The common area of the Music Hall always feels like it's stuck in time, like the world outside could be burning down and this place would still smell like coffee, marker fumes, and stale popcorn. It's late afternoon, but the heavy curtains keep the light low and the mood heavier. The mismatched furniture--half thrift store finds, half dumpster rescues--has been rearranged again, probably by Jordan in another bout of obsessive tidying. Their desk is a battlefield of notebooks, pens, and a pile of flashcards they've been shuffling and restacking for the last hour.

I'm slouched on the couch, my legs stretched out, a chemistry textbook propped up on my lap for show. The HIRC channel is open on my phone, the constant stream of messages barely holding my attention. Every few minutes, I refresh, even though I know nothing's going to change until the council announces the results of the vote. It doesn't stop me from checking. Over and over.

Lily, curled up in the armchair across from me, is the picture of faux-relaxation. Her legs are tucked under her, and she's flipping through a math workbook like it personally insulted her. Her fingers drum against the armrest in an arhythmic pattern, a little too fast, a little too loud.

"Can you not?" Maggie mutters from her spot on the floor. She's sitting cross-legged with her back against the coffee table, a paper ball hovering a few inches above her palm. Every so often, she lets it drop, only to snap it back up with a flick of her fingers. It's like a gravity-defying game of catch, except she's the only player, and it's not fun to watch after the first twenty minutes.

Lily shoots her a glare but stops drumming, only to pick up a pencil and start tapping it against her knee instead. Maggie rolls her eyes and goes back to her one-woman paper ball Olympics.

I glance over at Tasha, who's sprawled out on the rug with her laptop open in front of her. She's wearing her big noise-canceling headphones, the kind that make her look like she's DJing a rave instead of pretending to do calculus homework. She hasn't said much all afternoon, but her occasional sighs and the way she keeps flipping between tabs tell me she's just as distracted as the rest of us.

The police scanner hums faintly in the background, a steady stream of white noise broken up by bursts of static and dispatch chatter. Jordan insisted on leaving it on, "just in case," even though nothing interesting ever comes through during the day. So far, we've heard about a shoplifting incident in Fishtown, a fender bender on I-95, and someone's pet pig escaping in Kensington. Riveting stuff.

Jordan leans back in their chair, tossing the flashcards onto the desk with a frustrated huff. "Okay, I give up. How is it possible to know something's going to happen and still feel completely unprepared for it?"

Maggie snorts. "Welcome to literally every test I've ever taken."

"Except this one determines whether we're officially screwed or just regular screwed," Lily mutters, not looking up from her workbook.

I glance down at my textbook, the words blurring together into meaningless lines. "We already know how it's going to go. Maya Richardson didn't spend the last month making speeches just to lose."

"That's not the point," Jordan says, their voice sharp. "The point is--ugh, I don't know what the point is. I just hate waiting."

"We all do," Tasha says, her voice muffled by the headphones she's pulled halfway off. "But unless one of us has a secret plan to infiltrate City Hall and swap out the ballots, we're stuck waiting."

Maggie lets the paper ball drop to the floor and leans her head back against the table. "I vote we start brainstorming Sam's next big public stunt. Maybe this time you can accuse Maya of being an actual lizard person."

"Don't make lizard people jokes, please," I say, grimacing, remembering my mom's long lectures the first time I made a crack like that.

"Sorry," Maggie crinkles, like tissue paper rolled up.

The scanner crackles to life again, a garbled voice cutting through the static. "Unit 427, 10-65 at Market and 12th. Suspect is male, mid-30s, wearing--uh, a pirate hat? Repeat, pirate hat. Approach with caution."

Tasha raises an eyebrow. "Did they just say pirate hat?"

"Yup," I say, popping the 'p.' "Philly's finest, ladies and gentlemen."

The moment of levity doesn't last long. The room falls back into an uneasy quiet, the only sounds the occasional tap of Lily's pencil, the hum of the scanner, and the soft click of Jordan's pen as they absentmindedly disassemble and reassemble it.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

I pick up my phone again, refreshing the HIRC chat. Still nothing.

"Why are we even doing this?" Maggie asks, breaking the silence. She sounds tired, more tired than I've ever heard her. "Sitting around, pretending like this isn't a complete waste of time."

"It's not a waste," Jordan says, their voice firm. "If they vote yes, we need to be ready."

"Ready for what?" Maggie snaps. The paper ball hits the floor with a thud, rolling under the couch. "We're already illegal. A vote doesn't change that."

"No," I say quietly, my eyes still on my phone. "But it makes it official. And that's when things get dangerous."

