Jordan's new printer hums softly from the corner, its little green light blinking like it's mocking me. Half the coffee table is covered in printouts and Jordan's laptop, the rest taken up by empty snack wrappers and half-full cups. Blink sits cross-legged on the couch, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea I found in the cupboard but never drink. She's still in her casual clothes, the DVD logo visible on the strap of her free merch bag, which she tossed onto the couch as soon as we got back.

We walked home together, catching up in the low, rhythmic beats of a conversation about everything that wasn't life-or-death. It was good. Easy. I asked Connor if he wanted to come too, but he just shook his head and muttered something about not being able to talk to Jordan right now. "Trouble in paradise?" I'd joked, but he hadn't laughed. File that away for later.

Now, Jordan's pacing in front of us, their cloak half-draped over one shoulder like they're a theater kid who wandered into a lecture by mistake. "Alright," they say, holding up one of the freshly printed sheets. "Here's what I've got."

Blink glances at me, raising an eyebrow. "Should I be scared?"

"Probably," I say. "But mostly confused."

Jordan's pacing has settled into a rhythm, punctuated by the occasional slap of a freshly printed sheet landing on the coffee table. Blink leans forward on the couch, her mug of tea cradled in her hands as she watches Jordan with a mix of curiosity and confusion. I'm sitting cross-legged on the other end, poking at the pages like they're going to rearrange themselves into something I can understand.

"Alright," Jordan says, holding up one of the printouts, "let's talk stats. This," they tap the top of the page, "is the distribution of superhuman criminal defense cases handled by the nation's twenty biggest law firms over the last ten years."

They point to a column of numbers that means absolutely nothing to me. Blink glances at me, and I shrug.

"What you're looking at," Jordan continues, "is the mean proportion of superhuman cases to total criminal cases. Across the board, it's about 11.8 percent with a standard deviation of 2.3 percent. Most of these firms cluster pretty tightly around that average."

"Okay," Blink says slowly. "So where does Tremont & Fairfax fit in?"

Jordan's grin widens as they slap down another sheet, this one with a line graph that looks suspiciously like a heart monitor. "T&F is an outlier. They're at 19.2 percent, which puts them about three standard deviations above the mean."

Blink raises an eyebrow. "And that's bad, right?"

"It's weird," Jordan corrects, tapping the graph for emphasis. "Three standard deviations is rare--like, less than 0.3 percent rare, statistically speaking. But here's the kicker: They're not alone."

They shuffle through the pile and pull out another sheet, this one covered in bar charts. "Four other firms--Halverson-Levine, Pritchard-Bowen, Perkins-Clyne, and Atwood-Brandt--are all between two and three standard deviations above the mean. T&F's on the high end, sure, but they're not unique."

I frown, trying to piece it together. "So what you're saying is... they're doing something unusual, but it's not just them?"

"Exactly," Jordan says, tossing the paper onto the pile. "If it were just T&F, we could argue they're deliberately targeting powered clients. But with four other firms showing similar patterns, it starts to look more like a trend in the industry."

Blink leans back, her mug resting on her knee. "A trend, or a cover?"

"That's the million-dollar question," Jordan says, their expression sharp. "Are these firms independently skewed, or is there some underlying factor tying them together? Because right now, we've got correlation but no causation."

I pick up a printout with yet another graph, this one with lines crisscrossing like spaghetti. "Could it be that they just have more resources? Like, maybe bigger firms are more likely to take these cases because they can afford the risk?"

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Good question," Jordan says, looking genuinely impressed. "You're thinking about confounding variables, which is great. And yeah, T&F is one of the largest firms in the country, so their case volume is higher across the board. But even when you adjust for size--cases per lawyer instead of total cases--they're still an outlier. They're averaging 2.1 superhuman cases per lawyer per year, compared to a mean of 1.4 with a standard deviation of 0.5."

Blink whistles. "So they're still way above average."

"Way above," Jordan agrees. "But again, so are the other four. That's the frustrating part. We've found a pattern, but it's too broad to pin anything on T&F specifically."

I slump back against the couch, frustration bubbling in my chest. "Great. So we've got a bunch of maybe-suspicious law firms but no actual proof that they're up to something shady. Awesome."

