The days between the storm watch and the hearing blur into a rhythm of grey skies and small violences.

  Tuesday: I'm walking past the laundromat on Harbison when I see three Songbirds - blue jackets, yellow bandanas - squared off against two guys I recognize from the Kingdom corners. Nobody's throwing punches yet but the energy is wrong, coiled, waiting for an excuse. I keep walking. A block later I hear shouting but no sirens. I don't go back.

  Wednesday: Mrs. Adebayo's nephew Chidi got jumped walking home from his shift at the Wawa. Nothing broken, but they took his phone and his wallet and told him his aunt should "reconsider her prior lack of community engagement." She tells me this while I help her finally install the new deadbolt, her hands shaking too much to hold the screwdriver steady.

  "I've been here thirty-two years," she says. "Thirty-two years and nobody ever--" She stops. Breathes. "What am I supposed to do, Sam?"

  I don't have an answer. I help her finish the lock and I don't charge her for my time and I walk home in the slush feeling useless.

  Thursday: Amelia comes over with a duffel bag full of fabric samples and a measuring tape.

  "Arms out," she says, and I comply, hidden away in the sanctuary of my bedroom so that my parents don't murder me.

  She's been working on something for me.

  "The base layer needs to wick moisture," she murmurs, marking measurements in a little notebook. "Winter operations, you're going to sweat under the insulation and then freeze when you stop moving. So we need something that pulls liquid away from your skin but doesn't absorb it. I think we did something like that for your last Bloodhound costume."

  "Okay."

  "And I'm building in weak points. Strategic ones." She taps my forearm, my shoulder, the side of my ribs. "Seams that'll tear clean if you need to push teeth through, then stitch themselves back together after. It's tricky - the self-repair only works if the fibers are aligned right - but I think I've figured it out."

  "You think?"

  "I've tested it on practice pieces. Worked four times out of five."

  "What happened the fifth time?"

  "It caught fire." She sees my expression. "I fixed the problem! Mostly. Don't wear it near open flames."

  "Amelia."

  "I'm kidding. Mostly." She grins, and I can't help but smile back. "The outer layer is all store-bought. Plates and guards that go over top, attach with quick-release clasps. You can shed them if you need mobility or keep them on for protection. It turns out that soccer players already invented the best shinguards you can buy, and it's really hard to improve on consumer-available bulletproof vests."

  "There's consumer-available bulletproof vests?" I ask, incredulous. I always wondered where they all came from.

  Amelia chuckles. "Sort of. When you work in support devices it opens a lot of doors, supply-line side."

  "You have a job?" I ask again.

  Amelia shoots me a withering glance. "I have an internship that will likely become a job once I'm done school."

  "What about the head?"

  "Are you going to just ask me fifteen billion questions? I'm working on it. I remember what you said about the goggles," she coughs.

  I nod. Trust her. She's better at this than I am.

  "When do you need it done?" she asks.

  "Soon," I say. "I don't know exactly when. But soon."

  She looks at me for a moment, reading something in my face I'm probably not hiding well. "Okay. I'll have it ready."

  Friday: The neighborhood watch on Torresdale gets into it with a group of Kingdom-adjacent guys who were maybe selling, maybe just standing around. Nobody can agree on who started it. By the time I hear about it, two people are in the hospital - one with a broken arm, one with a concussion - and the cops are treating it as "mutual combat," which means nobody's getting charged and nothing's getting solved.

  I text Sundial: Getting worse out here

  She replies: i know. we're doing what we can. hearing monday right?

  Sam: Tuesday

  Lucy: hang in there

  Saturday: Amelia comes back with a prototype. The base layer fits like a second skin, charcoal grey, surprisingly warm without being bulky. I move through some forms in the living room - punches, kicks, sprawls - and the fabric moves with me, no binding, no restriction.

  "The seams?" I ask.

  "Try it."

