It's like my brain trips over itself and forgets how to function for a full second. Every instinct is screaming at me to react--deny, deflect, bolt--but I shove it down, force my jaw to unlock, and say, "Homecoming."

The guy blinks. "Huh?"

"It was homecoming," I say, keeping my voice even. "Not prom."

He stares at me for a beat, then snorts. "Yeah, my bad. Thought I remembered a tiara or something."

"Not really my style." I tug at my hoodie, making a show of brushing off the topic like it doesn't matter. Like it's not a neon sign over my head screaming Recognized, Recognized, Recognized. "Anyway--yeah. That was me. Why do you care?"

The guy doesn't answer right away. He shifts his weight, giving me another once-over, but it's not the kind of stare I'm used to. It's not suspicion. It's something closer to... confusion?

"You're in high school," he finally says. "And like from a nice high school, too. What the hell are you doing here?"

I huff a laugh, shaking my head. "Man, what the hell do you think I'm doing here?" I gesture vaguely at the makeshift drug expo around us. "Same as everyone else. Looking to take some control back."

His mouth quirks, not quite a smile, not quite a smirk. "Control, huh?"

"Yeah," I say, leaning against the crate again, mirroring his earlier stance. "I mean, you saw it, right? The video? The whole city did. Some dude named Patriot--fucking Patriot--decided I needed my ass kicked in front of everybody I know, and guess what? No consequences for him. Not even a slap on the wrist." I tilt my head. "Tell me that doesn't sound familiar."

He doesn't reply, but something shifts in his expression.

I press on. "I'm guessing you didn't have a great time in school either. Let me take a wild guess--some jackass in a uniform decided you needed to be taught a lesson. Maybe you fought back, maybe you didn't, but either way, it didn't matter, 'cause they had all the power and you had jack shit. And when people with power decide to put you down, you either take it or you do something about it."

I keep my tone casual, like I'm just talking, just throwing ideas out there. But I can feel the words settling between us, taking shape.

He exhales, slow and measured. "So that's what this is? Your big revenge plan? Gonna do something stupid in school?"

I shrug. "No, nothing stupid. Just having some pocket insurance in case someone tries to fuck with me again. Isn't that what we're here for?"

He doesn't answer right away. He just studies me, like he's trying to make up his mind about something. The din of the marina hums around us--laughing, shouting, the occasional hiss of a lighter sparking up--but for a second, it feels like we're just two people at the edge of it all, weighing our options.

Finally, he nods. Just a little.

"Yeah," he says. "I get that."

I don't know if I'm relieved that I sold the lie, or freaked out that it might not be a lie at all.

I tilt my head at him. "Alright, fair's fair. You called me out, now I get to ask--what are you here for?"

He raises an eyebrow, like it should be obvious. "I'm here to get Jump to sell."

"Obviously," I deadpan. "But you don't exactly seem thrilled about it."

He snorts. "Because I ain't thrilled about it." He gestures loosely toward the crowd. "Most of these guys? They're here to pump their veins full and play superhero for three hours. Maybe get some heat off their backs, maybe start some heat just for fun. I'm here because I got mouths to feed. They're here because they got greed to feed."

I pause at that. I give him another once-over, trying to gauge if that's just a line or if there's actual weight behind it. He doesn't look like some overworked single dad--hell, he barely looks old enough to drink.

I gesture at his barely-there wispy mustache. "Mouths to feed? You look like you're not even older than me."

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That gets a real laugh out of him--short, rough, but real. He rubs at his upper lip like he's suddenly self-conscious. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. This shit ain't exactly coming in thick yet." He shakes his head, still grinning. "Bad decisions in high school."

I raise an eyebrow. "Different kind of bad decision than me, I'm guessing."

"Yeah. Not the fun kind either." He exhales through his nose. "It is what it is."

I lean back against the crate, arms crossed. "So what's the profit margin on this stuff, anyway?"

He gives me a wary look. "Why? You trying to get in on it?"

"Just curious," I say. "I hear about Jump everywhere, but nobody ever talks about the business side of it."

He shrugs. "Not a lot to say. Standard Jump runs thirty bucks a pill."

"Thirty bucks?" I echo. "For one?"

"Yep. Three hours, instant badass." He gestures vaguely. "That's ten dollars an hour. Worth it for you?"

I purse my lips, thinking about it.

"Dunno," I admit. "What's the return policy?"

That gets another laugh out of him, though this one's quieter. "No refunds."

