The trip out of Manhattan feels twice as long as the journey in. Mrs. Quiet drives with the same mechanical precision, maintaining exactly the speed limit, using turn signals with perfect timing, never cutting anyone off or getting aggressive with other drivers. It's weirdly unsettling—like watching a robot pretending to be human. We listen to some band I've never listened to before on the way back. A crooning guy who sounds like he's about to faint, weird electric noises, and then on some songs it just sounds like rock and then it's gone again.

  Mr. Retribution sits beside me in the back seat, his massive frame taking up far more than his fair share of space. He's been quiet since the elevator, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.

  "Can I have my phone back?" I finally ask as we merge onto the New Jersey Turnpike.

  Mr. Retribution considers this for a moment, then nods. "Sure. It's under the seat where you left it."

  I retrieve it, half-expecting to find it wiped or damaged, but it looks exactly the same. Powering it on, I'm immediately bombarded with notifications—mostly text messages from Jordan asking for updates.

  "You can call whoever you need to," Mr. Retribution says, staring out the window at the passing landscape.

  Instead of pointing out that it would be extremely to their advantage for me to do that, because they get to eavesdrop, I get to texting. I open the HIRC encrypted chat room for the Auditors. Jordan has been posting increasingly panicked messages for the past hour.

  "Sam status? Any updates?" reads the most recent one, followed by: "Blink can you ask Crossroads to make sure she's not dead," and then shortly after. "Please."

  I type quickly: "I'm alive. Meeting concluded successfully. Heading back to Philly now. ETA 2 hours."

  Jordan's response is immediate: "Thank god. Details?"

  "Went about as expected," I reply. Then, out loud; "Can I take a picture of my face so my friends know I'm alive?"

  "If that camera flash goes off in my direction I will throw your phone out the window. But yes," Mr. Retribution responds. You know, I wasn't even considering that, but that's a smart idea. He turns away, and Mrs. Quiet reaches back to tip her little chauffeur's hat further over her face, followed by tilting the rear-view mirror away from me so I can't see her from my angle.

  Flash, in my direction, just to be polite and let my... hosts know that I'm aiming at me, not them. Even though these people don't deserve politeness - don't think I don't know that both of them are probably murderers. There's nothing I'd like more than to bite both of them open in the car, but right now the situation I'm in sort of demands that I play by the rules of social obligation.

  I can feel my brain screeching as it considers all the bodies they have under them, the drugs they've sold, knees broken, lives ruined. How have I been taking this so relaxedly?

  Next, I scroll through my contacts to find Councilman Davis's number. A little power play seems appropriate here, to let them know I have connections, that people will notice if I disappear.

  "I'm just going to make a quick call," I announce, though neither Mr. Retribution nor Mrs. Quiet acknowledges this.

  Davis answers on the third ring. "Sam? Are you alright?"

  "I'm fine," I say, keeping my voice casual. "Just checking in to let you know I had my meeting with the guy who runs the Kingdom of Keys." I can feel Mr. Retribution watching me, but I continue. "Got some useful information and a sample of Hypeman. We'll be in touch."

  "That was extremely reckless," Davis says, his voice tight with concern. "We had a team on standby—"

  "Yeah, about that," I interrupt. "If I don't text you in an hour, they've dumped my body in the Pine Barrens. Get Crossroads to scry for me."

  Mr. Retribution lets out a soft snort beside me. Davis, however, doesn't find it amusing.

  "This isn't a joke, Bloodhound. You're dealing with extremely dangerous individuals."

  "Trust me, I know," I say, glancing at Mr. Retribution's massive frame, his single hand that could probably wrap around my entire throat. "But everything's fine. I'll fill you in later. And nobody has a gun to my head. They're driving me home, so just keep an eye on my address and if Crossroads' future vision doesn't show a black sedan showing up unceremoniously in the next... hour, hour and a half, something's gone wrong off the I-95. Okay?"

  "Bloodhound," Davis says, and I can feel something new, some newer, more interesting kind of strain in his voice. I try to identify it. What, exactly, is he so upset about? From my perspective, this is a ginormous strategic victory, and we're about to kill multiple birds with a single ricocheting stone like pinball. "I understand that this felt like the right thing to do in the moment, but you know that I can't, legally, condone this. Or use any evidence that you've gathered."

  If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  "That's okay. Like I said, we'll talk about it later. Okay, Davis?" I ask.

  He sighs, deep, inhale-y. "We'll talk."

  After hanging up, I turn to Mr. Retribution with a grin. "Pine Barrens. That's where you guys dump bodies, right? Like in The Sopranos?"

  "Are you asking me where we bury the bodies?" Mr. Retribution asks back with a raised eyebrow. "That's bold. Usually, in cemeteries."

  "Right, what was I thinking? Super-villains probably have acid vats or something."

  He doesn't respond to that, and the car falls back into silence. Mrs. Quiet hasn't said a word the entire trip, her eyes fixed on the road ahead. I wonder if she ever speaks when not explicitly needed to, or if silence is her default state.

