The days blur together in a strange rhythm of normalcy and unease. After the first wave of bird discoveries, animal control establishes a hotline for reporting new ones. The constant calls from neighbors taper off as everyone realizes this isn't an isolated incident. Dad sets up a small whiteboard on the fridge where we start tracking neighborhoods affected: Mayfair (obviously), then Tacony, Holmesburg, Bridesburg, Oxford Circle.

  While Mom's at work on Tuesday, I do what any reasonable person would do - I snoop. Victor's letter is sitting on her bedside table, folded but not hidden. I hesitate for about three seconds before picking it up.

  "Rachel," it begins, no "Dear" or any other formality.

  "I am not apologizing because it would not be sincere. This isn't because I think what I did was right, but because I don't think I am capable of feeling remorse. You would have had a better life with a different father."

  I wince, feeling like I've been punched in the gut, and I'm not even the one he's talking to. The letter continues:

  "You should know that I didn't decide to find Sam on my own. Someone sent messages to my phone arranging everything - my time off, the hotel room, your address. I never responded, but I came anyway out of curiosity.

  Whoever did this knows about your family and wanted to cause disruption. I don't know who they are, but they went to significant lengths.

  I won't contact you or Sam again.

  Victor"

  I carefully refold the letter and put it exactly where I found it. Nothing new, nothing I didn't know, but... damn.

  I file it away in the filing cabinet. No time to malinger. We've got shit to do.

  "Findings from today's bird distribution," Tasha announces during our video call that afternoon. She shares her screen, showing a map of Philadelphia with red dots marking bird discoveries. "Pattern is expanding outward from Mayfair. New neighborhood each day, seemingly at random."

  I squint at the screen from my bedroom desk. Maggie, Lily, and Amelia are together at the Music Hall, their faces crowded into Maggie's phone camera, while Tasha and I join remotely.

  "Any surveillance footage?" I ask.

  "Nothing useful," Lily reports. "Crossroads got the Philly PD to share what they have, but whoever's doing this knows how to avoid cameras."

  "The Titans almost caught someone last night," Amelia adds. "Lucy said they spotted a figure on a rooftop in Tacony dropping birds, but by the time they got there, the person was gone."

  "Description?" I press.

  "Tall, thin, wearing dark clothes. That's all they got."

  Not exactly helpful.

  "Any progress on connecting this to Daedalus escapees?" I ask.

  Tasha shakes her head. "I've been digging, but information is limited. They're still not releasing names publicly. Even the government people have just started calling them the 'Magnificent Seven.' But I've compiled powers and MOs for known Daedalus inmates from old news reports. Ones that are publicly listed, anyway. Nothing that specifically matches bird-killing. Maybe we're barking up the wrong tree."

  I drum my fingers on my desk, frustration building. "This feels targeted. Like someone's sending a message. If it's not someone from Daedalus, it's awfully coincidental timing."

  "We've had more coincidental...er things happen," Tasha points out.

  "Have we?" I ask.

  "Iunno," she sort of mumbles.

  "But a message to who?" Maggie asks, trying to reorient us. "And what's the message supposed to be? It's not like... Illegal. Is it?"

  "I mean, it's a biohazard. Could probably fall under more than a couple of statutes. But you'd have to think if someone wanted to kill people they'd be doing it already instead of being a one man pigeon exterminator," Amelia jokes, furrowing her brow.

  The library provides a welcome distraction from my enforced house arrest. Director Hayes is thrilled with my progress on the Morrison Collection - I'm nearly finished with the digitization, working through the final boxes of materials. It's tedious work, but it keeps my mind occupied and gives me... I don't want to say leverage, leverage sounds mean about it. But it'll make my Mom happy. Which makes me happy.

  "You've been a tremendous help, Sam," Director Hayes tells me on Wednesday as I finish scanning a folder of newspaper clippings about the "Saviors" team from the early 2000s. "At this rate, we'll be done ahead of schedule."

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Happy to help," I say, meaning it. The Morrison Collection has been fascinating, even if it hasn't provided any insights into our current bird situation.

  I've been combing through Belle's notebooks in my spare time too, hoping for some clue that might connect to what's happening. But so far, nothing. Most of her notes focus on cases she was actively working - criminal organizations, powered threats, patterns of suspicious activity. Nothing about someone with a bird fixation or spike powers.

  Wednesday evening, I'm helping Mom prepare dinner when my phone buzzes with a news alert: "MYSTERIOUS BIRD DEATHS CONTINUE ACROSS NORTHEAST PHILADELPHIA."

  I open the article, scanning quickly. "...fourth straight day of discoveries... authorities baffled... no leads on perpetrator... wounds consistent with being impaled on a sharp object..."

  "More birds?" Mom asks, noticing my expression.

  "Yeah. They're calling it a 'wave of coordinated animal cruelty' now." I scroll further through the article. "Some expert is saying it might be 'ritualistic behavior from an individual with severe psychological disturbance.'"

  "You don't say," Mom mutters, chopping carrots with more force than necessary.

