About a week after the Hatboro-Horsham encounter, with February creeping in and Jordan's 17th birthday just days away, and life has been a whirlwind of activity and quiet moments. We've been trying to keep things normal, or at least as normal as they can be when you're a group of teenage superheroes squatting in an abandoned building.

I've been on this double date thing with Jamila, Spinelli, and Jordan, which was, well, awkward. Jamila’s not exactly a fan of Jordan or Spinelli, and she's definitely out of the loop about the whole Auditors thing. Trying to get everyone to mesh is like mixing oil and water – they just don't. Sure, I could invite her into our little vigilante investigator group, but I have a feeling that's asking for disaster.

And it sucks! I just want all my friends to be friends with each other. And I want everyone to get together forever and never have any problems with each other. Is that so unrealistic?

In between, I've been keeping up with my training sessions with Rampart and the rest of the Young Defenders. But mostly Rampart. The physical exertion, the rush of adrenaline, it feels like a balm, soothing the edges of my depression. It's like every punch and kick I throw into the air is chipping away at the weight on my chest.

Regular patrols put Bloodhound back in the public consciousness, but it's never anything interesting. Still picking cats from trees. Helping old ladies cross the road. It's like the winter came and sent all the bad guys into hibernation - but then again, I'm not really allowed to be proactive in times like this, I think. The Young Defenders don't conduct raids, that's for adults and vigilantes. We're boy scouts. I don't mind being a boy scout, but, you know… it's boring.

Laura Zhang, the estate lawyer, had some updates about the NSRA's attempt to contest Diane's will. She let me know that they finally managed to file some papers in the municipal court to light a fire under her ass, but things are slow, and she's going to tie them up in matching paperwork for years. She told me not to worry, and that felt good. I like not worrying.

The manhunt for Miasma is still on. Vigilantes from other cities have started showing up, each one itching to 'bring him to justice.' The atmosphere in the city is tense, the streets cold and wet. I see more police lights every day. People have started posting about it on the forums. It's really all anyone is talking about - how a man broke into the NSRA offices, killed four, left with undisclosed documents, and then vanished.

And we know it wasn't him, but we can't prove that. Our own investigation into the Kingdom has been frustrating, to say the least. We went back to that warehouse, from Halloween, but it was like stepping into a ghost story. Empty. Abandoned. Scrubbed clean and then covered in a fine layer of dust again, like it was untouched for years and the whole scenario we had just imagined. It made me feel a little bit insane, I'm not going to lie. We do what we can, but the leads are going dark, and everything is starting to get harder and harder again.

On a brighter note, my house almost done getting repaired, just in time for my birthday in a couple of months. The thought of going home, of having my own space again, it's like a light at the end of a very long, dark tunnel. I'm going to miss napping with Lily, but, you know, I've missed having my own private bedroom a little more than that, I think.

Right now, though, we're all just lounging in the base, a momentary pause in our chaotic lives. It's been a long week of school, investigation, and just… being teenagers. I still go to school! Just to clear that up! Spinelli's sprawled on the couch, lost in some game on his phone. Jordan's poring over some notes, their brow furrowed in concentration. And I'm just… chilling.

Or, well, I was chilling. Until someone began thundering on the door.

Thudding on the door jolts us, an unwelcome interruption to our lazy calm. We exchange looks, Jordan’s eyebrows knitting in that 'not again' way. Spinelli grumbles as we trudge down the creaky stairs of the old music hall, our makeshift home that's seen more drama than a soap opera.

At the door, reinforced since the last lock-picking fiasco, stands Mrs. Westwood. Her arrival is like a storm cloud bursting – unexpected, unwelcome, and ominous.

She doesn’t wait for an invitation, barreling past the threshold with a hurricane force. Her eyes lock onto Jordan, accusations already brimming. "Jordan, this has gone far enough. You’re coming home," she declares, her voice a mix of anger and exasperation.

Jordan's stance hardens, a wall built brick by brick with defiance. "I’m not going anywhere, Mom. Get out," they shoot back, their words sharp and unyielding.

Mrs. Westwood’s glare then pivots to me. I brace myself. "And you," she hisses, "you're the one leading my child astray. Filling their head with this… this nonsense!" Her finger jabs the air towards me like a dagger. "And assaulting me! I can't believe the nerve of you."

I open my mouth to argue, but the words tangle in my throat. It’s like being back under water, struggling to reach the surface. "Mrs. Westwood, it's not like that. We're just…"

"Just what? Superheroes?" she scoffs, the word dripping with disdain. "You’re children playing with fire."

The air is electric with… stress, with tension, like a pulled taut string, every word crackling like a live wire. Jordan steps in, trying to defuse the bomb that's their mother. "We're doing something important here. We’re helping people."

