The burner phone pulls me out of sleep at 12:47 AM.

  I'm reaching for it before I'm fully awake, fumbling in the dark of the storage unit, heart already kicking into high gear before my brain catches up. The screen's too bright, makes my eyes water. Text message. Crossroads.

  Address in Mayfair. ALERTA. Nothing else. But I have a quick flashback - Ocean's Eleven style - to our conversation two weeks ago, when we hashed out this crazy plan.

  ALERTA. He's in danger. Immediate danger, now.

  I'm on my feet, adrenaline slamming through my system like cold water. Crossroads doesn't go dark. Crossroads always responds. If he sent one message and then nothing, something's wrong. Something's happening right now - is it happening at that address, or is he trying to get me to go somewhere else? I try calling, but it goes straight to voicemail. Phone's off. Either it's dead, or he shut it off (unlikely), or someone else shut it off (more likely).

  I grab my gear - goggles, scarf, jacket, gloves. My heart is slamming up into my throat. Check the address on my actual phone. Apartment building, residential, Mayfair. Maya's official district residence. I looked it up months ago during surveillance, filed it away as "possible target" and never followed up because what's the point of watching an apartment she barely uses?

  Okay. That's foreboding, but we don't have time to dwell on it.

  The storage unit door feels too loud when I open it. Cold air hits my face, January night, everything quiet except distant traffic. I pocket both phones and start moving.

  Frankford Avenue's got taxis even this late - shift changes, bar closures, people going home from late shifts. I flag one down, give the address, pull cash from my operational funds. The driver doesn't ask questions. I look like any teenager in winter gear coming home late, not a fugitive racing toward something that made Crossroads send our bug-out word and then disappear.

  ALERTA. Even I know that. I would know that even if I wasn't currently taking Spanish classes.

  I try his number again while the taxi moves. Voicemail. Again. Voicemail.

  My hands are shaking. Not fear exactly - I'm not scared, or maybe I am but it's buried under the need to move, to get there, to figure out what's happening. Crossroads has been my secret advantage for weeks, my ace in the hole. Every quiet operation, every window of opportunity, every time I knew Argus Corps wouldn't show up - that was him. Looking ahead, gaming probabilities, telling me when and where and how.

  Now he's gone and I'm operating blind and whatever's happening in Mayfair is happening without intel, without preparation, without any idea what I'm walking into except that it made Crossroads send an emergency text and then stop responding. Is he dead? Did he get shot? Is the Kingdom sending someone after him? Or was he just caught out with no phone and needed me to move before it died? No, I don't think he'd use the magic word for that last one.

  The taxi gets close and I see the lights. Police cordon, emergency vehicles, the whole block lit up like a stage set. Residents pushed back across the street, police tape, Argus Corps van parked at an angle that blocks the apartment entrance from casual view.

  I pay the driver three blocks out and move on foot. Keeping my eyes out, watching for anything interesting in my blood sense, looking for threats, trying to get a read on the situation before I commit. There's people everywhere - cops, residents, EMTs on standby. Nobody is bleeding. Professional calm. A cop looks at me, turns around, looks past the cordon, looks confused.

  And then I see myself.

  Someone in winter gear at the apartment entrance. Goggles, scarf, dark jacket. My height, my build - or close enough under all the layers. She's got Maya in a chokehold, taser visible in one hand, knife at Maya's throat with the other.

  Alice.

  Our mystery shapeshifter. Alice. Two months of frame-up wasn't enough, she saw me calling her out and went, okay, sure. Let's escalate. And now she's here, holding Maya hostage in front of cops and Argus Corps and anyone with a phone camera far enough away to see but not close enough to hear.

  I can see Miasma near the cordon - hazmat suit, respirator, standing with arms crossed in that way that screams "waiting." Captain Devil's there too, red scarf fluttering in a nonexistent wind, talking to a cop who looks grossly out of his depth.

  No Patriot yet. Small mercy. This whole assessment takes me about three blinks to think about.

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  I move closer and someone sees me. The cop from a second ago does a triple-take and shouts "There's another one!" Weapons come up - not pointed at me yet but ready, that half-draw that means they're one wrong move from firing.

  "Stop! Don't move!"

  I stop. Hands visible, non-threatening. My goggles are up on my forehead, scarf loose around my neck. I need them to see my face.

  "I'm Samantha Small," I call out, trying to keep my voice steady. "That's an imposter. That's the person who's been framing me."

  "That's what the other one said!" The cop sounds stressed, uncertain. More weapons coming up now, more cops moving to flank me.

  Captain Devil's moving forward, hands out in a calming gesture. "Everyone stay calm. Let's sort this out."

  I can see Miasma hasn't moved. He can't be seen helping me directly - has to maintain cover, has to stay neutral. But I catch the angle of his head, the way he's positioned to see both me and Alice. He knows. He has to know.

  Alice sees me.

