Friday night I can't sleep.

  Not because I'm scared or stressed - well, not the bad kind of stressed. My brain's too activated, running through scenarios and possibilities and what-happens-nexts. The evidence is out there. CapeWatch posted the impersonation article. The Inquirer has the financial documents. Monday morning they'll publish. Maya will have to respond.

  That's the point. Force her to escalate. Make her deploy Alice again where we can catch her.

  But right now, in this storage unit in Bridesburg at one in the morning, there's nothing to do except wait.

  So I stretch instead.

  My hamstrings are tight from a week of running. My hip flexors are complaining about all the climbing. I don't really get DOMS the way normal people do - my regeneration handles the micro-tears pretty well - but I still need to keep everything mobile, loose, ready. Can't let myself stiffen up just because I'm not actively operating.

  I work through a full-body routine on the concrete floor. Hip circles, leg swings, spinal twists. My shoulders pop and crack as I roll them out. Everything feels functional but tired, like a machine that's been running hot and needs maintenance.

  When I'm done stretching I pull out one of Miasma's books. Criminal Justice in Post-Genesis America. Dense, academic, footnotes on every page. Perfect for keeping my brain occupied without spiraling.

  I read about mandatory minimums for powered offenders. About the legal precedent that established Daedalus. About the arguments for and against treating metahuman crimes differently than regular crimes. It's interesting in that sort of depressing way where you learn how thoroughly fucked everything is and how many smart people saw it coming and couldn't stop it.

  Around three AM I finally sleep.

  Saturday morning I wake up to my phone buzzing. Group chat.

  Maggie: SAM

  Maggie: SAM WAKE UP

  Maggie: HAVE YOU SEEN THE RESPONSES

  Maggie: people believe you!!!

  Amelia: Every forum I can find has at least one thread about the Capewatch article.

  Amelia: Usually in the dedicated Capewatch jail thread but still.

  Tasha: Philadelphia HIRC is going crazy. Everyone's talking about the impersonation thing.

  I scroll through the links they're sending. CapeWatch's article has been shared thousands of times. The comments are... actually mostly supportive? People pointing out the timeline inconsistencies, the costume differences, the fact that Bloodhound II is publicly operating with a different look. Skeptics, obviously, but way more people saying "yeah this tracks" than I expected.

  Sam: This is good right?

  Tasha: This is very good. Public opinion matters even if it's not a legal defense.

  Amelia: The Inquirer investigation will matter more. Has there been any word?

  Sam: Nothing yet. Monday morning probably.

  Maggie: are you okay? where are you?

  Sam: I'm fine. Can't say where. Staying mobile. I'll check in tomorrow.

  I pocket the phone and start my morning conditioning. Not heavy work - I'm not trying to build right now, just maintain. Shadowboxing, footwork drills, keeping my body in the rhythm of movement. Twenty minutes and I'm sweating but not exhausted. Good.

  Miasma shows up around noon with food and supplies. He's got this routine now - checking the safehouse, making sure I'm not injured or compromised or doing anything stupid, restocking whatever I've used, maybe some chat, and then leaving.

  "News cycle's picking up," he says, unpacking containers of actual cooked food. Smells like Indian, maybe. "CapeWatch article is spreading. Inquirer's being quiet, which means they're working."

  "Monday morning," I say. "I'm guessing."

  "Probably." He's organizing supplies with that same methodical precision. "You ready for Maya's response?"

  "That's the whole point, right? Force her to do something we can catch."

  "Theoretically." He pauses, looks at me through the respirator. "You understand she might not do what we expect."

  "I know." I do know. Maya's smart, strategic, unpredictable when she wants to be. "But she has to respond. The Inquirer investigation is too big to ignore. She'll have to try something."

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "And when she does, we catch Alice."

  "And when we do, charges get dropped." I'm eating the Indian food - some kind of curry with rice, way better than gas station sandwiches. "Then what?"

  "Then you go back to being a normal teenager, I assume."

  I almost laugh. "Yeah. Normal. That's definitely a thing I know how to do."

  "You've got school to catch up on. Mentorship program to run. Parents who want you home." He's not being dismissive, just matter-of-fact. "This was always supposed to be temporary. Get out from under the charges, get back to your life. I'm just your psychopomp. Nothing more."

  "My what?" I ask.

  "Don't worry about it," he says, chuckling like a humming chainsaw. "You're sixteen. You did your part. You gathered evidence, forced them to respond, created an opening. Now, maybe you can try to calm your life down. Enjoy that retirement you started. You're going to force them to overextend. It's about strategic commitment, not tactical commitment. Sure, it feels good in the moment to wage a one-girl war against the forces of evil... but don't you miss the lunchroom?"

  It sounds reasonable when he says it like that. But something in my chest resists the idea of just... stopping. Going back to school and pretending the Kingdom isn't still out there, Maya isn't still in city council, the whole corrupt machine isn't still grinding.

  "We'll see," I say.

  Miasma makes that rattling sound that might be a laugh. "Yeah. We'll see."

  He leaves. I go back to reading.

