The alley reeks of stale beer and piss, rotting vegetables from the restaurant dumpsters, and something else - fear sweat. Fresh. Maybe two hours old.

  I press myself against the brick wall, face covered, body anonymized under my coat. This is the third location I've checked tonight. The client's daughter disappeared three days ago. College freshman, good kid by all accounts, but fell in with a new crowd. Started missing classes. Then stopped coming home entirely.

  Dad hired me to find her - offered to pay cash up front, I turned him down. The only people I fuck with less than the NSRA are the IRS, and I'm not becoming a cape-for-hire. Said the police weren't taking it seriously. Adult daughter, no signs of foul play, probably just blowing off steam. But a father knows when something's wrong.

  Or so he says.

  I've been tracking her scent across the city since dawn. Not easy with eight million other smells competing for attention, but there's a distinctive note to everyone's personal odor. Hers has a hint of lavender shampoo and prescription acne medication. Uncommon enough combination to follow, especially when she touched so many surfaces. Door handles. ATM buttons. Subway poles.

  The trail led me here, to the back entrance of a club in Fishtown that doesn't officially exist. No sign out front, just a black door with a small red light above it. The kind of place that changes locations every few months to stay ahead of licensing issues. Or worse.

  I check my watch. 4:17 PM. Cutting it close. Sunset's at 6:04 today. Late October means the days are getting shorter. Less time to work with.

  My phone buzzes. Text from the client.

  Any news?

  Not yet, I reply. Getting close.

  I thumb through the photos he sent me again. Gina Martinez, 19, smiling in graduation cap and gown. Long dark hair, braces still on in the photo. Recent, but not recent enough. People change fast at that age. Especially when they're running from something.

  Or toward something.

  The club door opens, and I press deeper into the shadows. Two men exit, talking in low voices. One holds the door for a moment longer than necessary, checking the alley in both directions. Paranoid, but not paranoid enough. The door starts to swing shut behind them. Forgot about the fire escape, idiots.

  I slip inside before it closes completely, moving fast but quiet. The hallway beyond is narrow, lit with dim red bulbs that cast more shadows than light.

  The wolf-nose picks up the girl's scent immediately - stronger here, mixed with alcohol and something chemical. Not weed, something harsher. Fizzy. Carbonated. I'd know that anywhere.

  I follow the scent trail down the hallway, past a bathroom where the reek of vomit and disinfectant nearly overwhelms everything else. Past a store room stacked with liquor cases. Toward a door at the end marked "Private."

  Voices filter through the thin wood. A man, voice low and smooth. A woman responding, words slurred slightly. Several other people breathing, silent.

  I press my ear to the door.

  "--just one more dose," the man is saying. "Then you'll be ready for the big leagues. Imagine what you could do with that kind of power."

  "I don't know," the woman responds. Has to be Gina. "The last one made me really sick."

  "That was just your body adjusting. Think about what happens next. No more being ordinary. No more living by their rules."

  The door isn't locked. I push it open casually, like I belong there.

  Five people look up in surprise. One man in an expensive suit standing over a young woman slumped in a chair - Gina, looking pale and strung out. Three others lounging on couches around the room, trying very hard to look tough.

  "Sorry," I say, keeping my voice neutral. "Wrong room."

  The man in the suit recovers first. "Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?"

  I ignore him, focusing on the girl. "Gina Martinez? Your dad sent me. Time to go home."

  Her eyes widen. "My dad?"

  One of the tough guys stands up, reaching inside his jacket. I smell gun oil and metal. "Nobody's going anywhere," he says.

  I pull my gun faster. Legally, I am not allowed to own a gun. However, I am allowed to own toy guns. Legally, I'm not allowed to spray paint them to look real, but morally...

  "Actually," I respond, "we are. And you're going to let us, because the alternative involves more heat than you're prepared to handle. Sure, you can ventilate me. Can you do it before I shoot you back? Can you deal with my backup?"

  The guy with the gun laughs. "There's one of you and four of us."

  I shrug. "Bad odds. For you."

  The air is quiet, still, and stale. I don't know who's running this operation. Kingdom vs Rogue Wave vs one of the fifty other small time rackets operating in their wake. There's ways to test this sort of thing, but I'm not here to find out.

