"Are you sure you're up for this?"

  Mom's hovering at the foot of my hospital bed, rearranging the water pitcher and cups for the third time in five minutes. Dad stands by the window, arms folded, looking like he's ready to physically eject anyone who upsets me.

  "It's fine," I tell her, adjusting my position slightly. "Better to get it over with."

  My abdominal wound throbs with each minor movement, but I've been weaned off the strongest pain meds. Clear head, cloudy stomach - that's the trade-off. The catheter was removed this morning, which is the only improvement in my situation.

  A knock at the door, and then they file in: two uniformed Philadelphia PD officers, a woman in a crisp pantsuit who I recognize immediately as Agent Jennings from the NSRA, and behind them, a tall Black woman with a totally shaved head wearing an FBI windbreaker.

  Great. Just great.

  "Samantha," Agent Jennings says with a tight smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "It's been a while."

  "Not long enough," I mutter, which earns me a warning look from Dad.

  The FBI agent steps forward. "I'm Special Agent Ford. I'm here as an observer only." Her voice is low and measured. She takes a position in the corner of the room, notebook in hand, and goes totally dark like a television screen.

  The police officers introduce themselves as Detective Martinez and Officer Chen. They look uncomfortable, like they'd rather be anywhere else.

  "We'll try to keep this brief," Detective Martinez says, glancing at my parents. "We understand you're still recovering."

  Mom moves to stand beside my bed, her hand finding mine. Dad stays by the window, silently watching me like an owl.

  Agent Jennings takes the lead. "We need a full account of the events leading up to and including your confrontation with Niles Nolan, also known by the nom-de-crime of Shrike."

  Is it nom-de-crime or nom-du-crime? I don't remember, ha ha.

  "I've already given statements," I say.

  "To paramedics and hospital staff, yes," she acknowledges. "We need an official record for NSRA files."

  Of course they do.

  I take a breath, wincing as my diaphragm presses against newly knitted tissue. "Where do you want me to start?"

  "From when you first located him," Detective Martinez says. "We understand he's been looking for you for quite some time."

  So I tell them.

  Every word out of my mouth just makes the cops look more pale and Jennings look more... vaguely disturbed. The art pieces, which my Dad immediately connected to me. The insane scavenger hunt. The home break-in - the cops nod at that one, they've been briefed. His invitation to decide location and date. The abandoned Metropolitan Opera House - Agent Ford raises an eyebrow at that and writes down a little harder. The booby traps.

  The construction site.

  The... encounter.

  I describe the fight in clinical detail, focusing on facts rather than emotions. The spikes erupting from the ground. The cabinet rail. Each injury cataloged like items on a shopping list.

  When I get to the part about Shrike taking Hypeman, Agent Jennings interrupts.

  "You're certain it was Hypeman? The meta-enhancement drug?"

  "Yes. I recognized the container. And his behavior changed dramatically after taking it," I tell her, although I'm not sure if that's a Hypeman thing or a him being batshit thing.

  She makes a note. "Continue."

  I describe the final confrontation. The choking. Blink's intervention. The desperate struggle that ended with Shrike unconscious.

  "And you never intended to kill him?" Officer Chen asks.

  "No," I say firmly. "I tried to get him to surrender multiple times."

  "The medical examiner's report indicates death from blood loss and traumatic injuries," Detective Martinez says. "Not directly from any single wound you inflicted."

  "I know that," I say. I'm not sure if it not being technically my fault is supposed to make me feel better. It doesn't.

  Agent Jennings leans forward. "Where did you learn the fighting techniques you employed?"

  "Training with the Young Defenders, mostly," I answer, to a frown from Agent Ford. I decide to not throw Multiplex under the bus with his secret boxing lessons. Well, they're not secret, but, you know. "And training with my friends. I'm sure it's in your files that we have a little group. When we're not trying to keep Northeast Philly from turning into a warzone."

  "And the full-body armor manifestation? That's not on your file," she notes.

  I shift uncomfortably. "It was... instinctive. I've never done that before."

  "Interesting." Her pen scratches across her notepad. "And the skinheads at the perimeter? What can you tell us about them?"

  "Nothing. I didn't recognize any of them. Shrike said he'd recruited them."

