As we continue walking, I find myself scanning the crowds more intently, looking for anything out of place. It's not long before I spot something – or rather, someone.

A young man, probably not much older than me, is moving through the crowd with a nervous energy that sets my teeth on edge. He's constantly looking over his shoulder, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. As he passes by a group of people, I see him slip something into a woman's bag.

"Rampart," I murmur, nodding in the guy's direction. "Check it out."

Rampart follows my gaze, his eyes narrowing. "Good catch. Let's follow him, but keep your distance. We don't want to spook him."

We trail the nervous guy for a few blocks, watching as he repeats the same pattern – approach someone in the crowd, slip something into their bag or pocket, then move on. It's subtle enough that most people wouldn't notice, but now that we're looking for it, it's clear as day.

"He's distributing something," Rampart says under his breath. "But what? And why so secretive?"

As if in answer to his question, a bright red light flares to life in my mind's eye, immediately putting someone's circulatory system in my blood sense's range. I can feel them, where they are in relation to me, in relation to the long-dried blood particles that decorate Philly's streets like a LIDAR map. Where's the cut, where's the cut - there, in their side. Limping away. Not on Jump - it'd be too orange.

"Rampart," I say, my voice tight. "I think someone's bleeding nearby."

His head snaps around, scanning the area. "Where?"

I point down a nearby alley. "That way. It's not bad, but…"

Rampart nods, understanding. "Let's check it out. Carefully."

We make our way down the alley, our senses on high alert. As we turn a corner, we see a man leaning against a wall, clutching his side. There's a small pool of blood forming at his feet.

"Hey," Rampart calls out softly. "You okay, man?"

The guy's head snaps up, his eyes wide with fear. "Stay back!" he shouts, his voice trembling. "I don't want any trouble!"

I hold up my hands, trying to look non-threatening. "We're not here to cause trouble," I say. "We just want to help. You're hurt."

He lets out a bitter laugh. "Help? Like those guys 'helped' me?" He gestures vaguely down the alley. "No thanks. I'll take my chances."

Rampart steps forward slowly. "Look, we're not with whoever hurt you. We're… we're the good guys. Let us help you, and maybe you can tell us what happened?"

The guy eyes us suspiciously for a long moment before his shoulders slump in defeat. "Fine. Not like I've got much choice, right?"

As Rampart helps the guy sit down, I pull out my phone. "I'm going to call for an ambulance, okay?"

The guy's eyes widen in panic. "No! No cops, no ambulance. Please."

I exchange a look with Rampart. This is getting more complicated by the minute.

"Okay," Rampart says soothingly. "No ambulance. But we need to stop that bleeding. Sam, you got any first aid supplies in that backpack of yours?"

I nod, pulling out a small kit. As I start cleaning and bandaging the wound – which thankfully isn't as bad as it looked at first – Rampart gently questions the guy. It turns out his name is Mike, and he's a regular ol' drug dealer. The friendly, local kind - I'm not sure if I'm being sarcastic in my own head or not. He was approached by some guys who claimed to be part of a new crew moving into the area. They wanted him to start selling some new product for them – Jump pills.

"I told them no way," Mike says, wincing as I amateurishly disinfect and patch up the wound, remembering the first-aid drills Gossamer burnt into me. "That stuff is bad news, and I don't need to be on the big dogs' bad side. But they didn't like that answer."

"So they roughed you up," Rampart finishes for him.

Mike nods. "Yeah. Said if I wouldn't sell for them, I couldn't sell at all. Took all my stuff, too."

I finish bandaging Mike's wound and sit back on my heels. "These guys, did they say anything about where they were operating from?"

Mike shakes his head, then pauses. "Wait. Yeah, actually. One of them mentioned something about 9th Street. Said they were 'moving up in the world'. Whatever that means."

Rampart and I exchange a look. This is definitely something worth checking out.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Thanks, Mike," Rampart says. "You should probably get that looked at by a real doctor, but the bandage should hold for now. And… maybe consider a change of career?"

Mike lets out a weak laugh. "Yeah, maybe. Thanks for the help. And… be careful if you're going after those guys. They're not playing around."

As we leave Mike in the alley (after making sure he has a safe way to get home), Rampart and I start walking towards 9th Street. It's not far, just a few blocks away, but it feels like we're crossing into another world. The streets here are always under construction, the constant rhythm of jackhammers and beeping trucks forming a chaotic urban symphony.

"So," I say, trying to sound casual. "What's the plan? We can't just walk into their base and ask them to stop being bad guys, right?"

Rampart chuckles, but there's a tension in his voice. "No, definitely not. We need to be smart about this. We're not in costume, we don't have backup, and we don't know exactly what we're dealing with."

I nod, my mind racing. "But we can't just let them keep operating, either. They're hurting people, Rampart. And if they're pushing Jump…"

"I know," he says, his expression grim. "We'll figure something out. For now, let's just see what we can find out. Reconnaissance only, okay?"

