The next morning, I'm leaning against the counter at Wawa, waiting for my breakfast hoagie and trawling through nothing in particular on my phone. Summer routine in the Philadelphia suburbs—grab a cheap breakfast, maybe an iced coffee, then wander back home to figure out what to do with the hours stretching empty before you. Except my hours aren't exactly empty these days, are they? More like packed with vigilante work, superhero training, and dodging criminal organizations.

  The lady behind the counter calls my number and slides over my sandwich, steam still rising from the paper wrapper. I've just paid and am heading for the door, plastic bag swinging from my wrist, when a familiar figure materializes at my side.

  "Good morning, Sam," Mr. Retribution says, falling into step beside me as naturally as if we'd planned to meet. He's wearing a different suit today—charcoal gray instead of black, red dragon tie replaced with a deep blue one. Still looks like he bench presses sedans for cardio, though.

  My heart rate spikes, but I keep my face neutral. "Didn't expect to see you so soon."

  "If you don't mind, Upper Management requests an audience." His tone is casual, friendly even, but there's no mistaking the directive underneath.

  "What, like a royal court?" I snort, even as my brain screams at me to shut up. "Should I curtsy?"

  Mr. Retribution actually chuckles. "I wouldn't recommend it. The car's this way."

  He gestures toward a black sedan idling at the curb, tinted windows reflecting the morning sunlight. Without Mrs. Quiet around to counterbalance him with her serial killer vibes, his friendliness makes it really hard to remember the whole mobster thing. Almost like he's just some uncle offering me a ride to the mall, not a super-powered enforcer for a criminal empire.

  "Don't worry," he adds, noting my hesitation. "You'll be back home before sundown. If anyone asks, you can be honest."

  "Yeah, I'm sure my parents will be thrilled I'm taking a road trip with the Kingdom of Keys."

  He shrugs those massive shoulders. "They don't need to know the details. Just that you're meeting someone important about that project you're working on."

  Project. Like this is some kind of science fair or community service thing. God.

  "Fine," I say, because what choice do I really have? I texted the team last night about the meeting request, and we agreed I should go—both to maintain our pretense of cooperation and to gather intel. Still, actually climbing into a car with known criminals feels different in practice than it did in theory.

  The back door of the sedan swings open as we approach, and Mr. Retribution gestures for me to get in. I slide onto the leather seat, the cool air conditioning a sharp contrast to the already-muggy June morning outside. The interior smells like expensive cologne and faintly of cigarettes, despite looking immaculately clean.

  As Mr. Retribution closes my door and walks around to the other side, I catch sight of the driver—and my stomach drops. It's Mrs. Quiet, her distinctive white-streaked hair now tucked under a chauffeur's cap, her black gloved hands resting on the steering wheel. There's a holstered gun visible on her side away from me, not hidden, but not flaunted either. Just... there. A casual reminder.

  "Hope you don't mind, but Mrs. Q will be driving us today," Mr. Retribution says as he slides in beside me. His bulk takes up nearly two-thirds of the back seat, forcing me to press closer to the door than I'd like. "She knows the traffic patterns better."

  Mrs. Quiet's eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror, cold and calculating. She doesn't speak, just gives a barely perceptible nod before pulling away from the curb with smooth precision. I swear for a second that I see her smirk.

  "So," I say, trying to fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence. "We're going to meet Upper Management. Do I get to know where exactly that's happening?"

  "New York," Mr. Retribution replies, checking something on his phone. "Upper Management prefers to conduct business from our headquarters there."

  "New York?" My voice rises slightly. "That's, like, two hours away. You said I'd be back before sundown."

  "And you will be. Unless traffic is exceptionally bad."

  I glance out the window as we merge onto I-95 North, the familiar landscape of Northeast Philly giving way to the industrial outskirts of the city. My stomach churns with a mix of anxiety and anticipation. This is actually happening. I'm going to meet the leader of the Kingdom of Keys. The mysterious Upper Management.

  "You want some of my chips?" I ask, pulling the small bag from my Wawa sack, more to break the tension than out of any real desire to share.

  Mr. Retribution shakes his head. "No food in the car. Mrs. Q's rule."

  I glance at the back of Mrs. Quiet's head, but she doesn't react.

  "Can we turn the AC up? Not trying to be annoying, I just run hot."

  Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

  Mrs. Quiet silently adjusts the temperature, lowering it a few degrees. The air from the vents turns from pleasantly cool to borderline frigid. Message received—she's not in the mood for small talk or requests.

  I notice the shift in Mr. Retribution almost immediately. Without the possibility of civilian witnesses, his demeanor has changed. Not mean, exactly, but... less friendly. More neutral. Professional. The mask slips, revealing the enforcer beneath the affable exterior. His responses to my occasional attempts at conversation grow shorter, more clipped, until eventually I give up and just stare out the window, watching the New Jersey Turnpike roll by.

  The silence stretches, broken only by the hum of the engine and the occasional direction from the GPS. Mrs. Quiet drives with mechanical precision, never breaking the speed limit by even a single mile per hour, using turn signals with meticulous timing, maintaining perfect distance from other vehicles. It's somehow more unnerving than if she drove like a maniac.

  By the time we cross into New York, my legs are cramping from sitting still for so long, and my Wawa breakfast is a distant memory. I scarfed it down in like three minutes when we pulled off on one of those highway break centers so I could take a leak. But now, the city rises around us—concrete and glass reaching for the sky, crowds thickening on the sidewalks, yellow cabs weaving through traffic with practiced aggression.