  She's maybe thirty feet away, Maya still in her grip. I can't see her face clearly through the scarf and goggles but I feel her attention shift. Lock onto me. This is the moment she was waiting for.

  She pulls her goggles up. Tugs the scarf down just enough to show her face.

  My face.

  "It's her! That's the imposter I've been telling you about! And you didn't listen!" Her voice is mine. The exact cadence, the intensity I get when I'm angry about something. "And now she's here to cut me loose. You should've just listened to me."

  "Hey! You don't get to play that card before I do!" I protest, mostly out of impulse. It seems weak even as it's coming out. "You're the fake Bloodhound around here!"

  She looks me in the eyes. It feels like looking at a funhouse mirror. "I'm not Bloodhound. I retired. My name is Samantha Elisabeth Small,"

  Oh fuck.

  "and you're the faker. This is my neighborhood. My parents Ben and Rachel live here. And because of you, I've been on the run for two weeks, eating fucking brick ramen out of a storage container in Tacony. Asshole!" G-d damnit, she sounds just like me. And she's speaking like she is me. Every word that comes out is a knife.

  "Maya Richardson needs to go to jail." Alice's voice gets harder, more passionate, while I'm sort of at a loss of words. Normally, I'd be snarking now, but seeing someone using my face and voice in perfect imitation of me is doing something psychological I lack the depth to understand. "Her anti-vigilante bill is hurting all of us - people with powers who just want to help, who are trying to do the right thing. And if you can't see that, it's because you're blind to the truth!"

  I feel sick. Hearing my own arguments coming from someone wearing my face, holding a city councilwoman hostage, making me look like shit!

  The cops are looking between us now. Two identical people in winter gear. Both claiming to be the real Samantha Small. Both with explanations.

  A vehicle pulls up - I recognize it before I see him. Patriot's here. He pulls out, boots heavy, head as bald as ever. I wonder - does he shave, or is he just naturally like that? You'd think someone in peak human condition would also have peak hair growth.

  "Nobody moves."

  I pull off my right glove. The cold air hits my hand and I focus, pushing teeth through my knuckles. It hurts - it always hurts - but the pain is clarifying. Sharp and bright and real. Blood wells up where the teeth break skin, bone pushing through flesh in a way that's impossible to fake.

  I hold up my hand so everyone can see. "See? I have powers! She can't do this!"

  Alice doesn't miss a beat.

  "Obviously a shapeshifter could fake that." She sounds almost sympathetic, like she's explaining something to a child. Her free hand - the one not holding the taser - goes to her own scarf, grabbing it with her pinky, knife angled so it's still pointing at Maya at all times. She pulls it down further, opens her mouth.

  Shark teeth. Identical to mine. Perfectly crafted prosthetics that fit over her real teeth like a costume piece. Or maybe shapeshifting?

  "She's using special effects makeup!" Alice pulls one of the teeth out, shows it to the cops. Red, fake blood oozes out from a prosthetic gum. "I knew she'd try this. It's movie effects - you can buy this stuff online! She probably has some fake teeth just tucked between her fingers."

  Maya hasn't said a word. She looks at me, and I look at her, and we see each other in the soul. Telepathic communication, in a sense, from a look. I understand exactly what she means.

  This is your recompense. That's what she's telling me.

  The teeth in my knuckles are real. I can feel them rooted in bone, part of my body, grown from my own calcium and keratin and whatever else my regeneration uses. But looking at Alice's SFX demonstration, I understand: the cops can't tell the difference. To them it's both just performance. Both just claims.

  Patriot's moving forward now. "We're detaining both of you until we can sort this out. Nobody resists, nobody runs. Understood?"

  I look at Alice. She looks at me. Maya's still in her grip, standing steel still, stiff as a statue, knife held to her throat but not pressed hard enough to cut.

  The seed of doubt is sown. Sown? Whatever. Alice prepped for every obvious move. The teeth demonstration, the personal information, the rhetoric - she countered all of it. Turned it into theater, made it look like tricks instead of proof.

  I already have charges. Unlicensed vigilantism. Breaking and entering. Stalking. Reckless endangerment. Fleeing arrest. Assault on a federal officer when I kicked Jett's toes.

  What's one more?

  Alice is still holding Maya, still performing, still waiting to see what I do next.

  I don't think about it. Thinking means hesitation and hesitation means she gets to control the narrative forever.

  I just move.

  Three steps to close the distance. Captain Devil shouts something behind me. Cops are yelling. I hear Miasma's voice louder than everyone else's, amplified through his respirator. Does he have an amplifier or something built into that, or is he just shouting super loud? Later me problem to ask about. "Hold your fire! Guns down!"

  Alice sees me coming. Her eyes go wide - genuine surprise, not performance. She starts to adjust her grip on Maya, maybe to use the taser, maybe to drop her and run.

  She doesn't get the chance before my untoothed hand collides with soft, squishy cheek.