The snow's coming down harder now, fat flakes that stick to my jacket and melt against my face. My breath plumes white in the cold air. I can't feel my toes anymore, which is probably not great, but they'll warm up eventually. Everything's quiet except for the soft whisper of falling snow and the distant sound of traffic on Frankford Avenue.

  I'm standing on a back road in Tacony, somewhere between residential and industrial. Empty lots on one side, row homes with dark windows on the other. The kind of place where nobody looks twice at someone walking alone at night, because people mind their own business around here.

  The winter gear helps. Big coat, hood up, scarf wrapped around the lower half of my face. Generic enough that I could be anyone. Could be a teenager walking home late. Could be someone waiting for a ride. Could be a lot of things.

  The only thing that's not standard winter wear are the swimming goggles tucked up on my forehead. Polarized, dark-tinted. Miasma said they'd help with glare from streetlights reflecting off snow, keep my night vision sharp. Also makes it harder for security cameras to get a good look at my eyes if things go sideways.

  I pull them down now. The world dims slightly but everything comes into sharper focus - less glare, clearer contrast. Snow becomes individual flakes rather than a uniform blur.

  My phone buzzes. Burner phone - the third one in four days. I check the screen.

  C: Target stays quiet. 15min window. Go.

  I pocket the phone and start moving.

  "Sam, did you know your friend Crossroads violates causality by breathing?" Miasma's setting up one of the backup safehouses - smaller than the first, just a storage unit in Bridesburg with a sleeping bag and supplies. Less comfortable but harder to trace.

  "That's what I thought too but he insists it's just really good prediction," I reply, watching him organize equipment with that same methodical precision he brings to everything. Everything has a place. Everything gets labeled.

  "It's not." He's writing something in a notebook - probably coordinates, addresses, drop points. "His power creates closed timelike curves in information space. The future state influences the present state through observation. That's not prediction. That's retrocausality."

  "I'm not sure what the practical difference is."

  "The practical difference is that he can extract information from futures that never happen." Miasma looks up from the notebook. "He can see what would occur if you hit Target A, then see what would occur if you hit Target B, then you choose Target C and those other timelines collapse. The information existed before the choice. That's not prediction - predictions require the thing to actually happen."

  I think about that. "I think the way he explained it is that he runs simulations in his brain. Like it's a supercomputer."

  "It's information theory. Game theory." He observes, going back to the notebook. "I think we can use that."

  The target is a row home three blocks from where I'm standing. Kingdom front - I've had it documented since last year. They run pills through here, mostly Jump nowadays but some prescription stuff too. Small operation, maybe three or four people working it. Not strategic enough for Argus Corps' attention but significant enough to matter to the neighborhood.

  My neighborhood.

  I move through the empty lot, watching for disturbances in the snow. Nobody is bleeding enough to trigger anything, so I have to rely on my good ol' normal senses. It almost feels weird now. Dog in the house next door - I can hear it now, low growl. It smells me or hears me or just knows something's wrong.

  I slow down, angle my approach. The dog keeps growling but doesn't bark. Good. I don't want to wake the whole block.

  There's a back door. No security camera that I can see, but there's probably one out front. I crouch next to the door, pull out the burner phone, set a timer for twelve minutes. Crossroads said fifteen-minute window. I want to be gone with time to spare.

  The door's locked but it's a shitty lock. The thing about lockpicking is that it's sort of like muscle memory. So, as Jordan taught me, as long as you have a single sided jiggler--

  Click. I slip inside.

  The back room is storage - boxes stacked to the ceiling, the chemical smell of pills in plastic bags. I pull out my phone, start taking pictures. Not of everything - I don't have time for everything - just enough to document the operation. Close-ups of packaging, quantity estimates, a few pills themselves for identification.

  Voices from the front room. Two men, talking in low tones. I can't make out words but I can hear the rhythm - casual conversation, not alarm. They don't know I'm here.

  I move through the storage room toward the voices. There's a doorway, no door, just an arch. I peek around the corner.

  Two guys on a couch, watching something on a laptop. Early twenties maybe. One of them is smoking, the other's got a gun on the coffee table - not in his hand, just sitting there next to empty beer bottles and a pizza box.

  I could leave now. I've got photos. I've documented the operation. That was the goal.

  But there's pills here. A lot of pills. And these guys are another node in the Jump network. Hitting here hurts Rogue Wave and the Kingdom at the same time.

