As the first tendrils of the new day's light creep across the floor, casting long, slender shadows that dance upon the walls of the music hall, a silhouette appears at the open window. It's a figure etched against the backdrop of the rising sun, a stark contrast of darkness against the burgeoning light. For a fleeting moment, it's like witnessing an angel arriving, framed in the golden hues of dawn.

Spinelli clambers through the window with the grace of a cat, albeit a cat that's seen better days. His clothes are a tapestry of wear and tear, and his body bears the testament of a night that was anything but gentle. He's battered, bruised, his skin marked with cuts that should have been a siren call to my shark senses from a mile away. But there he stands, grinning from ear to ear, a triumphant gladiator who has walked through the fires of adversity and emerged, scorched but unbroken.

His grin is infectious, a spark of light in the darkness that has enveloped us. It's a visual exhale, a release of the breath we didn't even realize we'd been holding in collective anticipation and fear. His arrival is a balm to our frayed nerves, a tangible relief that washes over us in waves.

I can't help but mirror his smile, feeling the tension drain from my body as if it were being pulled away by the tide. Jamila's grip on me loosens, her relief palpable as she watches Spinelli with an expression that's a mixture of disbelief and gratitude. Jordan, ever the stoic, allows a small smile to play on their lips, their eyes reflecting a quiet respect and relief.

"You look like you've been through a war zone," Jordan comments, but their voice is light, tinged with relief.

"I feel like it," Spinelli replies, his voice a hoarse rasp that speaks volumes of the ordeal he's undergone. "But hey, I'm still standing, right?" He laughs, a sound that's more a croak than its usual melody, but it's the sweetest tune to our ears.

I wave hiim over, my movements hesitant yet eager. "You had us worried, you know," I say, my voice thick with emotion.

"Sorry about that," he replies, his grin never wavering. "But you can't get rid of me that easily."

He collapses onto the couch, neatly occupying the space between Jordan and Jamila, tangling between us like a pretzel. In moments, the four of us experience that sweetest silence together.

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

In the heart of the workday, the world outside thrums with the rhythm of the ordinary, but for us, stepping into the Delaware Valley Defenders HQ, it feels like crossing into a different realm. The exterior of the headquarters, a nondescript warehouse, does little justice to the high-tech - well, medium-tech - sanctuary it conceals. It's a stark contrast that doesn't escape Jordan's sharp tongue.

"Great, another warehouse," Jordan mutters, their tone laced with a mix of awe and weariness as we pass through the disguised entrance. "At this rate, I'm going to develop a phobia of large storage spaces."

Spinelli, despite his battered appearance, looks around with comfortable familiarity, his earlier bravado tempered by the visible aches that mark his every movement. His clothes, torn and dirtied from the night's escapades, seem out of place against the pristine backdrop of the HQ.

Liberty Belle, Councilman Davis, and Clara are already waiting for us in the computer slash meeting room. There's a moment of palpable tension as we enter; the air thick with unspoken questions and the weight of our unconventional arrival. Liberty Belle's presence is commanding, her eyes scanning each of us with an intensity that speaks of concern and authority.

"Thank you for coming," Liberty Belle begins, her voice a comforting anchor in the sea of uncertainty. "I understand you've had quite the night."

Jamal leans forward in his seat, his demeanor that of a mediator, a bridge between the world of adult responsibilities and our youthful audacity. "We're here to listen," he says, gesturing towards the chairs. "You've taken risks to bring us information, or so I've been told. That deserves our attention."

Clara, standing by a large monitor, offers a small smile that seems to warm the room. "Let's hear what you've got," she says.

Jordan steps up, their exhaustion momentarily forgotten, replaced by the urgency of our mission. They begin to lay out the details of our operation, the evidence we gathered, and the implications of our findings. The images of Mr. Polygraph and Mrs. Heartbeat, the transaction documents, the video footage — all displayed on the screen for our audience to dissect.

As Jordan plays the video, the room falls into a hushed silence. The footage shows Mr. Polygraph, a figure of commanding presence even on screen, addressing the assembled gangsters with a tone that oscillates between enticing and threatening. The dialogue is clear, his words resonating in the small room.

Mr. Polygraph runs a hand over his face, smoothing out the wrinkles of his grimace across the iPhone screen. "We've been tailing Chernobyl," he announces to the room, matter-of-factly. "Our surveillance isn't always… fruitful," he adds, the corner of his mouth twitching in barely-disguised anger. "But we've got a haul today, and you're going to help us move it."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair, feeling the weight of everyone's gaze. Clearing my throat, I start, "Councilman Davis, your assumption about the Kingdom hitting the industrial facilities was right on the mark. But, uh, it's not exactly like they're working directly with Chernobyl. They're… more like scavengers following a predator. Picking up what he leaves behind."

