The ceremonial handoff takes about five minutes and feels like an hour.

  Jamal's got a photographer - some guy from the city communications office with a camera that looks like it costs more than my car. We stand in the lobby, me and Jamal and Maggie and Tasha, and he hands me a little velvet box with the keys in it like I'm receiving a medal of honor instead of the ability to lock a door.

  "For the camera," he murmurs as I take the box. "Smile."

  "I'm wearing a helmet."

  "Smile anyway. They can tell."

  I'm not sure that's true, but I try anyway. I've never been able to smile on command, and I doubt that's gonna start now, either. The photographer snaps about fifteen shots from different angles while civilians watch from the edges of the lobby. I catch a couple of them taking phone photos too. Great. I'm going to end up on someone's HIRC chatroom holding a tiny velvet box like I just got proposed to. Maybe another article about me in CapeWatch.

  "That's good," the photographer says finally. "I'll have these processed by Monday."

  "Wonderful." Jamal's already steering me away from the lobby, one hand on my elbow, politician's grip. "Sam, I need five minutes."

  "There's an insurance guy--"

  "He can wait."

  "And a social worker with questions--"

  "She can also wait."

  "And apparently Lily told a reporter we fight crime here."

  Jamal closes his eyes for a second. "That one I'll handle personally."

  He guides me toward the back-of-house corridor, the one that runs under the grand stair toward the service exit. It's quieter here, away from the civilians and the staff and the general chaos of opening day. Our footsteps echo on the new flooring. It's not even concrete anymore, or at least there's something on top of the concrete. Not actual plywood, but it looks like it's trying to be plywood. Vinyl? Maybe. Probably. Jamal notices me staring at the floor and makes a gentle sort of clicking noise with his mouth.

  Right. I sort of snap to attention. "The Songbirds," he says once we're out of earshot. "You handled that well."

  "I handled it. I don't know about well."

  "You didn't hit anyone. No one got hurt. They left." He shrugs. "That's well, in my book."

  "They got pictures of everyone. License plates, faces, the building. They're going to come back."

  "I know."

  "They had a sign with Shrike's face on it. 'Remember Shrike.' Like he was some kind of martyr."

  "I saw." Jamal's voice is flat in a way that tells me he's angry but controlling it. "I know who they are. Mike D'Ambrosio - the one with the megaphone - he's been showing up at city council meetings for months. Public comment period. He's got a whole speech about 'protecting communities from metahuman threats.'"

  "And you didn't think to mention this before the event?" I furrow my brow, and then because he can't see it, I pinch the muzzle of my helmet to sort of express the same emotion

  "I didn't think they'd actually show up. My mistake." He stops walking, turns to face me. We're in the narrow corridor now, service exit behind him, stairs behind me. "Bloodhound, I need you to understand something. This center is going to be a target. Not just from the Songbirds - from everyone who doesn't want it to exist. Richardson's people. The Kingdom. Anyone who benefits from powered kids having nowhere to go."

  "I know, I--" I start.

  "Do you?" He studies me for a second. "Because once this place is fully operational, once we have kids sleeping upstairs and social workers on staff and an actual budget, it becomes a pressure point. Something people can threaten to take away. Something people can target to hold me hostage. To hold you hostage."

  I think about the therapy rooms. The beds. The Faraday cage with its federal-grade shielding. Everything we built, everything Jamal fought for, turned into leverage. It makes my skin itch.

  I fold my arms and try to look confident. "You're saying they'll come after the center to get to us."

  "I'm saying they'll come after the center because it's easier than coming after you directly." He starts walking again, slower now. "The Songbirds can't assault a superhero. But they can file complaints with the city. They can show up at every event. They can harass families until parents pull their kids from the program. They can make this place so toxic that the funding dries up."

  "And the Kingdom?"

  Jamal's quiet for a moment. "Richardson was at the event today."

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "I saw. She shook my hand," I remind him.

  "She didn't stay long," he notes.

  "She never does. Show up, get photographed, leave before anyone can ask questions." I pause. "The confession dropped this morning. She's probably busy doing damage control."

  "That's what I wanted to talk to you about." Jamal glances back toward the main hall, checking that we're still alone. "I've been hearing things. From colleagues, from people in city government. There's movement."

  "Movement how?"

  "Federal attention. The FBI has been asking questions about organized crime in Northeast Philadelphia. The NSRA is reviewing Richardson's power registration. And there's apparently a grand jury being convened, though I don't know what for specifically."

  I process this. Federal attention is good - it means we're not the only ones who've noticed something's wrong. But it's also complicated. Federal investigations move slowly. They build cases over months or years. And in the meantime, Maya is still sitting in city council, still running the Kingdom, still making Northeast Philly worse.

  "Do they have anything solid?" I ask.

  "I don't know. These things are confidential for a reason." Jamal sighs. "What I do know is that Richardson is feeling pressure from multiple directions. The Inquirer story. The confession. The federal interest. And now this center, in her district, run by her political opponents. It's an embarrassment to her. The question is - how does she handle being embarrassed?"

