I push through the side entrance of the Tacony Music Hall, the familiar smell of dust and old carpet hitting me as I step inside. My mouth still tastes like a bloody penny factory, but at least the bleeding has mostly stopped. My healing factor is handling the small cuts well enough, but the deeper gouges in my cheeks and gums are taking their time.

  "Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing slightly in the dim hallway. "Tasha?"

  "Back here!" Her voice comes from our makeshift command center - the old practice room we've converted with secondhand monitors and computer equipment that would make Jordan salivate.

  I find Tasha hunched over her keyboard, surrounded by screens showing various news feeds, police scanners, and what looks like security camera footage from around the city. The pale blue light from the monitors makes her face look ghostly in the otherwise darkened room.

  I filled everyone in on the way back. Now it's just a matter of shaking any tails.

  "Holy shit," she says when she sees me, swiveling her chair around. "Your face!"

  I touch my cheek self-consciously, feeling the swollen patches where my skin is trying to knit itself back together. "It's fine. Looks worse than it feels."

  "Doubt that," she mutters, pulling a first aid kit from under her desk. "Sit. Let me see."

  I grunt in protest, but still drop into the chair beside her. "The inside of my mouth is the worst part."

  "Open," she commands, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves.

  I sigh and open my mouth. Tasha winces visibly as she shines a penlight inside.

  "Jesus, Sam. It looks like you tried to make out with a food processor."

  "Technically it was barbed wire soaked in piss, but yeah, same energy."

  She pulls back, shaking her head. "The wounds inside your mouth can't properly scab - the environment's too wet. They form something called a 'coagulum' instead, kind of like a protective layer of protein."

  "Okay, nurse mom," I snark.

  She vanishes around the corner into the kitchenette while I self-consciously wipe with disinfectant wipes. Even after being shot, you still aren't prepared for just how much these things sting. She's back a minute later with a glass of water. "Salt water rinse. It'll help prevent infection until your healing factor catches up."

  I take it gratefully. "Thanks. Mack's at the clinic, by the way. Mom and Dad are handling paperwork. How's everyone else doing?"

  Tasha turns back to her screens. "Amelia's hit three of the fabric stores where mannequins were stolen. Two had security cameras, but they were either broken or the footage was already gone."

  "Shrike covered his tracks," I say, not surprised.

  "Exactly. Lily, Maggie, and Derek have checked thirteen more potential hostage locations. All duds - same setup as before. Barbed wire, photos, 'Try Again' messages."

  "So Mack was the only real hostage?" I ask, swishing salt water around my mouth before spitting it into a trash can. It feels exceptionally weird to feel the water, like... dribbling out from my cheeks. I have to adjust. Don't exactly enjoy the sensation.

  "Looks that way, but we're not taking chances. The DVDs are still checking the remaining locations. Fury Forge has this little bomb disposing centipede bot thing that she's operating remotely. Really cool," Tasha says, watching a fourth video feed that's been almost minimized in the corner. Okay, yeah, that looks like a low angle point of view from some sort of robot. Neat.

  I sink deeper into my chair, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard, combined with the low-grade pain throughout my mouth and face. "He wanted us to find Mack," I say after a moment. "That location was too easy compared to the others."

  "Agreed," Tasha says, typing something rapidly. "It was the first place you checked. Not the first place we checked, but, still, one of the closer ones to the church."

  "Which means he probably wanted me there specifically. He might have been watching."

  Tasha's hands pause over her keyboard. "You think he got a look at you? Could he identify you?"

  "I don't know," I admit. "There was a security camera, but I was in full costume the whole time, and I don't know if he was on the other end of it. And I'm sure he also assumed I would've gotten help. I don't think it would've been physically possible to check every location with just me in time. So either he really wanted to gamble with that guy's life, or he assumed I'd have gotten help. That's just deductive reasoning. Inductive?"

  "Inductive. Starting with observations, moving towards a conclusion. Deductive starts from principles. Still," Tasha says, "maybe staying here tonight is smart. Just in case."

  I nod, pulling out my phone to text Mom and explain the plan. She responds almost immediately:

  Mom: We were thinking the same thing. Safer to have you around your fellow fighters for now, much as it chagrins me to admit it. Dad's cleaning your room and checking the security system. Be home tomorrow?

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I text back a confirmation, then drop my phone on the desk. "Looks like I'm crashing on the couch tonight."

  "We've got mattresses still, buddy, we didn't sell them or anything," Tasha reminds me. "Oh, and there's something you should see."

  She pulls up a news feed on the main monitor. The headline reads: "POLICE IDENTIFY 'BIRD KILLER' AS ESCAPED DAEDALUS INMATE."

  "When did this happen?" I ask, leaning forward.

  "About an hour ago. Someone recognized the spike pattern from the news coverage. A former victim."

  The article shows a grainy mugshot of a younger man with wild blonde hair and a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Niles Nolan, 39, also known as 'Shrike,' escaped from Daedalus Correctional Facility during last month's security breach. Nolan was serving multiple life sentences for a series of murders in Philadelphia in 2009-2010..."

  "One of the Magnificent Seven," I murmur, scanning the article. "But why come back to Philly? Why not head for Canada like the others probably did?"

  "Unfinished business," Tasha suggests. "Liberty Belle put him away. Now she's gone, so he's fixated on you as her successor."

  "Great. I've inherited a psychotic fan." I keep reading, my stomach churning as I get to the details of his original crimes. Young women, tortured with metal spikes grown from everyday objects. Five dead before Belle caught him, four civilians and a cop. The article describes him as "highly intelligent" and "methodical."

