I chew through sharp, pointy metal as my parents wait a block away. This is definitely my finest hour.

  The barbed wire tastes like rust, blood, and something acrid that I'm trying very hard not to identify. Piss, probably. Maybe worse. I focus on mechanics instead of sensation - clamping my jaw around the thinner sections where I can get leverage, using my molars where the bite force is strongest.

  "Hello?" A weak voice calls from inside the dumpster. "Someone there?"

  My heart jumps. He's conscious. Alive enough to speak.

  "I'm here," I call back, spitting out metal fragments. "I'm getting you out. Just hold on."

  I go back to work, methodically severing strands of wire. My mouth is already sliced up inside - I can taste my own blood mixing with whatever's on the wire - but my healing factor should take care of that. The infections I'm probably getting? That's a problem for future Sam.

  "Who's... there?" The voice is male, adult, disoriented. I can sense his heartbeat through my blood sense - too fast, but steady. Dehydrated, definitely. He's covered in small cuts. I wouldn't be surprised if Shrike put more barbed wire on the inside.

  Honestly, where the hell did this guy get all this barbed wire from? Has he just been stealing it from every fence he can find? The mind of a supervillain is a mystifying place.

  "Bloodhound," I reply between bites. "Superhero. Good guy. Rescue operation."

  "Thought you were... younger."

  I almost laugh, but my mouth is full of barbed wire. If he only knew.

  The outer layer is finally clear enough that I can access the padlock. It's sturdy - designed to prevent bolt cutters, not teeth. I position my mouth around it, finding the weakest point where the hasp (as Jordan informed me about a year ago ish) meets the body. I take a deep breath through my nose (mistake - the smell is horrific), then clamp down with everything I have.

  For a second, nothing happens. Then, with a metallic shriek, the lock gives way. I spit it out in a spray of blood and saliva, my gums and tongue already throbbing. Worth it.

  "I'm opening it now," I warn, lifting the dumpster lid.

  The stench hits me like a physical force - a day of sweat, urine, and fear in a metal box. I fight back my gag reflex and peer inside.

  A man blinks up at me from the darkness - Black, middle-aged, with a graying beard and sunken eyes. He's wearing tattered clothes, his wrists bound with zip ties. More barbed wire is scattered inside the dumpster, forcing him to sit in an awkward position to avoid being cut. There's blood on his arms and legs where he wasn't entirely successful.

  "I'm getting you out," I tell him, reaching down. "Can you stand?"

  He tries to move but winces. "Not sure."

  I activate my earpiece. "I found him. Amber Street, first location. He's alive but injured. Need medical assistance."

  "On our way," Mom replies immediately. "How's he looking?"

  "Dehydrated, multiple lacerations," I report, speaking loud enough to be overheard deliberately. "He's conscious but weak. No problems with his cardiovascular system besides... what you'd expect. Send dispatch?"

  I turn back to the man. "I'm going to lift you out. This might hurt."

  "Can't be worse than getting in," he mumbles.

  I reach down, carefully sliding my arms under his, and lift. He's disturbingly light - clearly hasn't had a proper meal in a while, even before Shrike got to him. I maneuver him over the edge of the dumpster and gently lower him to the ground, mindful of his injuries.

  "What's your name?" I ask, kneeling beside him and checking his zip ties.

  "Mack," he says, squinting in the light. "Mack Gallagher."

  "I'm Bloodhound," I say, though he might already know that that. "I need to cut these ties. Hold still."

  I break the zip ties with a sharp twist, and he winces as blood flow returns to his hands. His wrists are raw and bloody where the plastic dug into his skin.

  "How long have you been in there?" I ask, checking his pupils. Slightly dilated but reactive. Good sign.

  "Don't know," Mack says, his voice raspy. "Got... knocked out. Guy offered me food. Sandwich. Said he was from some church outreach."

  "What did he look like?" I ask, carefully examining a nasty cut on his calf.

  Mack frowns, concentrating. "White guy. Blonde hair. Kinda messy. Nothing special. Wearing a sweater, I think. Gray or blue. Can't remember much after eating."

  "He drugged you," I explain. "Do you remember anything else? Anything he said?"

  "Said I was... helping with art," Mack says, then coughs. "Said... people would see his work. Didn't make sense."

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

  I hear footsteps approaching and tense, but it's just my parents, trying to look like concerned citizens instead of my actual family. Dad's limping slightly, leaning on his cane, while Mom carries a tiny little first aid kit with her. The travel one. I wave her over and gesture to my belt, gently prying off the various compartments and containers of my own first aid equipment. Which one is the bandages and which one is the pepper spray kit again? Jokes. Jokes, Sam. Time and place.

  "We heard there was someone who needed help," Mom says loudly, for the benefit of anyone who might be watching. "We have medical training."

  "You have medical training," Dad corrects her. "I've got a bum leg and a car."

  "Perfect timing," I say, playing along. "This man was trapped in there. He needs medical attention."

  Mom kneels beside Mack, immediately taking charge. "Sir, I'm a trained first aid responder. Can you tell me your name?"

  "Mack," he repeats, looking warily between my parents.

  "Mack, I'm going to check your vitals, okay?" Mom says, already pulling out a penlight to check his pupils. "My husband is going to get you some water and food. You're severely dehydrated."

  Dad nods, understanding the assignment. "I'll be right back," he says, heading toward the nearest convenience store.

  "His left calf has a deep laceration," I tell Mom quietly. "And there's a wound on his lower back that's showing early signs of infection."