  "Historically... She's going to lash out, I bet." I muse.

  "She's going to do something. I don't know what." He meets my eyes. "Bloodhound, I need you to be careful. Not just for yourself - for the kids in this program. For the families. For everyone who's going to depend on this place."

  "I'm always careful."

  "You're really not," he points out.

  Fair point.

  I sort of raise my shoulders up, trying to express a fire that I feel more intellectually than in my heart. It's weird - normally it's the other way. Normally my chest is telling me what to do and my brain sort of fills in the gaps backwards. But, no, this is the opposite. "Jamal."

  "Bloodhound, that's not really app--" he starts before I cut him off.

  "Jamal. These kids are my kids. This place is my responsibility. I know you didn't hire me for, like, security or whatever, but this place is..." I take a deep breath through my nose. It sort of whistles a little in the holes of my helmet. "I'm not going to say it's all I have, because it's not. That'd be stupid. But it's a lot of what I have. It's something I can give the world besides fists. It's worth protecting."

  He looks at me, clearly a little stunned and even more clearly trying to hide that out of politeness. "That's... very mature of you, Sam."

  I grin. "And one more thing."

  "Yes?" He asks, teeing me up.

  "Targets are beartraps," I point out.

  We walk back toward the main hall in silence. The civilians are starting to thin out - it's getting late, the official event is over, people have kids to feed and lives to get back to. Staff members are starting to clean up, folding chairs, collecting pamphlets, doing the unglamorous work of running an institution.

  I spot Alex near the refreshment table, pretending to examine the remaining cookies while actually watching me. He looks away when I catch his eye. Smooth, man.

  "I should deal with the insurance guy," I say.

  "I'll handle Lily's reporter situation." Jamal's already moving toward a cluster of people near the front desk. "And Sam? Thank you. For being here today. For doing this."

  "I didn't do anything."

  "You stood up when the Songbirds came. That matters." He gives me a small smile. "That's the whole point of this place. Standing up."

  He disappears into the crowd, and I'm left alone in the corridor with a velvet box of keys and the distinct feeling that everything is about to get much worse.

  The insurance guy finds me before I can find him. He's maybe fifty, balding, wearing a suit that's slightly too big and carrying a folder that's slightly too thick. His name tag says GERALD and his expression says I'm about to ruin your afternoon.

  "Miss Bloodhound," he starts, which is not how names work. "I have some questions about liability coverage for the facility."

  "I'm not really the person to talk to about--"

  "You're listed as the associate program coordinator on the documentation. I've already filled in the senior program coordinator, we just need everyone on the same page."

  Of course you have.

  "Sure, man. I'll try to keep up."

  Twenty minutes later, I've learned more about premises liability, participant waivers, and superhuman activity exclusions than I ever wanted to know. Gerald has opinions about everything. Strong opinions. Opinions he's clearly been saving up for someone who can't escape.

  I'm nodding along to something about indemnification clauses when I see her.

  She's standing near the main entrance, just inside the doors, watching the last of the civilians file out. Tall Black woman, shaved head, wearing a blazer over a simple blouse. No FBI windbreaker this time, but I recognize her anyway.

  Agent... what was it. Ford?

  She hasn't approached yet. She's just... waiting. Patient. Professional. Her eyes sweep the room methodically, cataloging exits and sight lines, and when they land on me, she gives the smallest nod.

  Not a greeting. An acknowledgment. I see you. We need to talk.

  Gerald is still talking about something - deductibles, maybe, or coverage limits - but I've stopped listening. My brain is running through possibilities. Why is Ford here? The Songbirds? The confession? Something else entirely?

  "--and that's about all that we had for you. We understand that your alter ego is sensitive information, so for your benefit, you're not listed under your legal name on the documentation, but most of what we need from you is perfunc--" he's talking.

  "Gerald," I say, cutting him off mid-sentence. "I need to handle something. Can we continue this later?"

  He blinks at me a couple of times, almost sheepishly. "Sure. Does next Monday work? What times are you available?"

  "After... six?" I ask, already starting to walk.

  He scratches something into his clipboard. "Sure. Thank you for your time, Miss Bloodhound," he says, mostly to my back.

  Ford watches me approach. Her expression gives nothing away - it never does. I remember that from last time, the way she could sit in a hospital room taking notes while everyone else radiated tension and concern. She's like a closed door. Professional, contained, impossible to read.

  "Bloodhound," she says when I reach her. "Or are you going by something different these days?"

  "Long story. Whatever's easier for you." I glance around. The lobby's almost empty now - just a few staff members and Maggie near the front desk. "I'm guessing this isn't a social call."

  "It rarely is." She doesn't smile. "Is there somewhere we can talk privately? I have some questions about recent events."

  Recent events. That's a lot of ground to cover.

  "There's an office upstairs," I say. "It even has a door that locks."

  "That'll do."

  I lead her toward the grand stair, feeling the weight of her attention on my back. She's here because of Maya. She has to be. The question is: how much does she already know, and how much am I willing to tell her?