  "You got a death wish or something, buddy?" The man in the suit asks.

  "Actually," I say quietly, "I do."

  They're all aiming for my head. I'm aiming for the guy in the suit's center mass.

  "You can shoot me, and in two hours I'll come back like a zombie. All the bullets will get spit out of my ribcage, and I'll lose all control of my mental faculties, and if anyone is left in this club, I'll kill them. Or, we can go quietly."

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  This is the calculation. Is it worth the heat? Is it worth the heat? "You're bluffing," one of the more nervous looking men sputters.

  "Do you wanna find out, buddy?" I ask.

  Nobody speaks.

  "Gina," I say, turning to the girl who's watching wide-eyed. "We need to go. Now."

  She hesitates, looking at the man in the suit. "But Leon said--"

  "Leon is full of shit. And whatever he's been giving you is killing you." I hold out my free hand. "Your choice. But your dad's worried sick."

  That does it. She takes my hand, and I pull her to her feet. She's unsteady, pupils dilated unnaturally. Definitely on something.

  "Who are you?" she asks as I lead her out of the room, past the groaning bodies of the would-be tough guys.

  "Just someone who finds things," I tell her.

  "Like a detective?"

  "Something like that."

  We make it outside without incident. The sun is already low in the sky, long shadows stretching across the streets. I check my watch - 5:10 PM. Cutting it closer than I'd like.

  "My car's around the corner," I say, guiding her along. "I'll take you home."

  "Are you going to tell my dad? About the... stuff I took?"

  I consider for a moment. "That's between you and him. But whatever they gave you in there isn't what they said it was. Get yourself checked out at a hospital."

  She nods, eyes downcast. "I just wanted to be... special."

  "Trust me," I say, helping her into the passenger seat of my beat-up Honda. "Special isn't all it's cracked up to be."

  I drop her off at her father's house in Northeast Philly, collecting a sizable tip while declining his tearful offer of dinner. Too close to sunset, and I have another appointment to keep tomorrow.

  The NSRA Field Office looks the same as it did a week ago - sterile, official, slightly threatening. The receptionist recognizes me this time, avoiding eye contact as she processes my visitor badge.

  Agent Jennings keeps me waiting exactly seven minutes before calling me back. Probably some stupid power play. I don't think she could possibly be busy enough to need to keep me waiting.

  "Mr. Taylor," she says as I enter her office. "Right on time."

  Her office is unchanged - same filing cabinets, same laptop, same uncomfortable chairs. She gestures for me to sit, then slides a tablet across the desk to me.

  "Your readings from the past week," she explains. "Interesting patterns."

  I glance at the graphs and charts displayed on the screen. Heart rate, body temperature, hormone levels. Spikes of activity followed by flat periods.

  "Looks like the suppressant is working," I say, handing the tablet back.

  "It is," she agrees. "Though I notice you've been taking it at irregular intervals. Two doses in quick succession on Tuesday. None at all on Thursday. Care to explain?"

  I shrug. "Testing the limits. Seeing what works best for my schedule."

  "This isn't a recreational drug, Mr. Taylor. It's meant to be taken at regular intervals for consistent results and proper data collection."

  "Life isn't regular," I counter. "Sometimes I need coverage at different times."

  She studies me for a moment, then makes a note on her laptop. "And the side effects? Any issues to report?"

  "Nothing serious. Injection site soreness. Bit of a headache after the first couple doses. There's bumps where I stab it. Those are the, what, cysts?"

  "Yes, those would be the cysts. No nausea? Dizziness? Dissociative episodes?"

  "None."

  She nods, making another note. "And your regular transformation schedule? Has that been affected at all?"

  "Just delayed when I take the meds close to sunset. Once they wear off, everything proceeds as normal. Then the sun rises and I wake back up."

  "Good." She turns the laptop toward me. "I need you to fill out this questionnaire."

  I spend the next fifteen minutes answering questions about my physical and mental state, side effects, quality of life improvements, and so on. Most of it's straightforward. Some of it's invasive as hell.

