Five aerosol cans scream simultaneously as their contents spray into the night air, creating an invisible cloud that engulfs the rooftop like a blanket. My eyes start burning instantly, and my lungs feel like they're filling with fire.

  "Cover your faces!" I choke out, yanking my hoodie up over my nose and mouth.

  Maggie's already ahead of me, throwing up forcefields near her face to push the cloud away. Amelia isn't so lucky - she catches a face full of whatever hellish cocktail Shrike has prepared, dropping to her knees with a strangled cry.

  "Flash - shield - Goss," I manage between coughs, my eyes streaming. The chemicals sting my skin, seeping through my clothes. It smells like industrial cleaner mixed with something spicier - pepper spray, maybe? Whatever it is, it's working. I can barely see, barely breathe. Through teary eyes I can see a single can ahead of me, crunched into the fire escape by a nail that's been smacked down into it with some sort of absurd Rube Goldberg mechanism.

  Maggie extends her forcefield around Amelia, who's retching and gasping. "The fire escape?" she yells, voice muffled through her protective bubble.

  I squint through burning tears. The metal stairs are dripping with the same noxious spray. "Covered in chemicals. We'd get burned worse."

  "Back inside?" Amelia suggests weakly.

  "And face whoever's in there?" I shake my head, immediately regretting the motion as it brings my face into more contact with the airborne irritants. "No choice. Fire escape. Quick."

  The cans are still screaming and hissing, creating a thickening miasma. We need to move now, before we're completely incapacitated. I pull my sleeves over my hands and grab Amelia's arm, dragging her toward the edge of the roof while Maggie maintains her shield around Amelia's head.

  "I can't shield both of you," Maggie says apologetically, her own eyes red and streaming despite her protection.

  "Just get us down," I rasp.

  The fire escape is slick with chemicals. Bleach? Something stronger? We hit a tripwire and something narrowly avoids splashing a cupful of something new and bright-smelling near our feet. Every trap just leads into more traps. Fuck!

  We're about halfway down when I hear a strange popping sound from above - like someone stepping on bubble wrap. The remaining aerosol cans exploding? Or something else?

  "Faster," I urge, practically sliding down the last section of ladder.

  We hit the alley behind the Opera House at a run, putting distance between us and the building. My lungs are screaming, and every inch of exposed skin feels like it's covered in invisible fire ants. Amelia isn't much better, stumbling alongside me while Maggie provides what protection she can. Amelia's scooter is just meters away.

  We turn the corner onto a side street, and that's when I see it - a black metal spike erupting from the brick wall at precisely eye level, materializing so quickly it seems to just appear rather than grow.

  I freeze, then jerk backward, colliding with Amelia. The spike vibrates slightly, as if it was meant to catch something - or someone - moving at speed, and then recedes back just as fast.

  "He's here," I whisper, eyes darting around the darkened street. Buildings loom on either side, windows like blank eyes staring down at us. He could be in any of them.

  Another spike bursts from a different wall, this one angled toward where I'm standing. We all flinch back.

  "Move!" I hiss, pulling the others into a run.

  We sprint through empty streets, taking random turns, doubling back, anything to break line of sight. There weren't any more spikes besides the two of those, but by the time we get back to Amelia's scooter fifteen minutes later, we're all winded, probably chemical burnt in a couple of places, and thoroughly scared shitless.

  "I think we lost him," Amelia whispers, her voice raw from the chemicals.

  "Or he's letting us go," I counter. "Sending a message."

  By the time we reach the Music Hall, it's nearly 2 AM. Tasha's waiting by the side entrance, silently disabling the security system to let us in without triggering alerts.

  "Holy shit," she whispers when she sees us. "You look terrible."

  "Feel worse," Amelia croaks, slumping against the wall once we're inside.

  "Did you see anyone following?" Tasha asks, re-securing the door.

  I shake my head. "Just spikes. He was there, watching, but we never saw him."

  Tasha ushers us to the bathroom, where she's already prepared wet towels and a first aid kit. "Rinse your eyes first. Then your skin. I've got saline solution."

  We take turns at the sink, washing away the chemicals as best we can. The relief is immediate but incomplete. My skin still feels raw and tender, and my eyes burn despite repeated rinsing.

