I'm hunched over the police scanner Jordan set up, my notebook open to a fresh page, scribbles and half-written codes filling the earlier ones. A reference book sits next to me, dog-eared and marked up from hours of cross-referencing. My bad arm rests in my lap, the bandages itching under the sling, but I ignore it. I need to keep listening.

I've been at this for weeks now, trying to teach myself the language of the scanner. Ten codes, signals, dispatch jargon--it's a lot, but it feels like progress. It feels like something I can do. Something I can control.

Most of what comes through is routine: noise complaints, traffic stops, the occasional stolen car. The kind of stuff that makes you wonder how cops stay awake on night shifts. Every so often, there's a burst of excitement--a foot chase, a burglary in progress--but nothing major. Nothing that feels like it's worth waking Jordan or Maggie for.

Jordan's asleep in the next room. I can hear their faint snoring, just barely, over the low hum of the scanner. It's comforting in a weird way, knowing someone else is here, even if they're unconscious. The Music Hall feels bigger at night, emptier, the shadows stretching long and heavy across the walls. The air smells faintly of old wood and stale coffee, and the only light comes from the desk lamp I've propped up next to the scanner.

"Unit 214, report to a possible 10-16 in progress," the scanner crackles. "4200 block of Richmond Street. Caller advises they hear yelling and breaking glass."

I jot it down out of habit, even though it's not the kind of thing I care about right now. Domestic disturbances aren't exactly my area of expertise.

Another call comes through--a reckless driver on the Roosevelt Boulevard--and then the chatter dies down again. I sip at the lukewarm coffee I poured an hour ago, grimacing at the bitter taste, and flip through the reference book. Half these codes are outdated or only used in specific districts, which makes piecing things together a nightmare. But I'm learning. Slowly.

Then, something shifts. A burst of static crackles through the scanner, followed by a voice that's lower, calmer than the usual dispatchers. "Unit 601, confirm encrypted activation on Channel 7-Alpha. Transport protocols engaged."

I sit up straighter, my pen hovering over the page. That's not routine.

Another voice cuts in, this one sharper, more urgent. "Confirmed. Westbound I-78, mile marker 49. All units switch to encrypted channel. 601, secure comms."

The scanner goes silent for a beat, and I feel the weight of it settle in my chest. Encrypted channels don't go active for routine calls. Something's happening. Something big.

I flip to the back of the reference book, scanning for anything about Channel 7-Alpha. Nothing. It's not listed. I write it down anyway, underlining it twice.

The silence breaks with another burst of static, then a clipped voice, almost too fast to catch. "Transport Bravo reporting escalation. Code 10-33, repeat, 10-33. Officer needs assistance, westbound I-78 near Allentown. Multiple suspects. Units en route."

A 10-33. Officer in immediate danger. My pulse picks up, and I grip the pen tighter, scribbling down everything I can catch.

"Central to all units, priority response requested. Maintain perimeter integrity. Additional assets mobilizing. Over."

More static, then another voice, this one panting, frantic. "601 to Central, we need backup now. There's a fucking dinosaur,"

My pen stops mid-word and my stomach suddenly is sitting where the shit comes out.

I lean closer to the scanner, my heart hammering against my ribs. The voices overlap now, urgent and chaotic, and I can barely keep up.

"Multiple hostiles on approach! We've got a--what the hell is that?"

"10-97 at designated checkpoints. Unit 345, deploy spike strips at--"

"They're inside the convoy! Repeat, suspects have breached--"

The static cuts out again, leaving only silence, and I can feel the isolation pressing in on me like a vice. I'm too far away. I can't see what's happening. I can't help.

I check the clock. 3:52 AM. The seconds tick by, each one louder than the last, and I want to do something--call someone, jump on my bike, anything--but there's nothing I can do. I don't have a car. I don't even know where they're headed, beyond "westbound." I'm just stuck here, alone, listening to the chaos unfold dozens if not hundreds of miles away.