  The miles roll by, the urban sprawl of New York giving way to the industrial landscapes of northern New Jersey, then the slightly less industrial landscapes of central New Jersey, and finally the suburban neighborhoods that mark the approach to Philadelphia.

  My phone buzzes again—Lily this time. "Jordan is fine and Max is roped in. Thank you for keeping us updated. We love you. Please stay save :>"

  I smile despite the situation. Lily's next text comes a second later. "*safe"

  "Something funny?" Mr. Retribution asks, noticing my expression.

  "Just a weird text from a friend," I say, tucking my phone away. "Inside joke."

  He nods, clearly uninterested. "We'll be dropping you off at your home in about twenty minutes. Unless you'd prefer somewhere else?"

  "Home is fine," I say, wondering if Kate will be there. If she is, will she be worried? We'd discussed the possibility of this meeting in advance, but neither of us had been certain it would actually happen, or when.

  As we enter Philadelphia proper, I notice Mrs. Quiet taking a slightly different route than I would have chosen—avoiding main streets, taking several unnecessary turns, doubling back once or twice. Avoiding surveillance, maybe? Or just making it harder for me to remember exactly where Mr. Antithesis's New York office is located? This place is crawling with feds, though, and cops, so maybe it's rational. What the fuck? What am I thinking to myself?

  Finally, we pull up in front of my house. It looks so normal, so unchanged, despite everything that's happened today. The same cracked sidewalk, the same slightly overgrown grass coming through the front stairs, the same... new house smell. Since the T-Rex and all that. It's strange how the most extraordinary days can end with such ordinary sights.

  "Here we are," Mr. Retribution announces unnecessarily. "Home safe and sound, as promised."

  "Thanks for the ride," I say, unsure of the proper etiquette for saying goodbye to people who have threatened to kill you. "It's been... educational."

  "Until next time, Bloodhound," he replies, and there's something almost like respect in his voice.

  Mrs. Quiet turns her head slightly, meeting my eyes in the rearview mirror. She doesn't speak, but gives me a single, precise nod—acknowledgment, or warning, or something else entirely. It's impossible to tell.

  I exit the car and walk up to my front door without looking back. Only when I hear the engine fade into the distance do I finally allow my shoulders to slump, the tension I've been carrying all day releasing in a shuddering exhale.

  Inside, the house is quiet. My parents aren't home yet, since Mom's working late at the library, and Dad's at some zoning meeting that will probably run until dinner. Good day for this all to happen, I guess. I climb the stairs slowly, my legs suddenly feeling like they're made of lead. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going is finally wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.

  My bedroom door is slightly ajar, and when I peek in, I see Kate sitting on her bed, hunched over what looks like a sewing project. She's not very good at it, nothing like Gossamer's effortless skill with needle and thread. Her stitches are uneven, and she keeps pricking her fingers, muttering quiet curses each time.

  She looks up as the floorboard creaks beneath my weight. Her eyes widen slightly, scanning me from head to toe as if checking for injuries.

  "You're back," she says, her voice carefully neutral. "How did it go?"

  "About as well as could be expected," I reply, equally careful. We're both mindful of the possibility of surveillance, of ears listening, of eyes watching. "No problems."

  She nods once, returning to her sewing. To anyone else, it would look like casual disinterest, but I can see the relief in the slight relaxation of her shoulders, the way her breathing evens out.

  "Good," she says simply. "Wanna get Burger King?"

  "Sure," I agree. "I'm going to clean up first."

  I carefully extract the Hypeman autoinjectors from my pocket and hide them behind the warehouse's worth of chemicals and cleaning supplies cleared out from Kate's safehouse. Then, I think a little better of it, and throw one of my... books over it. Overdue library book. The kind I think someone would look at, go, okay, this is easily the hidden thing, and stop investigating further, like I will right now. Not thinking about it!

  My hands are shaking, I realize. Not just a little tremor, but full-on shaking, like I'm freezing cold despite the summer heat. The delayed reaction to stress, probably. Or maybe just the overwhelming realization of what I've done today—met with the head of the Kingdom of Keys, lied to his face, potentially endangered myself and my friends if he ever figures it out.

  I need the bathroom. Now.

  Barely making it there in time, I drop to my knees in front of the toilet and suddenly everything I've been holding in, not just the contents of my stomach, but the fear, the tension, the sheer terrifying pressure of the day, comes rushing out in a violent heave.

  I vomit until there's nothing left but bile, my body still trying to purge itself of something that can't be expelled so easily. My throat burns, my eyes water, and my whole frame shakes with the force of each spasm.

  When it finally stops, I slump against the cool porcelain, exhausted and empty, a vague sense of disgust sitting in me that's more bone-deep than just the icky grossness of purging my stomach contents. Something rebelling inside my braincase.

  But I did it. I walked into the lion's den and walked back out again. I got the Hypeman samples. I fed Mr. Antithesis exactly the information we wanted him to have, more or less. I survived a meeting with the guy at the top.

  Phase one complete.

  Now, let's get that ricocheting stone ready.