The taxi's wheels churn through the half-melted slush, gray and gritty, as it pulls to the curb. The cold bites through my jacket, sharp as my teeth, as I step out onto the icy sidewalk. Snow, dirty from suburban tires and reckless drivers speeding through school zones, piles against the police tape ahead, like cotton batting pulled from a mattress and trampled underfoot.

Hatboro-Horsham's NSRA office looms, squat and unassuming, yet today it's the epicenter of a hundred thousand eager eyes, all trying to get in on the latest national scandal - Miasma. I can feel the weight of the scene settling over me, like a wet blanket wrapped around my throat like a noose. We're dressed in our best attempt at "student reporter" – Jordan's idea of blending in – but the camera hanging from my neck feels more like a neon sign that screams 'poser' than a press badge.

I shove my hands into my pockets, trying to look casual, but they find only lint and the frigid touch of nervous sweat. My breath fogs up in front of me, each exhalation a ghostly whisper that says, 'you shouldn't be here.' But we have to be. This was my plan, after all. I just…

Jordan's walking ahead, shoulders squared, looking every bit the leader I'm not being right now. They're the picture of defiant confidence, but I know them well enough to see the tightness in their jaw. They're worried, and that amps up my own anxiety. I can hear my own heartbeat, and I don't exactly like it. I don't like feeling it in my ears.

Next to me, Spinelli's shuffling his feet, trying to kick away the muck that clings to his shoes. "Gross," he mumbles, and I almost smile. Almost. If the situation weren't so grim, I'd find more humor in his childlike disgust at the sludge painting the edges of his sneakers.

We pass a cop car, the blue and red lights casting surreal shadows on the snow, painting it in colors of emergency. My fingers itch to snap a photo, but that's not why we're here. I'm looking for something else – a clue, a lead, something that says someone else was here. Something that proves Miasma's innocence.

I remember myself, then, and my cover. I pull my camera up and snap a picture. No flash.

The NSRA office itself stands behind the tape, windows gazing out like empty eyes. The flags on top flap in the biting wind, snapping, chirping like angry birds. An incredibly annoying sound. The doors are closed, but the chaos from earlier has left its marks – a broken window on the second floor, the blinds hanging loose and limp, clattering against the wall.

"Sam, keep up," Jordan hisses over their shoulder, and I realize I've stopped walking. I hustle to close the gap, trying to avoid the deeper patches of snow. I'm not dressed for this weather. My boots, worn and comfortable inside the confines of a heated car or a cozy classroom, do nothing to fend off the chill seeping up from the ground.

Ahead, yellow tape marks the line between the public and the private, between what we know and what we're here to find out. 'Crime Scene Do Not Cross,' it reads, but what is a line of plastic against the pull of truth, and of disobedient adolescence? We're here to cross more than just yellow tape. We're crossing over into… I don't know. Another world? But not quite. Danger? But I'm always in danger. My goosebumps are neverending.

There's always something over my shoulder.

I guess we're crossing from danger into more danger.

I look at the building, at the people milling about – reporters like us, except with the air of having been invited. Cops, with their stern faces and stiff walks. And then there are the others, the ones who don't fit, who watch the watchers. They're the ones I'm really here to see. Citizens standing behind the yellow lines, obedient, listening when the cops say to back up.

A flutter in my chest, nervous, keeps me alert. I can't shake the feeling of being watched, and it's not by the reporters or the cops.

I'm trying to look everywhere at once, which means I'm effectively seeing nothing. "Focus, Sam," I mutter under my breath, trying to ground myself.

Jordan and Spinelli are talking, a low murmur between them. I catch snippets – "stay sharp," "look for anything out of place," "remember, we're just high schoolers," but I don't catch the full thing, leaving the fine details out of my ear's grasp.

We reach the tape and Jordan flashes a mock press ID at the officer guarding the entrance. He's giving us the once-over, skepticism written all over his face. I don't blame him. We must look like a trio of kids playing dress-up. But he lets us through with a grunt that's almost a word, and we're in.

