I find that sometimes a near-death experience makes you more fun at parties, not less. At least, that's what I told myself as I sat cross-legged on the floor of the Tacony Music Hall, surrounded by a small mountain of Halloween candy and my fellow Auditors.

  It's been a month since Shrike. A month since I killed someone. A month since I almost died. The words still feel strange, like they belong to someone else's story. I'm mostly functional now - well, functional-adjacent. My trachea is still healing, which means I sound like I've been chain-smoking since kindergarten. It's been great for avoiding actual smoking. My stomach is a patchwork of scar tissue, old and new, layered like geological strata. Last week I started rejecting the biopolymer scaffold they put in me at the hospital - it came out in these gross white threads through my skin, like my body was secretly knitting a sweater. Dr. Song had to reopen part of the wound to extract the rest.

  I haven't been Bloodhound in a month. Haven't even touched the costume Amelia repaired.

  Instead, I've been doing my paramedic internship three days a week after school, using my blood sense to help identify internal bleeding and vascular issues. It's been... good. Useful. My parents are thrilled. The EMTs think I'm some kind of miracle worker. And it is fulfilling, in a clean, contained sort of way.

  But it's not the same. There's no adrenaline spike, no moment where everything sharpens to crystal clarity. No one's shooting at me or trying to collapse a building on my head. And sometimes, in quiet moments between calls, I catch myself wondering if this is all there is now. If I've traded one addiction for another, milder one.

  I haven't told my parents that part. They think I'm healing - physically and mentally. And I am, I guess. Just not in the straight line they're hoping for.

  "Sam, focus. This is important." Maggie waves a fun-sized Snickers in front of my face. "Snickers or Milky Way? This defines you as a person."

  I blink, pulled back to the present. "Uh, Snickers. More substance."

  "See?" Maggie turns to Lily triumphantly. "I told you she was a Snickers girl."

  Lily rolls her eyes, tossing a Milky Way into her growing pile. "Whatever. More for me."

  We're sprawled across the main room of the Music Hall, sorting through our Halloween haul. We're all way too old for trick-or-treating, but Tacony is a working-class neighborhood that doesn't worry too much about age limits. Besides, as Tasha pointed out, this might be our last chance before we're officially "creepy adults" instead of "those nice high school kids."

  Our costumes are piled in the corner - nothing superhero-related, by unspoken agreement. Maggie went as a Mad Scientist, complete with wild wig and fake blood-spattered lab coat. Lily dressed as a zombie cheerleader, which mostly involved destroying one of her old uniforms and applying an excessive amount of green face paint. Tasha came as Marie Curie, which required endless explanations all night. Amelia made her own Morticia Addams dress, because of course she did. And I went as a shark attack victim, which my parents found less funny than I did.

  There's a small shark taped to my hair. Like, a plush one. Ha ha ah ah ha.

  "Are the patrols still out there?" I ask, glancing toward the windows. We'd seen several groups of the Tacony Community Safety Coalition while making our rounds - adults in matching red jackets escorting clusters of trick-or-treaters.

  Tasha nods, not looking up from her methodical candy sorting. "Three different groups just on Longshore. They've almost doubled their numbers since the Shrike incident."

  Nobody calls it "the fight" or "the construction site" or anything specific. It's always "the Shrike incident," like a weather event or a traffic accident. Something that just happened.

  "They're actually not terrible," Lily adds, surprising me. "I mean, they're still basically vigilantes with baseball bats, but they're focusing on being visible rather than confrontational. More like chaperones than a militia."

  "Better behaved than the last guys, at least," Maggie chimes in, summoning up, uh, the last guys. The more aggressive civilian patrols hassling black kids.

  "Until something actually happens," I say. "Then we'll see what they're really made of."

  I'm sure black kids are getting hassled. But I haven't seen it yet.

  Amelia emerges from the kitchenette with a bowl of popcorn. "You're such a cynic, Sam. Maybe they're actually just trying to help."

