"Hold still," I mutter, working the dye brush through another section of Kate's hair. The bathroom light makes the dark brown color look almost black where it's saturated, which is not exactly the look we're going for, but it's better than the patchy orange-brown disaster Kate created trying to do this herself yesterday.

  "It stinks," Kate complains, wrinkling her nose.

  "Yeah, well, that's the price of a secret identity." I section off another chunk of hair, careful not to drip dye on her shoulders. "You could have just gotten it done professionally."

  "With what money?" She shifts on the closed toilet seat, fidgeting like a little kid. "Besides, I'm supposed to be keeping a low profile, remember? In case you forgot, I'm legally dead."

  "You're not legally anything. There's no death certificate. No cops investigated. Just some Kingdom goons who think they saw you get shot." My stomach twinges as I say it, a phantom pain that ripples out from the barely-healed entry wound. I breathe through it, focusing on the task at hand. "They'd need a body for a legal declaration. Plus, I only told them your name was 'Kate' and that I didn't know your last name. I don't know. Feels like it'd be hard to get back to you."

  Kate catches my wince in the mirror and her expression shifts, guilt flashing across her face before she masks it. "How are the... you know." She gestures vaguely toward my midsection.

  "Better," I lie. They hurt all the time, actually, a dull, persistent throb that spikes whenever I move wrong. But I got shot three times and dumped in the Delaware, so all things considered, I'm doing great. "Where'd you learn to do first aid like that, anyway?"

  "The internet," Kate admits, shrugging. "And Tasha. During the Mayfly days."

  I snort. "You make it sound so nostalgic."

  She doesn't laugh. "I can't believe you actually went through with it."

  "Which part? Getting shot or getting thrown in the river?" I concentrate on coating the back section of her hair, using the brush with more precision than I knew I possessed.

  "Any of it." Kate's voice is quiet, serious. "You could have died, Sam."

  "But I didn't." I tap her shoulder, signaling for her to tilt her head forward. "Besides, it worked. You're free to start over now."

  Kate stares at her hands in her lap. "I don't want to start over. I just don't want to get killed. There's a difference."

  "Speaking of which..." I say, setting down the brush and pulling off the plastic gloves. "You're not going to stop, are you?"

  She looks up, meeting my eyes in the mirror. "Stop what?"

  "You know what. The vigilante thing."

  Kate's expression turns thoughtful. She reaches up to touch her hair, then remembers it's covered in dye and drops her hand before she does. "Do you know what theory of mind is?"

  I blink, thrown by the non-sequitur. "No?"

  "I can tell." She shakes her head, not answering my original question. There's something in her tone I can't quite place. Not defiance, exactly, but certainty. The same certainty I feel when I know, bone-deep, that I'll never stop being Bloodhound, no matter how many times I get shot or stabbed or thrown off buildings.

  "Just be careful," I say finally. "I'm not doing this again. The dye job, I mean."

  "It looks terrible, doesn't it?" Kate asks, grimacing at her reflection.

  "It'll look fine once it's done. And with the glasses, no one's going to recognize you anyway."

  Kate groans. "I look like a nerd."

  "You are a nerd," I remind her. "You just spent the last year pretending not to be."

  She doesn't argue with that. We lapse into silence as I finish applying the dye, the only sounds the occasional drip of water from the faucet and Kate's phone buzzing with text messages. Probably from her dad, coordinating the move. It's amazing how fast an apartment sale can go through when your dad suddenly has friends in convenient places who can help.

  "Alright, timer's set for twenty-five minutes," I say, setting my phone on the counter. "Don't touch it or you'll stain your hands. Also, don't lean back or you'll stain my towels."

  "Yes, mom." Kate rolls her eyes, but there's no bite to it. She fidgets with her new glasses—chunky black frames that change the shape of her face just enough to make a difference. Between those and the hair color, she's well on her way to becoming Kay Smith instead of Kate "Soot" Lastnameunknown.

  I sit on the edge of the bathtub, wincing as the movement pulls at my still-healing wounds. Kate pretends not to notice, but I see her eyes track the motion, lingering on where she knows the bandages are under my t-shirt.

  "So," she says after a moment. "Jordan's really leaving."