"Figures." I exhale, watching the flow of people around us. The tables are busier now, the crates a little emptier. Whatever this really is, the business part of it is moving along just fine.

The whole scene has a weird energy to it--like a block party hosted by people who are a little too friendly, a little too eager to make everyone feel comfortable. It's not tense, exactly. More like... staged. Artificial.

Rogue Wave's people are good at this, whatever this is.The goons running the tables are chatty, relaxed, like they're handing out pamphlets instead of controlled substances. Some of them even have matching windbreakers, which feels so absurdly corporate that I almost want to laugh.

This isn't some back-alley drug deal. This is a well-run operation. They're having fun. Why are they having fun?

Tasha's voice crackles in my earpiece, quiet and crisp. "No chatter on the scanner. If the cops are planning anything, they're keeping it off the books."

I can't respond--not without drawing attention--but I tuck that info away. Either the PPD is waiting for something, or they're staying the hell away from this. Neither answer makes me feel any better.

"Status check on Jordan?" Tasha asks.

A beat. Then Jordan's voice, smooth and casual. "I'm in place."

I resist the urge to sigh. I don't really have any faith in their extremely silly plan but I've been shocked by stranger things before.

The crowd has thickened, a slow-moving current of dealers, users, and opportunists. I can't tell who's here to buy, who's here to sell, and who's just looking for trouble. The guy I was talking to earlier has already slipped away, probably toward one of the tables.

Then, right as I'm scanning the faces around me, a metallic clang splits the air.

It's loud, sharp, and deliberate--enough to shut down most of the background noise.

Another clang. Then another.

I turn toward the source just as the crowd starts shifting, people craning their necks, conversations trailing off. Up near the docks, right by the edge of the boats, a man in a hard plastic monkey mask - the kind you get from dollar store Spirit Halloween is banging two metal pans together like a deranged school cafeteria worker.

CLANG. CLANG. CLANG.

And then, in a voice way too clear for someone wearing a mask:

"HEY! HEY! UP HERE! EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP FOR A SECOND!"

The murmuring stops. This man is trained in public speaking. He can project.

Even with the mask on, I can tell this guy is grinning.

He's tall--probably six foot, maybe a little over. Limber. Thin as a wire. The kind of guy who looks like he's constantly in motion, even when he's standing still. He's wearing a business suit that fits too well to be cheap, but there's something off about it--like he picked it out just to be obnoxiously formal in a setting where everyone else is dressed like background characters in a crime drama. His suit's just part of the costume.

Next to him?

The biggest woman I have ever seen. And I work with superheroes for a living. Six-six, easy. Broad shoulders, arms that I couldn't wrap both hands around even if I tried. Full military kit--actual tactical gear, though I can see the scuffs on it, like she picked it up secondhand. No rifle, no sidearm, but her vest is loaded with pouches. Stuffed with somethings.

Her face looks extremely unamused. She's wearing a plastic birthday hat. Like one of those cheap party store cone hats, the elastic strap tucked under her chin, the kind you get for small children or for fucking with your friends.

A domino mask covers her eyes, but I can feel the way she's scanning the crowd. Sizing people up.

Monkey Mask Guy claps his hands together, rubbing them like he's about to pitch a start-up idea to a bunch of investors.

"Amazing! Beautiful! I love a crowd that listens!" He throws his arms out wide, like he's embracing all of us at once. "Now, I know what you're thinking--who is this incredibly well-dressed man with impeccable showmanship, and why does he have a monkey mask on?"

He gestures to himself.

"Friends, my appellation is Monkey Business."

He throws a hand toward the woman next to him.

"This extremely intimidating woman beside me is my associate, Birthday Suit. You may note that despite her name, she is fully clothed and wearing body armor. I assure you, this is for your protection. She will not sleep with you. We don't mix business and pleasure here, folks."

That gets a few scattered laughs. Nervous ones.

Monkey Business grins--or at least, I think he does. The mask is rigid plastic, no expression, but something about his whole presence makes it feel like he's grinning hard. His mask's mouth line is flat but I can swear I see the glinting of teeth.

"If you are law enforcement or vigilante personnel and you are here to apprehend us," he continues, "know that if you try, it will fail, and then she--" he gestures to Birthday Suit "--will shoot you in the face."

A ripple of unease moves through the crowd.

Monkey Business raises his hands in mock-reassurance. "I highly recommend you hear us out before doing anything rash."

I swallow hard.