"Helping people?" Mrs. Westwood's laugh is bitter, hollow. "You’re squatting in an abandoned building, playing vigilante. I’ve tolerated this nonsense long enough. Don't think I don't know about you, too, Mr. Spinelli. Did you know your parents are looking for you? And you have a warrant out for your arrest? What sort of awful thoughts are you filling my child's head with?"

Spinelli looks at me, and then at Jordan, and then at Mrs. Westwood. He scuttles backwards a step, and then another. "I don't know what you're talking about," he mumbles, totally unconfident.

Her ultimatum drops like a guillotine. "You're leaving now. All of you. Or I'm calling the police."

Jordan’s eyes are stormy, a tempest raging. "You can’t just…"

"I can and I will," she cuts off, her voice rising. "You think this is some game? You could get hurt, or worse. And you," her finger swings back to me, "are you even legal? What happens when they find out what you're doing?"

"Am I legal!?" I ask back, trying to hide my offense. My arms fold defensively in front of my chest. I lean forward. "What on Earth do you mean by that?"

Spinelli shifts uncomfortably, his body folding into itself quite literally.

"Yes, I know Jordan never got their license because I would have never in my life signed off on it. Did you know you need a license to use your superpowers? I just found that out," Mrs. Westwood lectures, her voice shrill and uncomfortable. Spinelli slips around her to shut the door just as I see a neighbor peeking out. God forbid - we don't need to involve the neighbors into this. "You owe me, Jordan! After everything I’ve done for you."

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Jordan's body shakes and rattles like it's about to explode. Like a nail bomb about to go off. Then, they swing a hand out in the air and narrowly avoid backhanding Mrs. Westwood by near millimeters. Their retort is biting, laced with years of pent-up frustration. "What you’ve done? You mean letting me fend for myself? Making me pay for my own food since I was thirteen?"

The air is thick with unspoken grievances, a lifetime of misunderstandings and hurt unfurling in the cramped space of our hideout's threshold. Behind us, words bounce off the freshly-dusted stairs. Mrs. Westwood’s face is a mask of anger and hurt. "I raised you the way you should've been raised. I did what I had to do to make you an independent, strong person. And you throw it back in my face like this? I did everything I could for you. I made sure you were clothed and had a roof over your head. I would have never let you starve, you ingrate. I would have kept you fed!"

"But not cared for," Jordan whispers, the words barely audible. I can tell, though, that everyone heard.

Mrs. Westwood's posture stiffens, her next words clipped. "This isn’t up for debate. You're coming home."

Jordan’s resolve is a fortress. "No. I'm staying."

Mrs. Westwood's eyes flick to me, then Spinelli, a silent assessment of our ragtag group. "Fine. Have it your way. But remember, Jordan, you made this choice."

Then, they pull out their phone.

The air crackles like static as Mrs. Westwood, unwavering in her determination, pulls out her phone. Her fingers, trembling with a mix of anger and fear, dial 911, cell-phone touch tone audible over the speaker. I don't need to see the numbers to recognize the sounds. Jordan and I exchange a glance, a silent agreement passing between us. We can't stop her, not without making things worse. Intervention now would only validate her fears, only prove we're the threat she's painting us to be.

And imagine just hearing that over 911. Hello, can you send help? OUCH, OOF, OW. Yeah, that would get a response.

The sound of the call connecting makes my heart sink down into my feet. Mrs. Westwood’s voice, now laced with a forced calm, speaks into the phone. "Yes, hello, I need the police. There's a disturbance here, and I believe there might be illegal activities…" Her words hang heavy in the air, each one a dagger aimed straight at our hearts. "I've been struck in the face, and there are… Unlicensed superhumans. That's right… Longshore Avenue, that's right."

I want to shout out in protest. I want to say that nobody hit her - but that's not true, I did hit her, a bit ago. My heart is beating so hard, so much harder than during any of my many fights, that I don't know what to do with myself. Her words turn into a blur of sound and motion as she fakes fear and trembling. I can only stand there like a rat with its tail caught in a trap, impotent, useless. I turn to look at Jordan, and they look even paler than normal.

It takes a couple minutes for the officers to arrive. Surprisingly fast response time, given the city.

Spinelli reopens the door as the sound of sirens grows closer, his face a mask of worry. Outside, a police car pulls up, the neighbors peeking from behind curtains and corners, their eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and concern.

The officer steps out of the cruiser, alone, which surprises me. I half-expected a whole squad to come bursting out, ready for a dramatic takedown. He's tall, with blonde hair and blue eyes, the very picture of a storybook policeman.

"Evening, folks," he says as he approaches, his voice calm. "I'm Officer Anderson. I understand there's been a bit of a disturbance here?"

