Walking out of Ms. Patel's classroom around five, I run into Melissa Marshall in the hallway. She's with a guy I vaguely recognize from lunch periods - tall, kind of lanky, wearing a hoodie with some anime thing on it.

  "Sam! You're back!" Melissa looks genuinely happy to see me. "I heard you were out for like two weeks."

  "Family stuff," I say, which is the cover story. "Catching up on pre-calc."

  "God, same. Well, not the family stuff, just the pre-calc. Mr. Greene's been tutoring me." She gestures at the guy. "This is Isaiah. Isaiah, Sam."

  "Hey." He gives me a nod. The hoodie has something from Chainsaw Man on it, I think.

  "You walking home?" Melissa asks. "We're headed toward Mayfair."

  "Yeah, same direction."

  We fall into step together, heading for the exit.

  The late afternoon air is cold enough to make my eyes water. January in Philadelphia - that special kind of grey-sky misery where the sun sets at like four-thirty and everything feels damp even when it's not raining.

  Melissa's talking about some drama with student council. Apparently there's a debate about whether junior prom should have a theme or not, and people have strong opinions. Isaiah occasionally interjects with comments that suggest he doesn't care about prom but finds the politics entertaining.

  I'm half-listening, making appropriate noises, but my attention keeps snagging on things.

  Guy on the corner of Cottman and Torresdale. Hands in pockets, not going anywhere. Just standing.

  That's not weird by itself. People wait for buses, wait for friends, wait for whatever. But something about his posture reads wrong. He's watching the street, not his phone. Alert in a way that doesn't match "waiting for the 58."

  We pass him. I don't look directly, just clock him in peripheral vision. Mid-twenties, maybe. Jacket that's too light for the weather. He watches us go by.

  "--and then Jessica said that if we do a casino theme it's basically promoting gambling to minors, which, like, it's fake gambling? With chips that aren't worth anything?" Melissa is still talking. "But she's on the school board's radar anyway so everyone's scared to disagree with her."

  "Politics," I say.

  "Right? It's just junior prom."

  We turn onto Roosevelt Boulevard. Another guy, different corner. Similar posture. Similar alert-but-casual stance. This one's older, maybe thirties, and he's got a cigarette but he's not really smoking it. Just holding it.

  "You okay?" Isaiah asks. "You keep looking around."

  "Just getting used to being outside again," I say. "Two weeks inside messes with you."

  He accepts that with a shrug. Melissa's moved on to talking about some internet show I haven't seen.

  We're passing a bodega - the one on the corner of Bleigh and the Boulevard - when I see it. Owner's outside, arms crossed, talking to two guys in civilian clothes. His body language is tight. Shoulders up, weight back, the posture of someone who wants to leave a conversation but can't.

  The two guys are relaxed. Too relaxed. One of them is gesturing expansively, the other nodding along. I can't hear what they're saying but I can read the dynamic. Pressure and resistance. Offer and reluctance.

  We walk past. The owner glances at us, then back at the two guys. He looks tired.

  "Hey."

  The voice comes from my left. A guy - maybe nineteen, twenty - materializing from the doorway of a closed shop. He's got that hungry look, the one I recognize from two years of patrol. Someone who has something and wants us to have it. Ideally, with money exchanging hands. He's got the look of transactions, just without the suit. Same smile either way.

  "You three look stressed." He's smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Long day at school? I got something that helps with that. First one's free."

  Melissa stiffens beside me. Isaiah's gone quiet.

  Old Sam would have a lot of responses to this. Old Sam might grow some teeth, suggest he reconsider his career choices, maybe describe in anatomical detail the process of becoming a eunuch (that is to say, someone with no balls. Because they were removed). Current Sam has an ankle monitor and two civilians next to her and a legal situation that requires not making headlines.

  "No thanks," I say. Flat. Not engaging.

  "Come on." He steps closer. "I'm not a cop. You're not a cop. It's just a sample. Jump - you heard of it? I've got one that'll make you a genius for three hours. You wanna fly for a bit? We can do that, too. No commitment."

  "We're good," Isaiah says, finding his voice. "Thanks."

  The dealer ignores him, eyes on me. "You look like you could use it. Ankle jewelry and everything." He's noticed the monitor. "Rough time lately?"

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  Something cold settles in my stomach. He's not just pushing product. He's making a point. We see you. We know who you are. Or maybe he's just an opportunistic asshole who sees an ankle monitor and smells vulnerability. Hard to tell.

  "Walk away," I say. Still flat. No threat in my voice because I can't afford a threat right now. "We're not interested."

  He holds my gaze for a second. Two. Then he shrugs, still smiling that empty smile. "Your loss. I'll be around if you change your mind."

  He fades back into the doorway. We keep walking. Nobody says anything for half a block.

  "What the fuck," Melissa finally breathes. "That was - are you okay? Should we call someone?"

  "And tell them what? A guy offered us drugs and then left when we said no?" I shake my head. "It's fine. Just keep walking."

  "That was really aggressive," Isaiah says. He's got his phone half-out, like he's not sure if he should be recording or calling 911 or what. "Like, I've been offered stuff before, but not like that."

  "Yeah." I don't know what else to say. "It's been weird lately."

  We split up at the corner of my street. Melissa lives a few more blocks north, Isaiah apparently takes the bus from here. I thank them for walking with me, which feels strange and formal, but Melissa just waves it off and says she'll see me tomorrow.

  The last two blocks to my house feel longer than they should.

  There's a car parked across the street that I don't recognize. Guy sitting in the driver's seat, looking at his phone. Could be nothing. Could be waiting for someone. Could be watching my house. I'm being paranoid. Probably.

