The suit fits like Amelia made it for me.

  She did make it for me. That's the thing. She's been waiting - maybe for weeks, maybe longer - for me to ask. The bulk of the work was probably done already. Well, the bulk of it was done already. She pulled apart most of the Remora suit to recycle into this. And now I'm standing in my bedroom at 11:04 PM, pulling on blues and whites instead of Remora's grays, and it feels like putting on skin that was always supposed to be there.

  The fabric is lighter than I expected. Breathable, flexible, but I can feel the padding underneath - not Kevlar, I didn't have time to grab the vest, but enough to blunt a punch or absorb a fall. The gloves are familiar, the same tension-hardening knuckles from the Remora suit, but now there are seams at the joints where teeth can come through if I need them. The gauntlet sits snug on my right forearm, barely visible, loaded with canisters I haven't had time to inventory. Pepper spray, probably. Smoke. The pig's blood solution that lets me track people even when I can't see them. That one's an old classic. Maybe some other canisters.

  The belt clicks into place. First aid kit distributed across the pouches. Emergency drones, two of them, folded flat and waiting. Zip ties. G-d bless zip ties.

  And the helmet.

  I hold it for a moment, turning it in my hands. Polymer printed, padded inside, shark-shaped but sleek - no protruding muzzle like Bloodhound's dog mask, just a smooth curve that suggests teeth without showing them. The mouth is set in a permanent slight grin. Not friendly. Not aggressive. Just... there. Waiting. Space for my breath to leave without creating a gross film of moisture on the inside. I put on the domino mask and the neckguard first. Then, the helmet.

  When I exhale, the voice sounds distinctly mechanical. Flattened. Almost masculine.

  Good.

  Donovan's Hardware. Four blocks. The police scanner said units were responding, but response times in Mayfair at 11 PM aren't great, and I'm faster than a patrol car when I'm motivated.

  I'm motivated.

  I sneak out the window, down the fire escape, and then I'm running. Not jogging, not pacing myself. Running, full sprint, the kind of speed that would burn out a normal person's legs in thirty seconds. My lungs fill and empty in a rhythm I don't have to think about. Lactic acid builds in my muscles and my body processes it almost as fast as it forms. I'm going to be hungry after this. I'm going to eat everything in the refrigerator. But right now, none of that matters. G-d, this feels awesome. When was the last time I sprinted like this? When was the last time I was running like lives depended on it? Not just running to stay in shape.

  Right now there's just the cold air and the pavement and the four blocks disappearing under my feet.

  Three blocks.

  Two.

  One.

  Donovan's Hardware sits on the corner of Frankford Ave, a two-story brick building with apartments above the shop. I can see the broken window from half a block away - glass on the sidewalk, glittering under the streetlights. No police yet. No sirens getting closer.

  Just me, and whoever's inside.

  I slow down as I approach. Take in the scene. The front door is intact, so they went through the side window - less visible from the street, easier to smash and climb through. There's a van parked in the alley, engine running. Getaway vehicle. Someone's behind the wheel, watching the street.

  Lookout.

  I note the van's position, file it away, and circle around to the broken window. Through the gap, I can see movement inside - two figures, grabbing merchandise off shelves, stuffing things into bags. They're wearing dark clothes, yellow bandanas over their faces. Songbird colors.

  Except.

  I look closer. The way they move. The efficiency of it. These aren't amateurs hyped up on forum posts and ideology. These are professionals - organized, methodical, working through the store like they've done this before.

  And on the front door, right there where I can see it from this angle: a white pawn sticker. Mr. Donovan paid his protection money. Kingdom's supposed to leave him alone.

  So either the left hand doesn't know what the right hand is doing, or someone's running a false flag. I doubt these are real Songbirds, because real Songbirds don't do smash and grabs in the first place. Easy to photograph, especially in a neighborhood this paranoid. Too much dead heat. No, dress up as Songbirds, hit a protected business, blame the anti-cape crazies for the damage. Kingdom gets to raise their rates because "look how dangerous things are getting," and the Songbirds get the heat.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Clever. Sloppy. And I'm about to ruin it.

  I step through the broken window.

  Glass crunches under my boots. Both figures spin toward the sound - I can see their eyes go wide above the yellow bandanas, see them trying to process what they're looking at. New cape. Shark helmet. Six feet of armored stranger appearing out of nowhere.

  "Drop it," I say. My voice comes out flat and mechanical through the modulator. Not a request. "Walk away."

  They don't move. The one on the left has a bag half-full of power tools. The one on the right is frozen mid-reach toward a shelf of electronics. I can see the bulge of a pistol under his jacket. The other one's probably armed too.

  "I said drop it." Second warning. I'm giving them the out. I want them to take the out. Some part of me, the part that ate pasta at Melissa's house six hours ago, is hoping they're smart enough to take the out. "This is your second warning. I don't go to three. You can even take a goodie bag, but you're not taking all of that."

