It's the smell that gets me first. Not the usual Kensington perfume of car exhaust, stale beer, and whatever's rotting in the dumpsters--this is sharper, fresher. Blood.

I stop mid-step, grabbing Maggie's arm to keep her from walking into me. She stumbles a little, giving me a look like, What gives? I don't answer right away, sniffing the air like I'm one of those bomb dogs at the airport. I don't actually need to sniff--the blood sense doesn't work like that--but it helps me focus. There's a faint tug, like a thread pulling me toward something. I see the outline in red, superimposed on all the blood particles that form an outline of the streets and the sidewalks, like a 3D map of the world around me.

"Someone's bleeding," I whisper.

Maggie adjusts her gloves, the ones she likes to pretend are tactical but are really just bike gloves she bought online. "Fresh?"

"Yeah." I point toward an alley off to the right. The blood trail is faint, but it's there, pulling me along like a fishhook. "This way."

It's late, past midnight, so the streets are mostly dead. Not in the safe, everyone's-sleeping kind of way, though. Kensington never really sleeps--it just pauses between bad decisions. The air feels heavy tonight, the kind of heavy that makes you check over your shoulder even when there's nothing there. A dog barks somewhere, sharp and angry, and it echoes off the crumbling rowhouses.

Maggie follows close behind me, trying to step where I step, but she's not great at quiet. Her sneakers scuff the sidewalk, and I wince. "Careful," I murmur.

She rolls her eyes. "Sorry, Sam."

I stop and glare at her. "Don't call me that out here."

"Sorry, Bloodhound," she whispers back, dragging out my... appellation? like she's five. She's impossible, but I can't exactly bench her for being annoying.

The blood scent gets stronger as we approach an intersection. It's faint, not enough for someone to be bleeding out or anything, but enough to tell me there was a fight. Or maybe an accident. Either way, my stomach knots up because in this neighborhood, it's never good.

We reach the corner and duck into the shadow of a boarded-up storefront. I press my back against the wall, peeking out around the edge. Maggie leans over my shoulder, and I swat her back a step because her mostly-uncovered but extremely pale face glows in the streetlights like a neon sign saying, HEY, WE'RE RIGHT HERE.

"What do you see?" she whispers.

"Shh." I wave her off, focusing on the scene in front of me.

There are two groups, maybe six or seven people total, spread out across the cracked asphalt. They're not exactly subtle--there's yelling, arm waving, and a lot of posturing. Two guys are front and center, facing off like it's some kind of old-school showdown. One's holding a crowbar, gesturing with it like he's making a point. The other guy's just standing there, arms crossed, calm as a freaking cucumber.

The guy with the crowbar is wiry and sharp-edged, like he's been living off cigarettes and adrenaline for years. His voice carries, even though I can't make out all the words. Something about "this is our turf" and "you don't belong here." Typical territorial crap.

The calm guy, though? He's built like a bulldozer, with hands that look like they could crush a basketball. He doesn't shout back. He just stares the crowbar guy down, his shoulders squared like he knows he doesn't have to try to be intimidating. It's working, too--crowbar guy keeps glancing at his buddies like he's checking to see if they've got his back. They don't look thrilled.

"Big Hands," I whisper to Maggie. "That's gotta be him. I've heard about him. You... keep an accounting of the local names when you're on patrol enough."

"Who?" Maggie whispers back, squinting like that'll help her see better.

"Small-time player. Keeps things calm until they're not. Sells drugs."

"And the other guy?"

I shrug. "Not sure, but he's got that vibe. Like, I want you to think I'm scarier than I actually am." I pause. "Crowbar's not helping his case."

One of the guys in the background catches my attention. A woman, actually--she's jittery, her hands twitching like she's trying to shake something off. Every so often, her fingers flick toward the ground, and I notice little glints of light reflecting off... something. It takes me a second to put it together: metal. She's got powers, and they're already sparking.

Plus, there's orange and yellow crust across cuts on her arms. That's the killer feature.