Another burst of static. "Transport Alpha compromised. Requesting immediate backup from all available units. Repeat; Transport--"

The voice cuts out mid-sentence, replaced by a long, shrill tone that makes my stomach turn. I've heard it before. It's the sound of an emergency beacon, activated when a unit goes dark.

My hands shake as I write it down, the letters coming out jagged and uneven. Emergency beacon. Westbound I-78. Near Allentown.

The scanner crackles one last time, then goes silent. Completely silent. Even the routine chatter is gone now, replaced by an eerie, oppressive quiet that makes my skin crawl. Then, the chatter returns, but I'm barely listening. Backup from anyone available. Philly cops en route - but I already know what they probably already know. Philly to the I-88? They'll be long gone by the time any backup arrives.

Dawn creeps in slowly, bleeding through the blinds in streaks of pale orange and gray. The Music Hall feels heavier now, like the silence of the early morning has turned into something thicker, harder to shake. I sit cross-legged on the couch, clutching my coffee mug like it's the only thing anchoring me to reality. The TV is on, muted, the live helicopter footage playing over a banner that screams Breaking News in bold red letters.

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

The aerial shots make my stomach twist. Burned-out cars are scattered across the westbound lanes of I-78 like someone dumped them out of a toy chest. Chunks of asphalt are missing, creating craters that swallow whole sections of the road. A pickup truck is flipped on its side, twisted open like a crushed soda can. Smoke still rises from parts of the highway, but it's thinner now, more like a memory than an active threat.

I turn the volume up, just enough to catch the reporter's voice over the hum of the coffee maker in the kitchen.

"Authorities are still piecing together the details of what occurred early this morning on the Pennsylvania Turnpike. While initial reports indicate a coordinated attack during the transport of two high-profile inmates, officials have yet to confirm the identities of those responsible. Witnesses describe chaotic scenes involving large explosions, overturned vehicles, and what some are calling a 'dinosaur'--though authorities have declined to comment on these claims."

The footage cuts to shaky cellphone video, the kind you'd expect from someone hiding under an overpass. The angle is bad, but you can clearly see Mr. Tyrannosaur towering, just for a moment, rearing back, and then the loud snap of gunfire. The clip ends abruptly, replaced by more helicopter footage.

I grab my phone, opening the HIRC chatroom for "Philadelphia Superhuman Affairs". It's chaos. Messages are flying by so fast I can barely read them, but the overall sentiment is clear: What the hell just happened?

Screenshots of news articles and forum threads dominate the feed. Someone posts a zoomed-in frame of Mr. Tyrannosaur from the cellphone video, followed by a list of known Kingdom operatives who match witness descriptions.

"Has anyone confirmed who was in the transport?" someone asks.

"Mr. Nothing and Mr. Mudslide, apparently," comes the reply. "Remember the leaked prison transport stuff? This was that."

The TV cuts to a press conference. A Philadelphia Police Department spokesperson stands behind a podium, flanked by a few stern-looking officers. Her voice is calm but firm, the kind of tone designed to project control even when everything's falling apart.

"While we cannot comment on the specifics of the operation or the identities of the perpetrators, we can confirm that multiple officers were injured in the line of duty. Their bravery and quick action prevented what could have been an even greater tragedy."

I switch back to the chatroom, scrolling through the flood of messages. Someone posts a link to a news story confirming that all the heroes involved in the transport are alive, though Captain Plasma is recovering from pneumonia due to inhaling smoke during the fight. Twenty-four officers were injured, along with several FBI agents and SWAT team members. Casualties are listed as "minor," but the details are vague. No names, no numbers.

I set my phone down and rub my face with my good hand, the bandages on the other crinkling faintly. The helplessness is suffocating. I hate sitting here, watching everything unfold like a bad movie I can't turn off. I want to do something, but what? I'm just a teenager in a sling, stuck in a city hours away from where this all went down.

