We head back to the ambulance, where Hector is already waiting. "Good work in there," he says. "Kid's got a fighting chance because of you two."

  "Three of us," Deena corrects. "Your driving shaved at least two minutes off transport time."

  "I do have my uses," Hector grins, climbing back into the driver's seat.

  As we pull away from the hospital, I watch the trauma bay doors where Tyler disappeared. He'll probably live. They'll remove part of his spleen, give him blood transfusions, and eventually, he'll go home. The system worked, just like it's supposed to.

  So why do I still feel this hollow dissatisfaction?

  The radio crackles before I can dwell on it. "Dispatch to Unit 17, we have a Code 3 at Broad and Spring Garden. Reported metahuman incident, multiple injuries."

  Hector immediately hits the lights and sirens, making a sharp turn toward Spring Garden Street. "Copy that, Dispatch. Unit 17 responding. ETA four minutes."

  "Metahuman incident?" I echo, stomach tightening. Those never end well.

  "Probably just a fender bender caused by someone with telekinesis," Deena says, but she's already prepping additional trauma kits.

  We arrive at the scene to find chaos – a section of Broad Street is cratered, like something massive punched the asphalt. Cars are scattered like toys, some flipped onto their sides. A fire hydrant has been sheared off, sending water fountaining into the air.

  And in the center of it all stands a familiar black-clad figure.

  Bloodhound.

  Only... not my Bloodhound. The posture is different - taller, shoulders broader, with a subtle slouch that I never had. The helmet has a different, more naturalistic design. Less armor, more Halloween mask. The mane is different, too - shorter, cropped close to the helmet and a brighter shade of red than my maroon-brown.

  It's Derek.

  He's standing over someone - a young man in a hoodie who's clearly unconscious. Three other civilians are sitting on the curb, looking dazed. Derek is methodically checking the unconscious man's pulse, then his pupils, movements precise but unpracticed.

  "Jesus," Hector mutters as we park. "Looks like Bloodhound's taking a more hands-on approach these days."

  I freeze midway through grabbing my kit. Do they know it's not the same person?

  "Sam, you and Deena take the unconscious one," Hector directs, jumping out. "I'll check the others."

  I follow Deena toward Derek and the unconscious man, my heart pounding uncomfortably. We're supposed to pretend we don't know each other. We're supposed to act like we've never met.

  "Bloodhound," Deena acknowledges with professional neutrality as we approach. "What happened here?"

  Derek turns, and even through the helmet, I can feel the moment of recognition. A slight tensing of his shoulders, a half-second pause before he responds.

  "Telekinetic incident," he says, his voice turned from its normal rasp into something a little more distorted, like an electric guitar. Courtesy of the newest voice modulator slash gas mask that Amelia put together. "Guy was distracted by a phone argument and jaywalking, another car ran a red light, boom, Activation event. It was all over in seconds. Guy flipped some cars in self-defense, and then passed out from exertion."

  "We'll take it from here," Deena says, kneeling beside the man. "Sam, vital signs."

  I crouch down opposite her, hyperaware of Derek still standing over us. Through my blood sense, I can see all the bruises forming in his body, telekinetic backlash stressing his arteries. A thin stream of watery blood-plus-mucus has formed the world's worst mustache on his upper lip, leaking from his nose.

  "Pulse 90, BP elevated, pupils equal but sluggish," I report. "Mild epistaxis, no visible clots."

  "Any drugs involved?" Deena asks him, establishing an IV.

  "Not that I'm aware of," Derek answers. "Witnesses say he was arguing with someone on the phone, got agitated, and then..." He gestures at the destruction around us.

  "You got here fast," Deena observes, not looking up from her work.

  "I was in the area," Derek says carefully.

  Hector returns from checking the other victims. "Three minor injuries over there - cuts and bruises. This one's our priority."

  It takes me a couple of seconds to notice that the moon is out, the days are short, and Derek is unpowered right now. Vysera. He's out here without powers, which means that he's doing it just for the love of the game.

  What a lug. You can't pretend you're a misanthrope forever, Derek Taylor!

  "Heard about your fight with Shrike," Hector continues conversationally, completely unaware he's talking to an entirely different person. "Rough business."

  Derek stiffens visibly. "Different Bloodhound, sorry. She's retired."

  "Oh, word," Hector replies, passing through the conversation like it's meaningless. Like it's just regular yentaing. What? You don't care that much?

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  I don't know. Weird!

  "We need to transport him," Deena decides. "Probable TBI, needs a CT scan and monitoring."

  "I can help get him on the stretcher," Derek offers.

  "We've got it," Hector says, already positioning himself. "You've done your part."

  The dismissal is subtle but clear. The professionals are here now. The costume can step back.

  As we transfer the unconscious man to our stretcher, Derek hovers uncertainly. I can read his body language even through the suit - he wants to stay involved, to finish what he started. But there's no place for Bloodhound in this part of the process.

  "Do you need anything else from me?" he finally asks.

  "Statement for the police, probably," Hector says, nodding toward the approaching cruisers. "Then you're good to go."

  Derek nods, looking down at me one last time. I keep my face professionally blank, focusing on securing the patient's IV.

  "Good work, heroes," he says awkwardly, then turns to meet the police.

  I watch him walk away, probably looking very gawkish and teenage from the outside.

  "You okay?" Deena asks quietly as we load the stretcher into the ambulance.

  "Fine," I say automatically. "Why?"

  "You're staring at Bloodhound like you've seen a ghost."

  I force a shrug. "Just weird seeing... you know, a real superhero up close."

  She gives me a look that says she's not buying it but doesn't press further. We close the ambulance doors and set off toward the hospital again, leaving Derek to deal with the police and the aftermath.

