"Speaking of intelligence gathering," I say, reaching into my attaché case, "I've accelerated our anti-vigilante legislation efforts."

  Mr. Retribution's eyebrows lift slightly. "Already? Thought the ink was barely dry on the city ordinance."

  "The results have been promising. Reported crime rates down, property damage reduced around the places we want it reduced, public approval of the ordinance is up. It's easy to get people to do whatever you want as long as you hold children hostage," I spread several documents across the table—internal polling data, crime statistics, media coverage analysis. "Success begets success. We've built enough momentum to take this nationwide."

  "Congress," Mr. Nothing says, understanding immediately. He always was quick. "You're pushing for federal legislation."

  "Not me personally," I correct him. "But Representative Martin will be introducing a bill next month modeled on our Philadelphia ordinance. Prohibiting unsanctioned vigilante activity by minors across the country, with increased penalties and oversight."

  "And in the meantime?" Mrs. Quiet asks, examining one of the documents with apparent disinterest, though I know she's absorbing every detail.

  "State-level initiatives in Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, and New York. All in various stages of development. By year's end, half the country will have similar restrictions in place, assuming everything comes up Milhouse." I tap the table for emphasis. "We're creating a domino effect."

  Mr. Polygraph frowns. "What's the Kingdom's interest in restricting vigilantes on a national scale? Seems outside our usual scope."

  I level a look at him. "Think bigger. Every vigilante in a cage is one less person disrupting our operations. Every registered superhero is one more person whose movements we can track. And the more legitimate my political position becomes, the more we can expand our influence without scrutiny."

  "Plus," Mr. Retribution adds with a smirk, "the fewer bleeding hearts running around in spandex, the easier our jobs get."

  "Precisely." I gather the documents, returning them to my case. "But that's long-term strategy. In the immediate future, I want us to focus on two priorities: first, rebuilding Hypeman production, and second, understanding what exactly happened with Soot and these 'Washes'. Washouts. Pfeh."

  I turn to Mr. Polygraph and Mr. Nothing. "You two will coordinate with Mrs. Xenograft on rebuilding production capabilities. We have the backup facility in Camden that can be brought online within weeks. I want you to personally oversee security protocols—no unwanted guests this time."

  They nod in unison, Mr. Nothing's expression carefully neutral while Mr. Polygraph's shows a hint of relief at having a clear directive.

  "As for our Boston friends," I continue, turning to Mr. Retribution and Mrs. Quiet, "I'd like you to remain in Philadelphia for another week. Keep an eye on Bloodhound, and see if you can identify these 'Wash' characters. I want to know if they're independent players or connected to a larger organization."

  "You still think the girl might be playing both sides," Mrs. Quiet observes, not quite a question.

  "I think teenagers are unpredictable," I reply. "And I don't like unpredictable elements in my operations."

  Mr. Retribution cracks his knuckles, the sound sharp in the quiet room. "We'll need additional surveillance equipment. The good stuff, not the commercial garbage."

  "Already arranged," I tell him. "It's being delivered to this location tomorrow morning. Full package—directional mics, thermal imaging, the works."

  "Anything else we should be aware of?" Mrs. Quiet asks, her gaze sharp despite her relaxed posture by the window.

  I consider how much to share. Upper Management's dissatisfaction with the entire Stheno situation has been... pronounced. But I see no benefit in spreading that particular anxiety to the team.

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

  "Just one other matter," I say instead. "Rogue Wave has been suspiciously quiet since the warehouse incident. No new contract announcements, no territorial expansions, no responses to our operations."

  "You think they're planning something?" Mr. Retribution asks.

  "I think Monkey Business is either licking his wounds or preparing his next move. Either way, we should be ready." I close my attaché case with a definitive click. "Which means staying focused and avoiding unnecessary complications."

  I stand, signaling that the meeting is concluding. "Weekly reports, standard protocols. No direct engagement with Bloodhound or any other vigilantes without my explicit authorization. Monitor, observe, document—but do not interfere unless absolutely necessary."

  They all nod, understanding the directive. Mr. Polygraph, in particular, looks like he's about to spit on me, but I can tell he's taking a deep breath, trying those meditation exercises, and packing it in. That's good, buddy. Breathe. This amount of bloodlust over a teenager is not normal, no matter how much of a pain in the ass she is. Breathe.

