The abandoned warehouse looms before me, a hulking shadow against the night sky. Its rusted metal siding gleams dully in the moonlight, riddled with holes and graffiti tags. The windows are mostly broken, jagged shards of glass still clinging to their frames like rotting teeth. The whole place reeks of decay and neglect, a forgotten relic of Philadelphia's industrial past.

I've been here for hours already, pacing the perimeter, checking and double-checking everything. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my teeth, a constant reminder of just how much is at stake tonight. I keep running through different scenarios in my head, trying to anticipate every possible outcome. But the truth is, I have no idea how this is going to go down. All I know is that I can't afford to screw it up.

The warehouse sits at the edge of Penn Treaty Park, right on the banks of the Delaware River. To my left, I can see the Benjamin Franklin Bridge stretching across the water, its lights twinkling like stars. To my right, the city skyline looms in the distance, a jagged silhouette against the night sky. It's beautiful, in its way. A reminder of what I'm fighting for.

I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The cool night air fills my lungs, carrying with it the scent of the river - a mix of brine and pollution that's uniquely Philly. I close my eyes for a moment, listening to the distant hum of traffic, the lapping of waves against the shore. It's almost peaceful.

Almost.

But I can't afford to relax. Not now. Not with Patriot on his way. I open my eyes and scan the area one last time, my gaze lingering on the spots where I've made my preparations. Everything looks good. As ready as it's going to be, anyway.

I check my watch. 11:55 PM. He'll be here soon.

As if on cue, I hear the sound of footsteps approaching. Heavy, purposeful strides that can only belong to one person. I turn towards the sound, my body tensing as I catch sight of a familiar silhouette emerging from the shadows.

Patriot.

He's dressed in his full costume, the red, white, and blue of his uniform standing out against the gloom of the warehouse, the harsh yellow glow of the nearby streetlights, trickling in like clawmarks into the warehouse proper. His face is set in a grim expression, his eyes hard and cold as he approaches. He moves with the confident swagger of a man who's used to getting his way, who's never had to question his own authority.

"Bloodhound," he says by way of greeting, his voice gruff and businesslike. "You're early."

I shrug, trying to project an air of casual confidence that I definitely don't feel. "Figured I'd scope the place out. Make sure we weren't walking into any surprises. I hope you didn't bring Zero along?"

"Zero, Egalitarian, Para, Bulldozer - they're all crowd control. You're not a crowd. You're a junior hero," he replies, his eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in my appearance. Despite everything else about him, it comes across as genuine, not condescending. The implied 'you're not worth the crowd control' seems less like talking down to me and more pragmatism. I can almost hear the 'they have better things to do' in his voice. "That's quite the getup you've got there. Expecting trouble, or just getting ready for Halloween?"

I roll over the words in my head, trying to scan them for sarcasm, but it comes out remarkably sincere in the wash. I glance down at myself, suddenly self-conscious of my heavily armored costume and the various gadgets strapped to my belt. "Just came from patrol," I lie smoothly. "Thought it was better to be over-prepared than under. These are my streets, after all. My house."

His gaze lingers on the gauntlet strapped to my wrist, a flicker of something - curiosity? concern? - passing across his face. "I trust you - for now. That's a fancy glove. New toy?"

I flex my fingers, feeling the reassuring weight of the gauntlet. "Old toy, actually. Just a support device for my powers" I lie. "When you have something as niche as what I have, you get used to making do."

"Hmm," he says, clearly not entirely convinced. "Well, I suppose we should get down to business then. You said you had proof about Egalitarian. Let's see it."

I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what's to come. "Before we get to that, I think we need to talk about Project Titan."

Patriot's expression darkens, his jaw clenching visibly. "I told you before, that's ancient history. It's got nothing to do with what's happening now."

"I'm not so sure about that," I press on, knowing I'm treading on dangerous ground. "From what I've heard, it sounds like the kind of thing that could have some pretty serious long-term consequences. The kind of thing that might lead to, oh I don't know, a sudden surge in metahuman drugs flooding the streets?"

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He barks out a harsh laugh, shaking his head. "You've got some imagination, kid. Project Titan was a military operation, pure and simple. We did what was necessary to protect this country, to keep people safe. Nothing more, nothing less."

"And I'm sure all those 'necessary' actions were completely above board, right?" I can't keep the sarcasm out of my voice. "No war crimes or anything like that?"

Patriot's eyes flash dangerously, and for a second I think he might actually take a swing at me. But he controls himself, his voice low and tight when he speaks. "I hope you don't think 'soldiers killing people' is anything interesting, lady. Nobody wants to hear that. It's old news. And I did what I was ordered to do - what was needed to be done."

I bite back the urge to point out that that's the same argument the Nazis used at Nuremberg. Instead, I press on. "And what about the experiments? The attempts to artificially induce superpowers?"

