Mr. Feldman looks exactly like what you'd expect from someone who owns a crumbling music hall in Tacony—sixty-something, with thinning gray hair combed carefully over a sunspot-mottled scalp, wire-rimmed glasses perched on a nose that's seen at least one break, and the permanent squint of someone who spends too much time reviewing contracts in poor lighting. His office, a converted storage room in the back of a pawn shop he also owns, smells like cigarettes and instant coffee despite the "No Smoking" sign prominently displayed on the wall. Tacony's Finest.

  "So," he says, sliding a thick folder across his cluttered desk. "Jordan tells me you're taking over the lease."

  "That's the plan, if you're willing," I respond, trying to sound like a responsible adult who regularly signs legally binding documents and not like a sixteen-year-old who still occasionally sleeps with a stuffed shark named Bruce.

  Mr. Feldman studies me over his glasses. "You know, technically, minors can't enter into binding contracts in Pennsylvania."

  My stomach drops. This is our base of operations. We've spent months setting up equipment, reinforcing walls, installing security systems. If we lose the music hall, we lose everything.

  "But," he continues, pulling out a contract from the folder, "I'm willing to make an exception in your case, Samantha."

  "Just Sam is fine," I say automatically.

  "Sam, then." He taps a yellow Post-it marking a specific page. "Jordan has been an excellent tenant. Quiet, responsible, always pays on time. Plus, they've made substantial improvements to the property—electrical work, plumbing fixes, that reinforced storage room..." He trails off, giving me a knowing look.

  I try not to squirm under his gaze. Does he know what we use the music hall for? Has he guessed we're not just a bunch of teenagers with an unusual interest in abandoned buildings?

  "I appreciate the vote of confidence," I say, keeping my voice steady. "We've really enjoyed having the space."

  "I bet you have," he says with a small smile. "You know, it's funny. That old music hall has been sitting empty for almost a decade. No one wanted it—too run-down, too far from Center City to be trendy, too expensive to renovate properly." He leans back in his chair, which creaks ominously. "Then Jordan comes along, pays cash up front, no questions asked."

  I shift in my seat, unsure where this is going. Is he fishing for information? Trying to raise the rent? About to tell me he's finally found a developer willing to tear the place down?

  "I've lived in Philadelphia my whole life," Mr. Feldman continues, his tone conversational. "Seen all kinds of changes. The bad old days in the 70s, the cleanup efforts in the 90s, the tech boom, the recession."

  My pulse quickens. He definitely knows. Or at least suspects. Is he going to kick us out? He must be. He's about to kick us out, augh!

  "The thing about being a landlord in Philly," he says, "is you learn to recognize patterns. Like when a bunch of teenagers rent an abandoned building and suddenly there's less drug activity in the neighborhood. Fewer gang signs on the walls. More people feeling safe enough to walk around after dark."

  I open my mouth to protest, to deny, to make up some story about our totally normal teenage hobby club, but he holds up a hand to stop me.

  "I don't need to know details, Sam. In fact, I prefer not to. Plausible deniability and all that." He winks. "But I do know that having you kids as tenants has been good for the neighborhood. And what's good for the neighborhood is good for property values."

  I relax slightly. He's not kicking us out. He's not even raising the rent. He's... supporting us?

  "So here's what I'm proposing," Mr. Feldman says, turning the contract toward me and pointing to a specific paragraph. "A two-year lease at the current rate, with an option to renew. Yes, I know you're a minor and the contract is technically voidable at any time before you turn eighteen. But I'm willing to take that risk because I trust you not to screw me over. That wouldn't be very superheroic, would it?"

  I can't help the small laugh that escapes me. "No, it wouldn't."

  "Besides," he adds with a sly smile, "imagine the business I could do if someday I get to advertise that my building was the original headquarters of Philadelphia's next big superhero team. That's worth more than a security deposit."

  I stare at him, momentarily speechless. This was not how I expected this meeting to go.

  "So, do we have a deal?" he asks, holding out a pen.

  I take it, feeling its weight in my hand. This is a big step—signing a lease, taking responsibility for our base, planning for years ahead when I can barely plan what I'm having for lunch tomorrow. But it's also necessary. Jordan's leaving for MIT soon, and we need to maintain our foothold in the neighborhood.

  "We have a deal," I say, scrawling my signature where indicated. "And thank you. For understanding."

  "Don't mention it," Mr. Feldman says, collecting the signed papers and adding his own signature. "Just keep doing what you're doing. This city needs all the help it can get."

  As I leave his office, contract copy tucked safely in my backpack, I can't help feeling a strange mix of pride and unease. On one hand, it's nice to be recognized, to know that our efforts are making a difference people can see. On the other hand, if Mr. Feldman figured us out, who else might have?

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  The thought follows me all the way back to the music hall, where Jordan is waiting at the entrance, practically vibrating with impatience.

  "Well?" they demand as soon as I'm within earshot. "How'd it go? Did he give you trouble about being a minor?"

  "He knows," I say, keeping my voice low despite the empty street. "Not everything, but he definitely knows we're not just running a book club in there."

  Jordan's eyebrows shoot up. "Did he say that explicitly?"

  "Pretty much. He talked about how the neighborhood is safer now, how having us as tenants is good for property values, how he could advertise the place as our 'original headquarters' someday." I pull the contract from my backpack. "He gave us a two-year lease at the current rate."

  Jordan takes the document, skimming it with practiced efficiency. "This is... surprisingly generous. No rate increases for maintenance, utilities included, option to renew..."

  "He said he trusts us not to screw him over because that wouldn't be 'superheroic.'" I can't help but smile at the memory.

  "Well, that's convenient," Jordan says, handing the contract back. "He shouldn't trust me that much, but it's not on me now, I guess."