  We're setting the table when Dad calls from the living room. "You two should see this."

  We hurry in to find him watching the local news. A reporter stands in Pennypack Park, looking grimly into the camera.

  "...latest discovery here in Pennypack Park, where dozens of birds were found impaled on tree branches early this morning. Authorities are treating this as part of the ongoing series of bird killings throughout Northeast Philadelphia, but this marks a significant escalation in both number and presentation. Animal control officials describe the scene as, quote, 'deliberately arranged for maximum visibility.'"

  The camera pans to show trees with birds stuck to their branches, creating a grotesque display. It's clearly intentional - no natural phenomenon would arrange dead birds in concentric circles around tree trunks.

  "That's..." Mom trails off, looking pale.

  Dad just doesn't look. He looks as far away from the TV screen as possible.

  The reporter continues: "Police are urging anyone with information to come forward. Meanwhile, speculation continues about the motivation behind these disturbing acts, with some suggesting possible connections to the recent Daedalus Correctional Facility breach."

  I meet Dad's eyes, a silent exchange passing between us.

  "Sam--" he begins.

  "I know," I cut him off. "House rules. I get it."

  Later that night, my phone lights up with a text from Lily:

  Titans spotted someone again. Tall figure on school roof in Rhawnhurst. Lost them in the train yard.

  I text back: Same description as before?

  Lily: Yeah. Sandman said they moved unnaturally fast. Not speedster fast, but like they knew exactly where they were going.

  Maggie jumps in: We're going out with Lucy and Moonshot tomorrow night. Coordinated patrol.

  I type and delete three different frustrated responses before settling on: Be careful. And keep me posted.

  Sleep doesn't come easily. I keep thinking about the birds arranged in patterns, the calculated way they're being distributed. This isn't random - it's methodical. Someone with patience and planning, expanding their territory day by day. But why? What's the point?

  Thursday morning brings more news alerts. Oxford Circle is the latest neighborhood to be hit. The pattern is consistent - birds impaled with something sharp, left in visible locations. But there's a new detail: some were found arranged in a rough circle outside an elementary school, with their beaks all pointing inward.

  "This is getting ridiculous," I mutter as I scan the news on my phone over breakfast. "Four neighborhoods in four days."

  "Five now," Dad says, looking at his own phone. "They just found more in Bustleton."

  Mom sips her coffee, looking more tired than usual. "The police are bringing in federal agents. It was on the morning news."

  "Fat lot of good that'll do," I say. "They can't even catch one person dropping dead birds?"

  "It's a big city, Sam," Dad reminds me. "And whoever's doing this seems to know how to stay out of sight."

  I spend most of Thursday at the library, finishing the last box of the Morrison Collection. It's mostly materials from the 2010s - Liberty Belle's early career, the formation of the Delaware Valley Defenders, newspaper coverage of various superhero teams. Nothing that seems connected to our current situation.

  As I'm scanning the final folder, my phone buzzes with a message from Tasha:

  Breaking news: Someone spotted dropping birds from Franklin Mills Mall roof about an hour ago. Security footage being reviewed.

  I quickly respond: Any description?

  Tasha: Grainy footage. Tall, thin figure in dark clothing. Brown. Face not visible, was wearing some kind of cloth mask or bandana. They're saying he used the maintenance access to get to the roof, then disappeared before security arrived.

  I stare at the message, frustration burning in my chest. Tall, thin, dark clothes. Not exactly a unique description. But it's something.

  "Everything okay?" Director Hayes asks, noticing my expression.

  "Yeah, just... news about those bird killings," I say, tucking my phone away. "Seems like they're spreading further out."

  She nods sympathetically. "It's disturbing. My sister in Bustleton found three in her garden this morning."

  I finish scanning the last document and carefully return it to its folder. "That's it," I announce, feeling a small sense of accomplishment amid the frustration. "Last one done."

  "Wonderful work, Sam," Director Hayes beams. "You've been a tremendous help with this project. I'm going to make sure your mother knows how valuable your contribution has been."

  "Thanks," I say, managing a smile despite my distraction. At least I've done something useful while being stuck on house arrest.

  That evening, the Auditors group chat is buzzing with updates. It's nothing interesting. Just calling out neighborhoods and patrol routes - and I'm stuck in my bedroom, tracker bracelet on my wrist, watching the blinking light of the motion sensors on my window. Useful as always.

  I spread Belle's notebooks across my bed, flipping through them again in case I missed something. Nothing about bird killings or someone who creates spikes. I turn to her early cases, hoping for some clue, but the names blur together. None of them seem relevant to what's happening now. So many... creative and interesting supervillain names, supervillain stories, and none of them stick out as "person who has a hard-on for pigeon murder."

  My phone buzzes with another update:

  Tasha: Police reporting fresh birds found in Somerton. That's six neighborhoods in five days.

  I look out my window at the darkening sky, feeling useless and restless. I stare at the window, and I open it.

  Then, I shut it. Fuck!