  "My parents still asleep?" I ask Tasha as she dabs antibiotic ointment on a particularly angry-looking patch of skin on Amelia's neck.

  "Haven't heard a peep," she confirms.

  "Then we've got four hours to look like we never left," I reply, trying to avoid looking directly at the mirror.

  We clean up as best we can, change into fresh clothes, and throw the contaminated one in the dumpster. Quick showers for all of us. No evidence. No questions. By 3 AM, we're gathered in the command center, speaking in hushed tones.

  "Did you deliver the invitation?" Tasha asks.

  I nod. "Center stage. He'll find it."

  "And then what?" Amelia asks, still massaging her throat.

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  "Then we wait," I reply. "Two days. And we prepare."

  Nobody looks particularly thrilled about this plan, but nobody offers an alternative either. We're committed now.

  "You should get some sleep," Tasha says finally. "I'll monitor police channels in case anything happens."

  "Wake me if there's news," I tell her.

  I stumble to my room, exhaustion finally catching up with me. Despite the lingering burn on my skin and the rawness in my throat, I fall asleep almost instantly.

  Morning comes too soon, with Mom knocking on my door at 7:30 AM.

  "Sam? You up? Your first class starts in half an hour."

  I blink awake, momentarily confused by the unfamiliar ceiling. Right. Music Hall. Nazi manhunt. Online school.

  "I'm up," I call back, my voice coming out as a rasp.

  Mom opens the door, eyebrows immediately furrowing with concern. "Are you okay? You sound terrible."

  "Just dry throat," I lie, sitting up carefully to avoid wincing. My skin still feels like a mild sunburn where the chemicals hit. "Probably the air in here. Old building."

  She doesn't look convinced but doesn't press. "Breakfast in ten minutes. Your dad's set up a workspace for you in the main room."

  The day proceeds with excruciating normalcy. I log into online classes, pretending to care about Spanish conjugations and the thematic significance of green light in The Great Gatsby while my mind keeps replaying the spike appearing from the brick wall, perfectly aimed at eye level.

  During lunch break, Dad turns on the news. I nearly choke on my sandwich when I see the headline: "BIRD KILLER STRIKES AGAIN: FREE LIBRARY OF PHILADELPHIA VANDALIZED."

  "Turn it up," I say, trying to sound merely curious rather than frantic.

  The reporter stands outside the Northeast Regional Library, where police tape cordons off the entrance. "Overnight, the so-called 'Bird Killer' struck again, this time targeting the library with what police are calling 'disturbing imagery and vandalism.' Library staff discovered the scene this morning, including several dead birds arranged in what appears to be--"

  The camera cuts away before showing details, but the reporter continues: "Due to the graphic nature of the display, we cannot show the full scene. However, authorities confirm this appears to be the work of Niles Nolan, also known as 'Shrike,' the escaped Daedalus inmate who has been terrorizing Philadelphia schools in recent days."

  Mom's face has gone pale.

  "The library?" she whispers. "Why would he target a library?"

  "You know the answer to that," I mumble, trying to avoid thinking about it. What, he's going to attack my Dad's office building next?

  "The police say there's a clear pattern to these attacks," the reporter continues. "Schools, community centers, now libraries - all places frequented by young people. Authorities believe Nolan may be seeking to 'recreate' his original crime spree from fifteen years ago, which also targeted educational institutions in Strawberry Mansion."

  That's not it at all, but I'm glad they're missing the connection. Let them think he's just recreating his greatest hits.

  "No casualties were reported, though library staff are receiving counseling after discovering the scene. Philadelphia Police Department urges anyone with information on Nolan's whereabouts to contact their tip line immediately."

  Dad mutes the TV as the segment ends. "At least they're taking it seriously now."

  "Libraries," Mom mutters, shaking her head. "What next? Hospitals? Playgrounds?"

  My phone buzzes with a text from Tasha: Check the group chat when you can.

  I excuse myself to the bathroom, locking the door before opening our encrypted messaging app.

  Tasha: Library scene is bad. Dead birds arranged in geometric pattern, all impaled. Spikes are gone midday, and the birds drop. Red paint on walls: "VERMIN EXTERMINATION IN PROGRESS."

  My stomach lurches.

  Sam: Any other details from police channels?

