The city blurs past the taxi windows, a shifting mosaic of neighborhoods and vibes that morphs so fast it makes my head spin. It's like Philly can't decide what it wants to be, each block an argument with the next. We're heading through North Philly now, and it's like you can feel the buildings leaning in, eavesdropping on our cab-ride therapy session.

"So, what, you were like, bitten by a radioactive dog or something?" I tease, trying to lighten the mood. Derek just rolls his eyes at me.

"If I wanted to make small talk about it, Sam, I'd have brought it up in group," he snaps, his voice a mix of irritation and something I can't place—shame, maybe? "We're on a strict no tragic backstory rule."

The driver, an older guy with a face that's seen it all and then some, catches my eye in the rearview mirror. He gives me a 'hang in there, kid' look before returning his attention to the road.

We leave the familiar terrain of North Philly behind, the dense residential blocks gradually giving way to the open expanse of the city's heart. Center City unfolds before us with its towering skyscrapers and bustling streets, quite different from the neighborhoods we've just passed through.

"You weren't like, stalking me, were you?" I ask, half-joking, but with a bite to it because, come on, that's creepy.

Derek snorts. "Please. You think I've got nothing better to do? It's just your scent—it's pretty distinctive. Plus, I only started following when I noticed you were heading my way."

"Distinctive, huh? Is that a nice way of saying I stink?"

He shrugs, unapologetic. "I have never smelt anyone who has smelt more like they are on the rag than you."

I smack him in the shoulder. "What the fuck does that... What do you,"

"You smell like blood all the time, dude!" Derek shoots back.

We weave through the arteries of Center City, where the heartbeat of Philadelphia pulses strongest. The cab slips past the grandeur of city hall, tourists milling around, taking advantage of the good weather. Derek stares at them to avoid looking at me, and I could swear he is imagining each one of them exploding like a pimple. There's nothing but disdain on his face.

"Why'd you pick me, anyway?" I ask, glancing sideways at him. "Why not go to one of the adults in the group?"

He looks at me like I've grown an extra head. "Come on, Sam. You're the one with the superhero gig. Plus, you're a scrapper. I've seen how you talk about your gym training. Your "sparring". You love that stuff. The others are just… trying to cope."

"And what, the real superheroes weren't on your call list?" I jab back, my curiosity spiked. I chew on the idea that the other people not might want to get involved in the first place like it's a word in a foreign language. The idea of not coming to someone's beck and call when they need someone to throw a punch, or even just to help them... it feels weird to me. Alien. Almost sour.

He scoffs, a bitter edge to his laugh. "What, you mean go to a cop? Someone who'll just slap cuffs on Elias the second he steps out of line? No, thanks."

Every question I throw at him comes back like a boomerang, his frustrations mounting with each exchange. The tension in the cab is thick enough to chew. But despite his annoyance, there's a crackle of something else between us—an understanding, maybe, or the start of one. Our questions volley back and forth, sharp as knives, until it's clear he's barreling toward the end of his tether.

Our cab driver deftly weaves through the traffic, his experienced hands guiding us past the streams of pedestrians and cyclists. In the rearview mirror, his eyes meet mine, a silent acknowledgment of the city's pulse that thrums around us – vibrant, relentless, ever-moving.

Derek leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, I need someone who gets it, who knows what it's like to walk the line between freak and hero. And I need it now, not after he's finished his dirty work."

I let out a sigh, a mix of exasperation and resolve. "Fine. But after this, Derek, you owe me one."

He gives me a nod, the closest thing to an agreement we're going to get. I don't even know why I said that. He doesn't owe me a thing - this is just part and parcel of the job of being a superhero. But man, does he make me want to disagree with him at every turn.

I look out the window, watching as the sun begins to slowly, slowly sink, the evening creeping in with a chilly embrace. I think of the night ahead, the unknowns waiting for us. My stomach twists with a cocktail of nerves and excitement, but there's something else there too—a sense of purpose. This is my city, and people need help.

The taxi slows to a stop at a red light, and Derek leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Look, this isn't easy for me, okay? I didn't want to drag you into this mess, but here we are. So, I'm going to explain—"

He pauses, his voice dropping to a growl. "But if I even get a whiff of you calling the cops," he directs the threat to the taxi driver, "I'm going to kick your ass."

The driver, who hasn't said more than two words since we got in, chuckles—a sound that somehow contains a world of experience. "Don't worry, my friends," he says, his accent warm and thick. "Secret's safe with me."

The light flickers green, and we're moving again, the cityscape a blur of motion outside the taxi windows. I can tell Derek's gathering his thoughts, probably trying to frame it in a way that makes sense—or at least, as much sense as anything in our lives can make.