  Mom raises an eyebrow, gently folding him over while I clear the space of glass. I get my jacket down and gently shimmy it under him, while she shifts to examine the leg wound. "This needs cleaning and proper dressing. Mack, how long ago did this happen?"

  "Don't know," he says again. "Everything's... fuzzy. A day, maybe? I don't know how long..."

  "His heart rate is elevated and his blood pressure is low," I report, seeing his body lit up in my mind's eye. "Some of the cuts are scabbing over already, though. The small ones."

  Mom opens her kit, pulling out antiseptic wipes, gauze, and tape. "This is going to sting," she warns Mack before cleaning the calf wound. He hisses but doesn't pull away.

  "The man who did this," I ask carefully, "did he say anything else?"

  Mack's eyes drift slightly, focusing on something distant. "I don't remember a lot. Said something about... What? Dogs? Something about a bloodhound..." His face clenches up. "'Dogs like you'?"

  My stomach twists. You as in Mack? What the hell makes him particularly dog-l...

  Mom applies butterfly closures to the deeper cuts while I hold gauze pads in place. I probably know enough first aid to handle this myself, but it feels better having an adult here. I get the distinct impression that I might be ambushed otherwise.

  "Mack, we should get you to a hospital," Mom says gently.

  He immediately tenses. "No hospitals. No police."

  "We won't force you," I assure him. "But you need proper medical care. Those wounds could get infected."

  "We can take you to a free clinic," Mom suggests. "No questions asked."

  Mack hesitates, then nods slightly. "Okay. Clinic might be good."

  Dad returns with a plastic bag containing water bottles, Gatorade, some plain crackers, and a sandwich in plastic. "Best I could do on short notice," he says, handing a water bottle to Mack.

  "Small sips," Mom cautions. "Your body needs to readjust."

  Mack takes the water with shaking hands, drinking carefully. Some color returns to his face almost immediately.

  "The guy who took you," I say, "was there anything else distinctive about him? Anything he said about what he was planning?"

  Mack frowns, concentrating. "Just talking about his 'art show' and... dogs. Thought he was... some kinda art student, but," He looks at me. "Guess that was you."

  "Yeah," I confirm grimly. "He's been leaving... messages all over the city."

  "Said I was just... part of the show... I think?" Mack continues, sipping water between sentences. "He drugged me. I've got... snips."

  I glance around the alley, suddenly aware that we might be under observation. My eyes catch on something - a small black dome on the corner of the adjacent building. Security camera. I can't tell if it belongs to the business or if Shrike installed it, but either way, it's a good bet he's been watching somehow. If not through the security camera, then on the roof, through some of the nearby tinted windows, or maybe through some deranged Rube Goldberg device. That feels like his MO.

  "We need to move," I say quietly to Mom. "I don't think we're alone."

  She nods imperceptibly, continuing to dress Mack's wounds. "Almost done here. Ben, could you bring the car around? I think we should get him to that clinic right away."

  Dad understands immediately, hobbling off to retrieve the car. I'm glad his leg is good enough to drive! Very helpful. I help Mack with some crackers, watching as his hands steadily become more coordinated.

  "How'd you find me?" he asks between bites.

  "Long story," I reply. "Involves a lot of mannequins in a church."

  He looks appropriately confused by this, but doesn't press further.

  "Did he tell you his name?" I ask. "The man who took you?"

  Mack shakes his head. "Just said... he was an artist." He shudders slightly. "Had these eyes. Cold. Like he was looking through me, not at me."

  Mom finishes bandaging the last accessible wound. "We'll need to clean the others at the clinic. Can you stand?"

  Mack nods, and we help him to his feet. He sways slightly but remains upright. Progress.

  "The car's here," Dad calls from the end of the alley. He's pulled up as close as possible, hazard lights blinking.

  We support Mack between us, moving slowly toward the car. I kick my jacket up with my feet, shake glass loose, and flip it over my shoulder. It probably felt cooler than it looks.

  I keep scanning our surroundings, hyper-aware of potential threats. That security camera keeps drawing my attention - is Shrike watching us right now? Is this rescue part of his plan too?

  As we help Mack into the backseat, I take one last look at the dumpster. My blood is still visible on the barbed wire, bright red against rusty metal. Something about this feels unfinished - too easy, maybe. Shrike's other "installations" were elaborate traps, designed to waste time and resources. This one led us directly to a living victim. My mouth tastes, frankly, like blood and piss, and I catch a view of it in the reflection of the car window.

  Not good. Looks worse than it hurts, and all the tiny little cuts, puncture wounds, and holes in my cheeks are the kind of thing my regeneration takes care of fast, but, you know, I've still got blood leaking down my chin and face like I got a little crazy at the ice cream social. I'm pretty sure my tongue is cut in at least four places, too. So many tiny little lacerations it's impossible to count them with my blood sense, but given that I've literally been shot before this is kind of small potatoes.

  "Bloodhound," Mack says as I'm about to close the car door. "Thank you. I thought... I thought I was going to die in there."

  The simple gratitude catches me off guard. "You're welcome," I reply, deeply aware of the metallic taste still filling my mouth. "I'm glad we found you."

  "We should go," Mom says from the driver's seat. "The clinic on Front Street is closest."

  I nod, stepping back from the car. "I'll follow up with the authorities," I tell them, maintaining our pretense of strangers helping in a crisis.

  As they drive away, I spit blood onto the pavement, my mouth finally beginning to heal. The cuts inside my cheeks sting, but the pain is already fading. I look up at the security camera again, and for a moment I imagine Shrike on the other end, watching me, studying my movements, learning my patterns.

  I raise my middle finger directly at the lens before turning to leave.

  If he wants to play games, he should know who he's playing with.