Friday morning, I roll over and squint at my phone, wondering why my alarm didn't go off. The screen reads 9:47 AM. What the hell? School started almost two hours ago.

  I bolt upright, a spike of panic shooting through me. Mom's going to kill me. I'm scrambling out of bed, still half-asleep, when I realize something else is weird - the house isn't empty. There are voices downstairs, the murmur of the TV, the clink of dishes. On a weekday morning.

  I throw on jeans and a t-shirt and stumble downstairs, confused and slightly alarmed. Mom and Dad are both in the kitchen - Dad I expect, since he's been working remotely while his leg heals, but Mom should definitely be at the library. Or at least... I don't know, not here.

  They look up when I enter, and I immediately know something's wrong. Mom's still in her pajamas and robe, a cup of coffee clutched in her hands like it's keeping her anchored to the earth. Dad's face has that carefully neutral expression he gets when he's trying not to show how upset he is.

  "Morning, sleepyhead," Mom says, her voice forcibly light. "I was just about to come wake you."

  "Why didn't my alarm go off?" I ask, looking between them. "And why aren't you at work? And why didn't anyone wake me up for school?"

  Dad gestures to the chair across from him. "Sit down, Sam."

  That's never a good sign. I sink into the chair, my stomach knotting. "What's going on?"

  "First," Mom says, setting down her coffee, "I got a call from Director Hayes yesterday evening. She wanted me to know that you've officially completed the Morrison Collection digitization. She was extremely impressed with your work ethic and attention to detail."

  This sudden praise catches me off guard. "Uh, thanks?"

  "She said you've saved the library at least a thousand dollars in staffing costs, probably more, not even counting how much we'd lose if we didn't finish the archival," Mom continues. "In any other situation, I'd be taking that tracker off your wrist today and removing the motion sensors from your window. Your dedication to the project has been exemplary."

  I narrow my eyes. "Any other situation? What's that supposed to mean? And why am I not at school right now?"

  Dad reaches for the landline phone on the counter, presses a button. The robotic voice of the automated school notification system fills the kitchen:

  "This is an important message from the Philadelphia School District. Due to an ongoing security concern, all schools in North and Northeast Philadelphia will be closed today, Friday, September 19th. Please check the district website for updates on weekend activities and Monday classes. We apologize for any inconvenience."

  "Security concern?" I repeat. "What security concern?"

  Mom and Dad exchange a look that makes my skin crawl. Dad picks up the remote and turns up the volume on the kitchen TV, which is tuned to the local news. A reporter stands on a familiar street corner - Frankford and Knorr, right in front of the ShopRite where we sometimes grocery shop. Police tape cordons off the area. The caption reads: "DISTURBING ESCALATION IN ANIMAL KILLINGS."

  "...the discovery early this morning has shocked the community and prompted school closures throughout Northeast Philadelphia," the reporter is saying. "Warning to viewers, the images we're about to show may be disturbing."

  The camera pans to a streetlight, where something is hanging. The image is blurred, but I can still make out what it is - a dog, impaled through its body and suspended from the light. My stomach lurches. Below it, splashed across the pavement in what looks like red paint, are the words "WHERE ARE YOU?"

  "Jesus Christ," I whisper.

  "That's not all," Dad says grimly. "They found... parts... of birds thrown at the front windows of the store. And this was around the dog's neck." He holds up his phone, showing me a close-up image that wasn't on the TV. It's a collar with small bells attached, the whole thing covered in red paint or maybe blood, dangling like some grotesque wind chime. Bell, attached to a bell, attached to another bell, like a water chain for the gutters, coated in a layer of dried brown and fresher, brighter red.

  I stare at the image, my brain struggling to process what I'm seeing. This isn't random animal cruelty anymore. This is a message. And it's not subtle.

  "The dog was a bloodhound," Mom says quietly.

  The pieces click into place with an almost audible snap. "They're looking for me," I say, my voice sounding distant to my own ears. "Whoever's doing this - they're looking for Bloodhound."

  Neither of my parents looks surprised by this conclusion. They've already figured it out an hour ago.

