Jordan's been on edge all day, pacing back and forth, glancing out the dusty windows of our makeshift base. "That car," they mutter, more to themselves than to us. "It's been there for days. Same spot, same tinted windows. Doesn't feel right."

I join Jordan at the window, trying to get a better look. The car's nondescript, but it's the kind of thing you'd use if you didn't want to stand out. "Could be. It's not exactly a hot spot for parking around here," I muse, the unease growing in my stomach.

Spindle squints through the window. "Has anyone been in it?"

"Not that I've seen. It's just there. All the time," Jordan replies, pulling the blinds slightly for a closer look.

I step back, feeling a chill run down my spine. "This is creepy. It's like they're just waiting, watching."

Spindle joins us, squinting at the vehicle. "Could be a coincidence," he offers, but his tone lacks conviction.

Jordan nods, their eyes still fixed on the car. "Yeah, good idea. We can't let our guard down."

"We should keep an eye on it. Take shifts watching, see if anyone comes or goes," Spindle suggests, a frown creasing his forehead.

"We've made enemies, right? NSRA, the Kingdom…" Jordan's voice trails off, and we all know what they're not saying. The list is longer than we'd like.

"We should keep tabs on it," I agree, already reaching for the binoculars. "Take turns watching, note any movement, anyone coming or going."

Jordan nods, pulling out a notepad. "I'll take first watch. Let's see if our mystery guest makes a move."

I feel a surge of protectiveness over our little team. "We won't let them intimidate us," I declare, more to reassure myself than anything.

As the hours pass, we rotate shifts, each of us stealing glances at the car, but it remains still, an ominous sentinel in the fading light of day.

As we take turns watching the suspicious car, I use my downtime to tidy up our base a bit. The place is cluttered with papers, food wrappers, and all sorts of random stuff we've accumulated over the past few weeks. While moving a stack of old newspapers from under the couch, my hand brushes against something odd, taped to the underside.

It's a small, black device, barely noticeable. A cold rush of fear washes over me as I peel it off and examine it.

"Guys, look at this," I call out, my voice tight with anxiety. Jordan and Spindle rush over, their expressions turning to shock as they see what I found.

"Is that what I think it is?" Jordan asks, their voice laced with disbelief.

"Yeah, it's a bug. Someone's been listening to us," I reply, feeling a mix of anger and vulnerability. It's not the first bug I've touched in my life. I have… familiarity. Liberty Belle's lessons flash in my mind.

Spindle takes the device, turning it over in his hands. "Do you think it's the NSRA? Or the Kingdom?"

I shake my head, unsure. "Could be either. Or both. They both have reasons to keep tabs on us."

The revelation hits us hard. We've been careful, we thought we were being smart, but this… this is a whole new level of intrusion. We're not just being watched; we're being listened to. Every plan, every doubt, every moment of frustration — someone knows.

"We need to check the whole place," Jordan says, already starting to search around the room. "If they planted one, they could've planted more."

We spend the next hour scouring every inch of the Music Hall. Behind pictures, under tables, inside light fixtures - anywhere a bug could be hidden. But we don't find anything else, which is somehow even more unsettling. Just the one. On our couch.

Sitting back down, we're all silent for a moment, the weight of the situation settling in. The bug sits on the table between us, a small but significant reminder that we're in deeper than we thought.

"Whoever did this, they're playing a dangerous game," Spindle says, breaking the silence. "They're not just watching us anymore. They're invading our space, our privacy."

Jordan sighs quietly. "I mean, we are squatting in an abandoned building and using that to plot against not one but two extremely powerful groups who have plenty of motivation to want us dead. You sort of give up your right to privacy. All's fair in love and war, and this is definitely war."

Spindle sighs to himself, while Jordan gets up and wanders over to one of our stuff piles, whistling all the while. When they return, it's with a small hammer. SMASH!

"Well, problem solved," Jordan quips.

Staring at the smashed remains of the bug on the table, a memory nudges at me. Jordan's mom, the day she barged in, ranting about a "nice man in a suit" who told her where to find Jordan. My mind races - that means we've been on someone's radar for way longer than we realized.

"We've been watched for ages," I say, my voice shaky. "Jordan, your mom mentioned a man in a suit. That wasn't just some random thing. They've been tracking us."

Jordan's face hardens, the realization hitting them too. "So, this isn't new. They've been playing us all along."

Spindle leans forward, concern in his eyes. "Do you think it's the NSRA? Or the Kingdom? Maybe both?"

I shrug, frustration bubbling up inside me. "Could be either. Or both. They both have their reasons."

The thought of being under surveillance for so long, of all our moves being watched, makes my skin crawl. I'm only fourteen, and here I am, swept up in a world of bugs and spies. It's like something out of a movie, but way less cool and way more terrifying. It makes my body feel hot. But not in the way that fighting does. Fighting is fun. Throwing my fists about, getting my face blooded, being slashed at - these things are all fun to me, which is kind of a messed up sentence to be thinking.