  "Yep." I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. "MIT waits for no one."

  "What about Connor?"

  "Long distance, I guess. They're still together, by the way. Jordan just said it was 'complicated' and everyone assumed they broke up."

  Kate nods, digesting this. "And the rest of the team?"

  "The Auditors, you mean?" I shrug. "We'll manage. Got Lily and Maggie now. Tasha when she's not buried in summer reading."

  "You're in charge," Kate says. It's not a question.

  "Apparently."

  Kate studies me for a moment, then asks, "Are you ready for that?"

  "No," I admit. "But it's happening anyway."

  "Better you than me," she says, and there's a touch of the old Kate in her smile.

  I can't help but smile back. "Obviously."

  "I still don't understand why we're doing this," Maggie complains, squinting at the laptop screen in the Faraday room. "It's just a bunch of letters and numbers."

  "Chemical formulas," Tasha corrects, scrolling through another page of the decrypted Stheno data. "Molecular structures, synthesis protocols, testing logs. They were definitely making something."

  "Yeah, but what?" Lily asks, leaning over Tasha's shoulder.

  "No idea," Tasha admits. "I know some medical stuff, but this is way beyond that. It's like... advanced pharmaceutical chemistry. PhD level."

  I rub my temples, trying to focus through the weird buzzing sensation that's been plaguing me all day. It's like having seven espressos and no sleep, except I haven't had any caffeine. "So basically, we cracked their encryption but we still don't know what they were making."

  "I mean. It's Hypeman, they were making Hypeman. Obviously. Right?" Maggie points out impatiently.

  "Pretty much," Tasha agrees, pushing her glasses up her nose. "I can tell you it's biological in nature. Probably designed to interact with the human body somehow. But beyond that?" She shrugs. "We'd need an actual scientist."

  "So Stheno Biopharma was manufacturing Hypeman," Lily says slowly. "And Tremont & Fairfax was doing the legal work to keep it under wraps."

  "And Richardson was using her position on the city council to protect the whole operation," I finish. "A neat little criminal trifecta."

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Except we can't prove any of it," Tasha points out, gesturing to the screen. "We have the data, but none of us can verify what it actually means. For all we know, this could be research for heart medication."

  "Sure, and I'm the Queen of England," Maggie snorts.

  "We need to take this to someone who can understand it," Lily says. "Someone with the scientific background."

  I sigh, knowing where this is going. "The DVD. They have resources we don't," I point out. "Labs, scientists, connections to the NSRA."

  "They'll take the credit," Maggie protests. "After all the work we did? After what happened at the warehouse? After Sam got—"

  "It doesn't matter who gets credit," I interrupt. "What matters is stopping the Kingdom. And if that means handing this off to people better equipped to handle it, then that's what we do."

  The room falls silent, everyone exchanging glances. They're waiting for me to make the call. I pinch the bridge of my nose.

  "Make a copy of everything," I say finally. "We keep one set, they get one set. And I'm the one who delivers it. Maggie, please don't care about credit."

  "Are you sure that's a good idea?" Tasha asks, eyeing the way I'm carefully holding my side. "You're still recovering."

  "I'm fine," I lie. Again. "Besides, I have something else to drop off anyway." The second Hypeman vial has been burning a hole in my sock drawer for days now. Better to get it somewhere it might actually do some good.

  Tasha doesn't look convinced, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she turns back to the laptop and starts the copying process. "This will take a while," she warns. "There's a lot of data."

  "Then we might as well get comfortable," I say, settling into a chair and trying not to wince as the movement pulls at my healing wounds. "Anyone up for pizza? I'm buying."

  "I thought you were broke," Maggie says.

  "I am," I confirm. "But my dad left cash on the counter for dinner, so technically, he's buying."

  This, at least, gets a laugh from everyone. As Tasha keeps working and Lily starts pulling up menus on her phone, I catch myself wondering what Kate is doing right now. Probably settling into her new place, arranging furniture, hanging up posters, pretending to be someone she's not. That's good, right?

  "What the hell were you thinking?" Multiplex demands, his voice echoing off the training room walls at DVD headquarters. He's been going for about ten minutes now, pacing back and forth while I stand there taking it. "Three gunshots. Tossed in the Delaware River like an unwanted cat. Do you have any idea how many ways that could have gone wrong? How easily you could have died?"