  "Yeah, well, I've seen how fast 'trying to help' turns into something else." I reach for the popcorn anyway. "How's Derek doing with the patrols? Any run-ins?"

  "Not yet," Amelia says, setting the bowl down. "Though he's been keeping weird hours with the Vysera trial."

  The NSRA's experimental power suppression drug hit the news just last week, though rumors had been circulating for a while. Derek's been one of the first test subjects, able to go for hours without transforming at sunset. The ability to experience night again after seven years.

  I can't even fathom.

  "I still can't believe they chose him," Maggie says, leaning back against the couch. "I mean, it's perfect for Derek specifically, but what are the odds?"

  "Pretty good when you consider he's been in the system for years," I explain, referencing conversations that nobody else has heard yet. "They know exactly what his condition is and how stable he is psychologically. Perfect test case."

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  "Plus he's hot," Amelia adds with a smirk. "Great PR photos."

  I nearly choke on my popcorn. "Derek? Hot? Are we talking about the same grumpy werewolf guy? Who's ginger, might I add?"

  Maggie snorts at me.

  "Oh, come on," Amelia rolls her eyes. "Those shoulders? That whole brooding loner vibe? He's like a walking romance novel cover."

  "You weren't part of the Auditors during the Sparkplug operation, were you?" I ask, giving her a skeptical look.

  "No, why?"

  "Because Derek's werewolf form isn't the sexy 'I'm going to ravage you' kind of werewolf. It's more the 'dangerous wild animal like a bear that wants you to get away from it as fast as possible' kind of feral werewolf."

  Amelia shrugs, completely unfazed. "Not much of a turnoff, honestly."

  "Oh my god," Maggie groans, covering her face dramatically. "You're so weird."

  "Says the girl who thought the checkout guy at ShopRite was flirting because he asked if you found everything okay," Amelia fires back.

  "He was!" Maggie protests. "He held eye contact for like, three seconds!"

  "He was doing his job and was probably a college student. Too old for you, Mags," Amelia replies. "Also, wanting to get clawed isn't weird when you're my age. Virgin."

  "AM NOT! I'VE HAD A LOT OF SEX!" Maggie deflects, lyingly. "TONS!"

  "No," "I don't believe you," "No you haven't," "Are you sure about that?" the remaining four of us sort of say over top of each other.

  Lily and I exchange glances, both struggling not to laugh. Yeah I'll just keep that stuff to myself.

  It's good to avoid the elephant. We have been avoiding the elephant for four weeks and I'll avoid it the rest of my life. I will simply bottle everything I feel up and one day I will die and never have to deal with any of it. Awesome. Great coping skills. You have been learning so much, Sam Small.

  "All the stuff fit Derek alright?" I ask, trying to sound casual. "You ogle?"

  "No, he just took it. I mean, of course it fit right, because I measured him. Mrrow," Amelia purrs. Maggie telekinetically flings an individually wrapped Starburst at her head. "But he just took it and left."

  "Cool," I say, ignoring the weird twist in my stomach. "That's... cool."

  "He mentioned you a couple of times during the fitting," Amelia offers. "Says he's just gonna keep the costume warm until you're ready for it again."

  I laugh a little bit. "Sure, man."

  "So what are you going to be?" Maggie asks, mercifully detouring, not quite changing, the subject. "If not Bloodhound?"

  "I don't know yet," I admit. "I think if I think about dogs too much I start thinking about the lamp post. Ugh. I don't even want to talk about it. I want a new motif. That is, if I even get back to superheroing."

  Lily grins. "I don't think you could quit even if you wanted to,"

  "That's not reassuring, Lily," I reply.

  "That's okay!" Lily responds, which helps none.

  "I haven't decided anything for sure," I add a little too fast.

  "Well, whatever you choose, we've got your back," Maggie says, reaching over to squeeze my arm. "Auditors forever, right?"

  "Right," I echo, trying to ignore the doubt that creeps in whenever I think too far ahead.