The ground behind the tape is churned mud, the snow trampled by countless boots. It squelches underfoot, and I have to step carefully to avoid slipping. The building's facade is closer now, looming. It's a faceless bureaucrat in concrete form, all sharp angles and reflective surfaces.

The air's electric, charged with the residue of the morning's chaos. Every sound is amplified – the crunch of snow, the murmur of voices, the distant wail of a siren – and it's all I can do not to jump at each one.

We edge along the perimeter, Jordan leading, their head swiveling like they're expecting trouble to jump out from behind every corner. I'm trying to do the same, but it's Spinelli who stops first, pointing at something on the ground. It's nothing – just a piece of trash – but for a moment, it felt like a sign.

A cop gives us a once-over, and I fight the urge to duck behind Jordan. "Just act natural," I remind myself, even though 'natural' is the last thing I feel right now.

Spinelli nudges me, whispering, "Got it all on camera, Sam?" I nod, snapping a picture of a footprint in the slush that's probably from one of the many boots that have come through here, nothing more. It's got bird shit in the middle of it, too. Fascinating.

Jordan's doing the talking, which is good because they've got this uncanny way of getting people to spill. They approach a cop, all charm and smiles, asking about the incident. The cop, though, he's not buying it, gives us some line about waiting for the official press release. Jordan's polite, but their eyes are doing that thing where they're laughing without a smile. It's really creepy. I kind of hate when they do that.

I drift away, snapping pictures of everything and nothing. There's not much to see that hasn't been plastered all over the news – broken windows, cops, and NSRA officials huddled in groups, talking in hushed tones that don't carry over the hum of the crowd.

Spinelli's scribbling in a notebook, probably just doodles, but he's trying to look the part, bless him. Every so often, he'll squint at something, jot down a note, and I wonder if he's actually onto something or just playing the part a little too well. I peek over his shoulder and note both a lack of anatomy in his stick figures and also his horrendous penmanship, but I really can't blame him, because, a: he used to live on the street and b: my handwriting is, if it can be believed, even worse. Just dogshit handwriting.

Half an hour ticks by, and it's like we're walking in circles. I've got a collection of photos of the backs of people's heads, the ground, the sky – anything to look busy. But it's all just filler. There's nothing here that tells us anything new. The same old story – tragedy, confusion, and a lot of questions no one's willing to answer.

We regroup, huddling together like we're sharing secrets. Jordan's got that frustrated edge to their voice, talking about stonewalled conversations and tight-lipped officials. Spinelli's notes are just observations – who's talking to whom, which cop looks more tired than the rest. Names and badge numbers.

I share the mundane details caught in my lens – the angle of a broken blind, the way the snow's been trampled down by so many feet it's become a path of its own, slush compressed into a skid-dy ice layer. It's all just pieces of a larger puzzle that's got so many chunks it's impossible to put together from here.

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Jordan decides we've got to push harder, ask better questions, or we're just wasting our time. So, we split up again, me with my camera, Spinelli with his notebook, and Jordan with that persuasive tongue.

I circle around the building, looking for anything off-kilter. There's an NSRA agent, standing by the door, and I snap a picture. He notices, gives me a withering look, and I just shrug, mumbling something about a project for school. He softens, tells me to stay out of trouble, and I nod like I'm taking it to heart.

Spinelli's talking to a bystander now, someone who looks like they just came to gawk. Spinelli's got this earnestness about him that makes people want to talk. The guy's saying nothing useful, just what he heard on the morning news, but Spinelli writes it down like it's gospel.

Jordan's found an NSRA official who's more talkative. I catch snippets of conversation about response times and protocols. Nothing groundbreaking, but it's something.

We come back together, sharing our scraps of nothing much. Jordan's got this look in their eye, the one that says they're onto something, or they think they are. They're talking about going deeper, getting more aggressive with questions.

But then I see it, something off in my photos. It's small, barely noticeable – a window on the third floor, slightly ajar. It's nothing, probably. But it's also not nothing. I point it out, and we all stare at that window like it's going to spill its secrets. Jordan's saying we need to check it out, but how? We can't just waltz into the building, not with all these cops around.

