I'm shivering in the driveway, clutching a backpack full of hastily thrown-together necessities. Toothbrush, deodorant, three pairs of underwear, two t-shirts, my backup costume. The essentials. Mom's moving with practiced efficiency, like she's been preparing for this exact scenario. Maybe she has been, ever since Mr. T-Rex destroyed our home the first time around.

  "I've got your medications," she says, emerging from the house with a small toiletry bag. "Two weeks' worth, plus the emergency prescription refill cards."

  Dad's still inside, grabbing his laptop and some important documents. The house looms behind us, looking exactly the same as always from the outside. No visible spikes, no signs of disturbance. Just our familiar home, potentially laced with tiny metal death traps waiting to skewer us.

  Sweet.

  I check my phone: 3:42 AM. Less than half an hour since I woke up to Shrike in my doorway. Feels like hours. My ear still stings where his spike grazed it, but the bleeding's stopped. Small mercies.

  "You have a plan?" I ask Mom as she stuffs a duffel bag into the trunk of our Subaru.

  "We're not staying here, that's for damn sure," she replies, her voice steady but tight. She's in crisis mode, which means all her emotions are packed away neatly for later unpacking.

  "Do you think he really put spikes everywhere?" I can't help asking. "Or was he bluffing?"

  Mom gives me a look that says she's not willing to bet our lives on it being a bluff. Fair enough.

  "Ben!" she calls toward the house. "We need to go!"

  Dad appears in the doorway, leaning on his cane more heavily than usual, carrying a laptop bag and a small fireproof lockbox. The gun is nowhere to be seen, presumably secured somewhere on his person. I try not to stare at the spot on his chin where Shrike's spike nearly pierced through.

  The police have started slowly pulling around - I can see lights, but in the distance. Slow lights. Too slow lights.

  "Everything essential is packed," Dad says, making his way carefully down the front steps. "The rest we can have the police ship to us once they've cleared the house."

  "Where are we going?" I ask, climbing into the backseat as Dad takes shotgun. My body is still running on adrenaline, but I can feel the crash coming. I need to stay alert.

  Mom starts the car, backs out of the driveway, and begins driving. No particular direction, just away. "We should head to Pop-pop's in Ventnor," she says after a moment. "He's got the space, and it's far enough away that--"

  "That's a terrible idea," Dad interrupts, his voice calm but firm. "If this Shrike character is specifically targeting Sam's family for being Jewish, sending her to her elderly Jewish grandfather's house is just painting another target."

  Mom's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Then where, Ben?"

  "Not Ventnor," I agree. "Dad's right. This guy... you heard what he said. He's a literal Nazi. An armband-wearing, Jewish-gene-pool-ranting Nazi. He'd love nothing more than to get his hands on Pop-pop."

  The car falls silent as we process this. The streets are empty at this hour, just occasional streetlights casting orange puddles on the asphalt. I watch familiar landmarks slide past, wondering when I'll see them again.

  "What about a hotel?" Mom suggests. "We could--"

  "No," I cut her off. "Too public. Too many variables. Too easy for him to find us."

  "What do you suggest then?" There's an edge to Mom's voice now.

  I take a deep breath. "The Music Hall."

  Dad turns to look at me, eyebrow raised. "The what?"

  I nod. "Our. You know, my HQ. It's secure. We've got all kinds of countermeasures set up. There's beds, a kitchenette, working plumbing. And more importantly, there's almost always at least one powered teenager hanging around."

  "You want us to hide behind children?" Mom snaps.

  "No," I reply evenly. "I want us to stay somewhere that Shrike would think twice about attacking. Somewhere that's not in public records, that has security systems specifically designed to keep out people like him, and where multiple people can keep watch." I pause. "Somewhere that's not full of innocent bystanders if he does find us."

  Mom sighs, her entire body flopping backwards into the seat, while Dad pinches the bridge of his nose in thought.

  "It makes tactical sense," Dad admits reluctantly. "And it's close enough that Sam can still attend school."

  "School?" Mom nearly swerves. "She's not going to school with that maniac out there!"

