The sirens grow louder, red and blue lights painting the spike forest in alternating crimson and sapphire. Through gaps in the metal thicket, I catch glimpses of police cruisers forming a perimeter, officers with weapons drawn.

  "They're setting up blockades," Lighthouse updates in my ear. "DVDs incoming from the east."

  I can't afford to be distracted again. Shrike stands before me, swaying slightly, blood dripping steadily from his nose and mouth. His followers are moving with purpose at the perimeter, but my focus has to stay on the immediate threat.

  "You're out of time," I tell him, advancing carefully through the field of spikes. "Give up now."

  He laughs, a wet, gurgling sound. "Why would I? This is just getting interesting." He raises the cabinet rail again, but his movements are sluggish. The fight is taking its toll.

  I shuffle forward, maintaining my ground-skimming footwork. When he swings, the movement is telegraphed, slow, heavy. I duck beneath it and drive my fist into his sternum.

  The impact sends him staggering back. He tries to summon more spikes to brace himself, but they emerge smaller, less defined. His control is slipping.

  "Incoming," Lighthouse warns. "Fury Forge and Bulwark just arrived."

  "Your public is here," I tell Shrike, gesturing toward the gathering crowd beyond the police line. News vans have arrived, cameras rolling. Drones hover closer, their recording lights like tiny red stars in the darkness. "Isn't this what you wanted? An audience?"

  His eyes dart around, taking in the scene. For a moment, something flashes across his face, then vanishes beneath a mask of defiance.

  "You think they're here to save you?" he snarls, raising his rail for another attack.

  The sound of a slingshot accelerating a marble to ridiculous speeds rings out from a nearby rooftop, a high pitched sound like a needle slicing through the air. I see a welt of blood split open on a skinhead's shoulder, and suddenly, he's in my vision too.

  "Flash, status?" I ask into my comm.

  "Engaging hostiles at the north perimeter," Flashpoint replies, her voice tight with concentration. "Skinheads trying to push through police lines."

  Shrike lunges, but the movement is desperate, uncoordinated. I sidestep, grabbing his extended arm and using his momentum to throw him off balance. He crashes into a cluster of his own spikes, which crumble on impact like brittle metal.

  Something's wrong with him. His movements are becoming erratic. Blood loss? Exhaustion? I press my advantage, landing another solid hit to his jaw. His head snaps back, eyes momentarily unfocused.

  "This is over," I tell him firmly. "You've lost."

  He spits blood at my feet. "Is that what you think?"

  Something small and fast whizzes past from the corner of my eye, missing Shrike by inches as he sways unexpectedly. It bounces off a spike and vanishes into the air.

  I close the distance, landing a final, decisive uppercut to his chin. His head snaps back, eyes rolling up, and he collapses to his knees. The cabinet rail clatters to the ground beside him.

  Around us, the forest of spikes begins to tremble, then crumble. Black metallic dust rains down as the structures dissolve, returning to whatever material they came from. The battlefield transforms from deadly maze to open construction site in a matter of seconds.

  Shrike remains on his knees, blood dripping from his mouth, breathing labored. He looks up at me, and through the blood and bruises, I see nothing but more fire in his eyes.

  "You've made... quite the spectacle," he manages between ragged breaths. "But don't blame me... when you reap the whirlwind."

  "You sent out a press release," I remind him. "What did you expect? Is it my fault that someone eventually called the cops, too?"

  A flicker of a smile crosses his battered face. "You should've... picked a better location."

  Police officers move in, weapons trained on Shrike. Behind them, Fury Forge approaches, dressed to the nines - including in a chemical mask that covers the lower half of her face. Through that and her domino mask, there's only a sliver of skin visible.

  "Bloodhound," she acknowledges with a curt nod, voice broadcasting through small speakers. "Situation?"

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  "Contained," I reply, suddenly aware of every cut, bruise, and puncture wound on my body. Now that the adrenaline is ebbing, the pain floods in. "He's down."

  Fury Forge gestures to the officers, who move in to secure Shrike. He offers no resistance as they cuff him, his head hanging low, blood dripping onto the dirt.

  "Medical team, we need assistance here," Fury Forge calls over her shoulder. Then, to me: "You're bleeding."

  I look down at myself, realizing for the first time just how much damage I've taken. Blood seeps from a dozen cuts, the puncture wound in my back throbbing with each heartbeat. My costume is torn in multiple places, and all my Instant Armor is falling off of me now.

  "I've had worse," I chuckle. The puncture wound hurts the most, of course. But outside of that, the rest of it is just a dull, burning hum. Soft and sweet, like being pricked by a bumblebee.

  Paramedics push through the police line, one team heading for Shrike, another making a beeline for me. Around the perimeter, I can see Flashpoint skating circles around a bunch of skinheads while the police close a kettle. Blink has vanished from her rooftop perch.

