The holding cell smells like stale coffee and some kind of industrial cleaning solution that definitely isn't doing its job. The air's cold enough to make me wish I'd worn an extra hoodie under the costume, but hindsight's 20/20, right? At least the bench is wide enough for me to stretch out a little without feeling like I'm glued to Maggie's side. Not that Maggie's bothered by any of this. She's sitting next to me, kicking her legs like we're just hanging out at the park or something. Her foot keeps tapping the wall, like, thunk-thunk-thunk, and it's driving me insane, but I don't tell her to stop. Not yet, anyway.

"You know," Maggie says after a while, her voice cutting through the quiet, "this isn't actually as bad as I thought it'd be. Like, on TV, it's all bars and rats and scary guys screaming at each other, but this is just... kinda boring."

I glance at her. "That's what you're thinking about right now? The Yelp review for holding cells?"

She grins, wide and toothy. "I'm just saying. Three stars. Needs better seating, maybe a vending machine."

I snort, leaning back against the wall. My mask's pulled down around my neck, which makes me feel weirdly exposed, but the cops made me take it off when they brought us in. Something about protocol. Maggie's still got hers shoved up on her forehead like a headband, which is such a Maggie move it almost makes me laugh. Almost.

"You're way too chill about this," I say, crossing my arms over my chest. "We just got arrested, Maggie. Like, actual arrested. This is not a chill situation."

She shrugs, her shoulders bouncing like it's no big deal. "I mean, yeah, it's not great, but it's not like they're gonna throw us in juvie or anything. We're minors, and there's laws about this kind of thing."

"Laws," I repeat, raising an eyebrow. "You really think the law's gonna save us? The same law that says we're not allowed to do any of the stuff we just did?"

"Not that law," she says, rolling her eyes like I'm the one being ridiculous. "I'm talking about the SJSA. The Superhero Juvenile Safety Act?"

I blink at her. "What?"

"You don't know about the SJSA?" She looks genuinely shocked, like I just told her I don't know how to tie my shoes. "Sam, come on. How do you not know about this? It's, like, the one good law for us out there."

"I don't know," I say, throwing up my hands. "I didn't even realize there was a law for that. What, do you go to the library or something?"

"You don't?" Maggie replies, blinking at me.

I scrunch my face up under my mask.

Maggie shakes her head, looking way too smug for someone who's currently in a holding cell. "Okay, fine. Let me educate you. The SJSA is this law they passed a while back that says cops can't just unmask us or out our identities unless they've got, like, a really good reason. It's supposed to protect minors with powers from getting targeted or exploited or whatever."

I squint at her. "So, what, they're just gonna let us go because of some rule in a law book?"

"No," she says, dragging the word out like she's explaining multiplication to a toddler. "But it means they can't, like, ruin our lives over this. Worst case, they call our parents, give us a slap on the wrist, and tell us not to do it again."

I stare at her. "That's your worst case? Getting ratted out to my parents is literally the worst thing I can think of right now."

"Oh, come on," Maggie says, nudging me with her elbow. "Your mom's cool. She probably won't even yell."

"She doesn't yell," I say. "She just looks at you like you broke her heart, and then you feel like crap for a week. My dad, though? He's gonna flip."

"Okay, fair," Maggie says, leaning back and propping her hands behind her head. "But still. Better than jail, right?"

"Sure," I mutter, even though I'm not entirely convinced. I'm trying not to think about what's waiting for me at home. Or how much worse this is gonna get if word gets out. Bloodhound arrested. Great headline. Really inspiring stuff.

The door at the far end of the room creaks open, and we both snap our heads up. A cop steps inside, a middle-aged guy with a mustache that looks like it belongs in a different decade. He doesn't say anything at first, just gives us that cop look--the one that makes you feel guilty even if you didn't do anything. Which, okay, maybe I did do something, but still.

"Ladies," he says, his voice gruff but not exactly unfriendly. "You're up next. Stay put. Someone'll come get you in a minute."

"Cool," Maggie says, giving him a thumbs-up like this is all perfectly normal. He stares at her for a second before shaking his head and leaving.

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As soon as the door closes, I turn to her. "What the hell was that?"

"What?" she says, blinking at me.

"The thumbs-up," I say, mimicking her gesture. "What was that supposed to do?"

She shrugs again. "I don't know. Seemed polite."

I bury my face in my hands. "We're so screwed."

"Relax," Maggie says, patting my shoulder like she's trying to calm a skittish cat. "Just be cool, answer their questions, and we'll be out of here in no time."

"Yeah, no," I say, dropping my hands. "Rule number one: don't talk to cops. You wait for a lawyer."

Maggie frowns. "Do we even get lawyers for this?"

"We're supposed to," I say, even though I'm not entirely sure how that works. "That's what they always say on TV, right? 'You have the right to an attorney' and all that?"

"I guess," Maggie says, her frown deepening. "But we didn't even get Miranda'd. Do they still do that?"

"I don't know," I admit, the knot in my stomach tightening. "But I'm not saying anything without a lawyer. And you shouldn't either."