Councilman Davis furrows his brow, the lines on his forehead deepening as he absorbs the information. "Are we sure this isn't just bravado for the crowd?" he asks, his voice laced with a skepticism that hints at a desire for a different narrative.

"It's more than just posturing," I reply, trying to keep my voice steady. "They're just grabbing junk and using it as an initiation rite, ritual, thing. Keep listening."

"The goal," he says through muffled iPhone speakers, "is to bring back twenty thousand in cash in a month and a half's time. That's the middle of December, when nothing important is happening. Each. Do that, and you're in. You'll have proven you're more than just another face in the crowd. You're a broker, a financier, a, uh… A philanthropist of the underground, if you will."

Clara nods quietly, eyes narrow, hawkish.

Liberty Belle's gaze, sharp and calculating, never leaves the screen. "If they're not in direct contact with Chernobyl, that means there's a missing link. A dangerous unknown. Their 'surveillance'? I'm extremely curious as to how exactly they're tracking him down."

Jamal leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table. "Or, maybe," he starts, the words slow and measured, "they're trying to get into contact with him. Which, as we've established, would be just as bad."

A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"I'm more concerned about this mention of a 'Mrs. B' in the Capitol. I figured their operations were far-reaching, but running out of DC takes guts, stupidity, or a lot of bribes. They've got some balls on them at least, that's for sure," Clara quips. "You mentioned you had documents, too, Jordan?"

Jordan shuffles around, reaching into their backpack, returning with hands full of papers. Photocopies of all the evidence they've meticulously gathered for a month, now a gateway to unraveling the Kingdom's operations. They clear their throat, a prelude to the revelations they're about to unfold. The room, already heavy with anticipation, leans in almost imperceptibly.

"Alright, so here's what we've got," Jordan begins, their voice a steady beacon in the storm of possibilities and theories swirling around the room. "I managed to trace back some of the shell companies linked to the transactions. Orion Holdings, Cerulean Dynamics, Lockhart & Greene… they're all fronts. They've all got dinky little nothing websites you could slap together in a day or two. I did a little, uh, social engineering. It's amazing what people low down on the ladder will tell you if they think you're the computer guy."

The papers fan out across the table like a hand of playing cards, each one a piece of a larger puzzle. "Everything is just layers of fake people who have no real names or forum presences. No personal websites, no portfolios, no resume sites, nothing. They've all got names that are in the top 200 most common names, first and last, that make them a nightmare to look up. The couple of real people that exist are all unreachable for one reason or another. There's simply no way to verify that any of these companies exist outside of their investments in local businesses."

Clara, her eyes scanning the documents, interjects, "This is good work, but it's going to be a nightmare legally. The layers of obfuscation they've used are textbook money laundering, but proving it in court, getting a warrant based on this… it's going to be tough."

Jordan nods, acknowledging the uphill battle. "I know, but it's a start. If we can start pulling at these threads, we might find something more concrete, something actionable. I mean, I'm just one really pissed off nerd with a computer and time to burn. You guys have, like, actual resources. I just knew where to start looking."

Liberty Belle leans forward, her eyes reflecting a mixture of admiration and concern. "You've done more than just uncover evidence; you've mapped out a portion of their network. This is invaluable, Jordan. It's extremely impressive detective work."

She glances at me. I try not to wither under her glance.

"The superheroing world could use more--" Liberty Belle starts, but Jordan cuts her off with a wave of her hand. I wince instinctively.

"Save it, Belle. I appreciate the offer, but this isn't about the greater good. It's because they fucked with me, and demolished my best friend's house. Nothing else," Jordan interrupts. I can't say why, exactly, but I don't quite believe them.

Jamal, who had been quiet, thoughtful, finally speaks up. "It's alright. We can use this. It's a lead, and right now, we need all the leads we can get. I'll talk to some contacts, see if we can't shake something loose from these companies without tipping our hand. We'll get started on some parallel construction, have everything worked out, and see how far up the ladder we can climb."

Clara, still poring over the documents, adds, "We can set up surveillance, track their movements. It's a long game, but it might just lead us to someone higher up the chain. This meeting is all about establishing associates, soldiers, maybe. This Mr. Polygraph has to be one of their caporegimes, or something of the sort."

"Parallel construction?" Spinelli asks.

I look up, curious myself about the term. It sounds like something out of a heist movie, or maybe one of those legal dramas Mom likes to watch after dinner.