  "Has your sexual function been impacted by the medication?" really isn't a question I want to answer for a government database, but I check "No change" and move on.

  When I finish, Jennings reviews my responses, nodding occasionally.

  "Everything looks to be in order," she says finally.

  "High praise."

  She ignores my sarcasm. "I have your next week's supply." She places another black case on the desk. "Same dosage, same instructions. But I'd like to see more consistent usage patterns this week. It's important for the data integrity."

  "I'll do my best," I lie.

  "See that you do." She slides a form across the desk. "Sign here confirming receipt."

  As I sign, she studies the monitor bracelet on my wrist. "Any issues with the tracker? Discomfort? Interference with daily activities?"

  "It's fine," I say, though the thing itches like hell sometimes. "Hardly notice it's there."

  Another lie. I'm always aware of it, the weight of it, the silent reminder that I'm being watched. But it's worth it for what I get in return.

  "Good." She takes the signed form and adds it to a folder. "Oh, and Mr. Taylor? Given your recent activity patterns, we'd like to officially caution you from taking on work as a vigilante. If that's something you had been considering, or doing without informing us."

  My pulse quickens slightly. "What, like I'd be caught dead in a Halloween costume."

  "Spikes in your heart rate and adrenaline levels during daylight hours. Extended periods in certain parts of the city not associated with your registered address. Care to elaborate?"

  "I've been doing private investigation. Sometimes this involves physical activity. You got a problem with that?" I bite back.

  "Interesting career choice."

  "The nose helps."

  She makes another note. "And this is paid employment?"

  Here it comes - the welfare trap. Shove me off the cliff, bitch, why don't you. "Volunteer work," I clarify. "Not accepting payment. If anyone tries to give me a tip I tell them to donate it."

  "Mmm." She closes her laptop. "Well, as long as long as you're not breaking the law. Anyway, unless you have any questions, we're done here. Same time next week."

  I pocket the new case and stand. "Looking forward to it."

  "And have a happy Halloween, Mr. Taylor."

  "Planning to stay in, actually," I tell her. "Not exactly my favorite holiday."

  There's no ceremony to me leaving.

  Outside, the sun has already set. I check my watch - 6:30 PM. Fourteen more windows of normal and an aching shoulder.

  Dad texts me.

  How's the trial going?

  I reply: So far so good. Seeing stars every night.

  His response is quick: Good for you, kid. Happy for you.

  Three simple words that hit harder than they should. I pocket the phone without responding. Some things are better left unsaid.

  The next morning dawns clear and cold, a perfect Halloween day. The streets are already busy with early commuters and parents walking costumed kids to school. Plastic skeletons and fake cobwebs hang from porches. Jack-o'-lanterns grin from stoops.

  Amelia meets me behind a high school I don't give a shit enough about to learn the name of. Northeast Philly but not Northeast enough to be near Tacony or Mayfair.

  "You're early," she says as I approach.

  "Force of habit." I nod at the bundle she's holding. "That it?"

  "Finished it yesterday." She hands it over. "Now it's sized for a six foot whatever cis guy. You've got some big shoulders, buddy."

  I unwrap the bundle carefully. The costume unfolds in my hands - black and brown, tactical, form-fitting but not skintight. Coming in both a winter and a summer variation. Winter variation adds the fur-lined jacket. Summer variation ditches it. Kevlar stitched in where it matters. She hands me an old sack of luggage on wheels, too. "Here's all her old gear, too."

  "Really? I'm gonna have to declare this on my IRS forms, man," I say, trying to joke. Apparently it doesn't come out like one, though.

  "Do you need receipts?" She asks, painfully sincere. "I can try and figure out material costs."

  "No, I was kidding. I don't give a shit," I answer.

  She smiles a very practiced sort of people-pleasing smile. "Well. That's all I had for you. We'll call you if we need you, alright?"

  I throw the jacket over my shoulders and shove the rest of the costume into my briefcase. The helmet's the most important part, anyway, and I got fitted for that two weeks ago. "Yeah, man. Good luck with... your guyses' shit."

  She giggles. Cute laugh. "Thanks, Bloodhound. Good luck to you, too."

  I snap the helmet shut over my head.