  They're not smart enough.

  The one on the right goes for his gun.

  I move.

  Four steps and I'm inside his reach, too close for him to draw, too close for him to aim even if he got the gun out. My elbow drives into his solar plexus and I feel the air leave his body in a rush. He doubles over, gasping, and I'm already grabbing his gun arm - twist, strip, the pistol clatters away across the floor and I kick it under a shelf where neither of us can reach it.

  The other one's fumbling with his own weapon. I shove the first guy into the wall - he bounces like a ball, grunting, clutching his hand and trying not to let something fall on him - and close the distance before number two can get his gun clear of the holster.

  My hand clamps down on the slide. Push it back, out of battery - gun can't fire like this. He pulls the trigger anyway, panicked, and nothing happens. I twist his wrist and feel the bones grind together, not quite breaking but close, and he lets go with an angry, pissed-off yelp.

  Gun number two, gone. Kicked away. Now it's just us.

  "Last chance," I say, and I don't know why I'm still offering. They're not going to take it. They never take it.

  The first guy's getting up, dusting off his jacket, and there's something in his hand - not a gun, a knife, a wrench, fresh from the hardware wall. "You're too mouthy!" he shouts, announcing himself clean for me.

  He lunges.

  I don't dodge. I step into the attack, letting the wrench hit my clenched neck, right where it's armored, near where he aimed for my head. My fist connects with his stomach before he can process that I didn't move the way he expected. The wrench bounces off. I feel it - it hurts, it might've even broken something, because he swung with his full weight and my shoulder tingles - but I'll get better. He won't.

  Body shot.

  Hard, but not hard enough to rupture anything - I'm pulling my punches, always pulling my punches, because the goal is to stop them, not to kill them.

  He folds. I hit him again, same spot, and his legs give out. He's on his knees, gasping, and I'm already turning to the second guy who's trying to circle around behind me.

  Pressure. Forward. Don't give him space to think.

  He throws a punch - sloppy, wide, the kind of haymaker that works in bar fights against drunk people. I slip inside it, let his arm sail past my head, and answer with a three-punch combination to his body. Ribs, liver, ribs again. He makes a sound like a punctured tire and stumbles backward into a shelf.

  I follow. That's what pressure fighters do. You don't let them recover. You don't let them breathe. You crowd them until they've got nowhere to go and nothing to do except take what you're giving them.

  He tries to cover up, arms crossed over his midsection, and I switch targets - a feint to his face, faster than he's been trained to react to, but aimed for his ear. He drops his guard to protect his head, and I go back to the body. One-two. One-two. Systematic. Patient. Just like Multiplex taught me.

  Twenty seconds and he's done. Sliding down the shelf, legs splayed out, no fight left in him.

  I zip-tie his wrists. Turn back to the first guy, who's readying up for a second swing at me with a bigger wrench. This one catches me in the stomach, before I can Instant Armor, and I feel blood instantly come up, even through the padding. That's going to be a bruise and some vomit later. I double over, and the wrench hits me over the shoulder, thankfully where there's the most padding. Thump. Thump! Another hit, and I feel one of my bones crack and creak just a little.

  He's readying his fourth swing when I spear him into the wall again with the top of my head, ramming him like a goat. He lets out a whuff of air and crumples over. I twist his arm away and zip tie it to one of the holes in the shelves nearest to the floor. Then, I pull his other arm across, and zip tie it to that. He drops and hits the ground. "Fuck you," he hisses.

  "Language," I chastise. "Next time, take the offer to drop it,"

  "Fuck off," he spits.

  "Whatever," I spit back. Then, I hear the sound of a revving engine, and prepare to get hit by a car. But it doesn't come.

  The lookout. Right.

  I move to the window just in time to see the van peeling out of the alley, tires squealing on wet pavement. Gone before I can get a plate number. Whoever was driving decided the job wasn't worth tangling with a shark.

  Smart. First smart decision anyone's made tonight.

  I stand there for a moment, breathing. Not hard - my body's already recovering, already processing the exertion like it was a light jog instead of a fight. But I need a second. Just a second.

  The store is trashed. Broken glass, scattered merchandise, two conscious, squirming, very angry men in Songbird colors zip-tied on the floor. Upstairs, I can hear movement - Mr. Donovan, probably, woken by the noise, trying to figure out if it's safe to come down.

  I don't want him to see me. Don't want to explain. Don't want to be here when the cops finally arrive.

  But I look at the white pawn sticker on the door, and I look at the men on the floor, and I know this isn't over. This is just the beginning of something. Kingdom's fracturing, or Kingdom's getting sloppy, or Kingdom's testing something new. Either way, Mayfair isn't safe. My neighborhood isn't safe.

  So, why am I not moving?