  The book talks about the transition from rehabilitation-focused to containment-focused prison design. How Daedalus started with good intentions - treating powered inmates humanely, focusing on helping them control their abilities and reintegrate - and gradually became what it is now. A black hole where people disappear.

  Pop-pop Moe's firm gets mentioned again. One paragraph about the weatherproofing contract. I wonder if he's read this book. Probably. Probably that's why he regrets it.

  I turn the page and keep reading.

  Sunday morning I do a full mobility routine. Every joint, every muscle group, making sure nothing's tight or restricted. I'm not operating tonight or probably tomorrow, but I need to stay ready. When Maya responds, when Alice gets deployed, I have to be able to move.

  The Auditors check in around eleven.

  Lily: How are you doing?

  Sam: Good. Resting. Staying ready.

  Tasha: News is still spreading. I think the Inquirer thing is going to be big when it drops.

  Maggie: do you think they'll drop the charges right away or will it take time?

  Sam: Probably takes time even with proof. Legal stuff is slow.

  Sam: But I'm not gonna let them bully me. I'm marching back into my bedroom and taking a nap.

  Sam: They'll have to pry me out with a claw hammer.

  Amelia: Your parents are asking about you constantly. They want to know you're safe.

  Sam: Can you tell them I'm okay? Tell them the plan is working. Tell them I love them and I'll be home soon.

  Amelia: Will do.

  I stare at that last message for a second. Home soon. Is that true? Do I believe that?

  I want to. I want this to be almost over. Just one more move - catch Alice, prove the impersonation, charges dropped, go home. Back to school, back to mentorship, back to something resembling normal.

  But Maya's still out there. The Kingdom's still operating. And I've spent two years learning that nothing is ever as simple as "one more thing and it's over."

  I put the phone down and go back to conditioning.

  Afternoon I work the heavy bag Miasma set up in the corner. Not full power - I don't want to break my hands - just technical work. Combinations, breathing, footwork. Jab-cross-hook. Slip, pivot, uppercut. The rhythm of it is meditative, body moving through patterns while my brain processes everything else. Boxing fits me so much better than BJJ and Aikido. Sorry, Rampart. I know you were very keen on it.

  CapeWatch article still spreading. Inquirer still silent. Monday morning, probably. Maya will see it, have to respond. We catch Alice, prove impersonation, charges drop.

  Then what?

  The question keeps circling back. Then what? Do I just go back to being a kid? Back to worrying about grades and college applications and whether I'm doing enough community service for scholarship essays?

  It feels wrong. Feels like leaving the job half-done.

  But what's the alternative? Keep fighting the Kingdom forever? I'm sixteen. I've got school. I've got family. I've got a life that isn't just this. Right?

  I hit the bag harder. Jab-jab-cross-hook-cross. Focus on the technique, not the spiral.

  Crossroads texts around six PM.

  C: Just checking in. I'm doing reads every half hour.

  C: Will let you know when I see Alice.

  C: I appreciate you trusting me with this sort of thing. Are you keeping safe?

  Sam: I am.

  C: Good work this week. Seriously.

  Sam: Wait hold on. You... appreciate me?

  That one took me a couple of seconds to process.

  C: Of course?

  C: I'd rather be doing this than more PPD scrying.

  C: And you're my comrade.

  C: You're my impulsive little sister. I could never let you do this alone.

  For some reason, that makes me want to cry.

  Sunday afternoon I eat the last of the food Miasma left - more curry, some naan, fruit that's probably supposed to help with recovery or whatever. My body feels good. Tired but functional. Ready.

  I do a final check of my gear. Goggles, scarf, jacket that reverses. Lockpicks. Burner phones. Everything organized, everything in place. When Maya responds, when we need to move, I'll be ready.

  My actual phone has messages from the Auditors, from Crossroads, from Lily passing along things from my parents. Everyone's checking in, making sure I'm okay, telling me they're proud or worried or both.

  I text Lily one more message to pass to Mom and Dad.

  Sam: Tell them I'm still safe and that I love them. And ask if they can send me Mr. Caldwell's address.

  Sam: I am probably going to go there instead of home first thing. Feels safer in a lawyer's office.

  Lily: Will do. Be careful.

  I turn off the phone and pocket it. Can't risk them tracking it when things get active.

  The storage unit is quiet. Cold, but I've got the sleeping bag and enough layers. Outside I can hear distant traffic, someone's TV through thin walls, the normal sounds of the city on a Sunday late afternoon.

  I got an email about an hour ago. Monday morning. The Inquirer drops their breaking news expose. Well, alleged expose, but a huge scoop nonetheless. Maya sees it, realizes the financial investigation is real and serious and damaging. She responds - has to respond. Deploys Alice for one more play, one more attempt to discredit me or force Argus Corps to bring me in or whatever she's planning.

  And we catch her. Prove the impersonation. End this.

  That's the plan. Force Maya to show her hand, catch Alice in the act, walk away clean.

  I believe it'll work. I have to believe it'll work, because if it doesn't, I don't know what comes next.

  I crawl into the sleeping bag. My body's tired in that good way, the kind where you've maintained and prepared and you're ready. Not exhausted. Ready.