As I make my way towards the crowded dance floor, I can't help but feel a little proud of myself. First bug planted, and I didn't even get caught. Maybe I'm getting the hang of this spy stuff after all.

The dance floor is a writhing mass of bodies, all moving more or less in sync to the pounding beat. I let myself get swept up in it, moving with the crowd while trying to keep my wits about me. It's harder than I thought it would be. The music is so loud I can feel it in my bones, the lights so disorienting that it's hard to focus on any one thing for too long.

But I force myself to concentrate, to look for opportunities. There, by the DJ booth. That could be a good spot for another bug. And over there, near the VIP section. If I could just get close enough…

I dance my way across the floor, trying to look natural while scanning for security cameras or watchful eyes. It's slow going, but I manage to plant two more bugs without incident. One under a table near the DJ booth, and another on the wall by the bathrooms.

Speaking of which… I really do need to use the restroom. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

I make my way to the ladies' room, which is blessedly less crowded than I expected. As I'm washing my hands, I pull out another bug, eyeing the air vent above the mirror speculatively. If I could just reach it…

I'm on my tiptoes, stretching as far as I can, when the door swings open. I freeze, my heart leaping into my throat.

A security guard stands there, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the scene. "What are you doing?" he asks, his voice gruff and suspicious.

For a moment, my mind goes blank. I'm caught, I'm done for, I'm going to jail and my parents are going to kill me and-

No. Focus, Sam. You've got this.

I let my arm drop, affecting a sheepish grin. "Sorry, man. I, uh… I thought I saw a spider up there. Big hairy fucker. Freaked me out. Was gonna smash the thing."

The guard's expression doesn't change. "A spider."

He raises an eyebrow. I'm going to get shot.

I nod vigorously, trying to look appropriately embarrassed. "Yeah, I know, it's stupid. But I've got this phobia, you know? Can't stand the little bastards. My therapist says I should try to face my fears, but…" I shrug, letting out a nervous laugh. "Guess I'm not quite there yet."

For a long moment, the guard just stares at me. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, my heart pounding so hard I'm sure he must be able to hear it.

Then, finally, he sighs. "Just… don't climb on anything, alright? Last thing we need is someone cracking their head open in the bathroom."

I nod, relief washing over me. "Yes sir. No climbing, I promise. Scout's honor."

He grunts, turning to leave. "And if you see any more spiders, just tell one of the staff. We'll take care of it. We know there's… some around."

He phrases it delicately, like he's trying to figure out how to word it. My brain flashes back to the horrible things that Mrs. X sent to my house, and I know. But I don't say anything.

"Will do," I call after him, my voice only shaking a little.

As soon as the door closes behind him, I slump against the sink, letting out a shaky breath. That was too close. Way too close.

I look down at the bug still clutched in my hand. No way I'm risking trying to plant it now. I'll have to find another spot.

As I make my way back to the bar, I can't help but feel a little shaken. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Maybe I'm in over my head.

But then I think about Maya Richardson, sitting in her cushy City Council office. About all the people the Kingdom has hurt, will continue to hurt if we don't stop them. No, I can't give up now. I've come too far.

I slide back onto my barstool, trying to look casual. Pete's nowhere to be seen, probably on a break or something. Instead, there's a different bartender behind the bar. A middle-aged guy wearing a button-up shirt that seems two sizes too small.

My breath catches in my throat as recognition hits me like a punch to the gut. It's him. The bartender from last time. The one who served me that Shirley Temple when Jordan and I first came here undercover.

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For a moment, I'm frozen, panic coursing through my veins. Does he recognize me? Has my cover been blown? Should I run? No, breathe. Think. It's been over a year. I look completely different now. There's no way he'll remember me. Right?

But I can't take that risk.

Not when I'm so close.

Before he can turn and see me, I slide off the stool and melt back into the crowd. My heart is pounding so hard I can barely hear the music over the rush of blood in my ears.

I find a relatively quiet corner and lean against the wall, trying to catch my breath. Okay, Sam. Think. What would Jordan do? Probably something reckless and ill-advised, if I'm being honest. Jordan I don't even think would bother with the skulduggery at this point in their life. I think if I were Jordan and I had made it this far I would've done something stupid in a different way.

But maybe that's what I need right now. A bit of recklessness. A dash of that Westwood chaos energy.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself. Then I turn and wade back into the crowd, making my way back to the bar.

The music seems to sync with my racing heartbeat, each bass drop matching the thud in my chest. I dodge elbows and sloshing drinks, my eyes fixed on the bar ahead. It's amazing how different the club looks from this perspective – less of a cohesive whole and more of a chaotic jumble of individual moments. A guy trying to impress his date with some truly awful dance moves. A group of friends taking selfies, their faces lit by the glow of their phones. A couple having an intense conversation in the corner, their body language screaming tension.