Training is fun. Soccer is fun - I haven't played soccer in so long, it feels like it's an interest from an entirely other person. When was the last time I played basketball? I even missed joining indoor track.

This isn't fun. This doesn't even get my adrenaline spiked. This just makes my chest hurt. It makes me upset.

"I can't believe this," I mutter, anger seeping into my words. "We're just kids. Why are they doing this to us?"

Jordan looks equally upset, their hands clenching into fists. "Because we're a threat to them, Sam. We're getting too close."

Spindle's usually calm demeanor is gone, replaced by a hard edge. "They're scared of us. That means we're doing something right."

But that's small comfort to me right now. The weight of what we're up against feels crushing.

"We need to be careful," I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. "If that bug was transmitting, they know we know now. And we know that they know. And they… You know."

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Jordan nods at me, looking at my face with their head tilted. "You okay?"

"No. Excuse me," I answer, honestly as I can. "Jordan, can you please make a big space for me so I don't disturb the neighbors?"

Jordan immediately understands my request. Without a word, they stretch out the room, creating a vast, empty space where I can unleash my frustration without any risk. The walls move away, the ceiling lifts, and the floor extends, transforming the cramped Music Hall into an almost endless void.

I start pacing, back and forth. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. My footsteps echo in the emptiness. "It's just… it's too much," I vent, my voice bouncing off the distant walls. "We're just kids. We shouldn't have to deal with… with all of this."

The anger and helplessness build up like a tide inside me, and I can't hold it back any longer. I scream, a raw, guttural sound that tears from my throat, echoing off the walls of the expanded room. My hands ball into fists, slamming down onto the table with a force that makes my bones jar. Papers and devices scatter, but I barely notice.

I punch the air, imagining it's the face of every person who's put us in this situation. "Just let me win!" I yell, my voice cracking with the intensity of my emotions. "I'm doing everything I can, and it's never enough. They just keep coming, and I… I can't keep up. I can't."

"I'm just a kid!" I yell, my voice breaking. "Why is this happening to us?" I kick at a chair, sending it skidding across the floor. My breath comes in ragged gasps, tears streaming down my face. I grab my hair, pulling at it in frustration, the pain a dull echo compared to the turmoil inside. "I can't afford… countersurveillance tools! Where would I even get them?"

The rage pours out of me in waves, screams and sobs mingling together. I'm lost in the storm, my emotions raw and unchecked. It's not just about the bug or being watched – it's everything. The weight of being Bloodhound, the pressure, the danger – it's too much. I start kicking and squirming, trying to avoid busting through the wood beneath me.

Finally, after what feels like aeons, but was probably just like five minutes, the storm begins to ebb. My screams turn to whimpers, my body shaking with spent fury. I stand there, panting, feeling empty but oddly cleansed. The tantrum is over.

Jordan watches silently from across the room, giving me the space I need. When I finally speak, my voice is hoarse but steady. "I'm fine now. It's out of my system."

They nod, compressing the room back to its original size. The normalcy of the room feels strange now, like returning to a place you once knew after a long absence.

"Feeling better?" Spindle asks, reaching a hand out. I gently bat it away.

I wipe my face, taking deep breaths. "I'm good. Let's keep going. We've got work to do."

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

We pick the smallest room in the music hall, one without windows, deciding it'll be our safe room for confidential talks. It's cramped and dusty, but it'll have to do. Jordan, Spindle, and I start the task of turning it into our own makeshift Faraday cage - something Jordan taught both of us about. We've got rolls of aluminum foil from the nearby dollar store. Not exactly high-tech, but it's what we can afford and what we can do.

The task is tedious. We carefully line every inch of the walls, the ceiling, and even the door with layers of foil. It's like wrapping a weird present, one that's all angles and corners. The foil crinkles and tears easily, so we have to be gentle. It's a far cry from the cool spy movies – there's nothing glamorous about sweating in a tiny room, smoothing out aluminum foil.

"Are we sure this is going to work?" Spindle asks, frowning as he struggles to cover a tricky corner. "Feels like we're baking a giant potato," Spindle jokes, ripping off another sheet of foil. But the humor doesn't quite cut through the tension hanging over us.

"It's supposed to block electromagnetic signals," I reply, pressing another sheet of foil against the wall. "It's not perfect, but it's better than nothing."

Jordan, who's been researching on their phone, chimes in. "Yeah, it's like a basic Faraday cage. Should keep our conversations safe from electronic eavesdropping, at least. Radio waves. Stuff like that."

We work in silence for a while, the only sounds are the tearing of foil and our occasional sighs. My fingers are starting to feel raw from all the smoothing and pressing and duct taping, and I can see Jordan and Spindle are getting tired too. But we keep at it because we have to, because this is our little stand against whoever's watching us.