  "If I stop going to school, he wins," I argue. "Besides, Tacony Charter has way better security than our house. Metal detectors, armed guards, the works. After the courthouse attack, they're basically Fort Knox with textbooks."

  Dad sighs. "We'll discuss school later. For now, let's focus on immediate safety."

  Mom makes a right turn, heading toward Tacony. "Fine. The Music Hall. But I'm calling Mr. Davis as soon as it's a reasonable hour. We need official protection."

  "Oh, good idea." I pull out my phone and start scrolling through contacts.

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  "What are you doing?" Mom asks, glancing at me in the rearview mirror.

  "Calling Jamal now," I reply, hitting the call button. "It's an emergency, and he's a city councilman. Pretty sure 'reasonable hours' don't apply."

  "Sam--" Mom starts, but it's too late. The phone is already ringing.

  It rings four times before a groggy voice answers. "Hello? Sam?"

  "Councilman Davis," I say, trying to sound as calm and adult as possible. "Sorry to wake you, but we have a situation."

  "What's happened?" His voice immediately sharpens, sleep falling away.

  "Remember Shrike? The escaped Daedalus inmate who's been killing birds all over Philadelphia?"

  "Yes, of course."

  "He just broke into our house about thirty minutes ago. Threatened me and my parents. He's tracking me specifically because I was Liberty Belle's protégé. You know, his Bloodhound... art piece. And he's..." I swallow. "He made it clear he's targeting us for being Jewish. I don't know if that's, like, the main thing. Maybe it's just some fucked up cherry on top for him."

  There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line. "Are you safe now? Where are you?"

  "In the car, heading to a secure location. But our house might be booby-trapped. He said something about planting spike 'embryos' in the walls that would activate if certain conditions were met. I don't know if he was bluffing or not."

  "Jesus Christ," Jamal mutters, which is maybe the strongest language I've ever heard him use. "Did you call the police?"

  "Silent alarm was triggered. They're probably there by now." I hope.

  "Okay. I'm getting dressed. I'll meet you - where are you going?"

  I glance at my parents. "The Tacony Music Hall."

  Another brief silence. "Your headquarters. That's... actually not a bad idea. I'll meet you there in forty minutes. And I'll make some calls on the way."

  "Actually," I add, "a couple of years ago, when Mr. Tyrannosaur destroyed our house, you helped set up a security detail around our neighborhood for a couple months. Any chance we could get something similar?"

  "I'll see what I can do," he promises. "But Sam, this is... this is beyond the usual. This man specifically targeted your home, your family. We need to consider all options."

  "Like what?"

  "Like witness protection, possibly."

  I feel my stomach drop. "That's not happening. I'm not leaving Philadelphia."

  "Sam--"

  "I have to go. We'll see you at the Music Hall." I hang up before he can argue further.

  Mom glares at me in the rearview mirror. "Witness protection? Is that really on the table?"

  "No," I say firmly. "It's not. I'm not leaving my team, my city, or my responsibilities."

  "Your responsibility is to stay alive," Dad counters. "And to let us keep you safe."

  "And one day go to college. If that's what you want, I mean," Mom adds, although she doesn't sound particularly enthusiastic about that back half.

  "Safety first," Dad adds over top like a game of Uno.

  "Pri-or-ities, please." I lean forward between the front seats. "How are you going to do that, exactly? Hide me away in Montana while Shrike goes after everyone else I care about? He made it pretty clear what happens if I try to hide."

  The car falls silent again as we turn onto Longshore Avenue.

  "I'm not saying I'm going to rush out and confront him tonight," I continue, more gently. "But running away isn't the answer either. I need to face him, on my terms."

  "Like Liberty Belle faced Chernobyl?" Mom's voice is barely above a whisper, but it hits like a slap.

  "That was different," I shoot back like someone just slapped me.

  "Was it?" Mom demands. "She went to face a monster alone, and she died, Sam. She died."

  "I'm not planning on dying."

  "Neither was she!" Mom's voice breaks.

  Dad places a hand on her arm. "Rachel, the road."

  She takes a deep breath, refocusing on driving. "We'll discuss this later. After we've all had some sleep and can think clearly."