I file these observations away, part of me still on mission even as another part screams at me to turn back, to run, to get out while I still can. But I've never been good at listening to that voice. So I press on.

The middle-aged bartender is still there, mixing drinks with practiced efficiency. I slide onto a stool, forcing myself to look relaxed. Casual. Like I belong here. He turns to me, and for a heart-stopping moment, I'm sure he's going to recognize me. But his eyes just slide over me, professional and impersonal.

"What can I get you?" he asks, his voice barely audible over the thumping bass.

I clear my throat, pitching my voice a little lower than usual. "Uh, just a soda, please. Trying to pace myself, you know? Pick a soda," I say, and immediately kick myself. Is that too young? Too innocent? Should I have ordered something stronger to fit in better? But the bartender just nods, no judgment in his eyes. Maybe he's used to designated drivers, or people taking a break between stronger drinks. Or maybe he just doesn't care. Either way, I'm grateful for the lack of questions.

He nods, reaching for a glass. "Smart kiddo. You wouldn't believe how many people I have to cut off in a night."

I laugh, trying to sound worldly and experienced. "Oh, I can imagine. Must be a tough job, dealing with all the drunks."

He shrugs, sliding my drink across the bar. "It has its moments. But it pays the bills, and hey, free entertainment, right?"

I nod, taking a sip of my drink. It's just regular cola, but it tastes like victory. He doesn't recognize me. I'm in the clear.

"So," I say, leaning in a bit. "You been working here long?"

He eyes me for a moment, probably trying to figure out if I'm hitting on him or just making conversation. "Few years now. Why, you looking for a job?"

I laugh, shaking my head. "Nah, just curious. This place seems… intense. I bet you see some pretty wild stuff."

He snorts, wiping down the bar. "Kid, you have no idea. But hey, that's what makes it interesting, right? Never know what's gonna happen on any given night."

I nod, trying to look impressed. "Yeah, I bet. You ever, uh… you ever see anything really crazy? Like, I don't know, fights or anything?"

He raises an eyebrow. "You some kind of adrenaline junkie or something? Looking for trouble?"

I backpedal quickly. "No, no, nothing like that. Just, you know, curious. I get into fights sometimes. Not here! Just… in general. It's a problem."

He studies me for a moment, then sighs. "Look, kid. If you're looking for trouble, you're in the wrong place. We don't tolerate that kind of thing here. You want to fight, go join a boxing gym or something."

I hold up my hands in surrender. "No, really, I swear I'm not looking for trouble. I'm just… I don't know. Trying to understand why I keep ending up in these situations, I guess."

His expression softens a bit. "Ah. Well, that's a different story. You want some free advice?"

I nod eagerly. "Always."

He leans in, his voice low and serious. "The world's full of people looking for a fight. Don't give them the satisfaction. Walk away. It's not worth it."

I blink, surprised by the sincerity in his voice. "That's… actually pretty good advice. Thanks."

He shrugs, already turning to another customer. "Don't mention it. And hey, if you ever need to talk… well, that's what bartenders are for, right?"

I nod, feeling a strange mix of guilt and gratitude. Here I am, trying to pump this guy for information, and he's giving me genuinely good life advice. It's almost enough to make me reconsider this whole undercover thing.

Almost.

As I'm mulling this over, something catches my eye. Or rather, someone. A girl with bright pink hair and more piercings than I can count is weaving through the crowd, carrying a tray of empty glasses. I try to catch another sight through the other bar patrons, weaving my head a little bit to the left, a little bit to the right. There's something familiar about her, but I can't quite place it…

The bartender notices me staring and follows my gaze. "Ah, that's Nina," he says, a note of fondness in his voice. "She's one of our barbacks. Kind of like an apprentice bartender. Good kid, even if she does look like she fell into a tackle box."

Nina. The name hits me like a bolt of lightning. Nina from the civilian superhuman support group. From… what, almost a year ago now? The place where I met Derek. And a couple of other people that I really should be catching up with, staying in touch with - honestly, I can't remember the last time I went. It must've been months ago, right?

Before I can process this, Nina turns, catching my eye. She does a double-take, clearly recognizing me despite my disguise. For a moment, we just stare at each other, both of us frozen in surprise. The bartender, whose name I don't recall catching, glances between the two of us, mostly to Nina, and then back to me.

Then she starts making her way over, a confused smile on her face. "Hey," she says as she reaches the bar. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"