After what feels like hours, we step back to survey our work. The room looks alien, entirely coated in silver. It's strange and a little claustrophobic, but it's a little bubble of safety in a world that feels increasingly unsafe.

"Now for the ultimate test," Jordan says, holding up their phone.

We all take out our phones and a small battery-operated radio we found in the back of a closet. One by one, we step into the room, closing the foil-covered door behind us. I watch as my phone's signal dies, the bars disappearing one by one until there's nothing. The radio, too, is just static – no music, no voices, nothing.

"It works," I say, a small smile breaking through the exhaustion. "We actually did it."

Spindle looks around, his expression a mix of pride and disbelief. "We made a Faraday cage. That's pretty badass."

Jordan grins. "Yeah, take that, creepy spy people."

We step out of the room, peeling back the foil to rejoin the rest of the world. It feels good, knowing we have a secret place where we can talk without worrying about prying ears.

With our Faraday cage set up, we turn our attention to enhancing the physical security of the music hall. Our base needs to be a fortress, or at least as close to one as we can make it with our limited resources. Our own Fortress of Solitude, Jordan called it.

First up, the locks. The old ones are rusty and barely functional, outside of that new one that Jordan had installed a couple of months ago - but at that point, we're assuming it's compromised. We manage to find some sturdier replacements at a local hardware store. They're not top-of-the-line, but they're better than what we had. Spindle and I work on installing them, the task more challenging than we expected. It's a whole afternoon's job, fiddling with screws and alignments, but by the end of it, the doors feel more secure, more reassuring. Every single door in this building is freshly locked.

Next, we rig up some basic alarms. Jordan shows us this trick they learned from an anime – using pencil lead in door hinges to create a simple, yet effective alert system. It's ingenious, really. If someone closes or opens the door, the pencil lead snaps. Spindle sets up tripwires at strategic points, little bells attached that'll jingle if anyone tries to sneak in. It's rudimentary, but it'll give us a heads-up if someone's coming.

Jordan also takes the time to teach Spindle and me the basics of lockpicking. "Just in case we ever get locked out, or need to get into somewhere," they say with a wink. We practice on an old padlock, the feel of the picks in the lock both strange and exciting. It's a skill I never thought I'd learn, but then again, a lot of things have changed lately. I get used to the feeling of peeling open paper clips with my fingernails.

With the locks and alarms in place, we move on to soundproofing. We scrounge up whatever materials we can find – thick blankets, foam padding, even some old carpets – and line the walls of our main meeting room. It's a messy, haphazard job, but it muffles the sound well enough. We test it out, shouting at each other from opposite sides of the room. The difference is noticeable, the way the air swallows up our words now.

The final touch is dealing with the windows. We cover them with heavy curtains, blocking out any prying eyes. The Music Hall feels darker, more enclosed, but also safer, more private.

As we finish up, Jordan points out that the car we'd been watching is gone. "Guess they noticed we found their bug," they say, a hint of satisfaction in their voice.

"Yeah, but that probably means they'll try something else," I reply, feeling a twinge of anxiety. "We'll have to be even more careful now."

Spindle nods, looking around at our handiwork. "We're doing everything we can. That's all we can do."

Over the next few days, we fall into a routine of regular surveillance checks. Jordan's crafted a homemade sweeping device using instructions they found online. It's a jumble of wires and circuits, but Jordan swears by it. Every evening, we sweep the Music Hall, Jordan leading with their gadget, and Spindle following up, contorting his body into the smallest nooks and crannies, hunting for any bugs that might have escaped Jordan's device.

"We're like spy hunters," Spindle jokes as he emerges from behind an old radiator, dust coating his hair.

"Yeah, budget spy hunters," I reply, but there's a smile on my face. There's something oddly satisfying about this, like we're taking back control, bit by bit.

Our vigilance extends to electronic and cybersecurity measures too. Jordan updates the antivirus and firewall settings on all our devices. "Can't be too safe," they say, their fingers flying over the keyboards.

We also agree to a minimal electronics policy in our secured room. "Only what we absolutely need," I insist, and we all nod. Every device that enters the room is thoroughly inspected before and after use. It's a hassle, but a necessary one.

Our strategic discussions now focus on evasion and discretion. We pore over maps of the city, planning routes that avoid CCTV cameras and busy areas. "We need to be ghosts," Jordan says, tracing a path with their finger. "Invisible, untraceable."

We also decide to change our routines and meeting times, to be less predictable. "No patterns, no schedules," Spindle suggests. "We mix it up, keep them guessing."

It's weird, having to think about all this, like we're main characters in some thriller movie. But it's our reality now, and we adapt. We learn to move through the city with a new awareness, always watching, always listening. I've started staring back at security cameras like I expect the person on the other end to recognize me. I sneak out of Lily's house late, adjusting my sleep schedule so that I'm napping in the afternoon.

I get homework done at the music hall.

I adjust my life to the whims of people who want me silent. It's really all I can do.

We surveil. We watch our backs.

We audit.