"So here's the thing," he begins, his voice low and even. "So, Elias, he's my buddy, right? We go way back," Derek says, running a hand through his fluorescent hair, the last rays of the setting sun igniting the orange into a blaze. "He's got a chip on his shoulder the size of a car, especially when it comes to the system. The healthcare system, specifically. And he's got into some stuff that's... I don't know, it's bad news."

I glance at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for him to connect the dots. "How do you mean, 'bad news'?"

The cab driver, with a knowing tilt of his head, maneuvers the car back into the flowing veins of the city, the sounds of traffic a dull roar outside the sealed windows. Derek sinks back into his seat, glancing out of the window briefly before he turns to me, his expression grim.

"He got his hands on something... I don't know what." Derek continues, his hands clenched tight, knuckles pale. "Gave him powers. Real Frankenstein's monster type stuff. And now he's got it in his head to go and wreck the IBC offices. As some kind of payback. 'Cuz they kept denying his insurance claims."

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"IBC? As in the health insurance guys?" I say, trying to keep the incredulity out of my voice.

"Yeah, those are the ones. He's gonna go there and—how did he put it—'fuck shit up' with his brand new superpowers." He shakes his head. "They wouldn't pay for a new wheelchair and now he wants to bust up their office. Great. Great system we've got working here."

I lean away from him, cradling myself on the car. "And you're sure he's going to escalate? From property damage to—"

"Murder? Yeah, it's only a matter of time. He's angry, Sam. Like, deep-in-your-bones angry. And he's convinced that tearing down IBC is just the beginning. It's like he's got a vendetta against the world and now he's got the arsenal to do something about it."

I shake my head. "Derek, you're not exactly Mister Sunshine and Rainbows yourself. Why the sudden conscience?"

He meets my gaze, and there's a storm behind his eyes. "Look, I'm an asshole. I'm the first to admit it. But being an asshole means wanting to be left alone, not becoming a criminal. Elias is heading down a path I can't follow. And I don't know about you, but I'm not keen on seeing my one friend go postal on the six o'clock news."

"You've got a heart after all, Derek. Who would've thought?" I tease, letting the words hang in the air between us for a moment. Then, I spend a solid sixty seconds chewing on everything I just heard, and try to swallow my apprehension. "So he's on something? Like a drug?"

"Yeah," Derek nods. "And it's messing with his head. He used to be about beating the system, not blowing it up. He tried to give me some too but I've already got powers and he knew it. I don't know if you're allowed to have, like, two of those."

I chew on the inside of my cheek, thinking. "And it gave him superpowers?"

It has to be Fly.

"He's like a walking zoo now, dawg. He's all patched up, bits and pieces of different animals. Kept bugging me to go bite shit with him."

"Charming," I reply, rolling my eyes. "So what's the play here? We gonna wrap him up in a bear hug and talk about our feelings?"

He shrugs, the creases of worry back on his brow. "I don't know, Sam. I just know we've got to stop him before someone gets hurt. Before he can't come back from whatever edge he's on. I'll knock him the fuck out if I have to."

I nod, letting the joke die in the growing seriousness of it all. This isn't the time for quips—at least, not entirely. There's a thread of hope, though, that maybe we can pull Elias back. Even if he's a patchwork of animal parts and bad decisions, he's still a person underneath it all. And isn't that what heroes do? Save people?

"Alright, Derek," I say, a little more softly. "We'll figure it out. We'll help Elias. And hey, if we run into trouble, maybe your werewolf thing can come in handy."

He raises an eyebrow, but there's a reluctant smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "I'll hold you to that. Just, you know, let's not make a habit out of this."

"Deal," I reply. "One-time team-up. Superhero and the sidekick werewolf."

"I'm nobody's sidekick," he grumbles, and I can't help but laugh.

"Yeah, sure," I say, patting his shoulder. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Fido."

He just shakes his head, but I can tell the ice has cracked. We're in this together now, for better or for worse. But as we drive on, cutting through the heart of Philadelphia, I can't shake the feeling that we're speeding towards something that might be bigger than either one of us is ready to handle.

As we draw closer to the Independence Blue Cross building, a kaleidoscope of blue and red lights casts a disquieting glow over the façades of adjacent storefronts. There's a growing chorus of sirens, each wail a growing warning of the chaos that's threatening to unfurl. My stomach tightens as I lean forward to peer through the taxi's windshield, catching the glimpse of police officers setting up a perimeter.

"Yo, driver, can you drop us off a couple of streets down?" I ask, trying to sound calm despite the jitters that are beginning to gnaw at the edges of my resolve.

The taxi driver nods, a look of understanding on his face, and pulls over to the side. The car comes to a halt in the shadow of an alleyway that looks like it's seen better days, but it'll do for a superhero quick change.