  Special Agent Ford speaks for the first time. "We've identified several as members of known hate groups. Three had outstanding warrants."

  That gets my attention. "So they're in custody?"

  "Some," she confirms. "Others scattered when police breached the spike barrier."

  Agent Jennings circles back. "Let's discuss your decision to engage Shrike alone, without NSRA or police backup."

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  And here we go.

  "I didn't have much choice," I say carefully. "He threatened to kill civilians if I brought authorities."

  "Yet the DVDs showed up anyway," she points out.

  "I didn't call them."

  Her eyebrow arches. "Then who did?"

  I hesitate. I don't know if the answer is believable or not. "I don't know."

  "You had a communications device. Your team was monitoring."

  "I ordered them to stay clear," I insist. "Someone made a different call."

  Dad clears his throat. "I think that's enough about her team. They're minors."

  Agent Jennings gives him a cold look but moves on. "The NSRA has concerns about your continued activities as Bloodhound."

  "Join the club," Mom mutters.

  "You're untrained, unregulated, and as this incident demonstrates, vulnerable to manipulation by more experienced adversaries," Jennings continues. "Shrike deliberately targeted you, knowing you'd respond."

  "So it's my fault he escaped prison and murdered people?" I feel my temper rising, which pulls painfully at my stitches.

  "No one's saying that," Detective Martinez interjects, shooting Jennings a look. "What happened to Nolan was a direct result of his own actions."

  Agent Jennings taps her pen against her notepad. "Nevertheless, the NSRA strongly recommends you cease unsanctioned activities until you reach legal age and can undergo proper assessment and training."

  "Noted," I say flatly.

  "We'll be monitoring the situation," she adds. "If you continue operating outside approved channels, there could be consequences."

  Dad steps forward. "Is that a threat, Agent Jennings?"

  "It's a reality check," she replies, unruffled. "Your daughter has extraordinary abilities. With those come extraordinary responsibilities."

  "Which she's handling," Mom says, her grip on my hand tightening.

  Agent Jennings stands. "The NSRA would like to offer resources. Counseling. Training. Mentorship. If you're interested."

  "We'll consider it," Dad says before I can respond.

  Detective Martinez and Officer Chen ask a few more perfunctory questions, mostly about the timeline of events. Special Agent Ford remains silent, her pen moving steadily across her notepad.

  As they prepare to leave, Ford approaches my bed. "The Bureau has been tracking increased activity among extremist groups in Philadelphia," she says quietly. "We appreciate your help flushing out a couple of the lice. We probably won't be in further contact, God willing."

  That's... not what I wanted to hear.

  After they file out, the room feels suddenly larger. Mom collapses into the chair beside my bed, while Dad paces back and forth.

  "Well, that was pleasant," I say, trying for humor and missing by a mile.

  "They're just doing their jobs," Dad says, though he doesn't sound convinced.

  "Jennings has always had it out for me," I mutter. "Ever since the whole Liberty Belle's notes thing."

  Mom squeezes my hand. "Sam, we need to talk about what happens next."

  Here it comes. I was waiting for Dad to agree with Jennings the whole time she was lecturing me. So I guess he was just holding it in for later.

  "We've been speaking with Dr. Patel and a family therapist," Dad says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "And we've made some decisions about moving forward."

  I brace myself for the hammer to fall. No more Bloodhound. House arrest. Boarding school in Switzerland.

  "You're grounded," Mom says simply.

  I blink. "That's it?"

  "Not exactly," Dad clarifies, leaning forward in his chair. "We know we can't stop you from being who you are. But there need to be boundaries."

  I brace myself, waiting for the restrictions to start raining down.

  "The tracking bracelet stays on," Mom says firmly. "Non-negotiable."

  "For how long?" I ask, trying not to sound whiny.

  Dad and Mom exchange a glance. "We'll revisit in three months," Dad offers. "Depending on how things go."

  "And we need to know before you go out as Bloodhound," Mom continues. "Not after the fact when you're already in trouble or hurt."

  "What if there's an emergency? Like, right in front of me?" I counter. "I can't exactly call you first if someone's about to get hit by a car."

  Dad nods. "We understand that. Immediate emergencies are different. But planned patrols, investigations, anything you know about beforehand - we need to be informed."

  "We want to know where you're patrolling," Mom adds. "Who you're with. What you're planning to do."