  I step into the doorway.

  "Hey."

  They both freeze. The smoker drops his cigarette. The other one's hand twitches toward the gun but doesn't grab it - he's not sure what's happening yet, just knows it's wrong.

  "Don't." My voice comes out muffled through the scarf but clear enough. "Don't touch the gun."

  "Who the fuck--" The smoker's starting to stand up.

  I pull the scarf down so they can see my face - jagged teeth emerging in every direction, cutting through my cheeks and nose in a way that looks extremely painful. Two can play the ugly scary game, Miasma. I reach up, grab one of my canines, and yank, showing it off like a bloody trophy. "My bone bombs can turn this whole place into a funeral home in an instant. You'll start sprouting bones from organs you didn't even know you had. Sit down."

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  The smoker sits back down.

  "I'm taking pictures of your operation," I say, keeping my voice level. "I'm going to post them online. I'm going to make sure everyone in Tacony knows what you're doing here. You're going to pack up and leave. Tonight. Because if I come back and you're still here, we're going to have a different conversation."

  One of them, the braver, stupider one, grabs the gun and levels it at my chest. Steady. Good trigger discipline. This is someone who will shoot me if I give him the opportunity.

  I clench my face up, and the teeth I'm sprouting sprout longer, growing further roots, until they top out at like half an inch and pop out of my skin. One of them grows from my eyebrow. I make sure they can see. "Is that a game you really want to play?" I growl. "Shooting me will just let all the bones out."

  He lowers the gun. "Come on, man," he mumbles, although I'm not sure if that's to me or his friend. Timer says nine minutes. I'm ahead of schedule.

  Lily sends me it in chunks - a text from my parents. First to the Auditors, then to me over chat.

  Sammy - We've hired Jerry Caldwell, he's handled superhuman cases before. A lot of them. He says the charges are weak but the fugitive status makes everything harder. We're working on it.

  We explained the situation to Principal Heckerman. He can't demand individual teachers do anything but he'll try to let them let you turn in late work for partial credit. You may need to catch up in the summer though to take your finals late. Mrs. Patterson says she'll work with you. Mr. Kim says he's required to follow district policy but he'll "see what he can do" which I think means yes.

  We're telling people you're staying with family out of state. Most people believe it or at least pretend to.

  Your father wants you to know he's proud of you. I want you to know I'm furious at Richardson and everyone involved in this. We're going to fight this. You just stay safe.

  We love you. - Mom

  I read it three times. The part about summer school stings - I'm going to graduate late, lose scholarship opportunities, fall behind on college prep. The part about my teachers working with me helps. The part about Dad being proud and Mom being furious makes my throat tight. The part about Caldwell makes a vein in my neck start twitching. That was Chernobyl's lawyer.

  So he'll know me. Good.

  I type a reply for Lily to pass back: Got it. Staying safe. Love you both. Will check in when I can.

  I don't tell them what I'm actually doing. They don't need to know. Plausible deniability.

  The safehouse is the storage unit in Bridesburg. I slip in through the side entrance - Miasma showed me how to avoid the security camera angles - and lock myself inside.

  It's cold. Colder than the basement was, but there's a sleeping bag and I've got dry clothes in my backpack. There's one of those thermal blankets and dozens of the "crack and shake and it warms up" packs.

  I pull off the wet jacket, the soaked gloves, the goggles. My fingers are numb. I start fumbling with the blanket and the heating packs until feeling returns, sharp and rowdy.

  The burner phone has three messages from Crossroads:

  C: First op successful. Data collected.

  C: Target pattern suggests Tuesday/Thursday deliveries. Next window tomorrow 11PM-2AM.

  C: Nice work.

  I stare at that last one for a second. Nice work. From Crossroads, who's probably done thousands of these operations with the DVD. Who's seen actual professionals work. And he's saying I did nice work.

  It feels good. Better than it should, maybe.

  I text back: Thanks. Tomorrow 11PM confirmed.

  Then I crawl into the sleeping bag and try to warm up.

  Outside, snow keeps falling. Somewhere in the city, Argus Corps is probably coordinating search patterns, interviewing witnesses, following up on tips that go nowhere because nobody in Tacony's going to rat me out. Somewhere Maya Richardson is getting reports that the fugitive is still operating, still causing problems, still refusing to hide.

  "The goggles are working?" Miasma's checking supplies at the primary safehouse. I'm here for a brief check-in between operations - he wants to make sure I'm not injured, not compromised, not sloppy. Not wanting to neck myself, I guess.