  The security line at school stretches halfway down the block Monday morning. I check my phone - 7:45 AM, still plenty of time before first period, but at this rate, I'll be cutting it close.

  "Great," I mutter to myself, eyeing the armed security guards at the entrance. "Nothing says 'conducive learning environment' like being treated like a criminal."

  "Wait till you see inside," Alex says, popping up behind me fast enough to make me jump. "I swear they've got five more checkpoints this week."

  The line inches forward. Ahead of us, a freshman is having his backpack thoroughly searched, looking mortified as a guard pulls out his gym clothes and holds them up.

  "Really? I doubt it. That sounds like hyperbole," I reply. "It looks like the same amount of people as before."

  "How's the EMT thing going?" Alex asks, changing the subject abruptly enough to make me feel a very quick, mild sense of whiplash.

  "Interesting," I say noncommittally. "Different."

  "Different good or different bad?"

  I consider this. "Just different. More structured. Less... independent."

  "Sounds boring," he says with a grin.

  "Sometimes," I admit. "But I'm learning a lot."

  We finally reach the checkpoint. I place my backpack on the table and step through the metal detector, which naturally goes off because of my tracker bracelet. I just sort of raise my arm up. We've had this conversation almost daily the first two weeks of Expanded Security Theatre, me and the guards. But now they just wave me through, which feels like kind of defeating the point.

  Alex follows a moment later, having surrendered his camera equipment for inspection. "They better not break anything," he mutters. "That lens cost me three months of paychecks."

  Inside, the school has the tense, subdued atmosphere of an airport terminal during a security alert. Groups of students cluster together in the hallways, voices low, glancing around nervously whenever a guard passes by. There's none of the usual pre-class energy - no shouting, no roughhousing, no laughter.

  "Told you," Alex says, noticing my expression. "It's been like this since they ramped up security last week. Everyone's walking on eggshells."

  We pass a new poster on the wall - "SEE SOMETHING, SAY SOMETHING" emblazoned over a silhouette of a masked figure. Below, in smaller text: "Report Suspicious Powers or Activities to Security Immediately."

  Great. That won't cause problems at all.

  "They've already had three false reports," Alex tells me, following my gaze. "Two last Tuesday, one on Thursday. Kids claiming classmates have powers."

  "Let me guess - settling personal scores?"

  "Exactly. Ryan Chen got sent home because Bridget Walsh said she saw him levitating a pencil. Turns out he was just balancing it on his finger."

  "That's stupid. Statistically there's like three students at this school with powers. Doesn't anyone know how to do math?"

  We reach my locker, where I swap out books for first period. The hallway security camera blinks at us quietly, a solid black hemisphere that's impossible to track with your eyes. You never know if it's looking at you or someone else.

  "See you at lunch?" Alex asks as the warning bell rings.

  "Yeah. Save me a seat with the goths."

  He gives me a mock salute and disappears into the stream of students.

  First period is pre-calc, which would normally be a welcome distraction - math problems have clear solutions, unlike everything else in my life. But today, Mr. Winters spends the first fifteen minutes explaining the new classroom emergency procedures.

  "We have two new safety protocols," he explains, pointing to a freshly laminated chart by the door. "For conventional threats, you'll hear an announcement saying 'There is an armed intruder on campus.' In that case, we lock the door, barricade it with these--" he gestures to strange door stops and reinforcement bars that weren't there last week, "--turn off the lights, and hide away from windows and doors."

  He flips to the next page, which shows a color-coded map of the school.

  "For metahuman threats, the announcement will specifically say 'Metahuman incident in progress.' In that case, we don't hide - we evacuate immediately following these predetermined routes," he says, tracing paths with his finger. "These routes avoid open spaces and potential danger zones."

  A hand goes up. "What if we can't tell what kind of powers they have? How do we know which areas are dangerous?"

  "That's why these routes were designed by NSRA consultants," Mr. Winters explains, looking uncomfortable with the material. "They're supposed to minimize exposure regardless of power type."

  Another hand. "What if one of us has powers? Are we supposed to help or evacuate too?"

  The classroom goes very quiet. Mr. Winters shifts his weight, glancing at the security camera in the corner of the room.

  "The official policy is that all students evacuate, regardless of abilities," he says carefully. "The administration is very clear that intervention should be left to the authorities."

  I keep my expression carefully neutral. The "authorities" who couldn't even keep Shrike in prison? The ones who took fifteen minutes to respond to the construction site battle? "It seems kind of weird that they want us to physically move if one kind of nutcase is on campus, but hide if another one is on campus," I say, just barely loud enough to be heard. It's tactically... strange, is what I don't say.

  Mr. Winters looks at me with a sort of sad, sympathetic look. Nobody has forgotten that my house got destroyed by a T-Rex. Who also broke my foot. Among other things. "I believe the rationale was that metahuman incidents are more akin to natural disasters, like a fire, than they are an active shooter. I'm sure there will be plenty of drills and changes to the policy in the next couple of weeks."

  Mr. Winters mercifully moves on to actual pre-calc after that, but the tension in the room remains. Every time someone drops a pencil or a chair scrapes against the floor, heads snap around, eyes wide and wary.

  By lunchtime, I'm exhausted from the constant state of alertness. The cafeteria is subdued - even the usual cliques seem to have drawn their circles tighter, more defensive. I spot Alex at our usual table with the usual people.

  "How's your day going?" he asks as I sit down with my tray.

  "Like being in a very boring dystopian novel," I reply, poking at what the cafeteria claims is lasagna. "You?"

  "Media Studies got canceled because Ms. Reyes couldn't get her camera equipment through security. So we just sat there watching CNN coverage of the 'Metahuman Threat Level.'"

  "That sounds healthy and not at all anxiety-inducing," I comment.

  This is what Shrike wanted - fear, suspicion, division. He lost the battle. But is he winning the war?