  I focus on my forearm, push teeth through the skin. The fabric parts cleanly along an invisible line, the bone-white points emerging through the gap. When I keep pushing, the tooth comes out, clattering on the floor (and eventually will dissolve entirely). The seam pulls itself closed, fibers knitting back together over a few seconds.

  "Holy shit," I breathe.

  "I know, right?" Amelia looks smug, which she's earned. "It regenerates just like you do. I've also got some leather accoutrements coming."

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  "Leather?" I ask dubiously, raising an eyebrow.

  "Samegawa, technically. It goes on the palms of your gloves and some other spots that we want to make extra grippy and rough. Back of the knuckles over top the plating. Forearm sheets, tops of your boots. It'll blend in, color-wise," she explains.

  "I have no idea what that is. Is that like, what, a kind of animal?" I ask.

  Amelia flicks me in the forehead, and I bounce backwards like a bobblehead. "More or less,"

  Sunday, February 1st: Second mentorship meeting.

  The kids are quieter this time. The weather has been relentlessly grey, cold rain turning to slush turning to ice and back again. Everyone looks tired. Zara's got dark circles under her eyes; her grandmother's anxiety is apparently contagious. Liam keeps checking his phone - his mom's been texting him every hour, wanting to know where he is. Jasmine is more withdrawn than usual, which is saying something.

  Alex is calm. Suspiciously calm. He's doing his exercises, practicing his fine control, not pushing for more. When I ask how he's been, he says "Fine, keeping busy" in a tone that's either genuine peace or very good acting.

  I still can't tell with him. Maybe I never will.

  We don't do the career conversation again. Instead I walk them through de-escalation techniques again - what to do if someone confronts you about your powers, how to defuse without using abilities, when to walk away versus when to stand your ground. It feels inadequate given what's happening outside, but it's what I've got.

  I don't want to give them combat training. But I do go outside with them and do some jumping jacks and other stuff in the snow. Trying to move to music, even if my dad's CD collection is bad. I promise them that I'll start teaching them some tumbling when they see me doing a vault over something totally unconsciously. That gets everyone's attention, somehow. Sure. We'll do tumbling, when the weather sucks less.

  "The next few weeks might be weird," I tell them at the end. "Weather's supposed to get bad. People are stressed. If anything happens - if you need help, if something goes wrong - you text me. Okay? Any time, day or night."

  Four nods. Four kids who shouldn't have to be thinking about this stuff.

  After they leave, I stand in the empty living room and look out at the grey sky and think about what's coming.

  Monday, February 2nd: Caldwell calls to prep me for the hearing.

  "It's straightforward," he says. "The DA's office isn't pushing hard. They've got the impersonation documented, your alibi data is solid, you didn't violate the terms of your release. We're asking for dismissal; they'll probably agree to drop to a misdemeanor with time served and monitoring, which we'll accept, which means the monitor comes off tomorrow."

  "What if they don't agree?"

  "Then we go to trial and we win. But they'll agree. Nobody wants this dragging out."

  "Okay," I say. "What do I wear?"

  "Something boring. No statements. You're a nice normal teenager who got caught up in something complicated."

  I can do boring. I've been doing boring for two weeks.

  That night, Miasma texts to the burner that I have yet to burn entirely: Ready when you are.

  I reply: Tomorrow afternoon. After the hearing.

  Joshua: Good luck.

  Joshua: I just got out of an all-hands from Maya about a Philadelphia Inquirer article that's about to go out.

  Joshua: Something about dealing with organized crime in her district. She got a rude wake-up from the PPD and the DVD.

  Joshua: Hammer's just about ready to come down. She wants to divert Argus Corps to NE. Help keep the peace.

  Joshua: Sure.

  I smile at that, but even still, I don't sleep well. I keep thinking about the costume hanging in my closet, the base layer folded neatly under my bed

  Tuesday, February 3rd.