Derek hands over a wad of crumpled bills to the driver without saying a word, and we slide out of the taxi and into the gritty embrace of the alley. The taxi pulls away, leaving us alone with the echoes of the city.

I reach into my bookbag and pull out the new mask. It's been waiting for this moment, a sleek, wolf-like visage of armor and purpose. Slipping it on feels like shrugging into a second skin, one that's tougher, more resilient. It fits snugly, shaped to my features like it knows the curve of my jaw, the furrow of my brow. I don't have the full get-up, but the essentials are there in my bag—the elbow and knee pads, the hardened knuckle gloves with slots for the teeth to fit through. Behind a rusted dumpster that smells like it's composting its own ecosystem, I suit up.

"You coming with?" I glance at Derek, whose eyes are scanning the alley like he's expecting trouble to leap out from the shadows.

He shoots me a look that's half-insulted, half-exasperated. "Of course I'm coming with. You think I'd leave you to handle this by yourself?"

"I don't know, thought you might want to avoid a fur-filled rampage in public." I shrug, adjusting the straps on my knee pads.

Derek grunts and pulls a ski mask from his pocket, stretching it over his head. It fits him like a bad cliche—robber chic.

I rummage around in my bag and find my old mask, the one that's seen more battles than I'd like to admit. I toss it to Derek. "Here, wear this instead. You look less like you're about to knock over a liquor store."

He catches the mask, turning it over in his hands. "And more like a budget sidekick?"

"Hey, it's better than looking like every cop's most wanted," I quip, and there's a reluctant chuckle from under the ski mask.

We gear up in silence, each of us lost in our own thoughts about what's waiting for us inside that building. I can't help but feel a rush at the thought of the action to come, the chance to make things right. But it's tempered by the knowledge that lives are at stake, that the next few hours could change everything. Derek adjusts the old mask I've given him, looking at his reflection in a grimy puddle. It's surreal, him in my cast-offs, both of us about to dive headlong into whatever mess Elias has made.

But there's no time for second-guessing. We move out of the alley, shadows among shadows, as the sun dips lower, dragging the day down with it. Two hours. Should be a piece of cake.

"What's the plan for getting past the cops, oh mighty leader?" Derek mutters, a hint of skepticism lacing his voice as we peer at the scattered police cars stationed like steel guards around the IBC building. The setting sun casts long shadows, painting the scene in a dim, otherworldly light.

I give him a side glance, a smirk tugging at the edge of my mask. "Oh ye of little faith," I chide. "We walk right past them, simple as that."

He raises an eyebrow at me, not entirely convinced, but he's smart enough to follow my lead. We stride toward the police line with the kind of feigned confidence that comes with wearing a mask—my mask. The officers shift, hands hovering near holsters and radios, as we approach.

"Halt! Scene's closed!" one of the cops steps forward, his hand outstretched in a "who goes there" sort of gesture. Or a "stop and I'll shoot" sort of gesture.

"I'm Bloodhound with the Young Defenders," I announce, trying to project every ounce of authority my fifteen-year-old voice can muster. "And this is my provisional member, uh..."

"Fenrir," Derek cuts in with a barely contained snort. I'm not sure if it's laughter or disdain, but it's a snort alright.

The cop's stern demeanor falters for a moment, replaced by a flicker of recognition. "They sent the kids this time?" he asks, even as he holds the line with a firm hand.

"Shit's busy," Derek says with minimal interruption. "We were in the area and saw the lights. What's the situation?"

The officer hesitates, exchanging looks with his colleagues before he explains, "The building's mostly clear, outside of the security guards. But they're all down—knocked out. Some... bear thing is tearing the place apart."

Without missing a beat, I cut in. "Call off anyone you've sent in. Give me a radio, and we'll take care of it. If I need backup, I'll radio for it. No need to risk the lives of our boys in blue."

There's a murmur of concern among the officers, but they know better than to argue with a superhero. Which is really strange, given that I'm a child, but I guess Derek being six foot seven makes it seem like I'm just short. One of them hands me a radio, and with a nod of thanks, Derek and I slip past the police tape and into the mangled jaws of the IBC lobby. As we move deeper into the chaos, Derek's voice is soft but tinged with disbelief. "I gotta say, I'm both impressed and kinda disgusted. You're an 'official superhero' working with the cops?"

I roll my eyes, though the gesture is lost behind my mask. "Don't start with that, Derek. It's not about being a cop; it's about doing what's right. And right now, that means stopping whatever the hell Elias has turned into before he hurts anyone else."

"Fine, fine," he concedes with a dramatic sigh. "Just don't shoot him. We've played that song and dance before."

"I don't use guns," I say, trying to make my sincerity as clear as possible.