I see it happen before it happens.

The plainclothes cop--mid-forties, windbreaker, belt--takes half a step back, eyes wide, body tensing. A nervous tic, maybe. Or maybe just that deep, primal instinct people have when they realize they're about to get swallowed whole.

And then the sleepers move.

It's subtle at first--just the smallest shift in posture, the quick, synchronized flicker of twenty pairs of eyes locking onto him. But it's enough. Enough to set off that awful, too-familiar lurch in my gut. Enough to make my hands itch for a fight before the first fist is even thrown.

The first one to move is a woman in an oversized hoodie, her face blank, eerily serene. Her fingers twitch, flex, curl into fists. And then she lunges.

The cop barely gets a yelp out before she's on him, swinging wild. He stumbles back, trying to bring his hands up, but then the next one moves--a guy in a leather jacket, then another in a windbreaker, and then it's a pile-on, limbs and bodies colliding in a mass of sudden, chaotic violence.

I don't think. I don't hesitate. I move.

My shoulder slams into the first goon hard enough to send him stumbling sideways. I get my hands between the next one and the cop, knocking an elbow away before it can land. My blood sense flares hot and sharp--someone's lip splitting, someone's knuckles scraping raw--but I can't afford to focus on that right now.

I throw myself into the mess, twisting, blocking, redirecting, moving. A fist grazes my ribs, but I barely register it before I'm pivoting, planting a heel against someone's shin hard enough to knock them off balance.

Then someone else moves.

Not a sleeper, not a cop, not a dealer--someone cutting through the crowd like a knife, their presence shifting the air itself. I feel it before I see him, that instant, awful lurch in the atmosphere, that split-second charge before the moment crashes down like a hammer.

Someone in the crowd spots him before I do.

"Oh, fuck, it's Patriot!"

The effect is immediate. The tension in the air snaps like a rubber band. Every dealer, every runner, every nervous kid with a box of Jump under their arm suddenly seems to remember somewhere else they need to be.

And then the stampede starts.

The crowd surges in every direction at once, pushing, shoving, desperate to get out, to get away, to disappear into the night before the hammer drops. Someone shoulder-checks me in their scramble to escape, nearly knocking me off my feet. I catch myself against the edge of a crate and whirl, searching--

There.

Patriot moves through the chaos like a tank, utterly unbothered by the panic around him. He's got the whole aesthetic going--patriotic blues and whites, a star on his shoulder, the kind of crisp, perfect costume that screams government funding.

His eyes sweep the crowd like he's searching for something, someone.

And then--

"SHIFTING TO GEAR TWO!"

The voice comes out of nowhere, high and sharp and way too enthusiastic for the situation. A blur of red and blue explodes into the crowd like a missile, sending bodies sprawling.

What the hell--

And then I see her.

A girl--tan, brunette, athletic, decked out in a full-body leotard with hot rod flames running up the legs and a red jacket flaring behind her like a cape. She moves fast, way faster than she should be able to, zipping between people like a pinball, grabbing, twisting, moving.

She's zip-tying people.

Randomly.

There's no strategy to it, no method--just pure, chaotic, indiscriminate force. Someone flinches, she takes them down. Someone tries to run, she's on them in a blink, flipping them onto their stomach and binding their wrists before they can even process what's happening.

Someone throws a punch at her. She catches it, grins, and slams them into the pavement so hard they bounce.

Okay.

Alright.

This is happening.

I move.

A guy in a hoodie stumbles, nearly tripping over a toppled crate. I catch his shoulder, yank him back before he can get trampled.

Then someone else gets knocked down, and my blood sense flares.

I whip around--blood, fresh and sharp, oozing from a split lip, a busted nose, someone groaning through gritted teeth. It's not a bad injury, but it's enough. Enough to tell me that this is already spiraling. That people are getting hurt.

Patriot is moving through the chaos like an inevitability, unbothered, unflinching. People scramble out of his way without him even having to touch them. He's got that kind of presence, the kind that makes people want to comply.

The girl--whoever she is--is not unbothered. She's thrilled.

She grins, tosses someone into the dirt, and yells, "RESISTANCE IS FUTILE! YOU CAN'T OUTRUN TURBO JETT!"

Who the hell is this?

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I don't have time to figure it out.

Another movement--one of Monkey Business's goons, the ones who clocked me helping the cop, turns on me. His eyes flash with something cold, something detached, something that knows.

Vigilante.

I'm a target now.

Fine.

I dodge the first punch, catch the second one on my forearm, twist under his arm and drive my elbow into his ribs hard enough to make him wheeze. He stumbles, tries to recover, but I've already moved, sweeping his leg out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground.

Then another one moves--this time with a crowbar, swinging high.

I duck.

The metal whooshes past my head, missing by inches.

I don't wait for him to swing again.

I lunge, drive my shoulder into his gut, and feel the air whoosh out of his lungs as I force him back, away from the civilians, away from the mess.

And then--

Gunfire.

Not close. Not at me. Just--somewhere. Distant. Maybe a warning shot, maybe someone getting desperate, maybe just a bad call from one of the plainclothes officers trying to establish control.

Whatever the case, it immediately makes things worse.

The stampede surges again, people shoving, scrambling. Someone crashes into me from behind, knocking me forward. I catch myself against a crate, but it's too late--

The dealers are turning.

And they do not like being told what to do.

A guy in a bomber jacket shouts something--angry, defiant, furious. Another one echoes him. A third picks up the crowbar my guy just dropped.

The undercover cops--there's more than one, I realize, way more--try to pull badges, try to shout orders.

It doesn't work.

It really doesn't work.

A slingshot cracks through the night air.

The marble whistles past my ear, slicing through the chaos in a perfect arc--straight for Monkey Business.