  I stay after school for what should hopefully be the last time. Finally caught up after two weeks of working overtime in every class to make sure I don't fall behind my peers after two weeks of being a G-d damn fugitive. All this work would've put me way ahead if I was at a normal pace, but instead I've decided my life is better spent waging a one-girl war against the forces of darkness, evil, and money. And then, I get picked up right from school, taken home to change into something nicer, and from there it's straight to the courthouse. We're saving the McDonalds for after my - hopefully! - after my plea deal.

  The courthouse is less dramatic than I expected. No marble columns, no sweeping staircases - just a municipal building with fluorescent lights and scuffed linoleum and too many people waiting for their names to be called. Dad's with me; Mom wanted to come but someone had to work, and anyway two parents might look like we're taking it too seriously. Caldwell meets us in the hallway, looking like he slept in his suit, which he probably did.

  "How are you feeling?" he asks.

  "Nervous," I admit. "Is that normal?"

  "Completely normal. Also irrelevant - you're not testifying, you're just present. Let me do the talking. If the judge asks you a direct question, answer honestly and briefly. Don't volunteer information."

  "Okay," I say. My Mom's told me that before. Don't volunteer information to cops. I guess these people are sort of cop-adjacent?

  The hearing is in a small courtroom, not the big dramatic kind with a jury box and gallery seating. Just a judge's bench, two tables, a few chairs. The judge is a tired-looking Black woman in her fifties who reviews the file while we wait. The prosecutor is a young guy, probably an ADA, who keeps checking his phone like he's got somewhere else to be.

  "This is the matter of Commonwealth versus Small," the judge says eventually. "I've reviewed the motion to dismiss. Mr. Caldwell, you're representing the defendant?"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "And the Commonwealth's position?"

  The ADA stands. "The Commonwealth is prepared to offer a plea to disorderly conduct, a summary offense, with a sentence of time served and removal of monitoring conditions. Given the documented evidence of impersonation and the defendant's compliance with release terms, we don't see value in pursuing the original charges."

  I feel something loosen in my chest.

  "Mr. Caldwell?"

  "We'll accept that resolution, Your Honor."

  The judge looks at me for the first time. "Ms. Small. You understand what's happening here? You're pleading to a minor offense and the more serious charges are being dropped."

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  "And you understand this will remain on your record, though it can be expunged after a period of good behavior?"

  "Yes, Your Honor."

  She studies me for a moment. I try to look like a nice normal teenager who got caught up in something complicated.

  "I've read the file," she says. "Including the documentation about the alleged impersonator. 'Alice,' your motion calls her."

  "It's a placeholder name, Your Honor," Caldwell says. "Like Alice and Bob in cryptography. We don't know her actual identity."

  "Mmm." The judge's expression is unreadable. "Ms. Small, I'm going to give you some advice that's outside my official capacity. You seem like a smart young woman who's gotten involved in things beyond your control. My suggestion is to stay out of those things going forward. Let the professionals handle it."

  I nod. Don't say anything. Don't mention that the professionals have been handling it and the neighborhood is still getting squeezed.

  "Alright. I'm accepting the plea, ordering the monitoring device removed, and closing this matter. Ms. Small, you're free to go. Stay out of trouble."

  "Yes, Your Honor. Thank you."

  The bailiff takes me to a side room where a technician removes the ankle monitor. It takes less than a minute - a key, a click, and then the weight I've been carrying for weeks is just... gone. I roll my ankle, flex my foot. The skin underneath is pale and slightly raw from two weeks of plastic and metal.

  I'm free.

  Dad hugs me in the hallway, tight and wordless. Caldwell shakes my hand and tells me to call if I need anything. We walk out of the courthouse into the grey February afternoon.

  The air is cold. Colder than yesterday. I look up at the sky and see clouds the color of bruises, heavy and low, and I feel snow landing on my cheek. Just a flurry now, scattered flakes drifting down. But the forecast says six to ten inches overnight, with more possible tomorrow. Unusual for this late in the season, the weatherman said. An unusual pressure system.