Officer Anderson, who was just about to dismiss her, pauses. "Miasma? Here?" His tone shifts, the skepticism giving way to concern.

"Yes, he was right here, in this room," Mrs. Westwood insists, her voice rising. "That man in the yellow hazmat suit, his voice was like gravel, and he threatened to use his... his powers on me. He was squatting here, too! I promise!"

The room goes still. Jordan's arms drop to their sides, and I feel a chill crawl up my spine. Mrs. Westwood is playing dirty, but she's playing it well. Spinelli looks visibly nauseous.

Anderson's eyes narrow, his pen pausing over his notebook. "And you're sure it was Miasma? The same one involved in the NSRA office incident?"

"Yes, I'm sure!" Mrs. Westwood exclaims. "I saw him with my own two eyes. I could never forget that smell, like a dead body. And his eyes. They were like two marbles rattling around in his head."

Anderson turns to us, his expression grave. "Is this true? Was Miasma here?"

I open my mouth, but the words stick in my throat. Jordan jumps in, their voice a mix of anger and desperation. "No, she's lying. We had nothing to do with Miasma."

But the doubt is there, in Anderson's eyes, and in the tightening of his jaw. Mrs. Westwood's words have changed the game. What was once a domestic dispute now feels like a criminal interrogation. The calculus has shifted suddenly, suddenly enough to leave me feeling dizzy and off-guard.

Anderson steps back, his gaze sweeping over us. "This is serious. If you're harboring a criminal, or if you've had contact with Miasma, you need to tell me now."

Jordan's fists clench at their sides, their knuckles whitening. "We haven't. I swear."

Mrs. Westwood's smirk is triumphant, poisonous. "See? They're not even good liars."

"Ma'am, I can handle it from here," Anderson shoots back, putting a hand up to her. The air is electric, making my hairs stand on end. Anderson's next words are slow, deliberate. "I'm going to have to report this to the NSRA. You understand, don't you? A murderer's involvement changes everything."

My heart hammers in my chest, a frantic rhythm of fear and frustration. Mrs. Westwood's lies, her manipulation, they're cornering us, trapping us in a narrative we can't escape.

Spinelli looks from me to Jordan, his expression one of confusion and concern. "What do we do now?"

Jordan's eyes meet mine, a silent communication passing between us. We're in deep water, and it's only getting deeper. I try to open my mouth to reach for air.

Anderson's radio crackles to life, his attention momentarily diverted. Mrs. Westwood seizes the moment, her gaze locked on us, her message clear: she's not done yet.

Officer Anderson leads Mrs. Westwood outside, her smug satisfaction evident even in her stiff walk. I watch them through the window, her lips moving rapidly, gesticulating wildly. Anderson's nodding, his face an unreadable mask. He pulls out his radio, and I feel my stomach drop. He's calling them - the NSRA.

Fifteen torturous minutes pass. Spinelli's pacing like a caged animal, while Jordan's sitting on the front step with their head in their hands. I'm just staring at the door, bracing for what's coming, trying not to explode.

The door swings open, and in step two familiar faces. My heart skips a beat. I recognize them instantly from that day at Lily's house when they tried to take Diane's journals. I nudge Jordan, whispering, "It's them - the agents from before."

Jordan looks up, a flash of recognition in their eyes, mirrored by Spinelli's widening ones. "Great, just what we needed," Jordan mutters under their breath.

The man is the first to speak, his tone polite but firm. "Good evening, I'm Agent Miguel Torres, and this is my partner, Agent Sarah Jennings. We're here to follow up on a report involving unlicensed superpowers and a possible connection to a wanted individual."

Jennings scans the room with keen eyes, her notebook already in hand. "Can you tell us about your activities here and your association with the individual known as Miasma?"

Mrs. Westwood watches from a distance, her arms crossed, a smug look plastered on her face. She's silent now, letting the agents do the talking.

I step forward, trying to keep my voice steady. "We don't have any association with Miasma. We're just a group of friends hanging out."

Torres nods, but I can see the skepticism in his eyes. "And these reports of unlicensed superpowers?"

Spinelli fidgets, then sheepishly shows his JLUMA. I follow suit, holding mine up. Jordan just shrugs, "Like I told the officer, I don't have any powers."

Jennings jots something down, then looks up. "We understand this might be an uncomfortable situation, but it's important we clarify these points for everyone's safety."

The tension in the room is thick, each question from the agents like a thread pulling tighter. I can feel Jordan's frustration simmering, Spinelli's anxiety palpable.

"And the reports of an altercation?" Torres continues, his gaze shifting between us.

"There was no physical altercation," Jordan says, a hint of irritation creeping into their voice. "Just a disagreement."

Mrs. Westwood suddenly speaks up, "But they're squatting here, breaking the law!"

Jennings raises an eyebrow. "That's a civil matter, ma'am, not for the NSRA. Our concern is the unlicensed use of superpowers and any connections to Miasma."

Mrs. Westwood's face falls slightly, her trump card not playing out as she had hoped.

