The day after the confrontation with Mrs. Westwood, the streets of Tacony are a sludgey, slushy mess as I trudge through them. Jordan's next to me, silent, their thoughts probably miles away. We're both just walking automatons, replaying the recent events in our heads. The cold bites at my cheeks, but I barely notice it. Everything feels a bit numb after yesterday.

As we reach the Tacony Music Hall, the building looms over us, a silent behemoth that's become our refuge. Climbing the stairs feels more arduous than usual, every step heavy with the weight of what's happened.

We finally reach the main room on the second floor. It's quiet, too quiet, the kind of quiet that screams in your ears. I collapse onto my favorite rickety chair, its familiar creaks a small comfort. Jordan flops down onto the couch, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"Any luck, Spinelli?" I ask, my voice echoing slightly in the vast space. We had tasked him with trying to contact the owner of this place, hoping we could get permission to stay here legally.

Spinelli looks up from a pile of papers and an old laptop that's seen better days. His face is a mix of frustration and helplessness. "Nope, nada. It's like trying to find a needle in a haystack, except the needle might not even exist," he says, pushing his hair back.

I sigh, leaning back in the chair. It's not surprising, but it's still disappointing. The whole situation feels like a ticking time bomb, and we're just waiting for it to go off.

Jordan finally sits up, rubbing their face with their hands. "We can't give up. There has to be someone, some record of who owns this place," they say, determination lacing their voice.

"Yeah, but where do we even start? It's not like the owner's going to just waltz in and introduce themselves," Spinelli replies, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

I glance around the room, at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through the cracked windows. This place, for all its dilapidation, has become a home of sorts. Losing it now would be another blow, one I'm not sure I can take. Like, emotionally.

"We keep looking. We have to," I state firmly, more to convince myself than them. "We've been through worse. We can handle this."

Spinelli nods, though I can tell his heart's not in it. Jordan just stares at the floor, lost in thought.

Jordan pulls out a wad of mixed bills, counting methodically. "We've got about thirteen grand from our… night jobs. Should cover a couple of months' rent, if we find the owner."

The idea of actually paying for this place feels weirdly formal, but necessary. It's a sign we're trying to do things right, despite the… the sticky situation we're in. I'm under no illusions that we've actually managed to stop Mrs. Westwood. I'm sure she's going to try to keep making our lives hell, even if she does it from the sidelines.

"I've been thinking," I start, surprising myself with the words that follow. "Maybe we don’t need to contact the owner. Squatter's rights in Philly are a thing, right?"

Jordan looks at me, eyebrows raised. "Sam, going rogue? I'm rubbing off on you."

I shrug, feeling a mix of uncertainty and defiance. "Maybe. But it's practical, right? We need a base, and we're making this place better than it was."

"Legality versus necessity, huh?" Jordan muses, leaning back against the wall, their gaze distant. "Never thought we'd be debating squatter's rights in our superhero gig."

I fiddle with a loose thread on the couch, my thoughts jumbled. "It's not ideal, but what choice do we have? It's not like we can just waltz into an apartment complex and sign a lease."

Spinelli pipes up from his spot on the floor, his voice tinged with a simple honesty. "Why not? We got money, we got IDs. Can't be that hard, right?"

Jordan chuckles dryly. "Spinelli, my man, ever heard of credit checks? Rental history? Plus, we're minors."

I nod, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement at Spinelli's straightforward view. "Jordan's right. And there's also the fact that we're, you know, vigilantes. Not exactly the sort of tenants landlords dream of."

"So, what, we just claim squatter's rights and hope for the best?" Jordan asks, skepticism clear in their voice.

"Well, it's either that or keep moving from one abandoned building to another," I point out. "At least here, we've made it… livable."

Spinelli looks between us, his expression earnest. "I like it here. Feels like a superhero base, you know? Like in the comics."

Jordan sighs, running a hand through their hair. "I get it. It's just… this isn't exactly how I pictured living the vigilante life. Hiding in a rundown music hall, dodging the law. I'd rather just find the guy and know whether or not I can stay here. I don't like… transitory states."