Mrs. Westwood's act kicks into overdrive. "Yes, officer, I'm so worried about my child," she starts, her voice trembling just enough to sell her concern.

I can't help but roll my eyes, though I keep it subtle. She's laying it on thick, and I wonder if Anderson's buying it. He looks around, taking in the sight of our makeshift home, his eyes lingering on the old door.

Jordan, trying to seem indifferent, leans against the wall, arms crossed. Spinelli's fidgeting like he's got ants in his pants, and I'm just standing there, trying to figure out how we got here.

"I'm just so worried about my child," she tells Officer Anderson, her voice a carefully crafted blend of worry and exasperation. "They're in there with… with those people. I don't know what they're capable of."

Officer Anderson nods, his expression neutral as he assesses the situation. His gaze lands on us, and there's a flicker of recognition in his eyes. He's been on the force long enough to know when something's not quite as it seems.

"Ma'am, I understand your concern," he starts, his voice even. "Let's see if we can resolve this peacefully. Let's all take a step back and talk this through," he suggests, his tone reassuring.

Mrs. Westwood shoots me a look that could curdle milk. "Talk? With them?" she spits out, as if the very idea is offensive.

But Anderson's not having any of it. "Yes, ma'am. Talking usually helps sort things out," he replies, and I can't help but admire his calmness in the face of this domestic hurricane. Already, going much better than I expected it to.

Mrs. Westwood glares at us, her eyes darting between Jordan, Spinelli, and me. Her accusation hangs in the air, a cloud of suspicion that threatens to engulf us.

Jordan's fists are clenched at their sides, their body rigid with barely contained anger. Spinelli looks like he wants to disappear, his gaze fixed on the ground. The door opens wider, and Officer Anderson steps inside, his presence filling the room. His eyes scan the space, taking in every detail. "I'm going to need to speak with each of you," he says, his voice calm but firm.

Mrs. Westwood waits for Officer Anderson to look away from her before smirking at us. I resist, very strongly, the urge to punch her again.

Officer Anderson turns to us, his demeanor suggesting he's done this dance before. "So, let's start from the top. Can anyone tell me about the altercation that was reported?" His tone is neutral, but his eyes are sharp, missing nothing.

Jordan's the first to speak up, their voice steady. "There was no altercation, Officer. Just a disagreement. A loud one, maybe, but nothing physical."

Mrs. Westwood interjects, "This one punched me in the face! And they could hurt my child! You don't know what they're capable of!" she shouts, pointing at me. I point a finger at myself, who, me?, and try to look innocent.

Anderson raises an eyebrow, unconvinced. Mrs. Westwood isn't bruised, doesn't have a nosebleed, and isn't swollen. I didn't even hit her very hard. There really is just no proof she has besides word of mouth, which makes me feel a little bit of misplaced relief. "Ma'am, without evidence of an assault, there's not much I can do. Now, about the use of unlicensed superpowers…"

Here we go. I can feel the tension ratcheting up a notch. I casually present my JLUMA, and Spinelli follows suit, both of us trying to look nonchalant. Mrs. Westwood's lips thin into a line of annoyance.

Jordan, meanwhile, keeps their cool. "I don’t have any powers, officer. Just a regular teenager here."

Anderson nods, jotting down notes. He seems to take our words at face value, but his gaze lingers a moment too long on Jordan. I don't think he fully believes them, but he's not prepared to call them on it.

Mrs. Westwood is fuming now, her narrative crumbling. She changes tack, "They’re squatting in this building! Trespassing!"

Anderson's response is immediate and matter-of-fact. "That's a civil matter, ma'am. You'd need to talk to the building's owner about that."

Mrs. Westwood, undeterred by Officer Anderson's comment, pulls out her phone with a triumphant air. She's come prepared, ready to call the building owner and resolve this once and for all. "Then we should be able to get this figured out very quick then, yes, officer?" Dialing the number, she holds the phone to her ear, expecting victory.

But instead of the response she anticipates, the room fills with the automated message, blared out on speaker: "The number you have dialed is not in service." The triumph drains from her face, replaced by a mix of confusion and anger.

The tension in the room shifts. Her frustration is palpable, a thick tension that fills the air. We exchange glances, a shared moment of disbelief and relief. Mrs. Westwood's attempt to upend our world has just backfired spectacularly.

Officer Anderson seems almost exhausted from her shenanigans. "Is there anything else of substance, ma'am? Otherwise, I'll have to request you kids evacuate the premises, but I don't foresee us bringing anyone down to the station today."

Mrs. Westwood's eyes flash with a mix of desperation and vindication as she sees an opening. "Officer, I haven't told you the worst part. A few weeks ago, when I came here, Miasma was here. The murderer. He threatened me."