The next few hours drag by with excruciating slowness. I finish my Spanish homework, then my math homework, then start on a chapter of The Great Gatsby that I've already read twice before. Anything to keep my hands busy and make it look like I'm just a normal teenager doing normal things.

  Mom checks on me every forty minutes or so, like clockwork. Dad works late into the evening, the soft click of his keyboard audible through the thin walls. I wonder if he's actually working or if he's researching Shrike. Probably both.

  By 11:30 PM, the Music Hall is quiet. Tasha has set up her equipment in the command center and is sleeping on the cot in the corner, her laptop still open beside her. My parents retreated to their room around 10, and I haven't heard movement since.

  It's time.

  I slip on dark clothes - black jeans, a navy hoodie, my sturdiest boots. I tuck my phone into an inner pocket and pull on fingerless gloves that won't interfere with my grip but will protect my palms if I need to climb or fall. My costume is too conspicuous for tonight's mission, but I bring the small collapsible helmet anyway. Just in case.

  The invitation is simple: a torn piece of paper with an address - the Van Kirk Street construction site - and a date two days from now. I've added a small sketch of a bloodhound in the corner. No cute messages, no taunts. Just business.

  I check my phone one last time and send a text to Crossroads:

  Sam: Going to Opera House to leave invitation. If you don't hear from me by 1 AM, something went wrong. Watch your visions.

  I don't expect a response. It's the middle of the night, and I don't even know if he checks his phone regularly. But I trust him to take it seriously if he sees it. He and I aren't exactly friends friends, but he's probably the most reliable person I know.

  Moving silently down the hallway, I pause outside Tasha's door. She's agreed to monitor things from HQ but promised not to wake my parents unless absolutely necessary. I give her a soft knock.

  The door opens immediately. She's fully dressed, not even pretending to have been asleep.

  "Be careful," she whispers, handing me a small earpiece. "Range is limited, but it should work within a few blocks of each other. I've got the police scanner running."

  "Thanks, Lighthouse," I reply, tucking the earpiece in place.

  She rolls her eyes at the codename but looks pleased with the rest of her face.

  "Maggie and Amelia are waiting by the back entrance," she adds. "I'll be watching the cameras. Try not to die."

  "Always my goal," I whisper back.

  I move silently down the stairs, avoiding the third step that creaks. The back door's security system has been temporarily disabled, allowing me to slip outside without triggering any alerts. Thanks, Tasha.

  Amelia and Maggie are waiting in the shadows, both dressed in dark clothes similar to mine. Amelia's bullwhip is coiled at her hip, and Maggie bounces lightly on her toes, energy practically radiating off her.

  "Ready?" Amelia asks, already straddling her scooter.

  I nod. "Let's go."

  We stick to side streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where police and Argus Corps have set up checkpoints. I'm on the back of Amelia's scooter, and Maggie is holding on for dear life, skitching along with her forcefields while a harness keeps her strapped to the vehicle like a dog. The city feels eerily quiet, the usual nightlife subdued by the Shrike panic.

  "Police scanner's clear," Tasha's voice crackles in my ear. "No unusual activity reported near the Opera House. Or anywhere. I'll repeat that I think this is a terrible dogshit idea, and that you should just hang back, but if you're going to be stubborn about it--"

  "I am," I interrupt.

  "--then I guess it's morally necessary for me to keep eyes on the cops for you."

  "Copy that," I whisper. "And thanks,"

  It takes us twenty minutes to reach the Metropolitan Opera House. The enormous structure looms against the night sky, its grand architecture still visible despite years of neglect. The front entrance is boarded up, but Tasha's research identified a service door on the south side that's frequently used by the church staff. That's how it works - the first floor holds a ministry, the second floor and above has the rest of the opera house. They were supposed to restore it, but... I guess that fell through, at some point.

  "I'll go first," I tell the others as we approach the door. "Just in case he cut himself shaving and I can smell him with my blood sense."

  "You mean because you're basically a walking band-aid," Maggie says with a nervous laugh, strapping a small, thin helmet over her head and dropping the visor over her eyes.

  "Exactly."

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  The service door isn't locked - either the church doesn't bother or someone else has been using it regularly. I push it open carefully, testing for any resistance that might indicate a trap.

  Nothing happens.

  The entrance leads to a narrow hallway that smells of dust and mold. A faint glow comes from further in – probably security lights from the church portion of the building.

  "Stay close," I whisper, taking point. "And watch for tripwires."

  We move slowly, our flashlights casting narrow beams that catch dust motes in the air. The hallway eventually opens into what must have been a backstage area, now filled with stacked chairs and folding tables - church storage.

  "We need to find the stairs up to the second floor," Amelia murmurs.

  A methodical search reveals a service stairwell, the door marked with faded lettering: "To Balcony."

  "This is it," I say, testing the handle. It turns, but a little too slowly.

  I kick it. A bucket full of something foul-smelling falls down from above, rigged with twine, or maybe dental floss, anchored with a nail to the top of the door. It loses its slack, turns sideways, and pitches the sludge down into a gross puddle - along with the telltale sound of glass shards smacking against concrete. "Dickhead," I mumble.

  "Ew," Maggie groans, pinching her nose, using her forcefields to stay above the mess.

  The stairwell is pitch black. I go first, sweeping my flashlight beam across each step before placing my foot down. The stairs creak alarmingly but hold our weight.