"Nice five dollar word. Studying for your SATs?" I let out a small laugh, despite the situation. "Welcome to the glamorous life of a superhero, right? Fighting crime by night, discussing property law by day."

"Yeah, I am, actually. School's like my one out for this. You know how much they pay vigilantes? Bupkis," Jordan teases, flicking the air in a clearly telegraphed threat to flick my nose or my forehead again.

Our discussion is suddenly interrupted by a sharp knock on the front door, the sound echoing through the hollow halls of the music hall. We all freeze for a moment, the air going icy. Jordan's the first to break the stillness, pushing themselves up from their slouched position.

"I'll get it," Jordan says, their voice carrying a hint of forced casualness. They stride purposefully towards the stairs, each step echoing with a mix of apprehension and determination. The rest of us exchange wary glances, the unexpected visitor stirring a sense of unease. Who could it be at this hour, especially after the events of the past few days?

I mean, it's probably the agents with a warrant. I'm not stupid.

Jordan's shout from downstairs pierces the quiet hum of our makeshift living room. "It's one of the agents from yesterday," they call up, tension tightening their voice. My heart skips a beat. Yesterday's encounter with Mrs. Westwood and the NSRA agents still hangs over us like a dark cloud. "Just one!"

Spinelli and I exchange a look, a silent agreement passing between us. We can't ignore this; there's no running from what might be on the other side of that door. We make our way down the creaky stairs, each step echoing with age and fear.

Peering through the peephole, muscling Jordan aside, I see him — Agent Torres, standing alone, his expression unreadable. I look around, trying to see the other one - Agent Jennings - or even sort of half-expecting to see Mr. Polygraph and "Agent Evans", but, no. It's just Agent Torres.

"Should we let him in?" Jordan's voice is laced with caution, their hand hovering over the door handle.

I nod, despite the unease twisting in my stomach. We need to face whatever this is, head-on. Jordan opens the door, and Torres steps inside, his eyes scanning the entryway quickly, likely a professional habit. As Agent Torres steps into the dimly lit room, he quickly flicks his gaze to each of our faces in turn, each of us wary and uncertain. He clears his throat, breaking the silence that had settled over us like snowfall.

"I'm here on my own accord, off the record" he begins, his voice steady but tinged with a sense of urgency. "What happened yesterday… it didn't sit right with me. My partner let personal pride get in the way of national security. That's… not great."

Jordan, arms crossed, leans against the bannister, skepticism written all over their face. "So, what? You're here to apologize?"

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Torres shakes his head. "It's more than that. I'm not comfortable with how Jennings handled things. But," he adds quickly, "this doesn't mean I'm backing down from the legal issues regarding Diane's will."

I grip the edge of the stair's railings, my knuckles turning white. "So, what does it mean, then?"

He reaches into his coat, producing a sealed manila envelope. "This is about something bigger." He hands me the envelope, and I feel the weight of it in my hands — it's more than just paper. I mean that literally - there's more than paper in it.

"This contains files on Chernobyl and security footage from Miasma's raid," Torres explains. "Consider it a gesture of goodwill. Or a mutual understanding. I'm not exactly a fan of Mr. Pleasants, given his history in handling sensitive operations, but I don't believe he killed those men."

I cautiously open the envelope, revealing its contents. Documents, photographs, and a USB cart lie inside. It's a treasure trove of information, stuff Diane… had mostly already figured out. The photographs are new, though, and the cart of, presumably, footage, is welcome information.

"Yoink, I'll take that," Jordan quips, snatching the cart out of my hands while I look it over. "I'm not letting this run unsandboxed."

Whatever that means.

"Mr. Torres," Spinelli starts, "you do realize this could get you into serious trouble? Right?"

Torres nods, a grim expression on his face. "I'm aware. But sometimes, doing the right thing isn't about following orders. It's about making the hard choices. When I became an agent of the NSRA, I swore an oath to this country, and I'm doing what I think is best for her future."

We exchange glances, each of us processing this unexpected alliance. Jordan steps forward, a newfound respect in their eyes, but skepticism in their eyebrows. "Thanks, I guess. For trusting us with this."

