His stare bores into me, cold and analytical. It's like being dissected by someone who's done it a thousand times before and doesn't even find it interesting anymore.

  "You've used up enough of my time," Mr. Antithesis says abruptly, his tone shifting to something harder. "I only need one more piece of information from you. Anything you feel like telling me about Soot." He leans forward slightly, eyes fixed on mine. "And this piece of information will determine whether or not I think you have been lying to me the whole time."

  My stomach drops. For all my attempts to play this cool, to maintain some illusion of control, he's just been waiting to spring his trap. I'd been expecting him to get angry, to threaten me physically, maybe even pull that gun I'm sure he has hidden somewhere. At least that would be a familiar dynamic—villain gets mad, hero responds, fight ensues. But this calm, calculated approach is so much worse because I can't read him at all. I watch his hands, waiting for him to draw.

  "You have a gun, don't you?" I blurt out, the question escaping before I can stop it. "This certainly isn't the climactic showdown I was expecting."

  Stalling. Stalling.

  "Of course," he confirms without hesitation or emotion. He opens up a drawer on his desk, withdrawing a large, sleek, but boxy black pistol. Nothing like the kind I saw on my Dad. "Hechler & Koch USP in 45 ACP. But I'm not going to shoot you, if that's what you're worried about. I'm sure you've alerted your allies to whatever hare-brained scheme you've cooked up, and that if you don't return in a timely fashion, they'll track you down and find you. Crossroads, maybe, could reliably track you down, definitely if you have a scrying friend I'm not aware of. Plus, there's the nonzero chance you're wearing a wire or hidden camera."

  I start mentally kicking myself for not wearing a wire.

  He says it all so casually that I can't help but feel a bubble of anxiety - Jordan always told me that true telepathy is impossible, but how else is he doing this? How many other young superheroes have been in this room, in this situation, in front of this man, having the same doubts as me? But if he was telepathic, or had something that could imitate it - what, super-deduction? - would he be giving me the chance to lie? FUCK! He's Vizziniing me.

  "Don't worry about it, this room is signal-insulated just like your Faraday meeting room. If you're bugged, it's transmitting nothing. If you're wearing a bum-standard recording device, Mr. Retribution will pat you down for it later. You're a reasonable girl. I'm a reasonable man. There's no need for this to come to blows yet," he lectures, passing the gun over the front of the desk. "Not loaded. Stall all you want. Just don't take more then ten minutes - I have places to be."

  Great. Even his reason for not murdering me is pragmatic rather than moral. I feel the dread creeping up my back like a centipede, and if I move too much it'll bite me.

  "Now," he continues, "about that final piece of information."

  Damn it. Fuck. My mind races, searching for something I can tell him that would seem valuable without actually compromising Kate or our plans. There's a lot of options, of course, but I never expected any of them to be the lynchpin, something that he'd stake this entire conversation on. That's what's the tension. Too many options, not not enough.

  "Fine," I say, trying to sound reluctant. "I stole all of Soot's chemicals. At least, all the ones I could find."

  Mr. Antithesis raises an eyebrow slightly. "Go on."

  "When I realized what Kate was doing, I found her stash. Drain cleaner, bleach, ammonia, all that stuff she uses to make her smoke bombs and gas." I shift in my seat, as if uncomfortable with my own betrayal. I mean, I'm uncomfortable because I don't have 100% confidence in my plan. I have 90% confidence, but this guy is rapidly making me wonder if that's enough. "I dumped most of it and hid the rest. She doesn't know it was me, but she's effectively disarmed for now. No chemicals, no Soot."

  It's not exactly a lie. We did clean out her safehouse, together, and moved it somewhere else. And it helps explain why "Soot" might be inactive for a few days while we implement our actual plan.

  Mr. Antithesis studies me for a long moment, his expression unchanged. I have no idea if he believes me or not, but I maintain eye contact, trying to project sincerity.

  "Interesting," he says finally. "And this was recent?"

  "Last night," I confirm. "After you guys approached me, I figured I should do something to protect myself. If she figured out I was onto her, who knows what she might do? Especially if she thinks I'm the one who gave her up."

  He nods slowly, making a small notation on his tablet. "That's certainly a pragmatic approach. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator. You're willing to throw her to the wolves because you think this meeting with me is worth it over three million dollars?"

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  That gives me an in. Like one of those tiny sand clams that I could just barely pop a fingernail into at the Jersey shore. You think you're winning, Antithesis? I'm gonna Connect Four your ass. What do they say about staying quiet in a negotiation, talking too much?

  Let's do that. Let's talk too much.

  "Tulip & Keystone. It's near a high school," I say, furrowing my brow, not bringing up that it's my own. hey. Hey! Kate, why was your safehouse like a block from my high school? Okay, we'll unpack that later. Maybe he'll make that connection independently. "Just sort of along the road. House is boarded up. Send someone there and you'll see a big weird stain on the floor where one of her crazy fucking tripwires nearly dumped a bunch of drain cleaner on me."