  Forever is a while. Does my regeneration make me live longer? Like, not life expectancy, just... my... what are they called? Telomeres?

  Lily tosses a Starburst at me, hitting me square in the forehead. "Hey, less existential crisis, more candy sorting. We still need to decide who gets all the Almond Joys that nobody wants."

  "I want them," Tasha says, looking up from her phone.

  "Of course you want them," Amelia says, pursing her lips as she shoves a pile of Almond Joys towards her.

  I lean back, watching my friends bicker about candy chemistry, feeling a strange sense of displacement. Everything is the same, yet everything is different. The Music Hall is still our headquarters, but it was also my family's temporary home for two weeks after the Shrike incident, until the police cleared our house of potential booby traps. There weren't any, as it turned out - just a Hallmark wedding card with a picture of a dead dog left in our basement.

  One last "fuck you".

  My parents have been... weirdly reasonable about everything. The tracker is still on my wrist, and I check in constantly, but they haven't tried to lock me in my room or send me to boarding school in Switzerland. There's a new clarity to our relationship - they acknowledge they can't stop me from being who I am, and I acknowledge that my choices affect them too. There's family therapy. It never feels interesting to me. I'm always wanting to zone out. But I go, and it's, what, perfunctory? I go. And I go.

  Outside, I hear sirens in the distance - probably just someone's Halloween decorations setting off a smoke alarm or drunk college kids getting rowdy. But I tense automatically, my hand going to my still-tender abdomen. The room goes quiet, everyone listening.

  "It's heading away from us," Tasha says after a moment, checking the police scanner app on her phone. "House fire on Richmond. No injuries reported."

  The tension breaks, and conversation resumes. There's still something in the air, but I can't tell if that's me or everyone else. The conversation continues without me.

  I hear stars. A bright white whine in my ears, getting increasingly loud, increasingly high pitched, until I get shaken back to Earth by being directly addressed.

  "Sam? You're staring," Lily points out.

  "What? What did you say?" I ask.

  "Cold-Cut was spotted in Pittsburgh," Tasha says, cutting off Lily before she can repeat herself. "She killed her ex-husband and disappeared again. The others have been quiet."

  "Others?" I ask, still lost.

  "The other Magnificent Seven. Shrike, Cold-Cut, Switchback, Blob Zombie, Ash Kiss, Facemelter, and, uh... What's his name. 'That Guy'," Tasha intones like she's reading off a list, her voice going weirdly tinny at the last one. "We were talking about them. Are you alright?"

  I shrug. "They don't seem to have Shrike's ambition," I answer, ignoring the direct question. "I bet most of them just want to stay free and stay hidden. They're not making speeches or sending press releases."

  "Doesn't mean they're not dangerous," Lily points out.

  "Of course not," I agree. "But dangerous to random people they encounter, not specifically to us."

  The conversation drifts to speculation about secret metahuman prisons and government cover-ups. Does this have anything to do with Vysera, I wonder? Well, we wonder together. Nobody knows anything more about the random military guys that busted out of Daedalus. No following up on the Maya Richardson stuff. If Rush Order is telling anyone else, it's not apparent.

  It's all so maddeningly... out of my reach. Like trying to sweat at flies. Swat. Swat at flies. Things that bother me but I can't do anything about. I don't have the reach or the reflexes.

  My phone buzzes with a text from Mom, making me jump: "All ok? Remember midnight curfew."

  I type back quickly: "All good. Just sorting candy. Will be home on time."

  It's strange how the small, normal things have become so important. Texting my mom. Sorting Halloween candy. Arguing about whether Almond Joys count as real chocolate. The world narrowed to these tiny moments of normalcy, as if to balance out the enormous, life-altering events that punctuate them.

  Amelia is telling a story about a costume malfunction at the Halloween parade downtown when there's a knock at the Music Hall's door. We all freeze, exchanging glances. I half expect to hear Shrike on the other side of it, but that's not who's on the security camera.

  Thankfully.