  "Yeah. Helps with the snow glare. Also makes me harder to identify on camera."

  "Good. Keep them. I've got three more pairs if those break." He's making notes in his ever-present notebook. "How's the target selection working?"

  "Crossroads is scary accurate. Every quiet target stays quiet. Every loud target brings response exactly when he says." I'm eating warm lo mein from a takeout container. I'm trying to remain nutritionally complete - jerky, beans, power bars - but it's nice to eat something unhealthy and warm. "It's like cheating."

  "It is cheating. That's the point." He looks up. "You're getting faster. First operation took you eighteen minutes. Last night took you eleven."

  "Practice."

  "Competence," he corrects. "You're learning the rhythm. Good. Maya's going to notice soon. She'll see the pattern - multiple operations, no arrests, consistent execution. Soon it'll be fewer police tip-offs, more of us."

  "That's what we want, right?"

  "Yes. But it means escalation is coming." He goes back to his notes. "Be ready. When she decides you're enough of a problem, she won't play nice anymore."

  "I can handle it."

  "Can you?" He's not being dismissive, just checking. "Because 'handling it' means dealing with Patriot, Turbo Jett, Captain Devil, and whoever else she throws at you. All at once, potentially. Can you evade that?"

  I think about it honestly. "With Crossroads's intel? Yeah. Maybe. Depends on terrain."

  "Then pick your terrain. Don't let them pick it for you." He closes the notebook. "You're doing good work, Sam. Just don't get cocky. Cocky gets you caught."

  "Noted."

  "And eat more. You're burning calories faster than you're replacing them. Regeneration requires fuel."

  I look at the empty lo mein container. "I'm eating."

  "Eat more. I'll try and leave you more food."

  I'm on a rooftop in Mayfair, three stories up, watching a Kingdom front across the street. It's a check cashing place that also runs an informal loan operation - the kind that charges 40% interest and breaks legs when people don't pay.

  Crossroads said this one stays quiet. Fifteen-minute window. I'm going in.

  But first I pull down the goggles, check my blood sense. Two people bleeding inside, both from small cuts - one on his face, from shaving, the other on his legs, presumably also from shaving. But I know there's four people here. Ground floor only - the upstairs is storage or offices, probably empty this time of night. I've scoped the windows enough.

  I climb down the fire escape, cross the street at an angle that avoids the security camera. The front door is locked but there's a side entrance through an alley. Also locked, but again, shitty lock.

  I'm inside in forty seconds.

  This one's different than the pill operation. More professional. Better security. I can hear voices from the front - business being conducted, money changing hands. Someone's getting a loan they'll regret.

  I move through the back hallway, past offices with filing cabinets and desks. I'm looking for records - names, amounts, interest rates. The kind of documentation that makes this prosecutable if anyone ever brings it to the right people.

  Third office has a file cabinet that's not locked. Careless. I start photographing files - loan agreements, repayment schedules, enforcement notes. Some of the enforcement notes make me physically sick. "Warned 12/15" next to someone's name. "Collateral pulled 12/18 - FOLLOW UP IN ONE MONTH" next to another.

  One month. That's... soon. I photograph everything. Every page. Every note.

  I hear footsteps in the hallway. Someone coming back here. I freeze, pressed against the wall next to the door.

  The footsteps stop. Whoever it is is standing right outside. I can hear breathing. My hand goes to my mouth, and my knuckles start growing teeth under my gloves.

  The door starts to open.

  I move fast - shoulder into the door, driving it back into whoever's opening it. I hear a grunt of pain, someone stumbling back. I'm through the door before they recover, past them and running for the side exit.

  "Hey! Stop!"

  Not stopping. I'm at the side door, out into the alley, moving fast. Behind me I hear shouting, more footsteps. But I'm faster and I know the terrain better. Two blocks and I'm gone, unzipping my jacket to reverse it. My knees get cold as I duck down behind a dumpster. Two people pass the alley - one of the bleeding ones, and someone who wasn't bleeding.

  But I'm already wearing a different color coat.

  I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding. That was closer than it should have been, but it's a trail I can trace. Indiscriminate photographs - I can analyze the contents later. Dig for something actionable, as opposed to vague warnings.

  For now, I head back to the safehouse. Tomorrow I do it again.

  And the day after that.

  And the day after that.

  Until Alice shows up and we can end this