The room goes silent again, the weight of my words settling over us like a lead blanket. It's not something any of us want to say out loud, but it's the truth. This isn't just about losing the Young Defenders or having to hang up our costumes. It's about what happens when people like Maya get to decide who's allowed to be a hero--and who isn't.

The notification hits like a sucker punch: a single message from Councilman Davis in the group chat, delivered with devastating simplicity:

Councilman Davis: "It passed. 12-5."

I blink at my phone, rereading the message as if the numbers might rearrange themselves into something better. They don't. My stomach twists. The room feels too quiet, the hum of the police scanner suddenly oppressive. Around me, the others blur into the background, their movements slowed to a crawl.

In the HIRC chat, the conversation starts immediately.

Rampart: "We knew this was coming."

I can practically see him, arms crossed, leaning back like he's sitting at the head of some table that only exists in his head. The weight of authority in his tone is heavy, but there's a sharpness to it--like he's biting off the edges of his own frustration.

Connor: "Yeah, but it still sucks."

Connor's voice is quieter in my mind, less certain. I picture him rubbing the back of his neck, like he does when he's uncomfortable but trying to act like everything's fine.

Blink: "What happens now?"

She's right next to me, physically in the room, but even her words feel like they're coming from somewhere far away. I don't need to look to imagine the tight set of her jaw, the way her fingers drum against the armrest of the chair.

Rampart: "Now we follow the law. B will have to wait two years and get registered. Anyone else, well, you know the options."

He sounds like someone rehearsing a script he doesn't believe in. Stern. Frustrated. Pragmatic. Like a disappointed dad trying to explain why bedtime is non-negotiable.

Connor: "You mean you follow the law."

There's no malice in it, just resignation. I see him shrugging, slouched against a doorframe, already half-checked out.

Gossamer: "Do we have to talk about this now?"

Her words come slow and deliberate, like she's weighing every syllable before hitting send. I can imagine her sitting cross-legged on the floor, her gaze distant, fingers idly fidgeting with a piece of fabric she's pulled from her sleeve.

Councilman Davis: "Yes."

Davis's reply is sharp, cutting through the static. He's not here, but his presence is heavy, like a shadow in the corner of the room. His voice is always calm but firm, the kind that makes you feel like you're being lectured even when he's not trying to.

Gossamer: "Fine. Then what's the point? We've already been told we're not allowed. This just makes it official."

Her tone in my head is quiet but tired. No anger, no fire, just a kind of resigned weight, like she's been holding this in for too long.

Blink: "We're not actually going to stop, right?"

I glance at her, her question floating in the air like smoke. She doesn't look at me, just stares at her phone, her leg bouncing restlessly.

Rampart: "Some of us are."

Ouch. I hear the edge in his voice--pointed, cutting. I picture him looking straight at me when he says it, even though he's not here.

Connor: "Guys, can we not?"

His voice is softer now, almost pleading. I see him stepping back, his shoulders hunched, the way he always does when the tension gets too thick.

Gossamer: "This isn't helping."

She sounds... tired. Not just physically, but in that deep, bone-weary way that makes you want to close your eyes and shut out the world.

Councilman Davis: "We all need to take a breath. The ordinance is law now. That's the reality. We can be upset, but we need to figure out our next steps carefully."

His words feel like a hand on the back of your neck, steady and unrelenting.

Blink: "What are the next steps, then? Do you even have a plan?"

There's heat in her voice now, a kind of simmering frustration she's barely keeping in check.

Rampart: "It doesn't matter. The law is the law. This is the system we have to work through now."

I picture him standing tall, arms crossed, his voice like a gavel.

Blink: "Simple? Seriously? What about Sam? What about all of us who can't follow your perfect little rulebook?!"

She's sitting upright now, her fists clenched. Her voice is sharp, biting. I don't hear it - all I hear are her fingernails clicking on her phone. But I hear it.

Connor: "I'm out."

It's so quiet in my head that I almost miss it. But it's there. Final.

Gossamer: "Spindle..."

Connor: "I've been out for a while. This just makes it official. Sorry."

The weight of his words hangs heavy in the air, even in the imaginary space of the chat. I swallow hard, my throat tight.

Gossamer: "I'm outside. Can I come in?"

The message snaps me back to reality so fast it almost hurts. I blink at my phone, rereading the message like it's written in another language. Outside? Private message?

I push off the couch, ignoring the questioning looks from Lily and Jordan. My feet move automatically, carrying me toward the heavy metal door at the back of the Music Hall. I crack it open just enough to peek outside, and there she is--Amelia, leaning against the wall, her hands shoved deep into the pockets of her jacket.

"Can I come in?" she asks, her voice soft.