  "I didn't, though," I point out, which is apparently the wrong thing to say because his face turns from brown into an interesting shade of purple.

  "That's not the point!" he explodes. "The point is that you engaged in an unsanctioned, illegal operation that put not only yourself but civilians at risk, not to mention the potential legal repercussions for this entire organization if it had been traced back to us. I can't believe you somehow managed to rope Crossroads of all people into it, too. Do you have some sort of fucking blackmail on him?"

  Ah, I guess that's where he got the information from. I was wondering why he looked so pissed when I showed up at the DVD HQ, before I had even said anything. Snitch.

  Councilman Davis, standing off to the side with Bulwark and Fury Forge, sighs heavily. "What Elijah is trying to say, Sam, is that we're concerned about the level of risk you took on. It was reckless."

  "It worked," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "Soot is officially dead, I can tie a face to the boss of the organization we're hunting down, and we have physical evidence of illegal chemical production linked to Richardson's pet corporation. All in all, I'd call that a win."

  "You put yourself and your friend in extreme, extreme danger and put yourself on the Kingdom's radar more than you already were," Fury Forge points out, some sort of long-forgotten accent sort of emerging naturally out of her as her temper flares. "That is not a win. That's pure luck!"

  "Belle would've--" I start, looking directly at Multiplex.

  His jaw tightens. "Don't. Don't you dare use her to justify this."

  "No, I'm serious," I press. "What would she have done? Because from where I'm standing, she'd have gone in herself rather than sending a team of teenagers. But she's not here, so we had to make the call."

  Multiplex takes a step forward, his hands balled into fists. Something animal and electric jolts up my spinal column and my arms instinctively tense, preparing to block a jab. "You are taking all the wrong lessons from her, Sam. All of them."

  "Again," Councilman Davis interjects, stepping between us, "what we're trying to express is concern. You've shown tremendous initiative and courage, but we can't condone this behavior, especially not after the ordinance."

  I hold up the flash drive containing the Stheno data. "You want to talk methods? Fine. Here's a flash drive that's going to bust this wide open. Everything you've ever wanted to know about their new superdrug hitting the streets. Chemical formulas, production protocols, testing logs—the works. We can't make sense of it, but I'm betting your scientists can."

  Davis takes the drive, examining it with a raised eyebrow, while Multiplex stands behind him, visibly massaging his temples. "And how exactly did you obtain this?" Davis asks.

  "Legitimate business hours visit," I deadpan. When no one laughs, I sigh. "Look, it's all there. Hypeman. Soot stole this info from the warehouse and got it to me."

  Normally, I'd be proud to take credit for the warehouse. Defiant about it. But something tells me that's a can of worms they don't want to crack open.

  Instead, I reach into my pocket and pull out the autoinjector, placing it on the table beside the flash drive. "This might help. It's one of two samples we obtained directly from the source."

  Fury Forge's eyes widen. "You actually got your hands on Hypeman? How?"

  I'm about to answer when Multiplex cuts in. "Don't tell us. The less we know about your methods, the better."

  "I met Mr. Antithesis in person. That's his name," I jab, defying Multiplex to his face. "I even called Davis about it."

  "So that's what that was about..." Davis muses, earning a dirty, murderous glare from Multiplex.

  "You... You..." Multiplex tries to say, tries to think about anything he could say in response. He just ends up pacing in a small circle, trying to catch his breath. "You're not Belle. Sam. Her tactics should've... You can't act the way she acted. You can't do what she did. You can tell me all about Mr. Antithesis later, when I'm not about to stroke out with rage."

  I notice him trying to delicately walk around the phrase died with her. Everyone in the room looks uncomfortable, so I change the subject. "What are you going to do with the data?"

  Davis pockets the flash drive. "Analyze it, verify its contents, and if it's what you believe it to be, begin building a case against Stheno Biopharma and anyone connected to its operations."

  "Including Richardson?" I press.

  He hesitates. "If the evidence leads there, yes."

  "When," I correct. "When the evidence leads there."