"That one," I say, nudging Maggie. "She's on Jump."

Maggie frowns. "How can you tell?"

"Look at her scabs. They're yellow, not brown. Jump fucks your blood up and makes it turn orange, and your scabs scab up yellow." I point as a stray nail skitters across the ground, dragging itself toward her foot.

Maggie leans forward to get a better look, and I grab her hoodie to pull her back into the shadows. "Stop that," I hiss.

"What? I'm curious!"

"Curious gets you caught," I mutter, but my focus shifts to the other side of the group. There's another big guy standing behind Big Hands--taller than him, even, and built like a concrete wall. He's not moving, not yelling, not even blinking, just watching. It's eerie.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

"That's their muscle," I say softly. "See the big guy?"

Maggie nods. "What's his deal?"

"No idea."

The two groups keep shouting, their voices overlapping now, and I catch bits and pieces of what they're saying. It's all about turf, supply, and respect. The usual gang stuff. But there's an edge to it tonight, like they're both trying harder than usual to prove something.

"What do we do?" Maggie asks, her voice barely a whisper.

I don't answer right away. My eyes flick to the rowhouses nearby, where a few faces are pressed to the windows. There's a homeless guy sitting on the curb, watching like it's the evening news. A little farther down, I see a woman clutching a baby, half-hiding behind a trash bin. They're all too close.

"We wait," I say finally. "If they break out the weapons, we step in."

Maggie frowns. "There's already a crowbar."

"Something worse than that," I clarify. I feel my jaw tighten, the faint taste of blood prickling in the back of my throat. "This is gonna get messy."

She doesn't argue, but I can tell she wants to. I can feel her energy buzzing behind me, like she's ready to leap in at the first sign of trouble. I keep one hand on her arm, just in case.

The Jumphead girl flexes her fingers again, and a chunk of rebar pulls itself loose from the ground. She doesn't swing it yet, but it floats in the air beside her, wobbling like she's not entirely in control. Big Hands glances at her but doesn't react. The guy's a statue.

Crowbar guy keeps yelling, stepping closer, and I feel my stomach twist. This isn't going to end with words. It never does.

"Maggie," I whisper. "Be ready."

"For what?"

"Anything."

Crowbar guy's voice cuts through the night, sharp and biting. "You think you can roll up on my street, huh? You don't belong here, you oversized piece of shit." He jabs the crowbar toward Big Hands like it's a sword, though he's holding it too loosely for it to look convincing.

Big Hands just stares at him, unbothered. "Your street? That's cute." His voice is calm, almost soft, but it carries like a bass note through the air. "We both know you're just renting space here. You don't own shit, Slim."

I can almost hear Crowbar guy - Slim - grinding his teeth from where I'm crouched. "You don't get to come in here and say that, not after what you pulled with Manny."

Big Hands shrugs. "Manny shouldn't have made promises he couldn't keep."

Whatever Slim's reply is, it's lost in the movement that follows. He lunges, swinging the crowbar in a wide arc that's more desperation than skill. Big Hands doesn't flinch. He sidesteps the swing like he's done this a hundred times before, and Slim nearly overbalances, catching himself just before he faceplants.

Then Carla moves.

She's been hanging back, jittery and waiting, but the second Slim stumbles, she steps forward. Her hand flicks toward the ground, and the chunk of rebar she's been holding aloft whips toward the big guy like a striking snake. It whistles through the air, fast enough to make me flinch.

The big guy - Big Guy, I've named him in my head - doesn't flinch. He lifts one massive arm, letting the rebar hit him dead-on. It bounces off with a dull clang, falling to the ground like a discarded toy. He doesn't even look at it.

Powers. Okay.

"Try harder," he says, his voice low and even.

Carla growls--actually growls--and pulls more debris from the street. A rusted hubcap, a bent pipe, and a handful of nails rise around her, orbiting her like she's the sun. Her breathing is heavy, her hands twitching as she struggles to keep everything in control.

