The coffee's my doing--I found the ancient pot buried in a corner and decided it was worth resurrecting. The stack of freshly printed documents on the table? Also mine. Jordan may have bought the printer, but they'd probably explode if they admitted it was for me.

Jordan's sprawled across one of the mismatched chairs, their laptop balanced precariously on their knees, while the police scanner hums faintly in the background. On the other end of the table, my own laptop chugs along with its usual wheeze, the ancient fan working overtime to keep up with the tabs I've got open.

The TV's muted, but the closed captions roll across the bottom of the screen. Some talking head is droning about local crime statistics and city ordinances, their face frozen in an expression that's somehow both smug and concerned.

"Okay," Jordan says, dragging their finger across the trackpad and squinting at the screen. "I've got something on Tremont & Fairfax's pro bono history. These guys love a good underdog story. Look at this--'assisting displaced tenants in South Boston,' 'defending small business owners from corporate buyouts,' and, oh, here's a gem: 'securing the release of a wrongly convicted man who spent twenty years in prison.'"

I glance over the rim of my coffee mug. "So they're the good guys?"

Jordan snorts, their scarf slipping off one shoulder as they adjust their chair. "Not exactly. They've got a weird split personality. Sure, they do a ton of charity work--like, a ridiculous amount--but dig a little deeper, and you find their real bread and butter: corporate law and hedge fund management. They're representing billion-dollar companies on one side and handing out free legal advice on the other."

"That doesn't scream shady to you?" I ask, flipping through one of the printouts. "I mean, who funds a legal arm that big just to be nice?"

Jordan tilts their head, considering. "It's not totally unheard of. Big firms like this use pro bono work to boost their image or recruit talent. But Tremont & Fairfax feels... different. Look at this." They turn the laptop toward me, the screen filled with a dizzying array of case summaries. "A lot of their pro bono cases? Supervillain defense. Not the big names, but mid-tier players, up-and-comers, people you'd never hear about unless you were paying attention."

I set my mug down, leaning in to get a better look. "And they win these cases?"

"More often than they should," Jordan says, their voice low. "But it's not just about winning. It's the patterns. They pick cases that seem random, but there's a thread connecting them. Like they're testing the waters or setting something up."

I frown, tapping the edge of the table with my good hand. "Like what? Building a network? Creating debts?"

"Maybe both," Jordan says, scrolling through more files. "Or maybe they're just keeping certain people out of jail. The kind of people who might be useful down the line."

I lean back in my chair, letting out a slow breath. The printer whirs to life again, spitting out another stack of papers. Jordan reaches over to grab them, sorting them into piles with the kind of precision that makes me feel like a chaotic mess in comparison. My own method is... less organized. I've got sticky notes stuck to the edges of my laptop, scribbled reminders in the margins of printouts, and a mental map of connections that only makes sense to me.

"Here," I say, sliding one of my sticky notes across the table. "This guy--Martin Calloway. He's listed as a junior partner at Tremont & Fairfax, but I found an article linking him to a shell company that used to own a warehouse in Kensington. That warehouse? Burned down six months ago in what was officially called an accident but smelled a lot like arson."

Jordan raises an eyebrow. "Kensington. Isn't that Rogue Wave turf?"

"Exactly," I say, a hint of satisfaction creeping into my voice. "And guess who was seen hanging around the ruins a week later? Some Kingdom of Keys lackeys. No arrests, of course, but it's a little too convenient to ignore."

Jordan's grin is sharp and approving. "You might actually be onto something, Bloodhound."

I shrug, trying to play it cool. "It's just a lead."

"Just a lead," Jordan echoes, their tone dripping with mock humility. "Says the person who's probably going to crack this case wide open with their gut instinct and questionable NetSphere searches."

"Hey, my NetSphere searches are very questionably good," I shoot back, smirking.

Jordan laughs, and for a moment, the tension in the room eases. It's been like this a lot lately--these moments where we work together, our methods clashing and complementing each other in equal measure. Jordan's the brains, the one who dives into data and comes up with theories that make my head spin. I'm... not that. But I've got instincts, and sometimes that's enough.