  He stares further. Then, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, glancing only at it enough to make sure that he's typing the correct words, and sends something - presumably, telling some goons to go double check me. He sets his phone down, pulls a packet from his suit pocket, rips it open, and wipes the thing clean with an alcohol wipe, before returning the phone to his pants.

  "I believe our business is concluded, Miss Small," Mr. Antithesis says, standing up in one smooth motion. "You've provided the information as agreed, and you've received your payment."

  Just like that? No threats, no warnings, no villainous monologue about what happens if I cross him? I stand as well, feeling oddly disappointed. Not that I wanted a fight—I'm not suicidal—but there's something anticlimactic about this clinical conclusion.

  "That's it?" I can't help asking. "No 'if you tell anyone about this, I'll destroy you and everyone you love'? No 'we'll be watching you'? Silly me for expecting basic villain protocol."

  "I'm not a villain, Miss Small," he says, his voice almost gentle. "I'm a businessman. Now, Mr. Retribution will escort you back to Philadelphia."

  Just as I'm turning to leave, a thought occurs to me. One last thing that I really, truly need to know. My feet try not to shake and my knees try not to buckle as I stand up - why am I so afraid? But I turn back, half-cocked at him. 'I'm a businessman. Now go get led home by my scary-named enforcer'. Get real.

  "I just need to know. Are you guys really named the Kingdom of Keys after a keyboard? Like, the whole alphabet thing... is that a you thing?" I ask, quirking the corner of my lip up.

  Mr. Antithesis gives me a long look. Face, then feet, then back to face. "Named after a keyboard?" he non-answers, and I feel the door slamming shut on my toes. He's stonewalling. Nothing else will come out.

  With that dismissal, I head for the door, the weight of the Hypeman autoinjectors heavy in my pocket. As I reach for the handle, Mr. Antithesis speaks once more.

  "One last thing, Miss Small."

  I freeze, my hand on the doorknob. Here it comes. The threat. The warning. The true face beneath the corporate mask.

  "If you decide to use the Hypeman," he says, "I'd advise starting with a half dose. The full injection can be... overwhelming for first-time users."

  I turn back, surprised at what sounds almost like genuine advice. "Why would you care?"

  "I don't care about you specifically," he clarifies, crushing that brief illusion of humanity. "But I do care about data. If you use it, your experience becomes valuable information for our research. Dead test subjects provide limited feedback."

  Of course. Even this apparent concern is just business. "I'll keep that in mind," I say, and step through the door, relieved to be leaving his sterile domain.

  Mr. Retribution is waiting in the reception area, scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up as I exit, tucking the device away.

  "All done?" he asks, his tone casual, as if I've just finished a routine business meeting instead of negotiating with the head of a criminal empire.

  "Yeah," I say, still feeling off-balance from the whole experience. "All done."

  We enter the elevator in silence, Mr. Retribution pressing the button for the lobby. As the doors close and we begin our descent, he glances at me.

  "Well?" he asks. "Did you answer your question?"

  "Hmm?" I ask back.

  "Did you find out if he's a man or a monster?"

  I think about Mr. Antithesis's clinical detachment, his sanitized office, his precise movements and perfectly modulated voice. The way he reduces everything—even human lives—to business variables and profit margins.

  "Neither," I say finally. "He's a child."

  Mr. Retribution's eyebrows shoot up. "A child?" To my surprise, Mr. Retribution actually laughs—a short, genuine sound that seems to surprise even him. "Interesting."

  The elevator continues its smooth descent, the numbers ticking down on the display. I watch them change, aware of the massive presence beside me. Despite his friendly demeanor, I never forget what Mr. Retribution is—an enforcer, a killer, someone who breaks people for a living.

  "You know, Bloodhound," he says after a moment, using my hero name for the first time since we met, "it'll be an honor to be the one that gets to kill you when your time comes."

  I turn to stare at him, shocked by the casual way he says it, like he's discussing the weather.

  "I'll be sure to return your body to your loved ones intact," he continues, his tone almost gentle. "So they won't be left wondering or worrying."

  It's the most bizarre courtesy I've ever heard—a promise of respectful murder. And somehow, I know he means it as a genuine compliment. In his twisted worldview, this is respect.

  "Uh, thanks?" I say, not sure how else to respond. "But I don't plan on dying anytime soon."

  "Few of us do," he says with a philosophical shrug. "But plans change."

  The elevator reaches the lobby, the doors sliding open to reveal the bustling business of a normal workday. People in suits passing through, phones to their ears, briefcases in hand. None of them knowing that they're sharing space with members of one of the most dangerous criminal organizations on the East Coast.

  As we cross the lobby toward the exit, I can't help thinking about how surreal this all is. I just had a meeting with the head of the Kingdom of Keys, got two vials of an illegal super-drug, and received a weirdly respectful death threat from his enforcer. And now we're walking through a fancy office building like it's the most normal thing in the world.

  "Is Mrs. Quiet meeting us at the car?" I ask as we approach the revolving doors.

  "She'll be there," Mr. Retribution confirms. "Don't worry, we'll have you back in Philly in time for dinner."

  "Great," I mutter, stepping into the revolving door. "Home in time for dinner. What a perfectly normal end to a perfectly normal day."