  Inside, Crossroads - Maxwell - is where I left him, laptop open on the coffee table, injured shoulder propped carefully on pillows. He looks up when I come in.

  "How was school?"

  "Fine. Weird." I drop my backpack by the door, shrug off my jacket. "There's guys on the corners. I saw at least three walking home. And a dealer approached us."

  His expression doesn't change, but something sharpens behind his eyes. "Where?"

  "Cottman and Torresdale. Roosevelt Boulevard, closer to Bleigh. The dealer was near that closed shoe store on Magee." I'm pacing without meaning to, restless energy I can't burn off. "And there were two guys talking to Mr. Hassan outside his bodega. It looked like a sales pitch he didn't want."

  Maxwell stays silent.

  "Are they bringing back protection rackets?" I ask, mostly because I want him to say no.

  He shifts on the couch, reaching for his laptop with his good arm. "I've been monitoring the scanner. Uptick in calls from the neighborhood - noise complaints, mostly. 'Suspicious persons' reports that don't go anywhere. Nothing actionable, but the volume's up," he non-answers, which is not helping.

  I blink at him a couple of times. He pulls up something on the laptop - a map, I think, with markers. "I've been tracking what I can from here. It's not just your walk home. It's systematic. They're establishing presence block by block."

  My phone buzzes. Tasha.

  Tasha: Hey. You home?

  Sam: Yeah. Just got back. Why?

  Tasha: There's been weird guys around my neighborhood too. Like three different people asked my mom about "security services" today.

  Sam: When?

  Tasha: This afternoon. She told them to, you know, she doesn't handle 'procurement' or something.

  I show Maxwell the texts. He reads them, nods slowly.

  "Tacony and Mayfair. Same district. Same councilwoman." He doesn't need to say Maya's name. "They're blanketing her territory."

  I text the group chat.

  Sam: Emergency Auditors meeting.

  Maggie: emergency auditor meeting??

  Lily: What's going on?

  Sam: Can everyone do a video call? Like now?

  Amelia: Give me five minutes, I'm in the library.

  Tasha: I'm in.

  Maggie: same

  I grab my laptop from my backpack and settle onto the floor next to the couch. Maxwell shifts to give me space, angling his screen away from the camera's eventual field of view. Five minutes later, four faces fill my screen in a grid.

  Lily's in what looks like a study room at Temple, industrial lighting and whiteboards behind her. Amelia's found a quiet corner somewhere, bookshelves visible over her shoulder. Maggie's in her bedroom, poster of some pop group on the wall. That's new. Tasha's at her kitchen table, looking stressed.

  "Okay," I say. "Something's happening."

  I tell them about the walk home. The guys on corners. The bodega owner. The dealer who noticed my ankle monitor. Tasha fills in her side - the "security services" people who approached her mom, the general increase in unfamiliar faces on her street.

  "That's not random," Amelia says when we're done. She's got that analytical look, the one she gets when she's processing data. "That's a coordinated rollout. You don't blanket two neighborhoods simultaneously by accident."

  "Maya's district," Lily adds. "Mayfair and Tacony are both in her council zone. Bits of Frankford, Oxford Circle, too."

  "So this is, what, retaliation?" Maggie's leaning into her camera, face tight with anger. "For Sam exposing her?"

  "Or cover," Tasha says. "She did that whole press conference about how her district is 'under siege from organized crime.' Maybe she's making it true so she can play hero."

  "Both," I say. "It's both. She gets to punish the neighborhood that protected me and look like a victim at the same time."

  Silence for a moment. Then Lily straightens up.

  "Amelia and I can come up tomorrow after classes. Do some recon, see how widespread this is."

  "I'm coming too," Maggie says immediately.

  "Maggie, you're in South Philly--"

  "And I can move fast and I have an allowance and I'm not letting you two do this alone." Her jaw is set. I recognize that look. There's no talking her out of it. "What time?"

  "I'm done at three," Amelia says. "Lily?"

  "Two-thirty. We could be up there by four if traffic's not awful."

  "I can show you around," Tasha offers. "Point out the spots I've noticed. But it'd have to be after school is out at like 3:30-ish."

  They're making plans. Coordinating. Doing the thing we built the Auditors to do - gather information, support each other, figure out what's happening before it's too late to respond. But I'm stuck here. Ankle monitor. Check-ins. "Stay out of trouble" ringing in my ears from Caldwell's visit.

  "Sam." Lily's voice pulls me back. "You okay?"

  "Yeah. Just--" I shake my head. "I can't do much right now. Legally speaking."

  "You don't have to do everything," Amelia says. "That's why there's five of us."

  "Six," Tasha corrects. "Jordan's still an Auditor even if they're in Boston."

  "Six," Amelia amends. "Point is, we've got this. You rest, handle your legal stuff, let us be your eyes for a few days. I mean, it's not anything new. You're still retired, right?"

  I take a deep breath. She's right. I've been retired since October. I got out. I can't help getting sucked back in, but I got out. I take another deep breath, in through my nose, and out through my mouth.

  "Okay," I say. "But check in constantly. Anything feels wrong, you pull out. These aren't just random guys - if this is Kingdom, they've got resources. Backup. Don't take risks."

  "Yes mom," Maggie says, but she's smiling.

  We hash out details for another twenty minutes - routes, timing, what to look for, how to document without being obvious. By the time we hang up, there's a plan. Not a great plan, but a plan.

  Maxwell's been quiet through the whole call, just listening. When I close my laptop, he speaks.

  "They're good. Your team."

  "Yeah." I lean back against the couch. "They are."

  Outside, through the window, I can see the streetlights coming on. The neighborhood looks the same as it always has. Rowhouses, parked cars, bare trees waiting for spring. Normal.