I exchange a glance with Jordan and Spinelli. We're walking a tightrope, each word measured, each response calculated.

The room feels like a powder keg as Torres and Jennings stand there, their expressions professional but with an undercurrent of something else. It's clear they haven't forgotten our last encounter over Diane's journals. Their eyes, especially Jennings', have a hard edge as they look at me.

Torres starts, "We still have concerns about documents you were in possession of, Ms. Small. Items of national security importance."

I clench my fists, trying to keep my voice level. "I told you, they were personal items of Diane's. They have nothing to do with national security. And nothing to do with why you guys are here."

Jennings cuts in, "And yet, you refused to hand them over. That doesn't sit well with us."

Their words are like a vice, tightening around us. Spinelli shifts nervously, but it's Jordan who speaks up, "Look, we're not criminals. My mom is a lunatic and this is the only place we can go to get away from her. We'll vacate the premises or whatever. Just please, out of our face," they plead, face haggard, almost distorted with agony, like the skin around Jordan's body has begun to droop with the sheer weight pulling them down.

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Mrs. Westwood is practically gloating now, enjoying the discomfort. "See? They're hiding something. They're not to be trusted."

Officer Anderson, however, doesn't seem convinced. He's watching the agents, a frown creasing his brow. "Let's keep this on topic. The issue at hand is the potential unlicensed use of superpowers, and the alleged assault."

Torres nods, but his gaze doesn't leave me. "Of course, Officer. But let's not forget the potential for harboring a fugitive. Miasma."

The word hangs heavy in the air. Jennings adds, "Especially given Mrs. Westwood's claims."

I feel cornered, the walls closing in. "We told you, we haven't seen Miasma. We don't know anything about him."

Spinelli chimes in, "Yeah, we're just kids, for crying out loud."

Jennings' eyes narrow, "Kids who seem to be involved in a lot more than they should."

The tension is suffocating, and I can see Jordan struggling to keep their composure. Mrs. Westwood's enjoying every second of this, her eyes darting between us and the agents, savoring our discomfort.

Anderson steps forward, "If there's no evidence of a crime, then we can't hold them on anything. Mrs. Westwood's claims need more than just her word."

Torres seems reluctant to let it go, "But the unlicensed superpowers..."

I interject, "We've shown our JLUMAs. We're not doing anything illegal."

Mrs. Westwood's desperation is palpable, her frustration boiling over as she grasps at straws. She lunges at Jordan, grabbing their wrists in a vain attempt to provoke a reaction, to force them to use their powers. "They can make this whole room expand! I've seen it!" she exclaims, her voice a blend of exasperation and triumph.

Jordan doesn't react, standing still as a statue, letting her grasp them. I can see the resolve in their eyes, refusing to give Mrs. Westwood the reaction she's desperately seeking.

The agents exchange a glance. "Making rooms big... that sounds like the vigilante 'Safeguard' we have reports on in this area. They've been making life hell for petty criminals all up and down the avenue." Torres says, his tone indicating this is a lead they can't ignore.

Jennings jumps in, her eyes narrowing. "You're saying your child is Safeguard? The one associated with these superpowered incidents?" she asks, her eyes locked on Jordan.

Mrs. Westwood's reaction is immediate, a mix of triumph and vindication. "Safeguard! That's it! The robots from those stupid comic books Jordan reads. It's not a coincidence! That's what they're called, the Safeguard!"

Anderson, however, remains skeptical. "We still need concrete proof. Accusations aren't enough."

Torres seems conflicted, his professionalism wrestling with the urge to delve deeper. Jennings, on the other hand, is clearly ready to push the issue. "We'll need to investigate this Safeguard connection further," she asserts, her gaze drilling into Jordan. "We've got unlicensed power use, potential vigilantism, and potentially harboring a fugitive... That's a lot, Ms. Small. You should be more careful about the company you keep."

The air is thick with tension, a taut string ready to snap. Spinelli's streetwise instincts kick in, his voice calm but firm. "Look, no one's fighting anyone here. We're just trying to figure things out, same as you."

Jennings looks like she wants to argue, but Torres holds up a hand. "Let's not escalate this. We have what we need for now."

Mrs. Westwood's face contorts with anger, her plan unraveling. "You can't just let them go!"

"Can you shut up, you old hag?" I belt, causing everyone to turn to me. "Christ,"

The silence lingers for a couple of painful seconds. Jordan looks as mortified as a human being can possibly get.

Anderson steps in, his tone final. "Without proof, our hands are tied. We'll be keeping an eye on this place, though. And you," he looks at Mrs. Westwood, "need to let the legal process handle this."

She huffs, her eyes darting between us and the agents. The realization that she's not getting her way is dawning on her.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Westwood. We'll be back with a warrant," Jennings says, shooting daggers at Anderson with her eyes. "It's our job to handle the superhuman crimes that the police can't, after all."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Anderson says, shutting his eyes, nostrils flaring.