Blink's brow furrows. "Could we dig deeper? Look at individual cases, see if there's a common thread?"

"We'd need access to sealed records," Jordan says, their tone grim. "Internal communications, client lists--the kind of stuff we can't just NetSphere. Right now, all we've got is what's publicly available, and even that's limited."

The room falls quiet for a moment, the weight of the dead end settling over us. Blink - Lily - sips her tea, her gaze drifting around the room, face framed by short purple hair. "You know," she says, breaking the silence, "I've never been here before. It's pretty convenient. Close to home."

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, yeah, we know. It's a prime location for all your totally legal, definitely-not-vigilante activities."

She grins, nudging me with her elbow. "You gonna give me the grand tour?"

I shrug. "Sure, but it's not that exciting. Just a big, empty building with a bunch of old junk we keep around for nostalgia."

"Don't let her undersell it," Jordan says, grabbing another stack of papers. "The Music Hall is basically the Batcave, if the Batcave was designed by a bunch of broke teenagers with no aesthetic sense."

Lily laughs, the sound cutting through the tension in the room. "Sounds perfect. Guess I'll be spending a lot more time here, huh?"

Jordan raises an eyebrow. "Oh, definitely. But don't get too comfortable. We've got a whole initiation ritual and everything. You ever been branded before?"

The sound of the TV jolts us out of our conversation. The familiar breaking news alert flashes across the screen, and the anchor's voice cuts through the low hum of the police scanner.

"We have just received breaking news regarding the Philadelphia Industrial Correctional Center. Details of an upcoming transfer of high-profile inmates have been leaked online. The leaked documents include specific information about transfer routes, timing, and security measures. Officials have yet to comment, but sources say the inmates being moved include individuals linked to superhuman criminal activity."

I exchange a look with Jordan, my stomach already tying itself into knots. Lily sets her mug down carefully, her brow furrowed. "That's... not good."

Jordan grabs the remote and turns up the volume as the anchor continues. "The leak appears to have been coordinated, with multiple news outlets receiving the documents simultaneously. Law enforcement sources are calling the breach a significant security risk, raising questions about who might have orchestrated it--and why."

"Coordinated," Jordan mutters, their eyes narrowing. They lean forward, typing furiously on their laptop. "This isn't just someone getting lucky. This is surgical."

Lily sits up straighter, her focus locked on the screen. "Surgical like... the Kingdom?"

Jordan doesn't answer immediately, their attention on the document that's just popped up on their screen. "Got it," they say, pulling up a series of maps and tables. "This is the leaked schedule."

The three of us crowd around the laptop, scanning the data. The document is a masterpiece of detail--every route mapped, every checkpoint listed, every security measure cataloged down to the number of guards and their shifts. It's the kind of thing that shouldn't exist outside of an internal briefing.

"This is bad," Jordan says, their voice low. "Like, really bad. Whoever put this together didn't just steal the information--they polished it. Look at these annotations. They're pointing out weak spots in the plan."

Lily leans in closer, her expression grim. "So, what? This is bait? A trap?"

"Maybe," Jordan says, scrolling through the document. "Or it's a flex. A way of showing whoever's in charge that they're vulnerable."

I cross my arms, my jaw tight. "Or it's both. They could be setting up for an ambush and letting everyone know they're in control."

Jordan nods slowly, their fingers drumming against the edge of the laptop. "And if it's the Kingdom, they'll make it loud. They'll want everyone to see."

Lily glances at me, her eyes sharp. "What do we do?"

Before I can answer, the TV flashes to a live feed from outside the PICC. A line of police vehicles is parked at the entrance, their lights cutting through the dusk. Reporters swarm the scene, microphones out, cameras rolling.

"This is a power play," Jordan says quietly, their eyes never leaving the screen. "The question is... whose?"

The camera zooms in on a police officer speaking into a megaphone, his voice muffled by the distance. Behind him, the dark shape of the correctional center looms like a warning.

I feel a shiver run down my spine as the anchor's voice cuts back in. "Authorities are urging the public to avoid the area as tensions rise. Stay tuned for updates."