  "Bloodhound," Lighthouse's voice comes through my comm, "are you okay?"

  "Still standing," I reply, then wince as a particularly deep cut makes itself known. The one in my side, humming and buzzing and burning in my nerves as it stitches itself back together, slowly, and slowlier. Am I happy with this? I stare at the skinheads in the distance and think about Abigail. "Mostly."

  A paramedic approaches, medical kit in hand. "We need to treat those wounds," she says, gesturing to a nearby ambulance. "Can you walk?"

  I nod, taking a step forward and immediately regretting it as pain lances up from my calf. The paramedic catches my arm, supporting me as we make our way toward the ambulance.

  "I'm taking a trip to the ambulance. Keep me updated," I mumble into my comms.

  "Police have most of them contained," she replies. "Flashpoint is helping corral the stragglers. Blink's handling crowd control at the south end."

  I glance back at Shrike, now surrounded by officers as paramedics attempt to treat his injuries. His eyes meet mine across the distance, and he smiles.

  No. He's just psyching me out. His arms are crossed behind his back, handcuffs over his boxing gloves, and his hands have been wrapped in something translucent but glimmering - plastic wrap? - so he can't touch the ground.

  But he doesn't need to. He can use his feet, remember, Sam?

  But he's done. Finished. His head lolls back down and I feel the blood drip out from his face.

  The paramedic helps me sit on the back step of the ambulance, then begins examining my wounds. "I need to remove part of your costume to treat these properly," she says, indicating the puncture wound in my back.

  I nod, reaching up to unlatch my helmet. The cool night air feels strange against my sweat-soaked face as I set the helmet beside me. The paramedic helps me remove the upper portion of my costume, leaving me in the compression shirt I wear underneath. It's torn and bloodied, but provides enough coverage for modesty.

  "These are deep," she says, examining the wounds with clinical efficiency. "The back puncture especially. You're lucky it missed your kidney."

  "Doesn't feel lucky," I mutter.

  She cleans the wounds with antiseptic that stings worse than the initial injuries, then begins applying bandages. Around us, the scene continues to unfold - police processing Shrike's followers, news crews attempting to get closer for better footage, curious onlookers held back by barricades, people on the overpass recording with their phones.

  "Who called this in?" I ask the paramedic, trying to distract myself from the pain.

  "No idea," she replies, securing a bandage across my back. "Dispatch just said there was a metahuman confrontation at this location. We were already on standby because of all the activity tonight."

  Fury Forge approaches, her expression unreadable. "The NSRA will want a full report," she says without preamble.

  "I bet they will," I reply, wincing as the paramedic applies pressure to a particularly deep cut on my arm. "Did they mention who tipped them off?"

  "Anonymous call," Fury Forge replies. "Probably a civvy."

  "The important thing is he's contained," I say instead. "His spikes were growing weaker toward the end. I don't think he could have maintained them much longer."

  Fury Forge nods. "The NSRA has been preparing a special containment unit since his escape. He'll be transported directly back to Daedalus. He already had his trial."

  The paramedic finishes bandaging the worst of my wounds, then hands me a bottle of water. "Drink this. You're dehydrated."

  I accept it gratefully, suddenly aware of just how thirsty I am. The water is lukewarm but feels like heaven against my parched throat.

  "You did a good job," she says, clapping me on the shoulder. "I guess. For the situation."

  "Noted," I reply, lacking the energy for a more substantive defense.

  She gives me a final appraising look, then turns to rejoin Bulwark, who's overseeing Shrike's transfer to a secure transport vehicle.

  "How are my parents?" I ask Lighthouse through my comm.

  "Still asleep," she confirms. "But everyone and their mom is recording this, so expect questions in the morning."

  Great. Another problem for future Sam.

  The paramedic returns with more supplies. "I need to clean that gash on your side," she says, gesturing for me to lift my arm.

  As I comply, I look across the construction site. Police and DVDs have established full control of the scene. Shrike's followers are being loaded into transport vans, their resistance seemingly evaporated with their leader's capture. Maggie is talking with Bulwark, gesturing animatedly. Lily is nowhere to be seen.

  Shrike himself is being moved toward a specialized containment vehicle - not a standard police van, but something that looks more like an armored personnel carrier with NSRA markings. His head hangs low, body limp between the officers supporting him. He looks beaten, broken.

  It's over. We won.

  So why does it feel like I've lost?

  The paramedic continues treating my wounds, applying a numbing agent to the deeper cuts before stitching them closed. The pain recedes to a dull throb, exhaustion taking its place.

  "You'll need proper medical attention for these," she tells me, securing the final bandage. "But this will hold for now."

  I nod, too tired to argue. The adrenaline crash is hitting hard, making my limbs feel leaden. I just want to sleep for about twelve years.

  BANG!