Maggie shifts next to me, her hands flexing like she wants to jump in. "She's gonna lose it," she whispers.

"I know," I murmur back. My pulse is pounding. This isn't just a fight--it's a bomb waiting to go off.

Slim's yelling something at Carla now, his words fast and frantic. "Finish it, Carla! What are you waiting for? Take him down!"

Carla snarls, hurling the hubcap at the biggest guy. He ducks, the hubcap skimming over his head and slamming into the side of a parked car. The window shatters with an ear-splitting crack, and an alarm starts blaring. Lights flicker on in the rowhouses around us, faces appearing in windows.

"Shit," I hiss. Civilians. This just got worse.

"Sam?" Maggie's voice is tight, anxious.

"Stay close," I tell her. "We keep them safe. That's priority one."

She nods, and we move together, slipping out of the shadows and into the chaos. I feel every eye in the street snap toward us for half a second before returning to the fight. Carla's throwing debris like a malfunctioning catapult, and Big Guy is absorbing it all like he's made of granite. Slim's pacing behind her, shouting directions she's ignoring, and Big Hands is watching it all with this infuriating smirk on his face.

"Hey!" I yell, my voice cutting through the noise. "Stop! You're gonna kill someone who isn't even in this!"

Carla barely spares me a glance. Her eyes are wild, bloodshot, her face slick with sweat. She doesn't care. Another chunk of metal flies toward Big Guy, and I have to lunge to grab a stray shard before it slices into a nearby tent. My hands sting as the rough edge bites into my palms, but I don't let go. I toss it aside and keep moving.

Maggie's right behind me, her hands glowing faintly with the telltale shimmer of her repulsion fields. She dives in front of a trash bin where a woman is crouched, shielding a baby in her arms. A shard of metal bounces off Maggie's field, ricocheting harmlessly into the street. The woman looks up at her with wide, terrified eyes.

"Get out of here!" Maggie barks, her voice sharper than usual. "Now!"

The woman stumbles to her feet, clutching her baby, and runs for cover. Maggie turns back to me, panting. "How are we supposed to stop this?"

"I don't know yet!" I snap, ducking as another piece of debris sails overhead. "Just keep them off the civvies!"

Slim notices us now, his eyes narrowing. "What the hell are you two supposed to be?" he sneers. "Girl Scouts?"

"Yeah," I shoot back, "and you're about to lose your cookie privileges."

That gets a laugh from someone in Slim's crew, but Slim isn't amused. He takes a step toward me, his crowbar gripped tight, but Big Hands holds up a hand.

"Let them be," Big Hands says. "They're not here for us."

Slim glares at him but doesn't argue. He turns back to Carla, who's starting to wobble under the weight of her own power. The debris around her is shaking now, spinning erratically. She looks like she's about to collapse, but she keeps pushing, keeps hurling shards of metal at Big Guy with reckless abandon.

Big Guy finally moves. He steps forward, swatting away a piece of rebar like it's a fly. His expression hasn't changed--it's still calm, still unnervingly focused. He grabs a loose pipe from the ground, hefting it like a baseball bat, and swings it at Carla.

The pipe connects with a deafening clang, hitting her makeshift shield of debris. Carla stumbles back, her powers faltering for a moment, but she recovers quickly, pulling the metal back into place.

It's not enough. Big Guy steps closer, his sheer weight making the ground shudder under his feet. Slim's shouting something at Carla again, but she's not listening. Her focus is entirely on Big Guy, and it's clear she's losing. Her movements are sloppy now, her breathing ragged. The Jump is wearing off.

Big Guy notices. He pauses, watching her struggle, then reaches into his pocket.

My stomach drops when I see the autoinjector. It's sleek and black, like an epipen but dangerous. Something manufactured. Moneyed.

"Don't," I say, but my voice is too quiet, too far away. He doesn't even hear me.

He presses the injector to his neck and clicks it.