Torres gives a slight nod, his gaze lingering on the envelope in my hands. "Just remember, we're not exactly on the same side. But for now, our interests align." He looks at us, his gaze lingering a moment longer on me. "I could be fired for this, or worse," he admits, a hint of seriousness in his tone. "But I believe it's the right thing to do. May I come in?"

With a wary mix of begrudgingness and acceptance, the four of us trod our way up the freshly carpeted stairs, Agent Torres' dress shoes clacking against the surfaces. We lead him into the main room, our base of operations, still cluttered with our haphazard attempts at making it a home. He takes it all in, his expression a mix of surprise and something like respect. "Impressive," he comments, a hint of genuine admiration in his voice. It feels weird, receiving praise from an NSRA agent, but I'll take it.

"May I?" he asks, gesturing to a chair. We nod, and he sits, his posture still maintaining that professional edge. "This is quite exceptional work given the resources I'm assuming you're working with. Don't tell me about any illicit funding, I'm not sure I'm allowed to hear it."

Jordan and I share a glance. I decide not to mention Councilman Jamal illicitly feeding us his scraps. "Okay, I won't," Jordan says, earning a small, un-sincere sounding chuckle from Agent Torres.

Jordan stands in front of the corkboard, a physical map of our investigation into the Kingdom. Pushpins and strings connect various names and locations. "This is what we've been working on," Jordan begins, pointing to a photograph pinned at the center. "The Kingdom has been operating through shell companies like Harbinger Holdings and Eclipse Enterprises. We've tracked their activities, but it's a deep rabbit hole."

Torres steps closer, his eyes scanning the board. "Impressive work. I recognize some of these connections. You've dug up a few leads we haven't."

"We cross-referenced public records, news articles, anything we could get our hands on," Jordan continues, tracing a line of string to another section of the board. "Here, we linked a series of warehouse leases to one of their fronts. And this," Jordan taps a picture of a nondescript building, "is where we hit pay dirt on Halloween night."

Torres raises his eyebrows. "What happened there?"

"We caught them red-handed," I chime in, feeling a mix of pride and apprehension. "Jordan recorded it."

Jordan nods, pulling up the video on their laptop. "This might be hard to watch, but it's crucial you see it."

It's gritty, shaky footage, but the content is explosive. Mr. Polygraph, commanding the room, his threats and instructions crystal clear. The Kingdom's interest in Chernobyl is particularly alarming. Torres watches intently, his expression growing more grave by the second.

The video ends, and the room falls silent. Torres finally speaks, "This is… significant. Their interest in Chernobyl, that was known information from our leads with the Delaware Valley Defenders, but having it captured on video, this is great grist for the investigation. The hardest part is always catching them, and you just have… You just have them talking about it. Admitting to several crimes, violating federal anti-superhuman-conspiracy statutes… This is really great stuff."

Jordan leans back, a mix of pride and anxiety on their face. "We're not just playing dress-up here, Agent Torres."

"Clearly," he replies, glancing around the room.

Spinelli, usually the one to lighten the mood, remains quiet, his gaze fixed on Torres. The seriousness of the situation seems to weigh on him more than usual.

I look at Torres, trying to read his thoughts. "So, what now?" I ask, my voice steady despite the storm of emotions inside me.

Torres takes a deep breath, his duty as an agent warring with the revelations he's just seen. "When I joined the NSRA, I swore to protect this country," he starts, his voice firm. "And right now, that means working with you to stop whatever the Kingdom is planning."

Spinelli, suddenly inspired, scrambles for his phone. "Wait, wait, check this out," he says, swiping through his gallery. He holds up the screen to Torres. It's the picture of Mr. Polygraph and someone we were told was "Agent Evans" at the NSRA office - the picture I took. I feel a thrill of fear and pride run through me at once. It's a weird combination of emotions.

Torres squints at the image. "That's… the same man from the video."

"Mr. Polygraph," I clarify. "They're all Mr. and Mrs. whatever. I think it's their weird supervillain gimmick."