"Okay," I agree, even as a part of me itches for action. "Recon only."

As we approach 9th Street, the construction becomes more intense. There are barriers and detour signs everywhere, funneling pedestrians and traffic into narrow, confusing paths. It's the perfect cover for any kind of illicit activity.

We weave our way through the maze of construction, keeping our eyes peeled for anything suspicious. It's not long before we spot something – a group of guys, looking way too casual to be construction workers, squatted around a set of speakers and listening to the loudest 2010s metal I have heard in a long time. Have they no shame?

"There," I whisper, nodding towards them. "What do you think?"

Rampart studies them for a moment. "Could be our guys. Let's get closer, see if we can hear anything."

We edge closer, pretending to be confused pedestrians looking for a way through the construction. As we get nearer, I start to pick up snippets of their conversation.

"…told you it was a bad idea," one of them is saying. "We should've waited."

"Shut up," another snaps. "It's fine. We got the stuff, didn't we? And that punk won't be causing us any more trouble."

My fists clench at my sides. They're definitely talking about Mike. These are the guys who hurt him. I feel unkindnesses building in my throat, but Rampart puts a steadying hand on my arm. He's looking at something else – a small pile of boxes, tucked away behind some construction equipment. The first guy is shaking one box wistfully, and a clear 'pill-bottle' noise comes out.

"Easy," he murmurs. "We need more information."

Just then, one of the guys – a skinny dude with a nervous energy about him – stands up suddenly. "I gotta take a leak," he announces.

As he walks away from the group, something strange happens. One moment he's there, and the next he's… not. It's like he blinks out of existence, only to reappear a few feet away a minute later. He doesn't seem to notice, or if he does, he doesn't react.

Rampart and I exchange a look. "Jump," I mouth silently. He nods, his expression grim.

The skinny guy disappears around a corner, and I make a decision. "We need to stop them," I say quietly. "They're hurting people, they're pushing Jump, and they've got at least one powered individual. This is exactly the kind of situation we're supposed to handle."

I fully expect Rampart to disagree with me, pull rank, and call in the cops. That's just who he is as a person. But instead, he just looks at me and nods. "I agree. We either take care of this now, or it'll fester."

I nod, feeling a mix of excitement and… well, I used to feel nervousness. But now, it's just excitement. "You got any bright ideas?"

Rampart thinks for a moment. "We go in hard and fast. Surprise them. I'll take point, you watch our backs. We're not supposed to be here, remember?"

"This is really unlike you," I whisper.

"Call it an itch to scratch," he whispers back.

I nod again, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing. This is it. This is what we've been waiting for. Rampart starts walking towards the group, his posture shifting subtly into something more intimidating. I follow close behind, my senses on high alert.

As we approach, the guys finally notice us. They stop talking, eyeing us suspiciously. "Hey," one of them calls out. "This area's closed. You can't be here."

Rampart doesn't slow down. "Funny," he says, his voice carrying easily across the space between us. "We were about to say the same thing to you."

The guys exchange glances, clearly uncertain. They're not used to being challenged, especially not by a couple of teenagers. But there's something about Rampart's confidence that gives them pause.

"Look," another one says, standing up. "I don't know who you think you are, but you're making a big mistake. Walk away now, and we'll forget this ever happened."

I step up beside Rampart, my voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through my veins. "We know what you've been up to. Pushing Jump, roughing up local dealers. It stops now."

That gets their attention. The first guy, clearly the leader, narrows his eyes. "Who the fuck are you? Cops?"

Rampart laughs, but there's no humor in it. "No, not cops. Just concerned citizens. And you boys have given us plenty to be concerned about."

The tension in the air is palpable. I can see the guys shifting nervously, their hands drifting towards pockets and waistbands. We're outnumbered, and they probably have weapons. But we have training, experience, and the element of surprise on our side.

Just then, the skinny guy reappears – literally. He blinks into existence right next to the leader, his eyes wide with panic. "Guys," he hisses. "We've got company. I saw…"

He trails off as he notices us, his face paling. "Oh shit."

The leader's expression hardens. "Well," he says, his voice dangerously calm. "Looks like we've got ourselves a situation here."

Rampart squares his shoulders, his voice low and intense. "Last chance. Walk away now, leave the Jump behind, and we'll let you go. Otherwise…"

He lets the threat hang in the air. The guys look at each other, uncertainty clear on their faces. For a moment, I think they might actually take the offer.

Then the leader pulls out a pocketknife, and flicks it clean open with an almost satisfying shwing.

"I don't think so," he snarls. "Ain't nobody gonna ruin our big payday. We earned this!"

"Hey, we should run, before the big dogs catch up," the teleporter almost whimpers, looking around for some sort of weapon. "We got our score, let's bounce,"

"Fuck off, Slims, this is our street now. We gotta act like it," another of the group - one with a beanie - mumbles, projecting confidence that he certainly hasn't earned.

I crack my knuckles. "Yeah, yeah, yeah. Who's first?" I ask, getting their attention.