere, Mom's phone is alerting her that I've just broken my promise. Dad's too, probably. I'm through the window and dropping carefully to the ground below, landing with a jolt that sends pain shooting through my ribcage.

  Lily is waiting at the corner with the scooter, engine already running. I climb on behind her, and we're off, accelerating far faster than the Vespa's engine should allow as Lily's powers kick in.

  "They know?" she asks over her shoulder.

  "Oh yeah," I confirm. "Dad's probably already calling Mom. She's going to find out I'm gone while she's at the town hall."

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don't need to check to know it's Mom. Instead, I send a pre-composed text to the team: Operation underway. Moving to phase 2.

  We weave through evening traffic, Lily's powers giving us bursts of speed to navigate gaps between cars. The pain in my ribs is a constant, dull throb, but manageable with the compression wrap Nurse Sylvia applied yesterday. By the time we reach City Hall, it's just past 8:00 PM, and Richardson's town hall is in full swing.

  "I'll circle the block," Lily says as I dismount at our predetermined drop point. "Radio check?"

  I tap the small comm unit in my ear. "Receiving you five by five."

  "Maggie's already on perimeter patrol. Tasha's monitoring police channels. Amelia's two blocks away with the medical kit if needed." Lily's expression is serious beneath her helmet visor. "You sure about this, Sam?"

  "No," I admit. "But I'm doing it anyway."

  She nods once, then accelerates away, the scooter merging with traffic. I approach City Hall, joining the stream of latecomers entering for the town hall. Security is checking bags at the door - standard metal detectors and visual inspection, nothing more sophisticated. I hand over my backpack, heart racing as the guard pokes through it.

  "Sweatshirt, water bottle, notebook," he mutters, barely looking at the items. The folded helmet components, disguised within the sweatshirt's bulk, pass without comment. The polymer doesn't read on a metal detector. Man, you guys are stupid. "Go ahead."

  I enter the main hall, where several hundred people are seated in rows facing a small stage. Richardson stands at a podium, microphone amplifying her voice throughout the space. Large screens on either side show close-ups of her professionally concerned expression.

  "...not about restricting freedoms," she's saying, "but about establishing reasonable boundaries for public safety. We wouldn't allow unlicensed surgeons to operate, or unlicensed pilots to fly commercial aircraft. Why should we treat potentially dangerous superhuman abilities differently?"

  The crowd murmurs agreement. I slip along the back wall, making my way toward the restrooms. No one pays attention to a teenager in jeans and a hoodie - I'm practically invisible compared to the suited professionals and community leaders filling the seats.

  In the bathroom, I lock myself in the largest stall and quickly begin the transformation. The compression bodysuit goes on first, over my clothes. Then the reinforced padding Amelia added to protect my ribs. The collapsible helmet expands with a series of soft clicks, the familiar weight settling over my head as I secure the lower face panel. Last come the gloves with their reinforced knuckles, designed to both protect my hands and enhance my striking power.

  I check my reflection in the stall door's metal surface - the red helmet stares back. Bloodhound is ready.

  "In position," I whisper into my comm. "Going live in thirty seconds."

  "Confirmed," Tasha's voice comes through. "Crowd estimated at 350. Richardson is currently taking questions from pre-selected audience members."

  "Perimeter secure," Maggie adds. "No Argus Corps visible inside, but Captain Devil was spotted on the roof about ten minutes ago."

  Great. Just what I need - a mysterious superhero with unknown abilities potentially dropping in. But it's too late to back out now.

  I exit the bathroom stall, then the restroom, stepping back into the main hall. Richardson's voice fills the space:

  "...and that's why these regulations are necessary. We can't expect children to handle the responsibility of powers that adults struggle to control. This isn't about punishment - it's about protection. We shouldn't be giving them an incentive to throw themselves into danger."

  I begin moving through the standing-room section at the back, making my way steadily toward the center aisle. At first, no one notices – eyes are fixed on Richardson and the screens. Then, gradually, heads begin to turn. Whispers ripple outward from those who spot me. A path begins to clear as recognition spreads through the crowd.

  Bloodhound is here.

  I continue forward, my gait steady despite the pain in my ribs. The whispers grow louder, becoming a wave of murmurs that finally catches Richardson's attention. She pauses mid-sentence, her professionally pleasant expression faltering as she scans the crowd to identify the disturbance.

  Our eyes meet across the distance.

  I step into the center aisle, my red helmet spotting against the sea of business attire. The crowd parts before me like water, creating a clear path straight to the stage where Maya Richardson stands frozen behind her podium.

  Time to crash this party.