  Tasha: Guards were drugged, not killed. Found unconscious with weird symbols carved into their foreheads. Nothing life-threatening.

  Maggie: I am going to wring this guys skinny little throat!!! What a motherfucker. How many stupid installations before we do something about it???

  Tasha: We don't. Stick to the plan. Two days. He's trying to goad us.

  I close the app and flush the toilet for cover before returning to the main room. Mom and Dad are discussing security measures, voices low and tense.

  "Maybe we should reconsider Jamal's offer," Mom is saying. "Just until they catch this guy."

  Dad's response is too low to hear. I don't know if he's agreeing or not. I'm sure to them, Witness Protection sounds pretty good.

  I pretend to focus on my laptop as they debate. Neither option feels particularly safe right now. Shrike is methodically working his way toward us, and there's nothing I can do but wait for our planned confrontation - a confrontation my parents know nothing about.

  The rest of the day drags on in a haze of online lectures and homework assignments. I go through the motions, answering questions when called on, turning in assignments on time, all while my mind races with plans and contingencies.

  What equipment do we need? How many team members should be involved? What's our extraction plan if things go wrong? Should we bring Derek, even though he'll be useless after sunset? And most importantly - how do we counter Shrike's spike generation? Do we need special armor? Kevlar won't help against spikes that grow from inside materials. But can he even just stab us like that? He can't, right - otherwise, he would've stabbed our feet and finished us off. Right?

  By dinner, I've managed to compile a mental inventory of available resources. Maggie's force fields. Amelia's whip and agility. My tracking ability and regeneration. Lily's sniping and going fast. Tasha's surveillance tech. It's not much against someone who can turn any surface into a deadly weapon, but it's what we have.

  After dinner, I help Mom with the dishes, trying to act normal despite the chemical burns still stinging beneath my sleeves. She seems distracted, washing the same plate three times before setting it in the drying rack.

  "Mom? You okay?" I ask, genuinely concerned despite my deception.

  She sighs, hands stilling in the soapy water. "I keep thinking about that library. I spent so many hours there as a teenager. My first real job. And now it's just another crime scene."

  I feel a pang of guilt. This is happening because of me, because of my connection to Liberty Belle. But telling her that would only make things worse.

  "They'll catch him," I say instead, hoping it sounds reassuring.

  "I hope so." She hands me a dripping bowl. "In the meantime, I don't want you thinking about any of this. Just focus on school. Let the authorities handle it."

  "Yeah," I agree, the lie bitter on my tongue. "Of course."

  Later that night, after my parents have gone to bed, I slip into the command center where Tasha is still monitoring police channels, her face bathed in the blue glow of multiple screens.

  "Anything new?" I ask quietly.

  She shakes her head. "Quiet night so far. But I've been thinking about the construction site." She pulls up a satellite image of our chosen location. "No walls, just scaffolding. His surface area is minimal but it gives you vertical room. But... Hmm..."

  I study the image, noting potential vantage points and escape routes. "What about surveillance options?"

  "I've been working on that." She switches screens to show a crude diagram. "We can position drones here, here, and here. They'll transmit to my laptop, giving us eyes on all approach vectors."

  "And backup positions for the team?"

  She indicates several spots surrounding the site. "Lily on this rooftop. Maggie at ground level here, where she has a clear line of sight but plenty of cover. And Amelia as getaway, as usual. That is, if you're still insistent on this insane plan instead of just ambushing him with the DVD. We can always do that, you know. All it takes is a single phone call and he'll get surrounded by every superhero in Philadelphia."

  My hands start to shake slightly.

  "Hey," Tasha says, noticing my reaction. "We can still back out. Call the NSRA, let them handle it."

  I shake my head. "He'd just disappear again, keep targeting people around me. This ends when we end it. I don't trust him to not take hostages or kill random superheroes unless we play with his extremely specific neuroses. He's... he's holding everything hostage. At once."

  She doesn't argue, just turns back to her screens. "Then we'd better be ready."

  I spend another hour going over plans and contingencies before exhaustion forces me to my room. As I lie in the unfamiliar bed, I can't help wondering if Shrike is out there right now, planning his own preparations for our meeting. Setting his own traps. Creating his own contingencies.

  Two more days. Then we find out who's better prepared.