"Why don't you come with us back to the local office and we'll see if we can't get you in contact with the building owner? As a favor," Torres says, glancing at me out of the corner of his eyes. I can't read his expression - I can't tell if it's pity or hatred, if he's trying to really help Mrs. Westwood, or if he's just trying to get her out of our hair. Jennings, she's easy to read. All she has is venom. But Torres - he's confusing me. "We'll be in touch with you three if we need more information. Stay out of trouble."

"If you don't mind staying a street down or so, I just have a couple of last words for my child," Mrs. Westwood says, spinning on her besneakered heel towards Jordan.

"Not at all. We'll be right down the road," Jennings says, giving Mrs. Westwood a supportive little thump on the back - making her immediately jump in startlement. Startle? Uh... Whatever word it is. The word that means you just got startled. Jennings shoots us a look that says this isn't over before following Torres out.

Anderson lingers for a moment, his gaze lingering on Jordan. "Take care of yourselves," he says, before turning to follow the agents. The door closes with a soft click, leaving us in a silence that's anything but peaceful. Mrs. Westwood stands there, her frustration palpable, but clearly satisfied to some extent with the outcome.

She turns to Jordan, her face already beginning to shift and warp into something almost inhuman.

"You've thrown everything away, Avery," Mrs. Westwood accuses, her voice rising with each word. "I've sacrificed everything to raise you, and this is how you repay me?" Jordan's face twists in discomfort every time she says the unwelcome name, like she's spitting out something sour.

Jordan's eyes flash, a storm brewing beneath the surface. "It's Jordan, and you haven't sacrificed anything for me. Where were you when I needed you?" their voice cracks, a raw edge of long-buried pain surfacing. "Where were you when I broke my leg playing little league? You paid the hospital bills and left."

Mrs. Westwood's words are sharp, each one cutting deeper into Jordan. "You're wasting your life, Avery! I raised you better than this."

Jordan's face is a mask of frustration. "I told you, it's Jordan! And what life? You were never there. Remember my tenth birthday? You forgot to even come home."

Mrs. Westwood falters, but recovers quickly. "I was working two jobs to keep us afloat. You think that was easy for me?"

Jordan's laugh is bitter. "Working? More like leaving me alone every night. What about when I sprained my arm and you didn't even notice for days?"

The argument escalates, each barb laced with years of resentment. "I did everything for you!" Mrs. Westwood shouts.

Jordan shakes their head. "No, you didn't. You made me fend for myself. Always. You didn't even notice when I was locked in your car trunk and nearly suffocated."

Mrs. Westwood's face pales. "That... that was an accident."

Jordan's voice rises. "An accident you didn't even realize happened until I told you!"

Mrs. Westwood scoffs, "I made you strong, independent."

Jordan laughs bitterly, "Strong? You didn't even notice I was gone. Don't pretend like it was some sort of fucked up training. I was a stupid kid and I wanted you to notice that I had ran away and instead I was just in the fucking cold and I couldn't breathe and I almost died. Sam's mom has been more of a mom to me than you ever have and I've met her for maybe five minutes total!"

Her words seem to hit Mrs. Westwood like a physical blow, her face contorts with a mix of anger and disbelief. "You're exaggerating, as always."

"I'm not!" Jordan's voice is a mix of anger and desperation. "And it was in that trunk that I... that I got these powers. And you didn't even notice until weeks ago. Some mother you are."

Spinelli steps forward, but I hold him back, raising my hand. It's not his fight, and it's not my fight either.

Mrs. Westwood's defense crumbles, revealing a glimpse of vulnerability. "I did what I had to do. To survive. To keep us afloat. You don't understand what it's like when the dick that made you walks out on you! I did what I had to do!" she shrieks, her face getting redder and redder into the stratosphere.

Jordan's laugh is hollow, "By ignoring your child? You never cared about me. You just want the money you think I have."

The argument spirals, years of resentment and hurt spilling out in a torrent of words. It's like watching a dam break, the flood of emotions unstoppable.

Mrs. Westwood tries to regain control, but it's clear she's lost. "You'll regret this, Avery. You'll come crawling back. And when you do, I'll have changed the locks. You're not my child anymore. Maybe you never were."

"It's Jordan," they spit back. "And I won't. I'd rather live on the streets than with someone who couldn't even pretend to care. The feeling is mutual. You're not my mom anymore, and you never were."

The finality in Jordan's voice is unmistakable. Mrs. Westwood stands there, defeated and alone. Her eyes are a mix of anger, confusion, and something that might be regret.

She turns to leave, her steps heavy, the door closing behind her with a finality that echoes in the empty space she leaves behind.

We stand there in silence, the weight of the confrontation pressing down on us. Spinelli breaks the silence, his voice hesitant. "Is... is everything okay?"

Jordan's shoulders slump, the adrenaline leaving their body in a visible wave. "Yeah. It's over. She's gone."

I step forward, putting a hand on their shoulder. "You okay?"

Jordan looks at me, their eyes tired but clear. They smile, and then collapse onto the front steps. "I'll live."