And then, just as it's about to land--

Thunk.

It redirects. Like it wants to hit something else. Like something in the air itself twists its trajectory.

It slams straight into Birthday Suit.

She absorbs it like a stone statue.

Her muscles flex under her tactical vest, but she doesn't flinch. The marble bounces off her chest, hits the dock, rolls to a stop. She exhales through her nose.

And Blink doesn't stop.

Another shot, another whistling crack of the slingshot--another thunk. Same result.

"I am literally hitting the guy," Blink snaps through the comms. "Why am I not hitting the guy?!"

She's out of hiding now--perched on the marina's scaffolding, barely visible under the sick yellow glow of the lights. She loads another marble, takes another shot. It veers, bends midair, redirects, slamming straight into Birthday Suit's shoulder.

Birthday Suit rolls her shoulders like she's shaking off a stiff breeze.

"I don't like this," Blink growls. "I really, really don't like this."

I barely have time to register why that's happening before something else shifts in the air.

A chemical bite. Not blood. Something synthetic, something sharp. It threads through the marina, lacing through the smoke and salt and sweat, distinct enough to snap my attention toward the source--

There.

Of course Soot has to be here. Smoke is pouring from them, but they direct it like a conductor. Not with any sort of obvious telekinetic effect, but something gestural, sending it in ropes, in coils, towards specific people, aiming ten feet ahead of where they're going to be in ten seconds. A deeper, blacker smoke, the scent of burning wood, pours out from the inside of their hoodie, blanketing them in darkness and rolling along the ground.

I see it happen in real time. A dealer mid-run breathes in, and rolls over, hacking and coughing until they throw up right then and there. Someone else screams about burning, an inarticulate garble of words, and they mash their hands over their eyes, trying to claw something out of them. Soot steps over them, gently kicking dirt in their faces, and then scans the crowd, visibly trying to pick out someone.

Soot isn't attacking at random.

They're picking specific people.

I shove a guy off me--one of Monkey Business's goons, swinging wild and fast--and throw myself back into motion, my blood sense flaring as my boots skid against the dock. The crowd is a mess of fleeing bodies and violent outbursts, of scattered dealers and scattered cops and the few of us still standing in the middle of it all, trying to keep things from getting worse.

And then Turbo Jett yells.

"GEAR THREE!"

I whip around just in time to see her burn.

Not literally. Not yet. But her skin is steaming in the cold night air, waves of heat rolling off her in visible shimmers. Her grin is too big, too manic, eyes wide and wild and loving this.

And then she moves.

The dock shudders under the force of her leap, her whole body blurring with heat and motion as she slams into a group of fleeing dealers like a wrecking ball.

People go flying.

Someone crashes into a wooden crate hard enough to splinter it. Someone else gets caught in a headlock, yoinked into a zip-tie before they even register what's happening.

"Tasha, we are out of time," I bark into the tiny little mic clipped on the inside of my hoodie. "Where's our exit?"

Static crackles. Then: "Scanner just went nuts--they're sending everyone down here. You have minutes, if that."

"We need Jordan," Blink snaps. "We need to get them out of there."

Jordan's voice cuts in, calm, sharp. "No, you don't."

"Jordan--"

"I'll make my own exit," they interrupt. "I need to stay where I am. You need to go. Now."

I don't like it. I hate it. But I don't have time to argue.

I pivot, scanning the mess, tracking movements, prioritizing.

Civilians first.

Then us.

I shove some gauze into the hands of a guy on his knees, his hands still shaking, arms riddled with cuts. "Get up," I snap, yanking him to his feet. "Run. Patch yourself up."

"Where?" he chokes.

I grab his collar, yank him forward, shove him in the right direction. "That way. South end. Run till you hit a street."

He stumbles forward, his legs finally catching up with his body.

I spot another--someone doubled over, holding their ribs. I move, lift, push them toward Gossamer's position. "Go!"

A swing--

I duck.

A fist whooshes past my head.

A second one follows.

I twist, catch the wrist mid-motion, yank the guy forward--he overbalances, stumbles--I kick his shin out from under him and keep moving.

The docks are a war zone.

Cops trying to pull authority they don't have. Dealers hating them for it. Monkey Business's goons locking in on targets like programmed machines. Every badge that flashes up causes a new wave of motion rippling through the sleepers.

And Turbo Jett--

Still shouting, still laughing, still escalating.

She's grinning.

She loves this.

I hate her.

I throw another guy back, scan the crowd, track the movement--find the next one who needs help.

Move.

Move.

My blood sense spikes--someone takes a hit, someone drops. I move, grab, pull, push them toward Gossamer.

"You guys need to get out of there," Tasha hisses. "Like now."

"Still grabbing civvies," I mutter.

"You don't have time," she snaps. "If you don't go now, you will get boxed in."

I grit my teeth.

I don't have a choice.

"Blink--"

"I know!" Blink barks. "I'm trying, but my hands aren't working right!"

I see her--still perched on the scaffolding, still trying to hit Monkey Business, her aim perfect--but every shot keeps twisting, bending, slamming into Birthday Suit instead.

"I can't hit him!" she growls. "It's like he's got-- I don't know! My hands won't work!"

"Because of Birthday Suit," I breathe. "She's redirecting everything."

"I noticed!" Blink snaps.

I shove one last guy toward the south end. "We're out of time. Blink, move. Jordan--"

"I told you," Jordan says, voice steady. "Don't worry about me. Get out."*

I hate this.

But I move.

I break into a sprint, Blink dropping down beside me. "We're coming back for Jordan," she mutters, her voice low and sharp.

"Obviously," I say. "Now run. I'll handle Soot before they kill someone."