Jordan joins in. "They introduced themselves as Agent Parker and Agent Evans. But it's the same guy from the warehouse, right?"

Torres nods slowly, processing this. "I can't confirm agents by those names right now, but when I get back to the office, I can check our internal database. If they're not listed, it's a major violation. Impersonating an NSRA agent is no small crime."

"Frankly, if they are listed, I think you guys have a bigger problem on your hands," Jordan cracks. "Because then you have NSRA agents that are also members of a major criminal organization, that we've seen kill people."

Agent Torres' face blanches. "Yeah. I don't think that'd be great," he says, taking in the implication. "You saw him kill someone?"

I breathe out, a sudden wave of nausea overtaking me. My eyes clench shut. "Yeah," I say.

Jordan leans in, a glint of grim satisfaction in their eyes. "So, what you're saying is, we've got something that can put this guy away for good?"

Torres nods, his expression grave. "It could be a significant blow to their activities, at least in this area. But we need more than just this. We need concrete evidence, something undeniable. And something not caught illegally. We'll need to do some parallel construction work…" he says, starting to mumble to himself.

"That's where Chernobyl comes in," I say, a plan forming in my mind. "If we can catch him, get him to testify against the Kingdom, it could be the break we've been looking for."

Spinelli chimes in, his usual demeanor replaced by a dead serious tone. "And we need to do it fast. Who knows what kind of damage Chernobyl and the Kingdom can do if they're left unchecked."

Torres leans back in his chair, and then leans forward again, but just with his upper half, pressing his fingertips together. "Yeah. We've been leaving Chernobyl alone for now, since, as you might be able to guess, agitating someone that could turn Philadelphia into an exclusion zone for centuries is generally not on our to-do list. But if they're trying to get to him first, to recruit him to their cause… well, Chernobyl isn't exactly known for his fiscal responsibility."

"He's not?" I ask, feeling my heart drop. Is Torres about to lie to our face about how Chernobyl gets his funding, or is he simply uninformed? Or, another possibility arises in the back of my throat - was Chernobyl lying to Diane, making my phone footage worthless? I don't really like either idea.

"We're not exactly sure where he gets the funding to continue his criminal activities. You know, even just at the base level, how he gets food, drink, shelter. I--" Agent Torres begins, but I raise a hand to stop him.

"Agent Torres, are you willing to trust me?" I ask.

"No," he replies, bluntly.

My face deflates. It was gonna be really cool! "Well… can I make a small request of you?"

"I can't guarantee anything," he replies.

"If you could prick your finger with a push-pin or something, then I could smell your heartbeat and it would let me see if you're… telling lies or not. Just because we have some of our own intel on Chernobyl that doesn't exactly sync up. I mean. That was my thought, anyway," I explain, rubbing the back of my head with my hand.

"You can do that?" Spinelli asks, awed.

"Yes," I lie. I mean, not a total lie. I can probably do that.

Agent Torres can't help but smirk. "I appreciate your gusto. Part of my training, unfortunately, includes keeping my emotions calm under duress. Polygraphs, ha ha, are notoriously unreliable, and I've got my doubt that your powers would give you any particularly stronger insight," he says, taking the wind out of my sails. My shoulders sag a little bit.

"Damnit," I mumble.

"I mean, I'd do it anyway, if it'd help earn your trust. I just have my doubts about the efficacy of your technique," he continues.

I wave him away. "No, no, it's fine. You're right. Wouldn't give me anything useful, probably."

There's a couple of seconds of uncomfortable silence, something I've grown increasingly accustomed to.

Torres breaks it. "You mentioned you have different intel?"

"Just about his funding sources. Stuff in Diane's notes. I figured the NSRA would know how he gets his money to, like, live," I explain, not revealing my ace in the hole just yet.

"No," he says, his expression souring. "As much as I'd love to strong-arm you into telling me what you know, I have a feeling that doing so wouldn't be in either of our mutual interests,"

"Don't even think about it, fed boy," Jordan teases, making one of those camera viewfinder rectangle things with their fingers. Like, when you make an L with both hands, index and thumb, and then put them together so they make a rectangle.