  "That will be all for now," I say. "Mr. Nothing, a brief word before you go."

  The others file out, Mrs. Quiet giving me a knowing look as she passes. I ignore it. Whatever she thinks she knows about my history with Mr. Nothing is almost certainly an exaggeration.

  When the door closes behind them, I turn to face him. The air between us feels suddenly charged, and I have to consciously maintain the atmospheric pressure to prevent it from shifting.

  "Darnell," I say quietly, using his real name rather than his code designation.

  "Maya," he replies, equally soft. "It's been a while since we've had a private conversation."

  "You're still angry about Baltimore," I observe. Not a question.

  "Ancient history," he says with a shrug that doesn't quite achieve the casualness he's aiming for. "We all make choices."

  "Yes," I agree. "And I chose what was best for the Kingdom."

  He doesn't respond immediately, those dark eyes searching my face for something—regret, perhaps, or weakness. He'll find neither.

  "Is that all you wanted to discuss?" he finally asks.

  "Your instincts are usually good," I tell him. "If you think there's more to this Soot situation than meets the eye, I'm willing to listen."

  He hesitates, then sighs. "It's nothing concrete. Just a feeling. The timing, the convenience... it's too clean."

  "But you believe she's dead?"

  "Oh, absolutely," he says without hesitation. "Mrs. Quiet doesn't miss, especially not at that range. And three bullets plus a river dumping... yeah, Soot's gone. I just wonder if we're missing part of the picture."

  I nod slowly. "Keep your eyes open, then. But remember—don't let old grudges cloud your judgment."

  "Never." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Will that be all, Councilwoman?"

  The formal title is a shield, a way to reestablish the professional distance between us. I allow it.

  "That will be all, Mr. Nothing. Good evening."

  After he leaves, I stand alone in the safehouse, feeling the weight of my suit on my shoulders. I allow myself a moment of weakness, just one, and let the atmospheric pressure drop precipitously before stabilizing it again. The resulting soft pop makes my ears click, a small release of the tension I've been holding.

  Soot is dead, or forced underground with an extremely elaborate death-play - either way, the outcome is more or less the same. One vigilante neutralized. Our operations will continue. These are the facts that matter.

  And yet, that nagging feeling persists. The absolute certainty in Mr. Polygraph's assessment. The convenience of the Washes' appearance. The sudden reveal of Bloodhound's knowledge about Soot's safehouse.

  It's too neat. Too tidy.

  But perhaps I'm overthinking it. Sometimes an operation actually does go as planned. Sometimes our enemies make mistakes. And sometimes, teenagers really are just that predictable—motivated by personal slights and petty revenge rather than some grand strategy.

  I gather my things and prepare to leave. I have a city council meeting in the morning, a press conference at noon, and a conference call with Upper Management in the afternoon. The life of a public servant is never done.

  As I lock the safehouse behind me, I can't help but smile slightly at the thought of expanding our anti-vigilante legislation. Soon, children playing dress-up and calling themselves heroes will be a thing of the past, relegated to the pages of the comic books where they belong. And the Kingdom will continue to grow, stronger and more influential with each passing day.

  The opportunity presented itself and I took it. When I'm finally done with all this, I'll have extracted enough to live comfortably for several lifetimes. A private estate somewhere quiet. Staff who know better than to ask questions. Perhaps even a foundation with my name on it, somewhere I can keep giving back to my city away from Mr. A's idiotic rituals and my colleagues' card-carrying villainy. Maybe if I make it enough I can finally get that stupid dumb fuck weather control law repealed, pull some strings, and finally get back to saving people like I always intended.

  Or maybe that ride has passed. Maybe that was for a younger Maya.

  My political career will be spotless on paper, the perfect smokescreen. Maybe history will even be kind enough to give me more than a footnote. "Maya Richardson, pioneering female councilwoman who reformed juvenile crime laws, retired with 99% approval rating." They'll never know the truth, and they never should, and they'll never want to. They took something from me once; I'm simply collecting what I'm owed.

  The city stretches out before me as I step onto the street, lights twinkling in the gathering darkness. My city. Our city.

  And one less vigilante to worry about.