He waves a dismissive hand. "Ancient history. Failed experiments, nothing more."

"Are you sure about that?" I ask, my voice low and intense. "Because I've got a theory. A theory that those 'failed experiments' might not have been so failed after all. That maybe, just maybe, they led to something. Something like, oh, I don't know… Jump? Fly?"

Patriot goes very still, his eyes burning with a sudden, dangerous intensity. "That's a hell of an accusation to make without proof," he says, his voice barely above a whisper.

I reach into my pocket, slowly and deliberately, making sure he can see every move. "Who says I don't have proof?"

I pull out a small plastic baggie filled with what looks like orange glitter. Egalitarian's blood, crystallized and sparkling in the dim light. Patriot's eyes widen as he sees it, a flicker of recognition passing across his face.

"What the hell is that?" he demands, even though we both know exactly what it is.

"Egalitarian's blood," I say simply. "Chock full of Fly. And DNA, if you want to take it back and test it yourself."

His hand twitches towards the baggie, but I pull it back before he can grab it. "Ah ah ah," I chide. "That's not all I've got."

I reach into my pocket again, this time pulling out a small, folded photograph. I unfold it carefully, holding it up for Patriot to see. It's a grainy image, clearly taken from a distance, but the subject is unmistakable - Egalitarian, her sleeve rolled up, a syringe pressed against her skin.

Patriot's face goes pale, then flushes with anger. "Where did you get that?" he snarls, lunging for the photo.

I dance back, keeping it just out of reach. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that I've got it. And a whole lot more where that came from."

His eyes narrow dangerously. "Is that a threat?"

I shake my head. "Not a threat. A fact. I've got a dead man's switch set up. If anything happens to me, and I don't show back up in one piece to my base of operations, all of this goes public. Every last dirty detail."

Patriot barks out a harsh laugh. "You think I'd kill you over this? You really are green, aren't you?"

"Maybe not," I concede. "But I think you'd do just about anything to keep this quiet. To protect your team. Your mission."

His face hardens, all traces of amusement vanishing. "You have no idea what you're messing with here, lady. No idea of the forces you're up against."

"Then enlighten me," I challenge. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like your team is compromised. Your second-in-command is using the very drug you're out there railing against. How long before she slips up? Before someone else finds out? What will she do to get more?"

Patriot's fists clench at his sides, his whole body vibrating with barely-contained rage. "You don't know what you're talking about," he growls. "Egalitarian is a true patriot. A hero. Whatever she's done, whatever she's taken, it was for the good of the mission. For the good of this country."

I shake my head, a sick feeling settling in my gut. "You really believe that, don't you? That the ends justify the means? That you can just sweep all of this under the rug and pretend it never happened?"

"What I believe," he snarls, taking a menacing step towards me, "is that you're way out of your depth here, lady. You think you can just waltz in here with your half-baked theories and your stolen evidence and dictate terms to me? I've been doing this since before you were born. I've made the hard choices, sacrificed everything for this country. Who the hell are you to judge me?"

I stand my ground, refusing to be intimidated. "I'm someone who believes in justice. In accountability. In doing the right thing, even when it's hard. And that with great power comes great responsibility."

He cackles like a hyena, his laughter ugly and grating like metal scraping against metal. "Alright, Peter Parker. Sure. Let's do it your way, and see how long your child's ideology hewn from stories for weak nerds lasts against the rigors of the real world. No, we do justice my way. The right way."

"And what about the people you're supposed to be protecting?" I demand. "Don't they deserve to know the truth? To have a say in how their city, their country, is being run?"

Patriot's eyes narrow dangerously. "The people need to be protected. Sometimes from themselves. They don't understand the threats we're facing, the sacrifices that need to be made."

"And you do?" I challenge. "You think you have the right to make those decisions for everyone else?"

"Someone has to," he growls. "Someone has to be willing to do what needs to be done. To make the hard choices."

I shake my head, feeling a mixture of pity and disgust. "And that someone is you? The great Patriot, judge, jury, and executioner all rolled into one?"

His face twists with rage. "Watch your tone. You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"Oh, I think I do," I say, my voice hard and cold. "I'm dealing with a man who's so convinced of his own righteousness that he's lost sight of everything else. A man who's willing to trample on the very ideals he claims to protect, all in the name of some twisted version of 'justice'."

Patriot's whole body goes rigid, his eyes blazing with fury. "You don't know the first thing about justice," he snarls. "About what it takes to keep this country safe. You're just a naive kid playing at being a hero. I'm not stupid. You can wear as much Halloween gear as you want, but it won't make you an adult, Bloodpuppy."

I feel my own anger rising to match his, my hands clenching into fists at my sides. "And you're a washed-up soldier who can't let go of the past. Who's so scared of change, of losing control, that you'd rather burn everything down than admit you might be wrong."