"Alright," Jordan says, tapping their laptop like it's a magic lamp. "Let's focus. Tremont & Fairfax's supervillain cases. Who've they defended that might be connected to the Kingdom?"

I glance at the printouts, my eyes scanning the names. None of them jump out at me--not like the big players I'm used to dealing with. But that's the thing about the Kingdom. They're not about flashy names or big headlines. They're about staying under the radar, building power quietly, and hitting hard when no one's expecting it.

"I don't recognize anyone," I admit, leaning back in my chair. "But that doesn't mean they're not connected. What about Huang? Does she have a pattern?"

Jordan nods, flipping to another tab. "She's mostly worked on cases involving due process violations--stuff like illegal searches, excessive force, procedural errors. It's not a bad angle, honestly. A lot of supervillains get caught because they screw up their rights, not because they're guilty."

"Which explains why she's defending Aaron," I say, my stomach twisting a little at the thought of him. "But who's paying her? There's no way McKinley can afford someone like her."

"That," Jordan says, pointing dramatically at me, "is the question. And I think the answer might be hiding in Tremont & Fairfax's client list. If we can figure out who's bankrolling her, we'll have a better idea of what's really going on."

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

I nod, my mind racing. There's something here--I can feel it. We just have to dig deep enough to find it.

The TV cuts to a bright red BREAKING NEWS banner, and both of us turn toward the screen. The muted audio gives way to a reporter standing in front of City Hall, their breath visible in the cold air, a crowd behind them.

"...announcement expected regarding a controversial new ordinance set to impact Philadelphia's superhuman community," the reporter says, their tone carefully neutral. "Details remain scarce, but sources suggest the proposal could have significant implications for vigilantes and registered superheroes alike..."

The livestream blares from the old TV, the bright graphic of BREAKING NEWS lingering in the corner of the screen like a warning flare. Councilman Ward stands at a podium on the steps of City Hall, his dark suit and blue tie immaculate against the gray stone backdrop. Beside him, the Philadelphia flag flaps lazily in the wind, its yellow and blue stripes vivid against the overcast sky.

"Good morning," Ward begins, his voice clear and authoritative. "Today, we take a significant step toward restoring order and safety in our city. The chaos caused by unchecked superhuman activity cannot be ignored any longer. That's why I am proud to announce the proposed Superhuman Activity Regulation Act, a bipartisan effort to bring structure to a situation that has spiraled out of control."

Behind him, a small group of other councilmembers and aides stand in a neat formation, their faces solemn. One figure steps forward--Maya Richardson, dressed in a sharp maroon blazer that practically radiates confidence. She takes her place beside Ward, giving him a quick nod before addressing the crowd.

"This is not about stifling heroism," Maya says, her voice smooth and measured. "This is about ensuring that heroism doesn't come at the cost of our neighborhoods, our families, or our future. The Superhuman Activity Regulation Act aims to provide clear guidelines for superhuman involvement, especially among our younger citizens."

Jordan leans forward, their hand frozen on the stack of notes they were sorting. "Oh, this is gonna be bad," they mutter, their eyes locked on the screen.

I don't respond, my attention fixed on Maya as she continues. "Under this ordinance, individuals under the age of 18 will no longer be permitted to engage in vigilante activities, even with a LUMA. Instead, minors will be encouraged to channel their abilities into structured programs--education, training, and community service. For adults, the act will enforce stricter oversight and accountability for all LUMA-approved activities."

Ward picks up where she leaves off, his tone a little too polished. "We understand the concerns this may raise, but let's be clear--this is not about targeting heroes. This is about targeting chaos. Criminals don't have LUMAs. Superpowered gangs don't have LUMAs. Jumpheads especially don't have LUMAs. This legislation gives our law enforcement and registered superhuman entities the tools they need to bring these offenders to justice."

My stomach knots as I listen. It's not hard to read between the lines.

Jordan sits back, their hands folded behind their head. "Well, there it is. The 'Jumpheads are ruining everything' speech, wrapped up in a shiny bipartisan package."

On the TV, a reporter's voice cuts in, summarizing the ordinance with bullet points as the screen flashes a list of proposed regulations.

* No vigilante activities for individuals under 18, regardless of LUMA status.

