"Call back to dispatch, we're going to need another unit," Hector says, his voice calm but tense as he pulls the ambulance to the curb. "Multiple possible injuries, potential escalation."

  We're three blocks north of Temple University Hospital later that day - the sun's just finished going down, and I can still smell gunpowder in my nose. The call came in as a "verbal altercation with possible injuries," but as we round the corner, I can tell it's already evolved beyond verbal. A crowd has gathered at the edge of a small neighborhood park - not the nice kind with playground equipment and benches, but the kind with patchy grass, cigarette butts, and a single scraggly tree fighting for survival in concrete.

  Deena's already on the radio while I gather my kit and scan the scene. There are two distinct groups facing off in the patchy grass. One's wearing high-vis yellow vests with "COMMUNITY WATCH" emblazoned across the back in reflective lettering. They've got flashlights, whistles hanging around their necks, and walkie-talkies clipped to their belts - Halloweening as authority figures.

  I recognize their type immediately - the kind of people who call 911 because "suspicious teens" are hanging out at the corner store. The Neighborhood Watch. I'm sure they had a cool name for their patrol the first time around but I could never be assed to remember it. The Paranoid Mid-Life Crisis Club, maybe.

  The other group is smaller but more physically imposing. No matching gear except for colors - navy blue jackets, several with yellow bandanas tied around their arms or necks. Most are holding something - baseball bats, lengths of chain, one guy with what looks like a tire iron. Unlike the Watch guys, they're not trying to look official. They're trying to look dangerous.

  And between them, because of course he is, stands Bulwark.

  He's in civilian clothes - jeans and a Temple University sweatshirt that stretches across his broad shoulders - but there's no mistaking him. His cap is pulled low, but I'd recognize that profile anywhere, because he probably has the widest shoulders in Philadelphia outside a bodybuilding competition. He's not in his full rock form, but patches of stony skin are visible on his forearms where he's rolled up his sleeves, like he's preparing for things to get worse.

  "Stay with the unit," Hector tells me as he grabs his own kit. "Deena and I will assess, we're not approaching until police secure the scene."

  I nod obediently, but my eyes are already cataloging everything. There's someone behind Bulwark - a scrawny kid, maybe seventeen, with eyes that keep flashing an unnatural green-blue. There's a small couple of scrapes across their body, either from concrete or from Bulwark, and I can smell their orange, fizzy blood from here. Jump, not natural powers.

  The Watch leader - a middle-aged white guy with a mustache that belongs in a 70s cop show - is gesturing wildly toward the Jumphead.

  "This is exactly what we're talking about!" he shouts, whistle bouncing against his chest. "Kids getting high on Jump, frying their brains, putting our whole neighborhood at risk. And the police won't do anything until someone gets killed!"

  Several Watch members nod vigorously behind him, their reflective vests catching the afternoon sun.

  One of the blue-jacketed group steps forward, phone held high. "So your solution is what? Harassment? Vigilante justice? That rock monster was about to crush that kid before we showed up."

  "That 'rock monster' is a registered hero," another Watch member counters, a middle-aged Black woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. "He was questioning a drug dealer. We're trying to keep this neighborhood safe!"

  "Safe for who?" Blue Jacket #1 sneers, making sure his camera catches every word. "Seems like you people only care when it's the 'right kind' of resident."

  I notice the way certain members of the blue-jacketed group are positioned around the perimeter, not filming, not yelling, but watching with calculating eyes. Three of them have telltale bulges under their jackets - concealed carry. One has his hand resting at his waist, thumb hooked in his belt loop, fingers dangling suspiciously close to where a holster would be.

  Dad's voice: "Notice how the hand hovers. They're practicing drawing without looking like they're practicing."

  "Jesus," I mutter, reaching for my phone. I should warn Bulwark.

  "Why don't we all just calm down," Bulwark begins, his voice steady as he holds up both hands.

  The Jumphead glances between Bulwark and the advancing Watch members, panicked. "I didn't do anything!" he shouts, then bolts, shoving past the nearest person.

  Bulwark reaches out to grab him - not roughly, just trying to keep him from running. "Stop, I just need to ask--"

  As his hand makes contact with the kid's shoulder, a burst of green electricity arcs from the Jumphead's body, striking one of the Watch members who'd moved to block his escape. The man goes down hard, twitching.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  And just like that, everything explodes.

  The Watch surges forward, whistles blaring. The blue-jacketed group meets them, weapons raised. Bulwark grows instantly, his full stone form erupting around him as he tries to create a barrier between the civilians. But he's outnumbered and surrounded, trying not to hurt anyone while also protecting the Jumphead who's now stumbling around, sending wild electrical discharges in all directions as his power surges beyond his control.

  "Shit, shit, shit," Hector curses, ducking back toward the ambulance. "Deena, call for police backup, we've got an actual riot. We need to set up triage but keep distance until--"

  I've already identified the biggest threat - the blue-jacketed guy with his hand near his waist. He's circling behind the melee, eyes fixed on Bulwark's stone back. I recognize that look, that focused intensity. I've seen it on Kingdom enforcers, on DVDs gone rogue. He's not just looking to hurt someone; he's hunting. His cheeks are pulled up like they're going to split open at any second, exposing molar but no incisor, like a monkey.