  At the top, another door. I press my ear against it, listening. Nothing. My blood sense doesn't detect any living presence nearby, but that doesn't mean the area is safe. It just means he's not on his period. Ha ha.

  "Ready?" I ask, glancing back at Maggie and Amelia. They nod, faces tense in the shadows.

  I push the door open.

  The beam of my flashlight illuminates what was once grandeur, now fallen into decay. We're in the upper balcony of the theater, looking down at what would have been the audience seating. The vast space is eerily beautiful – ornate moldings still visible on the ceiling, elaborate railings half-collapsed, the stage in the distance framed by a tattered curtain.

  But what draws our attention is the massive tarp stretched across the center of the theater floor, covering what appears to be a giant hole. Construction lights are positioned around the perimeter, currently off, but their presence indicates ongoing work.

  "Holy shit," Maggie whispers. "It's like a horror movie set."

  "Focus," Amelia hisses. "Look for signs of Shrike."

  We move carefully along the balcony, mindful of rotted flooring. Our flashlight beams dance across the decaying splendor, revealing peeling paint and crumbling plaster. But as we sweep the space, other details emerge.

  Near one of the side exits, a collection of empty food containers and water bottles. In the corner of the balcony, what looks like a makeshift sleeping area - a thin mattress with rumpled blankets. And scattered across what was once a refreshment counter, newspaper clippings and printed maps.

  "He's been living here," I whisper, examining the sleeping area from a safe distance. "Using it as a base."

  Amelia peers at the newspaper clippings without touching them. "These are all about high schools in Northeast Philly."

  My stomach drops. "He's narrowing it down."

  "But why all these improvised traps?" Maggie asks, pointing to what's clearly a tripwire near one of the balcony exits. "If he can make spikes appear anywhere, why bother with this amateur stuff?"

  "Maybe he can't control it as well as he claims," Amelia suggests. "Or there are limitations we don't know about."

  I consider this, remembering what I know about his powers. "He told me he'd 'seeded' our house with spike embryos that would grow under certain conditions. But if that's true, why not do the same here? Why rely on buckets and tripwires?"

  "Maybe his power requires more than just willing spikes into existence," Amelia theorizes. "He might need to physically touch materials to affect them."

  "Or maybe he was bluffing about the whole time-delay thing," Maggie adds. "Trying to make himself seem more powerful than he is."

  I file this information away for later. Whether it's a limitation or a bluff, it's potentially useful.

  "Let's leave the invitation and get out," I say, eyeing the sleeping area warily. "I don't want to be here when he comes back."

  We make our way carefully down to the main floor, avoiding the tarped area. The stage seems like the most obvious place – theatrical, visible, impossible to miss. Perfect for someone with Shrike's flair for drama.

  As I approach the stage, my foot catches on something. There's a sharp snap, and I freeze.

  "Trip wire," I whisper, scanning the area frantically.

  A soft hissing sound comes from above. I look up just in time to see a bucket tipping over from the rafters.

  "Move!" I shout, diving forward.

  Something wet and foul-smelling splashes behind me, missing by inches. The stench hits immediately - a mixture of urine and what smells like rotten food.

  "What is it with this guy and piss!?" Maggie whispers, looking pale.

  "At least it wasn't acid," Amelia points out practically, trying to avoid the whole area.

  I climb onto the stage, now moving with extreme caution. The wooden boards creak beneath my weight, but hold. I place the invitation in the center, weighing it down with a small piece of debris so it won't blow away.

  "Done," I whisper. "Let's get out of here."

  As we turn to leave, a distant noise freezes us in place. A door opening, then closing. Footsteps.

  "Someone's here," I hiss, pulling Maggie and Amelia into the shadows beside the stage.

  "Is it him?" Maggie asks, her voice barely audible.

  I focus on my blood sense, trying to pinpoint the presence. "One person. Moving slowly. Coming from the church side."

  "Security guard?" Amelia suggests hopefully.

  "Or Shrike," I counter. "We need to move. Now."

  We retreat the way we came, moving as silently as possible toward the service stairwell. The footsteps grow louder, more purposeful, as if whoever it is has heard something.

  At the stairwell door, I hesitate, listening. The footsteps have stopped.

  "They're waiting," I whisper. "Listening, just like we are."

  "What do we do?" Maggie asks, panic edging her voice.

  I make a split-second decision. "New plan. We go up, not down. There has to be another way out from the upper levels."

  We climb higher, past the balcony where we entered, up narrow maintenance stairs that feel increasingly unstable. The building creaks around us, as if protesting our presence.

  Finally, we reach what must be the roof access - a small hatch with a rusted ladder leading up.

  "This is our best shot," I say, testing the ladder. It seems solid enough.

  I climb first, pushing against the hatch. It resists, then gives way with a screech of rusted metal that sounds impossibly loud.

  Cool night air rushes in as we emerge onto the roof of the Metropolitan Opera House. North Philly - the good part of it - spirals around us like a field of poppies.

  "We made it," Maggie breathes, relief evident in her voice.

  "Not quite," Amelia says, pointing to the only viable way down - a fire escape on the far side of the roof. "We still need to get to the ground."

  I shut the door, and hear a click behind me. I don't even have time to mentally cuss about it before I hear several sharp pops, scattered around the rooftop, and then five or six hisses at once, simultaneously.