"It's a legal strategy," Clara explains, her eyes not leaving the papers. "Basically, we use the information Jordan gathered as a starting point. We can't use it directly in court because of how it was obtained, but we can use it to guide our official investigations. Find legal ways to come across the same evidence."

I nod, trying to keep up. It sounds kinda underhanded, but then, aren't the bad guys the ones playing dirty in the first place?

Jamal leans back in his chair, fingers tented in front of his mouth. "Yes, and while we're doing that, we keep an eye out for anything that might slip through their cracks. One wrong move, a hasty transaction, anything that could lead us directly to them."

Liberty Belle's gaze shifts to me, and there's a spark in her eyes that's both challenging and encouraging. "You kids have done a lot of good here, today, but I want you all to take a break. Non-negotiable. You shouldn't have had to spend your Halloween dealing with organized criminals. That includes you two too, Bloodhound, Gale."

I laugh nervously, my mind immediately playing back the sight of the man's head ballooning open in the back, blooming like a flower. "Yes, ma'am."

Clara starts gathering the papers, her movements precise. "Okay, then. Let's get to work. Jordan, can you provide digital copies of all this? We need to start building our case, see what threads we can pull at from our end."

"Yes, ma'am," Jordan says, eying Clara with a look that I haven't seen out of them before.

"In the meanwhile, I'm not convinced that they're so separated from Chernobyl," Jamal quips, hands folded in his lap. "Call it a professional hunch, but the sheer scale of their robbery is just… I don't know, I feel like there's no way they could muster the forces to just completely strip these places to the metaphorical bones so quickly after Chernobyl's hits. Before any of the robberies are reported to the news, and before any of them are confirmed to be Chernobyl. It just doesn't smell right to me."

He inhales air through his nose. His nostrils flare for a moment. "It took us quite a while just to confirm the isotope signature of the first hit. I think there's something here we don't know. Some X factor we can't account for. Maybe an intermediary between Chernobyl and the Kingdom, or some other connection."

My scalp tingles with a slight sense of discomfort, but Belle and Clara just nod like this makes perfect sense to them. "I'll get to investigating," Liberty Belle says, scooting her chair back and stepping up out of it. She runs her hand over her scalp like she expected to touch her huge hair - I see her face distort for just a moment at the fact that it isn't there anymore.

"It's not exactly legal to pay you kids for your hard work," Clara starts, sighing to herself while Jordan sorts all their photocopied papers into nice, neat piles for her. "But, I can make sure that any resources you need are provided. Equipment, expedited requests – whatever it takes to keep you safe and effective." Clara looks at each of us in turn, her gaze serious but not unkind. "Within budget, of course. And nothing lethal. Or 'less-lethal'."

Jamila cracks a smile. "Can you hire some cleaning people for their safe house? It's a mess in there."

"Hey!" Jordan barks, sneering at Jamila.

Well, that was pleasant while it lasted.

Liberty Belle stands up, her gaze sweeping across the room, silencing the fight before it starts in earnest. "We'll also need to keep a close eye on Chernobyl. Jamal's right, there's something off about the timing of these robberies. They're too clean, too efficient. We need more information."

Clara closes the folder with a snap. "Alright, everyone. Let's reconvene tomorrow morning, bright and early. We have a lot of work ahead of us."

"Everyone?" Spinelli asks, nervously, glancing at the scrapes and cuts visible through the gashes in his clothes.

"Everyone meaning the two other adults in the room. Sorry if that was unclear," Clara replies, giving Spinelli a quiet smile. "Although, Connor, I would like to talk to you privately in a bit."

As everyone starts to disperse, I hang back for a moment, watching Clara and Belle in a brief, hushed conversation. They're speaking in low tones, but I catch snippets about Chernobyl and something about 'increased surveillance'. It's clear that they're worried, maybe even more than they're letting on.

Jamal, meanwhile, is already on his phone, likely pulling strings and setting things in motion. He's always been a man of action, and it's comforting to know he's on our side.

We finally head out, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on us. It's been a long Halloween, a long October, and I'm just about ready to return to Lily's place and pass out on the futon. The taxis arrive one at a time, ferrying off Jordan first, presumably back to our headquarters, and then Jamila, who departs with a kiss on my lips, leaving me blushing and burning. Part of me is mad at just how easily I've been totally bewitched by her. That part is quickly strangled by the part that gets to extract joy out of a kiss on the lips. I still can't believe this is happening, by the way.

Then, after what seems like forever, the yellow taxi comes for me. As I step into the back seat, exhausted and weary, I can't help but think of the white eyes of a dead man, and the way his head bloomed open. A flower opening up in the autumn.