  "You're taking this too personally," Multiplex says, trying to study me under his fuming eyebrows. "This isn't just about justice for you. It's about payback."

  "It can be both," I argue.

  "Not for us, it can't," Davis says firmly. "We operate within the bounds of the law. That means building proper cases, following due process, and ensuring that when we make accusations, they stick."

  "While Richardson passes laws making it illegal for anyone under eighteen to fight back," I point out.

  Fury Forge steps forward, arms crossed. "You think we like this situation? You think I'm happy knowing that she's palling around with the likes of the God damn T-Rex that, in case you forgot, Sam, destroyed your entire house? And now she's worse than a supervillain, she's a politician?"

  Bulwark chuckles, wisely staying out of the competition.

  "Look. Sam. You know me, sort of. You know that I'm more with you and Belle than I am with Elijah or Kwame. But there's just... there's a certain level of... Like. Argh!" Fury Forge's eyebrow begins twitching, a vein pulsing, pumping underneath her forehead. "You need to give a shit about your life! I'm not having any more kids die under my watch!"

  "Then do something about it," I challenge, not calling any attention to her obvious verbal flub. You know what? No, actually. Poke. "Before more kids end up dead."

  The room falls silent, the four adults exchanging loaded glances. Bulwark whistles quietly, and I have a feeling, for a moment, that I've pushed it too far, that I'm about to get walloped, or smacked, or throttled, or even just plain old screamed at. Fury Forge's eyes look like they're starting to get shiny and puffy, and Multiplex has gone from this mixture of contempt and concern-rage to just a sheer sort of adult exhaustion, the kind I won't get to feel for another ten, twenty years.

  "You're too much like her, you know that?" he says, shaking his head. "She never knew when to stop pushing either."

  "Good," I say, meaning it. "Then I'm doing something right."

  Davis clears his throat, maintaining his composure better than the other three. "Thank you for bringing this to us, Sam. We'll keep you updated on our findings regarding the Hypeman sample and the data. In the meantime, please try to stay out of trouble. At least until those wounds heal completely."

  "I--" I start.

  "Sam." Davis says, and for the first time, I don't feel like hedging with a 'no promises'. I'm suddenly exhausted, the adrenaline of the confrontation giving way to bone-deep fatigue. Maybe I did push myself too hard, not that I'd ever admit it.

  Fine. Time for a break. I'll cop to that.

  As I turn to leave, Multiplex calls after me. "By the way, missed you at training this week."

  I glance back over my shoulder. "What, you want my doctor's note? Asshole."

  "Don't worry, you've lost your sparring privileges for as long as it takes for me to stop being able to look through the hole in your torso. I'm going to pay Nurse Sylvia extra to put you through as strenuous of a physical rehab regimen as you can feasibly handle without injuring yourself."

  It's as close to approval as I'm likely to get from him, so I take it. "You're being awfully friendly for someone who was just ready to yell at me until my skin came off."

  Multiplex's face takes on a sudden peal of darkness, something that's not quite anger, concern, or sadness. "This isn't friendly at all. This is the Panopticon."

  I roll my eyes, pretending like I'm not intimidated.

  Outside DVD headquarters, I pause on the steps, taking a moment to catch my breath. The sun is starting to set, painting the Philadelphia skyline in shades of orange and gold. My side aches, my head pounds with that strange buzzing sensation, and my hands won't stop vibrating - but it's over.

  On the way home, I stop by a soccer field in Fishtown. No one's around at this hour, which is perfect for what I need to do. I dig into my pocket and pull out two tiny tracking devices, no bigger than ladybugs, that I scraped off the Hypeman vials the moment I got them. What, does Mr. Antithesis think I'm stupid?

  I place them carefully on one of the metal benches, gingerly pull myself up, and crush them one by one with my heel, grinding them into their component bits and bobs. The soft crunch is more satisfying than it has any right to be.

  "Amateur hour," I mutter, kicking their remains into the dirt. Even businessmen make mistakes, I guess. My hands are still shaking as I walk, and the headache is getting worse, so I'm probably dehydrated. Let's get some Wawa on the way back. And a Gatorade. It's just aftereffects from the injuries, I tell myself. Nothing to worry about. Everything's fine.