  Fat chance of sleeping after this, but I don't argue. We're approaching the Music Hall now, its abandoned facade looming in the darkness. To most people, it looks like just another forgotten building. To me, it's a second home.

  Dad peers out the window. "Are you sure this place is secure?"

  "More secure than our house was," I reply, trying not to sound bitter. "We've got motion sensors, reinforced doors, panic buttons, a Faraday cage room, the works. And I've got a good relationship with the owner. He knows we use it. I'm good for the neighborhood, apparently."

  That makes Mom smile, and Dad frown, just a little bit each.

  Mom parks around back, in the small lot hidden from street view, where all the garbage (i.e pizza boxes) goes. The security lights flicker on as we approach, motion-activated. I lead the way to the side entrance, punching in the code on the keypad.

  "Welcome to Auditors HQ," I mutter as the door swings open.

  The familiar smell of old carpet and something vaguely metallic greets us. I flip on the lights, revealing the main hallway. It's not exactly homey - peeling wallpaper, water stains on the ceiling - but it's secure.

  "The practice rooms upstairs have beds," I explain, leading them toward the stairs. "The kitchenette has a mini-fridge, microwave, and hot plate. Bathroom's functional, though the water pressure isn't great."

  Mom looks around, taking it all in with an expression I can't quite read. "I knew you were spending a lot of time here, but... Working plumbing?"

  It's not really a question, but I nod anyway. "It's our base of operations. Would you rather I use a portajohn?"

  "And the property owner just lets teenagers use his abandoned building?" Dad asks, skeptical.

  "He knows what we're doing," I explain. "And he supports it. He's had family saved by heroes before." I shrug. "Plus, we keep squatters and drug dealers away. It's mutually beneficial."

  I show them to the largest practice room, which has two twin beds pushed against opposite walls. "You guys can take this room. I usually crash in the smaller one next door."

  Dad sets down his lockbox on one of the beds, looking around the room with a critical eye. "The electrical in this place is up to code?"

  "Mostly," I hedge. "The important stuff is."

  Mom sits heavily on the other bed, suddenly looking exhausted. The adrenaline crash is hitting her too. "I can't believe this is happening again."

  "I know," I say quietly. "I'm sorry."

  "It's not your fault," she says automatically, then pauses. "Well, not entirely your fault."

  "It is your fault," Dad says, and it stings. I'm waiting for the 'but', and it comes about a second later, I assume after he's finished thinking about how to actually say it (but not before Mom elbows him in the ribs). "No, sorry. It's. Shrike's fault. But it's because you decided to become a superhero. But... you know. We live in... weird times. I don't think any of us could've reasonably predicted one of your mentors' old nemeses would break out of jail and hunt you, specifically, down."

  "Moe could've probably predicted it," Rachel - excuse me, Mom - mumbles. Then, her face scrunches up. "Ben! You can't say that!"

  "I mean in a purely causative sense! I'm not assigning moral blame!" Dad protests. "I'm proud of her!"

  I almost smile at that. "It's okay. I know what you mean."

  "Sorry. Tired and stressed," Dad apologizes, rubbing his temples. "Harder to mask."

  "I don't know what that means," I respond.

  "Don't worry about it, then," he finishes, putting his crutch down neatly on the floor, parallel with the bed exactly.

  "Jamal said he'd be here in about half an hour," I tell them. "I should call the team, let them know what's happened."

  Dad nods. "Go ahead. We'll... try to get settled."

  I leave them to unpack their emergency bags and head to our command center - the former rehearsal space now filled with monitors, computers, and a large whiteboard covered in notes about Kingdom operations, Rogue Wave, and now, Shrike.

  As I pull out my phone to text the group chat, I notice my hands are shaking. The reality of what just happened is finally sinking in. Shrike was in my bedroom. He was going to kill my parents. He still might, if I don't stop him.

  The Metropolitan Opera House. That's where he wants me to leave my "invitation." To set up our final confrontation.

  I start typing a message to the team: Emergency meeting. Music Hall. ASAP. Shrike found me.

  Then I collapse into the desk chair, put my head in my hands, and wait for the responses to start flooding in.