We consider our options. More than twice, Jordan suggests just breaking in. Spinelli suggests it only once. I remind them of the plan.

Then, I am reminded of the plan.

Suddenly, abruptly, a car that's too clean for this dirty parking lot rolls up, coiling right next to us like a rattlesnake. It's sleek, black, the kind of car that screams 'government' even without the NSRA logo emblazoned on the side. It parks with a sense of purpose, and two men step out, both in navy windbreakers with that telltale yellow NSRA text. It's like the sun came out, except it's not warm, and it's not friendly. It's like those yellow light bulbs on streetlights that make everything look like a horror movie.

One of them's Mr. Polygraph.

My heart beats faster.

I recognize the build, that salt-and-pepper hair, the… way his body is just set. The mustache is gone, replaced by stubble, like he's trying to mix up his look, but you don't forget a face like that. Not when it's haunted your 'what if' nightmares for half a year. Like what if he didn't waste all his bullets when we first met?

The guy next to him is a mystery, with round sunglasses and a hairstyle that looks like it fought the comb and won. Tan skin. He's got this presence about him, calm and cool, like he's walked onto the scene of a hundred crimes and this is just another day at the office. But given that I'm 90% sure the person next to him is Mr. Polygraph, I have to make the assumption that he's another member of the Kingdom I just haven't met yet.

My stomach knots as they walk towards us, and Jordan's beside me, their hand twitching like they're itching for a fight they know they can't win. Even Spinelli's stopped his note-taking, squinting at the newcomers like he's trying to figure out if they're part of the plan or something worse.

"Good afternoon," Mr. Polygraph says, and even though his voice is smooth, there's a sharpness there. His arm's cradled close to his body, and I can see him trying to keep it still, the memory of pain flickering across his face when he looks at me. I remember the taste of his blood. His shoulder. I'm glad I hurt him so bad that he's still feeling it half a year later. That brings me a little satisfaction.

The quiet one, the man with the sunglasses, he's all politeness. "Agent Evans. This is my partner, Agent Parker," he introduces, and I nearly choke on my own spit. Agents? They've got the confidence, the badges, the guns on their hips that are way too visible for my liking. But agents? Have they infiltrated the NSRA, or is this a complex game of pretend? Isn't impersonating an officer of the law illegal? Like, super-duper illegal?

Jordan nods at them, cool as ever, but I see the way their fingers have stilled. They're getting the same impression as I am. "We're just collecting information for our school paper," they say, and I have to admire the way their voice doesn't shake.

I nod along, trying to look the part of a clueless high schooler. "Yeah, our readers are super interested in what's happening." My camera suddenly feels like a shield, and I hold onto it like it's a lifeline, in front of my face. FLASH! Both 'agents' wince. Spinelli looks between Jordan and I, clearly confused.

Mr. Polygraph, Agent Parker, whatever he's calling himself, he smiles, but it's all teeth, no warmth, like a chimpanzee. "Very civic-minded of you. But this is a crime scene, and we can't have civilians getting in the way."

The other one, Evans - 'Mr. E'? - adds, "It's dangerous. We wouldn't want you to get hurt."

I can't help but snort. Dangerous is a day ending in 'y' for us. But I bite back the retort, remember the plan. Mr. Polygraph looks at me like I just called his mom fat. Offended.

Spinelli's looking between all of us, finally picking up on the tension. "We'll stay out of the way," he says, and it's like he's trying to defuse a bomb with a smile. Bless him, he's got this innocence that could disarm anyone. Anyone but these two.

I can feel Mr. Polygraph's gaze on me, heavy and hot, like he's branding me with suspicion. He knows, and I know it. He knows who I am, what I am. This is the first time I'm seeing his eyes, gunmetal grey that's almost, but not quite, blue, and they're boring a hole through me. He can't help himself, in the way that dogs can't help drinking toilet water.

"So," Jordan says, breaking the silence that's stretched out too long. "You guys close to catching the guy who did all this?" It's bait, and we all know it.

