The wind howls across the Ben Franklin Bridge, whistling through suspension cables and rattling the metal barriers at each end. No cars. No pedestrians. Just emptiness stretching back to Philly on one side and Camden on the other, both ends sealed off with police barriers and SWAT vehicles. The Delaware River churns twenty stories below, slate-gray and choppy, whitecaps breaking against the concrete pillars like they're trying to warn me about something.

  Sirens in the distance.

  I roll my shoulders back, feeling the pull of healed wounds beneath my costume—the gash across my collarbone from the Tacony warehouse raid, the bullet scars from the City Hall standoff, the burn tissue from Mr. Prometheus's final tantrum. They don't hurt anymore, but the memory lingers in the muscle. A tapestry, scars on top of scars on top of scars.

  Across the span stands Porcelain, motionless in the afternoon sun. His ceramic plating catches the light, not quite white but something more complex—opalescent, almost iridescent where the pieces interlock around his joints. It's beautiful in a clinical way, like museum art you're not allowed to touch. The perfect opposite of my own patchwork approach.

  His eyes track me as I approach, calculating, assessing. He doesn't shift his stance or show any sign of tension. Why would he? I've seen security footage of him walking through automatic gunfire like it's heavy rain.

  "Miss Megalodon," he calls out, voice carrying across the empty bridge. His accent is thick but precise, each syllable carefully formed. "We meet at last."

  I stop thirty feet away, just close enough to make out the details of his face. Late forties maybe, olive skin weathered by sun and violence, beard meticulously trimmed, the longest parts of it capped in a golden cap like a Pharaoh. His eyes crinkle at the corners when he speaks, but there's nothing warm in them.

  "Porcelain," I answer, matching his volume. "I'd say it's nice to meet you, but we both know that's bullshit."

  His mouth twitches, almost a smile. "I expected the Protector of Philadelphia to be... shorter."

  I close the distance between us with measured steps, stopping when we're practically nose to nose. He doesn't move, doesn't flinch, just tilts his head slightly to look directly into my eyes. I plant my feet and slam my forehead against his, the impact sending a dull ache through my skull.

  "You've got a problem with tall women?" I taunt, feeling my teeth shift beneath my gums.

  Something like amusement flickers across his face. "You're awfully confident," he says, voice dropping lower. "From this close, I could rip you in half with minimal effort."

  "Tougher people than you have tried."

  "You've met tougher than me?" His eyes narrow slightly, genuinely curious.

  "I've beaten tougher than you," I shoot back. "Daisy would make you look like dogshit."

  That gets a genuine laugh, his shoulders actually shaking with it. The ceramic plates click softly against each other with the movement.

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

  "If a middle school-aged girl is your high bar, then you're out of your depth," he says, still smiling. "The reports of your stubbornness weren't exaggerated."

  "Reports?" I pull back a few steps, giving us both space. He's sweating. I'm sweating. It's a sweaty environment. "Been doing your homework?"

  "Of course." He gestures vaguely toward my body. "The teeth, the healing, the blood sensing. Your file is quite extensive."

  "Is that why you're wearing armor?" I ask, nodding at his ceramic plating. "Doesn't seem like the moves of a confident man."

  "Are you trying to goad me?" he asks, sounding more amused than offended. "The armor isn't for my protection—it's for yours." His posture shifts minutely, weight settling more heavily onto the balls of his feet. "I try not to cause collateral damage if I can avoid it."

  "I don't believe that," I say, eyes flicking toward the suspension cables above us. No movement. Nothing. Where the hell is Gossamer?

  I flex every muscle in my body and feel the familiar response—teeth pushing against the undersides of my skin, ready to emerge. My costume shifts with me as I move, Gossamer's latest creation. The base layer self-heals, wicks blood outward but keeps it from soaking in. The body armor sits heavier over my chest and back, kevlar with ceramic inserts. No sleeves.

  And no helmet. Not today.

  "Where's your armor, diaspora girl?" Porcelain asks, eyeing my exposed head. "Do you have a death wish?"

  His own armor clicks against itself as he moves, like plate mail. Something far heavier than kevlar. Knight armor for a modern age, and just as heavy, if not heavier. When he steps forward, you can hear it. Layers on layers, keeping him squashed and compressed, like if we removed it he would explode. I can see it in his neck muscles. He's coiled like a spring, one of those springs that's so heavy and dense that when it uncoils it stands a good chance of turning you into a fine spray of pink mist. Something hydraulic and lethal.

  "You think I need armor for the world's strongest man?" I taunt. "You just said you'd rip me in half. What good would armor do?"

  He chuckles, genuine amusement in his eyes. "Good point."

  "Besides," I add, "it seems to work for you. Hard exterior, soft inside. Very on-brand."

  His expression hardens. "You mistake durability for rigidity. A common error."

  I clench every muscle in my body at once, forcing them to contract in the particular way I've practiced thousands of times. The response is immediate—rows of flat, white teeth emerge from beneath my skin, punching through in neat lines. They start at my fingertips, small but wide, and crawl up my joints one after another. They snake up my arms, over my shoulders, finding space beneath the vest. More sprout from my ankles, knees, thighs. My instant armor.

  It feels like shitting everywhere on your body at once—that constipated full-body clench followed by awful relief. Just like always.

  Porcelain's eyes narrow slightly as he watches. "Impressive. A pale imitation."

  "Why don't you tell me what you're really here for and we can get this over with?" I shift into a boxing stance, balancing my weight. My eyes dart to the suspension cables again, searching for any sign of movement. Come on, Amelia. Where are you?

  Porcelain rolls his neck until it cracks, the sound echoing across the empty bridge. "You are an obstacle. I am the obstacle remover." His voice drops, each word measured and exact. "My wheels are ever-turning."

  My stomach twists, anger flaring hot and sudden.

  "You killed him," I say, voice tight with restrained fury.

  "I removed an obstacle," he replies matter-of-factly. "He was weak and tender-hearted like the rest of you. No stomach for the necessary violence."

  "He was saving lives. Above all... this shit. Is that what it is for you? Necessary?" The question comes out bitterer than I intended.

  "Of course. All violence is necessary for me. I do not commit unnecessary violence." He says it with the serene confidence of someone who's never questioned their own justifications. What a poseur. "What about you?"

  "Necessary?" I laugh, cracking my knuckles under my tooth armor before popping my wrists. The teeth shift with the movement, clicking against each other. "No, this is just for fun."

  I start sprinting.