  We head inside, where the rest of the team is waiting in the main room. Maggie and Lily are sprawled on the ancient couch we salvaged from a curb two streets over, while Tasha types away at her laptop at the research table. Amelia isn't here—she texted earlier that she's dealing with some family thing—but that's probably for the best given what I need to discuss.

  "Success!" I announce, holding up the contract. "We officially have a lair for the next two years."

  "Sweet!" Maggie pumps her fist in the air. "Does this mean we can finally paint the walls? This industrial decay aesthetic is getting old."

  "As long as we don't make structural changes, we can do whatever we want," I confirm, dropping my backpack on a chair. "But before we start discussing color schemes, there's something more important we need to talk about."

  The shift in my tone gets their attention. Tasha stops typing, Lily sits up straighter, and Jordan moves to lock the main door.

  "Faraday room," I say, nodding toward the reinforced storage room we've converted into a secure space for sensitive discussions. "This isn't something we want to risk anyone overhearing."

  A few minutes later, we're all crowded into the small room that's become our safehouse within a safehouse. The walls are lined with metal mesh that blocks electronic signals, the good stuff - we've replaced the aluminum foil a couple months ago. The door has three separate locks, and there are no windows or vents large enough for surveillance devices. It's claustrophobic and tends to get stuffy with more than two people inside, but it's the only place we can be absolutely certain we're not being monitored electronically, although psychically might be a different story.

  Still, there's only so much Mr. ESP can monitor, right? Like, there has to be more pressing stuff for him to scry on, right?

  "So what's with the cloak and dagger routine?" Maggie asks as Jordan seals the door behind us.

  I take a deep breath. "I met with Soot last night."

  The reaction is immediate. Lily's eyes widen, Tasha makes an audible gasp, and Jordan gives me a sharp look of surprise that's almost immediately replaced with calculation.

  "You what?" Maggie exclaims. "Like, face-to-face met with them? How? When? Why didn't you call us?"

  "It was... unplanned," I say, which isn't entirely a lie. I didn't plan for Kate to take me to her secret hideout in the middle of the night. "But that's not the important part. The important part is what happened before that."

  I explain everything—well, almost everything—about my encounter with Mr. Retribution and Mrs. Quiet. The silent gun demonstration. The threats. The offer of millions for information about Soot. My counter-offer for a meeting with their boss and samples of Hypeman.

  "Let me get this straight," Tasha says when I finish. "You let Mr. Retribution and Mrs. Quiet know that you're Bloodhound, and then demanded a meeting with the head of the Kingdom of Keys?"

  "They already knew, Tasha. I didn't 'let' them know anything. They've known since, like, month three of my career, when they sent a T-Rex after me." I run a hand through my hair, frustration bleeding into my voice. "What was I supposed to do? Run? Fight them both while exhausted from training? They had guns!"

  "You could have called for backup," Lily suggests, her expression troubled.

  "There wasn't time," I counter. "And honestly? I'm not sure backup would have helped. These weren't just random goons. R and Q - these are the alphabet-tier. The big mahoffs."

  "But why Soot?" Maggie asks, looking genuinely confused. "I mean, yeah, they've been causing trouble for the Kingdom, but so have a lot of vigilantes, including us. Why the special interest?"

  I hesitate. How much should I reveal about what Kate told me? The fact that she's been systematically targeting Kingdom operations for months, causing millions in damages? The religious guilt driving her self-destructive crusade?

  "Soot has apparently caused about eighty million dollars in damages to their operations," I say finally, deciding to stick to the facts without the emotional context. "They consider them a major threat. Enough to offer serious money for information."

  "Eighty million?" Tasha repeats, clearly skeptical. "That can't be right. One person with smoke powers couldn't possibly cause that much damage unless they were burning down skyscrapers or something."

  "I don't know if the number is accurate," I admit. "But it's what Mr. Retribution claimed - I bet they think the warehouse explosion was entirely Soot's fault. And whether it's true or not, the fact remains that they're willing to pay millions to find Soot. Which means they're desperate."

  "And you think it's Kate," Jordan says. It's not a question.

  I nod. "I still can't prove it, but the evidence keeps stacking up. The timing of when Soot appeared, Kate's mysterious absences, the fact that she always smells like she's trying to cover up smoke..." I trail off, not wanting to reveal the most convincing evidence—Kate's late-night confession.

  "So what exactly did you tell them?" Jordan asks, their eyes sharp with calculation.

  "Nothing useful," I assure them. "I said I think Soot is a guy who wears fingerless gloves with pink nail polish." I can't help a small smile at the memory. "Which might be true. Soot does wear a cup and is flat as a board, but so is Kate."

  "And in exchange, they're going to let you meet with the big boss of the whole organization?" Tasha sounds understandably doubtful. "That seems too good to be true."

  "It probably is," I acknowledge. "Mr. Retribution said he'd have to check with 'Upper Management,' and that the chances were slim. But I'm pretty sure they'll agree to the Hypeman samples, at least. They need my information too badly to walk away empty-handed."

  "But what are you going to tell them when they deliver their end of the bargain?" Lily asks, her face scrunched with concern. "You can't actually give up Kate. Even if we're not sure she's Soot, we can't risk it."

  "That's why I met with Soot," I explain. "To figure out a plan."

  "And?" Maggie prompts when I don't immediately continue.

  I look around at their expectant faces, these friends who have followed me into danger countless times, who trust me to make the right call. What I'm about to propose is riskier than anything we've attempted before. It could go catastrophically wrong in a dozen different ways. But it might also be our best chance to strike a meaningful blow against the Kingdom.

  "Here's what I have in mind," I say, leaning forward slightly. "What if we can play both Soot and the Kingdom? What if we can turn their hunt against them, and get Soot off the streets - but into safety?"