Maggie looks like she wants to argue, but the door creaks open again before she can. This time, it's a younger cop, maybe late twenties, with a clipboard in one hand and a bored expression on his face. He doesn't even look at us as he says, "Small, O'Brien. Let's go."

The room they take us to is cold. Like, not regular cold, but the kind of cold that feels deliberate. The kind of cold that says, You're not welcome here. There's a metal table bolted to the floor, and the chair creaks ominously when I sit down. Maggie's across from me, fidgeting with the hem of her hoodie, and I can tell she's trying really hard not to look as nervous as she feels. It's not working.

The younger cop--the one with the clipboard from earlier--is sitting on the other side of the table, flipping through some paperwork like he's trying to look busy. He hasn't said a word since we walked in, which is somehow worse than if he'd started yelling at us. I cross my arms and lean back, trying to look unbothered. It's harder than I want it to be.

"So," he says finally, without looking up. "Bloodhound and Flashpoint."

My stomach twists, but I keep my face neutral. Maggie, of course, pipes up immediately. "That's us," she says, forcing a grin that's way too big for the situation. "Hi."

He looks up at her, raising an eyebrow. "You think this is funny?"

Her grin falters. "No, sir. Just, uh... trying to be polite."

The corner of his mouth twitches like he's trying not to laugh, but it's gone in a second. "Polite," he repeats, leaning back in his chair. "You kids think you're real polite, huh? Out there in the streets, smashing up property, sticking your noses where they don't belong?"

"We weren't smashing anything," I say, my voice sharper than I mean it to be. A smaller, more reasonable part of my head says STOP SAYING THINGS, STOP TALKING TO THE COPS, SHUT THE FUCK UP, but I'm too angry to listen. "We were helping. If we hadn't shown up, someone could've died."

He turns his gaze to me, and it's like staring down a spotlight. "And you think that makes it okay? Running around in masks, breaking the law, putting yourselves and everyone else at risk?"

I don't flinch. "We didn't break anything. We stopped a fight. We protected people. Isn't that what you're supposed to do?"

His jaw tightens, and I can tell I've hit a nerve. Good. But before he can say anything, the door opens, and a second cop walks in. This one's older, with a face like he's carved out of granite and a voice to match. "Enough," he says, and Clipboard immediately shuts up.

Granite Face takes a seat next to him, folding his hands on the table like he's about to tell us a bedtime story. "Listen," he says, his tone calm but heavy. "We're not here to ruin your lives, okay? You're kids. We get that. But you need to understand something--you're playing a dangerous game."

I glance at Maggie, and she's staring at him like he's a particularly intense teacher giving her a lecture. "We're not playing anything," she says, her voice quiet but steady. "We're trying to help."

Granite Face sighs. "Help. Right. You think you're helping by putting yourselves in the middle of a gang war? You think those people out there care about your good intentions? They don't. They'll chew you up and spit you out without a second thought."

"We're not scared of them," I say, even though the memory of Bash and his stupid syringe is still fresh in my mind. "We can handle ourselves."

"Oh, yeah?" He leans forward, his eyes narrowing. "And what happens when you can't? What happens when one of you doesn't come home? You think your parents are gonna be okay with that?"

I bite the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste blood. Maggie's the one who answers, her voice softer now. "We're careful," she says. "We don't take unnecessary risks."

Granite Face snorts. "Unnecessary risks? You were in the middle of Kensington, breaking up a fight between two gangs armed to the teeth. If that's not a risk, I don't know what is."

I open my mouth to argue, but Maggie kicks me under the table. I glare at her, and she shakes her head slightly, like she's telling me to drop it. I don't want to, but... fine. For now.

"We're not here to charge you," Granite Face says, leaning back in his chair. "Not this time. But you need to understand something--we're watching you. And if you keep this up, if you keep putting yourselves in danger and making things worse, we're not gonna look the other way. Got it?"

Neither of us says anything, but he takes our silence as agreement. Clipboard clears his throat, looking awkward. "Alright," he says, glancing at his watch. "Let's get this over with. Names, fingerprints, and then you're out of here."

----------------------------------------

The processing part is somehow worse than the lecture. They take our names, our fingerprints, even a photo. Maggie makes a joke about it being like a yearbook picture, but the cop taking the photo doesn't laugh. Neither do I. The whole thing feels weird and... wrong. Like we're being cataloged. It makes my skin crawl.

By the time we're done, my hands feel sticky from the fingerprint ink, and I'm so ready to leave I could scream. But, of course, we can't just walk out. They've called our parents. Because of course they have.

The waiting area is quieter than the holding cell, but it's the bad kind of quiet. The kind where you know something's coming, and it's not gonna be good. Maggie sits next to me, tapping her foot against the floor, and I can tell she's nervous now. The bravado from earlier is gone, replaced by that jittery energy she gets when she's about to do something dumb. I nudge her with my elbow. "Relax," I mutter. "It's not the end of the world."

"Easy for you to say," she whispers back. "Your mom's cool. Mine's gonna ground me for a year."

"Better than jail," I say, but it doesn't make her look any less freaked out.