  I fidget with my IV line. "So I have to file a flight plan like I'm an airplane?"

  "More like letting your parents know where you're going and who you'll be with," Dad says dryly. "You know, like normal teenagers do."

  Fair point.

  "And we get veto power," Mom says. "If we think something is too dangerous--"

  "Like what?" I interrupt. "Everything I do is dangerous."

  "Like taking on escaped supervillains alone in the middle of the night," Dad replies, his voice tight. "Or raiding drug labs. Or confronting armed criminals without backup. There's a difference between doing those things and... you know, rescue work, disaster response."

  I wince. When he puts it like that...

  "We're not saying you can't help people," Mom clarifies, her tone softening. "But there are levels of risk, Sam. And some are just too high."

  "So what am I supposed to do? Just ignore it when bad things happen?"

  "No," Dad says. "You call the authorities. Like most people do."

  "And if they don't come in time?"

  "Then you make a judgment call," Mom acknowledges. "But with better information than you had this time."

  I sink back against my pillows, the conversation already exhausting me.

  "There's one more thing," Mom adds. "If you get arrested under Richardson's anti-vigilante laws, we won't bail you out. You'll face those consequences on your own."

  "What?" I stare at her in disbelief. "You'd just leave me in jail?"

  "Actions have consequences, Sam," Dad says firmly. "We can't shield you from them forever. If you choose to break the law, you need to be prepared for what happens next. We can help with a lawyer, but anything else is on your own. If you want to have the responsibilities of an adult then you will have to be treated like one."

  I want to argue, but part of me recognizes the logic.

  "That's why," Dad continues, "we'd prefer if you focused on emergency response rather than crime-fighting."

  "What's the difference?" I ask.

  "Intent," Mom says simply. "Rushing to car accidents, helping during natural disasters, assisting paramedics - that's different from actively hunting down criminals."

  "The paramedics here were really impressed with you," Dad adds. "They'd love to have you as an intern. It would be a way to use your abilities without putting yourself in constant danger."

  I consider this. It's not the worst idea. "Would I still get to wear the costume?"

  Mom almost smiles. Like it's 1/4 the way to being funny. "Let's cross that bridge when we come to it." Then, her face becomes serious again. "And you're going back to therapy. Not just check-ins with Dr. Desai for medication. Actual therapy. And family sessions with us."

  "I already agreed to that," I remind her.

  "I know. I'm just making sure it's clear that it's part of the deal."

  I nod, still somewhat stunned by the reasonableness of it all, and yet, simultaneously annoyed by the restrictiveness. I'd expected shouting, ultimatums, maybe even threats to send me away.

  "You're not going to try to stop me completely?" I ask, almost suspicious.

  Dad sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Sam, we've been fighting this battle for years. Every time we try to stamp out whatever drives you to do this, it just makes things worse."

  "We talked with the therapist about this before bringing it to you," Mom admits. "About how to handle it."

  "And?"

  "And she helped us see that this... need you have to help people, to put yourself out there - it's clearly filling something that normal teenage life isn't providing for you. If it wasn't fulfilling a need for you, you wouldn't do it."

  "So what, I'm just broken?" I ask, my voice smaller than I'd like.

  "No," Dad says firmly. "Different. Special, even. But also still a teenager who needs guidance and boundaries."

  "We can't be your dispatch," Mom adds, reaching for my hand. "And we don't want to be, because it would drive us all insane. But we need to be in the loop."

  "And what if I mess up? Forget to call, or--"

  "Then we talk about it," Dad says. "We adjust. This isn't about setting you up to fail, Sam. It's about finding a way forward that keeps you safe while respecting who you are. And prevents us from wanting to..." he thinks the right words, while I mentally sub in neck ourselves. "It will... lower our own levels of anxiety. Which are pretty bad. Think about it all from our point of view, Sam."

  I swallow hard, surprised by the lump forming in my throat. I am trying with some success to not cry. "That's... fair."

  "And you're still very much grounded," Dad emphasizes, but there's a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "For the foreseeable future."

  "I figured," I say, managing a weak smile in return.

  Mom squeezes my hand. "We're trying, Sam. We don't have a manual for this. No one does."

  "I know," I whisper. "I'm trying too."