The coffee maker beeps, and I pour myself another cup, letting the routine steady me. The first sip is too hot, burning my tongue, but I barely notice. My mind's already racing ahead.

The phone in my pocket buzzes, and for a second, I think it's another update from the group chat. But when I check, it's just the time: 7:02 AM. Before I can second-guess myself, I'm dialing Councilman Davis's number.

He picks up on the second ring. "Sam?" His voice is clear, not groggy at all. "Why are you calling me at seven in the morning? Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"Shouldn't you be asleep?" I counter, pacing the length of the room.

"Touché," he says, and I can almost hear the smile in his voice. "What's on your mind?"

I take a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts. "The Kingdom," I start. "This whole... thing on the Turnpike. Why can't we just--why can't someone go after them? Don't we know their names? Their faces? Why can't we seize their assets or freeze their accounts? They have accounts, right?"

Davis sighs, and I can already tell this is going to be a long conversation. "Sam, I get it. Believe me, I get it. I've spent nights thinking the same thing. But it's not that simple. The Kingdom doesn't operate like a street gang. They're a network. Layers of shell companies, cash businesses, offshore accounts. You've heard of RICO laws, right?"

"Uh... sure?" I frown, stopping in place. "That's, like, for organized crime?"

"Exactly. It lets us go after whole organizations by proving they're part of a criminal enterprise. But even with RICO, the burden of proof is huge. We can't just point and say, 'They're the bad guys, arrest them.' Every account we freeze, every asset we seize has to be tied to specific crimes, or they'll argue it wasn't theirs. And most of the time, they're three steps ahead, moving their money faster than we can track it."

"But we know who Mr. Tyrannosaur is," I insist, throwing up a hand. "Can't we just... arrest him? Doesn't he have a house somewhere? A hideout? Something?"

"Probably," Davis says, his voice calm but weighted now. "On paper, he might have an address. But guys like him don't settle down with a mortgage and a neighborhood watch. They move constantly. Safehouses, underground bunkers, who knows what else. And even if we find him? Look, you know as well as I do what happens if we rush it. He's a guy who turns into a dinosaur, Sam. Do you think he's just going to sit quietly while we read him his Miranda rights?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I hate that he's making sense.

He sighs again, softer this time, like he's choosing his words carefully. "You know, part of me wants to charge in, too. Make it stop. Make them pay. But we can't. The law's only as precise as we build it, and if we start bending it--justifying shortcuts because we're on the right side--it'll snap back. People like The Kingdom can afford to fight back in court. They'll weaponize every misstep we make. And if we make it easier to take them down, what happens when the wrong people get that power? What happens when bad cops, or worse, the bad guys themselves, use it against us?"

I chew on that for a moment, the frustration boiling just under the surface. "So what? We just let them get away with it? Every time? It still feels like we're playing catch-up while they wreck everything."

"It feels like that because sometimes it's true," he admits, his voice tightening with restrained frustration. "But it's not hopeless. Every piece of evidence we gather, every shell company we connect to their network--that's progress. It's slow, but it's how we take them down for good. If we cut corners, if we get sloppy, all we do is hand them a way out. And that's worse than doing nothing."

I slump back against the couch, staring at the floor. "It just feels like they're untouchable."

"They're not," Davis says firmly, the steadiness back in his voice. "They're just persistent. And yeah, we'll keep getting knocked down, but that doesn't mean we stop standing back up. You know this, Sam."

I nod, even though he can't see me. "Thanks," I say quietly. "For explaining all this."

I don't feel very thankful.

"Anytime," Davis replies, his tone softening. "But listen, Sam--try to get some rest, okay? This fight takes time, and burning yourself out won't help anyone."

"Yeah," I say, though I don't mean it. "I'll try."

We hang up, and I stare at the phone in my hand for a long moment before setting it down. The sun's fully up now, the light streaming through the windows and making the room feel a little less empty. The TV is still on, the news anchor rattling off updates I've already heard.

I glance at the clock. 7:30 AM. Time to get ready for school.