  "We don't know that for certain," Dad says, but his tone lacks conviction. "It could be a coincidence."

  "A bloodhound dog with a message asking where someone is?" I shake my head. "That's not a coincidence, Dad."

  "The police are treating it as a possible threat against the superhero community," Mom confirms. "That's why they closed the schools - they're concerned about potential targeting of powered youth."

  "Although I don't think I'd want my kid out right now anyway," Dad mumbles.

  I sit back in my chair, my mind racing. "So what now? What are we supposed to do?"

  "For now, we stay home and stay safe," Mom says firmly. "The police and federal agents are investigating. They've got the security footage from the store, and they're analyzing the... evidence."

  "Did they see who did it?" I ask.

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  Dad nods reluctantly. "Sort of. The article says they saw on the footage someone climbing down from the roof around 3 AM. Tall, thin figure in dark clothing. They had their face covered with some kind of cloth or mask. They hung the dog, painted the message, and then disappeared before the night security guard even realized what was happening."

  "The same description as before," I murmur, thinking of the reports from the Titans and the mall security footage.

  "Sam," Mom says, leaning forward and taking my hands in hers. "I need you to listen carefully. Whoever this person is, they're dangerous. Very dangerous. This display--" she gestures toward the TV, "--isn't just animal cruelty anymore. It's a direct threat. I know you want to help, but this is exactly why we have the restrictions in place."

  "So I'm just supposed to hide? While some psycho runs around killing animals and looking for me?"

  "For now, yes," Mom says. "But I also want you to know something." She squeezes my hands. "I am incredibly proud of you. Not just for the library work, but for respecting the boundaries we've set these past weeks. Your father and I expected... well, frankly, we expected a lot more sneaking out."

  "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I mutter.

  "What I'm trying to say," Mom continues, "is that as soon as this situation is resolved, your grounding is over. The tracker comes off, the motion sensors come down, and you can resume your... extracurricular activities, with the agreed-upon check-ins and safety protocols."

  I blink, surprised by this sudden shift. "Really?"

  "Really," Dad confirms. "You've earned it. But right now, we need to focus on staying safe until they catch whoever's doing this."

  I nod, but my mind is already racing ahead. Someone is out there looking for Bloodhound, methodically working their way through Northeast Philly, leaving grotesque displays as calling cards. And now they've escalated from birds to dogs - what's next?

  "I need to tell the team," I say, pulling out my phone.

  "Of course," Mom agrees. "But make it clear that none of you should be out there looking for this person. The authorities are handling it."

  I type out a message to the Auditors group, summarizing what I've learned and attaching the news link. Almost immediately, my phone starts buzzing with responses:

  Maggie: Holy shit

  Lily: Just saw the news. This is seriously messed up.

  Amelia: They're definitely looking for you, Sam.

  Tasha: Working on tracking down security footage from nearby buildings. Will update.

  I send another message: Nobody go near this. This psycho is clearly dangerous. Let the cops handle it.

  Lily: Lucy says Titans are standing down too. Police asked all heroes to stay clear while they investigate.

  At least that's something. I set my phone down and look at my parents. "So we just... wait?"

  "For now," Dad says. "I'm sure the Delaware Valley Defenders will be looking into it soon enough. Or the NSRA. I guess whoever wants to get this guy first."

  I spend the morning obsessively refreshing news sites and checking the local forums for updates. Obviously, everything's exploding right now. Speculation is running wild - some people think it's a message to all heroes, others think it's targeting Bloodhound specifically - the Big Bad Wolf of Tacony (the separation of the two seems to have dissolved entirely at some point when I wasn't looking). A few conspiracy theorists are claiming it's a false flag operation by the government to justify Richardson's anti-vigilante legislation.

  Around noon, I get a text from Kate, which is rare enough these days to make me sit up straight:

  Kate: You seeing this bloodhound shit? Be careful.

  I respond: Yeah. Staying home. You too.

  Mom makes lunch, and we eat in tense silence, the TV still running in the background. They've switched to a panel discussion with a criminal profiler and an ornithologist of all people, talking about potential meanings behind the displays.