  His jacket shifts. I catch a glimpse of metal.

  "We need medical supplies for multiple injuries," Hector is telling Deena, their backs to me as they prep the triage area behind the ambulance.

  I slide around the opposite side of the vehicle, heart hammering. I'm not thinking about the gun range anymore, or Dad's words about responsibility, or Dr. Kaplan's therapy exercises. I'm just calculating angles and timing.

  Blue Jacket #3 or whatever draws his weapon - a revolver, not as big and flashy as Rush Order's, but still a revolver, gleaming in the streetlights. Yellow. Everything's yellow under the streetlights.

  I grab a piece of broken concrete from the gutter - about the size of a baseball - and without thinking, muscle memory from a decade of soccer takes over. One quick step, pivot on my left foot, right leg swinging through in a perfect arc.

  The concrete missile strikes the man's shoulder, and the impact rattles the gun from his hand. He lets out a yell, looking around, but I've already ducked behind a parked car, breathing hard, adrenaline coursing through me.

  What the fuck did I just do? I fidget with my bracelet, hoping that somehow it didn't track my... act of calculated violence. I'm looking around for the Jumphead, but I can't see him anymore. I was too tunnel-visioned on the guy with an actual gun to keep track. Did he leave?

  Sirens wail in the distance. The fight starts breaking apart at the edges as neither group wants to deal with actual police. The guys in blue scatter first, melting into side streets and alleys. The Watch members, with their official-looking vests, stay behind to give statements - no doubt painting themselves as innocent bystanders.

  I slip back to the ambulance just as Hector and Deena start moving toward the injured. They've got their heads down, focused on triage, not noticing my brief absence. I join them, kneeling beside a Watch member with a bloody nose, automatically checking his pupils for signs of concussion.

  "You know, in the future, I wouldn't recommend starting fights over Jump," I say, trying to deliver some sort of moral lesson to a very panicked looking lady my mom's age. "Leave it to the professionals."

  "Like they've been doing such a good job lately," she mumbles under her breath. I pretend not to catch it.

  It's only when I'm halfway through my third patient that I realize Bulwark is watching me. He's back in human form now, helping the Jumphead sit up as the kid comes down hard from whatever he took. But Bulwark's eyes keep finding me across the chaos.

  For the next twenty minutes, we work in the efficient rhythm of emergency medicine. Bandaging cuts, stabilizing a sprained wrist, checking for signs of internal bleeding. The police take statements while we load two patients into our ambulance for transport to Temple. Most injuries are minor - the Jumphead seems to be suffering more from power withdrawal than any actual wound.

  Just as we're finishing, Bulwark approaches. He's been speaking with one of the officers, but now he breaks away and walks toward where I'm restocking our field kit.

  "Miss Small," he says, his Ghanaian accent giving the formal address a musical quality. "I did not expect to see you working as emergency medical personnel."

  "Part of my internship," I reply, not looking up from the gauze pads I'm counting. "Beats dissecting frogs in biology lab."

  He glances around, then lowers his voice. "That was good aim with the rock."

  My hands freeze momentarily before I force myself to keep counting. "Don't know what you're talking about."

  "I think you do." He moves closer, pretending to help me organize the kit. "I could have handled it, but I always appreciate backup from unexpected locations."

  I say nothing, just keep methodically replacing supplies, trying to ignore how my pulse is still racing.

  "You prevented something bad," Bulwark continues. "I appreciate that. But you have promised your parents to stop, yes? This is what Mister Davis told me."

  "I didn't--" I start, then cut myself off. "It was just a rock. Anybody would have done something."

  "No. Not anybody." His voice is firm but not unkind. "Only someone who sees what others do not. Who notices the man reaching for weapon while everyone else watches the shouting."

  I finally look up at him. "Are you going to tell my mom?"

  The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "I am not your babysitter, Miss Small. Besides, I was not here by accident."

  "What do you mean?"

  He glances toward the departing Jumphead, now in police custody. "Rogue Wave is expanding their Jump distribution. This boy was selling at Temple. Neighborhood Watch saw me questioning him, thought I was harassing an innocent student." He shakes his head. "The Songbirds, they arrived too quickly."

  "The who?" I ask. "And what? Were they... waiting?"

  "I do not know." His expression darkens. "We still do not know much about them. They are a group of masked people, mostly men, some women, who like to go around picking fights with your fellow superheroes and filming the results. Causing trouble. Bothering people who are already having a very bad day."

  He gestures towards the Jumphead, who is shivering under one of those emergency thermal blankets, and a layer of something else - what, electrical insulation? I notice something off about the kid's posture - a slight twitching in his jaw that doesn't match the regular rhythm of his shivering.

  My blood sense tingles faintly. Something's changing in his circulation - heart rate spiking in an irregular pattern. Not the normal comedown from Jump. This is different.

  As I'm watching, the kid's eyes roll back slightly, green sparks dancing across his eyelids.

  "Hector!" I call. "Something's wrong with--"

  Then, he starts seizing.