Mr. Polygraph's lips twitch, and I brace myself. Here it comes, the dance around the truth.

"We're following all leads," he says, and I almost laugh. Leads? I assume if this is the Kingdom's doing, then they're their own leads. The only question is how we can make them admit that.

Evans watches us, those sunglasses hiding his eyes, but I can feel his gaze, analytical, probing. He's the quiet storm to Polygraph's brewing tempest. Even though Mr. Polygraph pistol-whipped me in the face hard enough to break my nose, it's Evans I'm more afraid of. Mr. Polygraph is a known quantity. He shoots people in the head. He's a lie-detector. Evans? I have no idea what his powers are, assuming he has any.

Given what I've seen so far of the Kingdom, though, this seems like a fair assumption.

"We appreciate your… enthusiasm," Evans continues. "But leave this to the professionals."

Professionals. The word sticks in my throat like a bad joke. If they're professionals, I'm the Queen of England.

Mr. Polygraph leans in, his voice dropping to a register that's meant for threats veiled as advice. "You know, it's a dangerous world out there," he says, his eyes locking onto mine. It's a punch in the gut, his meaning clear: he knows me, he remembers, and he wants me to know it. "Wild 'heroes' out there snuffing out innocent lives. Almost makes you wonder what he was looking for in here."

The cold from the ground seeps up through my boots, but it's nothing compared to the chill his words send down my spine. I resist the urge to rub at my nose, a phantom ache flaring up where he broke it six months ago. The pain was gone in hours, but sometimes I still feel it, the crack of a gun's handle - whatever that part of a gun is called - against my schnozz.

Jordan's beside me, a subtle hand signal behind their back – two fingers, then a fist – our code for 'yes, it's Mr. Polygraph,' as opposed to the codes for the other Kingdom members we'd met. I give a tiny nod, confirmation without words. We're on the same page, but Spinelli, bless his heart, is clueless, looking between us with a growing frown of confusion.

Come on, Spinelli. You've seen this man before. At the warehouse, remember? Don't make me say it out loud. Don't make me type it on my phone and get my phone confiscated.

Beside Mr. Polygraph, Agent Evans is a statue. His face gives nothing away, but I can feel his attention like a spotlight, intense and focused. There's a weight to his silence that's somehow louder than any threat Mr. Polygraph could throw our way.

Jordan's voice is even when they speak, a touch of sarcasm that doesn't quite hide the edge. "We're always careful, Agent Parker. But thanks for the concern," they say. They're playing it cool, but there's a tremor in their hand that's not from the cold. "I don't think many people want to kill student journalists these days,"

Mr. Polygraph smirks, a twisting of his lips that doesn't reach his eyes. "Just doing my job," he says, his eyes flicking towards the right for just a split-second.

The tension is a living thing, wrapping around us like a live wire, binding tighter with every word. Spinelli shifts from foot to foot, a question in his eyes that he doesn't voice. He knows something's off but not what, and I'm grateful for his obliviousness. Maybe we'll tell him once we're home, hopefully free of any bullet holes.

Mr. Polygraph's questions are casual on the surface, small talk masquerading as interest. "What's the angle for your story?" he asks, and I smell his probing already. Digging. Trying to use his power on me. But I remember our first encounter - it's something I could never forget.

"Just the truth, sir," I reply, smiling as genuinely as I can. Half-truths. Half-answers.

He nods, but his eyes, they're like drills, boring into me, searching for something. "Facts are important," he agrees. "But so is perspective. Wouldn't you say? Important to make sure everyone is represented."

Jordan snorts, a soft sound that's almost lost in the noise around us. "Perspective can change depending on where you're standing," they reply, and I feel a little lost.

Agent Evans finally speaks, his voice smooth as silk. "Perspective is everything," he says, almost mouse-quiet.

The world goes silent for a painful moment.

Spinelli's the one to break it. His discomfort is obvious as he blurts out words; "Yeah, perspectives, angles, got it. We're just trying to get the school project done, you know?" His innocence is like a beacon, and I can see the glint in Mr. Polygraph's eye as he turns to face him.

He smells blood in the water.