  "These puncture wounds are distinctive," the ornithologist is saying, gesturing to diagrams I can't quite make out from here. "They're not like anything we'd typically see in urban wildlife incidents. The tapered nature of the wounds - larger entry, smaller exit - suggests an implement that narrows to a point."

  The criminal profiler nods. "And the arrangement is clearly deliberate. There's symbolism at work here."

  "It reminds me, distantly, of caching behavior in certain predatory birds," the ornithologist continues, adjusting her glasses. "Specifically Laniidae - shrikes - which impale prey on thorns or barbed wire as a hunting strategy. But the scale and precision here is entirely different. This is human activity with perhaps an awareness of that natural behavior, and clearly with some specialized tool for the job. Normal thorns, barbed wire, or even knives wouldn't make a wound like this. Frankly, I can't think of an object that would."

  I almost choke on my sandwich. "Did she just say shrikes?"

  "Some kind of bird, apparently," Dad says, frowning at the TV. "Why?"

  "I've heard that name before," I say, my pulse quickening. "Shrikes impale their prey?"

  Mom nods, looking thoughtful. "I think I've read about those. They're called butcher birds sometimes, right? They store their food by impaling it."

  "Nature's pantry system," Dad mutters. "Brutal but efficient."

  Shrike. The name triggers something in my memory. I've heard it before, seen it somewhere. In Belle's notebooks? In the Morrison Collection?

  "I need to check something," I say, jumping up from the table and racing upstairs.

  In my room, I grab Belle's notebooks and start frantically flipping through them. Early cases, first year as a hero... there it is.

  "Today I begin what will likely be either a brief and embarrassing experiment or the start of something meaningful," she wrote. "I believe I’m ready to make a difference in this city beyond what a badge would let me."

  And then... Shrike.

  Niles Nolan.

  First to Eastern State while awaiting sentencing, and then...

  Daedalus. Multiple life sentences.

  The same Daedalus that experienced a breach last month. The same Daedalus where seven high-risk inmates escaped.

  "Oh my God," I whisper, staring at the page. I grab my phone and do a quick search for "Shrike bird impale prey" and dozens of images appear - small birds with vicious hooked beaks, their prey skewered on thorns and barbed wire. Exactly like the birds and dog we've been finding all over Northeast Philly.

  Shrike.

  And he's looking for me. For Bloodhound.

  I race back downstairs, notebook in hand. "Mom, Dad, I know who's doing this. I know who's killing the birds and the dog."

  They look up, startled by my sudden entrance.

  "It's Shrike," I say, putting the notebook on the table and pointing to Belle's entry. "He was one of Liberty Belle's first captures. He can make big fucking spikes. And he was imprisoned in Daedalus."

  Mom takes the notebook, her face paling as she reads. "Oh my G-d," she whispers.

  "He's recreating what shrikes do in nature," I continue, showing them the images on my phone. "Impaling prey on thorns. But he's doing it to send a message to me. To Bloodhound. Because I'm Belle's successor."

  Dad leans over to read the notebook. "This says he was captured in 2010. That's fifteen years ago. Why would he be targeting you now?"

  "Because he just escaped from Daedalus," I rush, running myself out of breath, raggedly stumbling over my own words as everything just floods me all at once. "And he probably blames Liberty Belle for putting him there. But she's dead, so he's coming after the next best thing - her protégé."

  Mom and Dad exchange a look loaded with concern.

  "We need to call the police," Mom says, reaching for her phone. "They need to know who they're dealing with."

  As she dials, I stare at Belle's notebook, at the sparse details about a villain I never knew existed until now. A villain who's spent fifteen years in the most secure superhuman prison in the country, getting worse, and worse, and worse. How much does he know on the outside? Has he been thinking about me for the past year, waiting for the opportunity to kill Liberty Belle's legacy? Or did he get out and find out now and immediately fixate on me? Spending years and years, festering and festering, until the blister was ready to pop.

  I swallow hard, but my mouth is dry. My throat feels like it's full of barbed wire.