  Mrs. Quiet navigates through Manhattan with the same eerie efficiency, eventually pulling up to a sleek skyscraper in the heart of the financial district. It's the kind of building that screams "legitimate business"—all shining glass and polished stone, with a discreet but clearly expensive logo in the lobby. The kind of place you'd expect to house investment firms or corporate law offices, not the headquarters of a criminal organization.

  Maybe it is, during off-hours.

  "We're here," Mr. Retribution announces unnecessarily, opening his door and stepping out onto the sidewalk. "Leave your phone in the car. Mrs. Q will park and join us shortly."

  I hesitate, not loving the idea of being completely cut off from communication, but the look on his face makes it clear this isn't a request. I power down my phone—not just lock screen, actually power down—and tuck it under the seat.

  The lobby is a monument to corporate wealth—soaring ceilings, marble floors, security guards in tailored suits that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. Mr. Retribution leads me to a bank of elevators, nodding to the security personnel, who nod back without question. Clearly, he's a familiar face here.

  "What exactly is this place?" I ask as we step into an elevator and he inserts a key card, pressing the button for the top floor.

  "A perfectly legitimate investment firm," he replies.

  "That just happens to be run by the boss of the Kingdom of Keys?"

  His expression doesn't change. "He doesn't run anything. He just has an office here."

  The elevator begins its ascent, smooth and silent. My stomach flutters, partly from the rapid rise and partly from nerves. I'm about to meet the leader of one of the most dangerous criminal organizations on the East Coast. A person so secretive that I bet most of their own operatives have never met them. For a second, I kick myself for not memorizing the sequence of buttons that Mr. Retribution pressed, a sequence that is taking us somewhere that is between the 30th and 60th floors. Don't they have to have multiple elevator banks for really tall buildings like this? Sam, focus.

  And I'd demanded this meeting. What the hell was I thinking?

  As the elevator reaches the top floor, Mr. Retribution straightens his tie slightly. "A word of advice," he says, not looking at me. "Be respectful, be direct, and don't waste time."

  The doors slide open to reveal a reception area that looks like it was designed by someone with a pathological fear of clutter. Everything is sleek, minimalist, and spotlessly clean. There's no receptionist. Just me, Mr. Retribution, and two doors.

  Mr. Retribution nods at nothing in particular, then turns to me. "I'll wait here. You go in alone."

  That wasn't part of the plan. I was counting on having at least one familiar face in the room, even if that face belonged to a superpowered enforcer who could probably break me in half.

  "But—"

  "He insisted," Mr. Retribution says, cutting me off. "Don't worry. If he wanted you dead, we wouldn't have brought you all the way to New York. We would've just dumped your body in the Pine Barrens."

  Somehow, that's not as reassuring as he probably intended it to be.

  With no other choice, I walk across the reception area, acutely aware of the soft sound my sneakers make against the polished floor. The double doors loom larger with each step, until I'm standing before them, my reflection distorted in the burnished metal.

  Here goes nothing.

  I push the doors open and step inside.

  The office beyond is even more sterile than the reception area. Every surface gleams—the mahogany desk polished to a mirror shine, the floors so spotless they reflect the fluorescent lights above. The air smells faintly of sanitizer, not like a hospital, but like someone's taken "cleanliness is next to godliness" as a personal challenge.

  My eyes immediately lock onto the large, industrial-sized tub of hand sanitizer placed squarely on the desk. Beside it sits a metal wastebasket filled with what looks like the mangled remains of stress balls, torn apart and discarded like some kind of warning.

  And behind the desk sits a man.

  He's... not what I expected. Handsome in a conventional way, with light brown eyes so light they almost look orange in the right angle. His black hair shows strands of silver, styled in a way that's clearly intentional but doesn't scream "trying too hard." No stubble, like my dad on a Saturday. Freshly shorn.

  He looks like he could be anyone—a CEO, a college professor, someone's dad. Nothing about his appearance screams "criminal mastermind." But there's something in his eyes, a clinical detachment that makes the small hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  "Samantha Small," he says, his voice precisely modulated. Not too loud, not too soft. "Please, use the sanitizer and have a seat."

  I hesitate for only a moment before stepping forward and pressing the pump on the sanitizer bottle. The sharp antiseptic smell fills my nostrils as I rub the gel between my hands. Then, feeling like I'm in the principal's office for a particularly serious offense, I sit in the chair facing the desk.

  He stands, reaches across the desk, and extends his hand. "A pleasure to meet you in person."

  I reach out to shake his hand, and am immediately struck by the sensation. His grip feels like an iron vise, like his skin weighs twenty pounds without even trying to squeeze. It's not painful, exactly, but there's no mistaking the power there.

  "Is there something I can call you besides 'Upper Management'?" I ask as our hands separate. "It's a bit of a mouthful."

  He flexes his fingers experimentally, as if testing them after our handshake. "My subordinates call me Mr. Antithesis."

  "That's not much better," I mutter before I can stop myself.

  Mr. Antithesis doesn't miss a beat. "I don't cater to the feelings of high schoolers," he says, his tone unchanged. "You wanted an audience, now you've got it." He leans forward slightly, those amber eyes fixed on mine. "What do you know about Soot?"