* Increased oversight and accountability for adult LUMA holders.

* Expansion of the Registered Superhuman Entity program to include greater civilian enforcement powers.

Jordan tilts their head, their expression dark. "You know what this is, right?"

I nod slowly, my mind catastrophizing all the billions of ways I'm about to get turbo-arrested. "She's making us illegal."

"Exactly," Jordan says. "Maya's smart. She knows how to frame this so it looks like a public safety measure. And Ward? He's just here to make it look bipartisan."

Maya steps forward again, her expression perfectly calibrated to convey authority and concern. "We cannot allow this epidemic of superpowered street violence to continue unchecked. Philadelphia has suffered enough. We are no longer allowing rogue pyrogenetics to burn down significant swathes of Northeast Philadelphia unchecked, or crazed scientists looking to hold entire hospitals hostage for days at a time. This legislation is not about limiting opportunities--it's about protecting them."

My hands clench into fists, the paper I was holding crumpling slightly. Protecting opportunities? For who?

Jordan glances at me, their sharp gaze softening slightly. "You okay, Sam?"

"No," I admit, barely able to tear my eyes away from the screen. "She's not even trying to hide it. This is about us. Me. Maggie. Maybe even you, by association."

They nod, their expression grim. "It's personal, alright. She's using Ward to make it look like this isn't about targeting specific people, but you know she's got your name circled in red on some internal memo."

I grab one of the printed documents from the table and flip it over, the blank side staring back at me like a challenge. Grabbing a pen, I start jotting down numbers, counting on my fingers as I go. "Okay," I mumble, more to myself than to Jordan. "Let's do some math."

Jordan watches me with raised eyebrows, clearly amused. "Math? From you? This should be good."

"Shut up," I snap, though there's no heat behind it. "Look, the average law firm of this size handles, what, twelve or thirteen supervillain-related cases a year? That's defense, prosecution, corporate stuff, whatever. But Tremont & Fairfax averages nineteen. That's... that's a big gap, right?"

Jordan leans over to glance at my notes, their expression shifting from amused to impressed. "Okay, that's actually a good point. But you're just looking at raw case numbers. What about per-lawyer? A bigger firm could naturally handle more cases just because they've got more people."

I pause, the pen hovering over the paper. "How many lawyers do they have?"

Jordan pulls their laptop back into their lap, typing furiously. "Let's see... Their website lists 76 attorneys across all their branches. That's a little on the high side for a firm like this, but not by much."

"Okay," I say, scribbling furiously. "So if we divide the number of cases by the number of lawyers--"

"Now you're inventing statistical analysis from scratch," Jordan interrupts, grinning. "Sam, are you sure you're not secretly a math prodigy?"

"I'm not even taking Stats," I mutter, shoving the paper toward them. "Here. You do the number-crunching."

Jordan takes the notes, their grin widening. "You're not bad at this, you know. Just a little... rough around the edges. Like, you're building a calculator out of duct tape and vibes, but it works."

I roll my eyes, leaning back against the couch. "Whatever. Just tell me if I'm onto something."

Jordan's still muttering to themselves about "statistical significance" and "standard deviations" when my phone buzzes against the table. I pick it up, my stomach dropping when I see the notification: Young Defenders HIRC Priority Ping.

It's been months since anything important popped up in the group chat--ever since we were unofficially grounded. I swipe the notification, opening the message.

Councilman Davis: "Young Defenders, your presence is requested at City Hall ASAP. This is a critical matter. Please confirm receipt."

I glance at Jordan, who's too absorbed in their number crunching to notice the change in my expression. "Hey," I say, my voice tight. "I need to step out for a bit."

Jordan looks up, their brow furrowed. "What's up?"

"Councilman Davis wants to meet. Something about the ordinance, I think." I stand, shoving my phone into my pocket. "I'll be back soon."

Jordan's eyes narrow slightly, but they don't argue. "Be careful, Sam. This thing? It's bigger than it looks."

"Yeah," I say, grabbing my jacket. "I know."

As I head for the door, the TV continues to blare in the background, Maya's voice ringing out like a warning bell. "This is not the end of heroism," she says, her tone firm. "It's the beginning of something better."