  "There's more," Tasha says, switching to another tab. "The chatrooms are all blowing up with bird sightings. People are reporting dead birds everywhere, claiming they're Shrike's work."

  "Are they?"

  "Most aren't. Just normal dead birds that people are freaking out about. But it's creating noise that makes it harder to track his actual movements."

  I rub my temples, trying to think through the fog of exhaustion and pain. "So now everyone knows who he is, but that doesn't help us find him."

  "Pretty much," Tasha agrees. "The DVDs have put out an alert, and NSRA agents are supposedly on their way to assist local PD."

  "Meanwhile, he's probably already planning his next move."

  The rest of the day passes in a blur of news updates, team check-ins, and increasingly implausible "Shrike sightings" reported across social media. By evening, my mouth feels better - still tender, but the deeper wounds are finally starting to heal properly. I've eaten nothing but soup and protein shakes that Tasha ordered.

  Lily and Maggie return around eight, tired and frustrated after a day of checking empty locations, with Derek having gone home around six. Amelia joins us an hour later with similar lack of success from the fabric stores.

  "The owners are all creeped out," she reports, accepting a slice of pizza from the box on our planning table. "One guy told me Shrike was super polite when he came in. Paid cash for two mannequins, helped load them into a van. Nothing suspicious except in hindsight."

  "What kind of van?" I ask, perking up.

  "White panel van, no markings. Manager didn't get the plate," Amelia grumbles.

  "Of course not," Maggie sighs. "That would be too easy."

  "Wait, didn't he steal some of them?" I ask.

  "Yeah, and paid for some others. All told I could account for, like, 36 mannequins. Way more than were at the church," Amelia answers, rolling her eyes. "Getting chased by a Z-list supervillain with delusions of eloquence. How lovely."

  We spend another hour reviewing everything we know, which isn't much. Shrike is methodical. He plans ahead. He's good at staying hidden when he wants to be. His father is some retired conservative judge from Chester County who hasn't responded to any questions. Mother is totally not visible on the internet. And he dropped out of medical school for art school, then dropped out of art school to become a serial killer.

  "You should get some sleep," Lily tells me, noticing me stifling a yawn. "You look exhausted."

  I can't argue with that. The cot in the back room isn't comfortable, but right now it looks like heaven. I check my phone one last time - another text from Mom confirming that everything at home is secure - before collapsing onto the thin mattress.

  Despite my exhaustion, sleep doesn't come easily. Every time I close my eyes, I see Mack's face, hear his disoriented voice, smell the stench of the dumpster. I see the security camera, wondering if Shrike was watching the whole time. Planning. Waiting.

  Sunday evening finds me standing on our front porch, key in hand, hesitating before unlocking the door. After a day and a half at the Music Hall with no further Shrike sightings or incidents, we decided it was safe for me to come home. The news cycle has already started to move on, with only occasional updates about the ongoing manhunt. No new hostages, no new bird tableaus, no new mannequins.

  Dad opens the door before I can use my key. "Hey, kiddo," he says, ushering me inside. "How's the mouth?"

  "Better," I reply, which is mostly true. The wounds have healed enough that talking doesn't hurt anymore, though I've still got some tender spots along my inner cheeks, where the flesh is still kind of thin and weird. "Anything happen here?"

  "All quiet," he confirms, closing and locking the door behind me. "I've checked the security system twice. Motion sensors are working, window alarms are set, and I got into contact with Councilman Davis. He said he's going to try and rope back that security detail we had from when the dinosaur smashed our home up."

  I try to smile but my face just feels wrinkly and sore. "Cool."

  Mom appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Perfect timing. Dinner's almost ready."

  I drop my backpack by the stairs and follow them into the kitchen, trying to shake the feeling that something isn't right.

  "We were thinking," Mom says as we sit down at the table, "maybe you should stay home from school tomorrow. Just until this situation is resolved."

  "I'd prefer not to, but I'm not going to start a fight about it," I say, staring down at the dinner table, trying not to feel a little shell-shocked.

  "That's... very mature of you, Sam," Mom says carefully.

  I shrug. "Getting my face shredded by barbed wire will do that to a person. Just don't tell me you're gonna pull me out of classes entirely. I'm not letting this guy shut down my life."

  "I'd prefer you also get into college while you're busy being mature. I already went over your head and sent emails to your teachers with a good excuse," she replies. I feel myself bristling, but shove the emotion back down.

  "Cool."

  Dinner passes with casual conversation that carefully avoids mention of Shrike, the Magnificent Seven, or anything superhero-related. The house is locked up. It's safe. It's secure. There's even another padlock on the back entrance, the one that leads into the little alleyway where we throw all our trash. I should feel safe and secure.

  So why don't I?

  I get ready for bed mechanically, going through the motions of my nightly routine. Brush teeth (carefully, avoiding the tender spots), wash face, change into pajamas. I check my phone one last time - no updates from the team, no news alerts about Shrike.

  As I slide under the covers, I find myself listening for unusual sounds, scanning the shadows for movement. The street outside is quiet, the occasional car passing, the neighbor's dog barking once before falling silent again.

  Just another Sunday night in Philadelphia. Except for the deranged serial killer chasing me, specifically. I thought the arsonist was bad news, but no, G-d just had to go one-up Himself.

  I close my eyes, willing sleep to come. Tomorrow I'll regroup with the team, figure out our next move. Maybe the DVDs will have a lead. Maybe Shrike will make a mistake.