The train rumbled under them like distant thunder.
Cal leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes low beneath his hood. The car rocked with a slow metallic rhythm. A kid played music too loud through a phone speaker. Across from them, an older man slept with his head against the window, his mouth slightly open.
"We can take the A to Broadway Junction," Cal said, speaking in her head. "Cut across faster."
Amber kept her gaze on the scratched-up window beside her. Their reflections flickered in the passing dark.
"If you want to get there by morning," she said. "The A's been ghosting all week. We'll take the L, transfer at Sixth."
Cal didn't answer. His leg bounced once and stopped.
"You know," she added, "for a guy who breaks faces for a living, you complain a lot when it's your route that gets vetoed."
He smirked. Just barely. "I don't break faces for a living."
She turned her head toward him, finally. "Sure. You do it recreationally."
The train hissed as it pulled into the station. They rose together when the doors opened.
---
The alley behind the bar reeked of piss and fryer oil. The biker stumbled out through a rusted metal door, still holding a bottle. Leather vest. Gang patch on the back. He muttered something about the line being too long and motioned lazily toward the woman waiting by the car, dressed in fishnets and a fake fur coat.
Cal caught him just as he started fumbling with his zipper.
He slammed him against the brick wall, one hand wrapped around the front of his vest.
"Inside voice," Cal said. "You raise it, I lower your jaw."
The biker blinked. His breath stank. "Hey, hey, I don't want trouble."
"Henry Mire. You know the name?"
A flicker of something crossed the man's face. Then he nodded too eagerly. "Yeah. I know him. Can take you to him, even. Just—"
He's lying, Amber said in Cal's head.
Cal didn't move.
He's thinking about his bike. And getting us off his ass. He doesn't know a damn thing.
Cal tightened his grip. The biker's boots scraped against the pavement.
He's not worth it, Amber added. Her voice was quieter this time. Closer. You hurt him now, you're just doing it to hurt him. That the kind of hero you want to be?
Cal stared at the biker's face. He was sweating hard now.
Then Cal let him go.
The man crumpled against the wall, swearing under his breath. Cal turned and walked away.
Amber dropped down from the dumpster edge behind them, boots hitting pavement soft.
"You said you wouldn't read me without permission," Cal said.
"I didn't pry," she replied. "You're feelings were just loud."
Cal gave her a skeptical look before gesturing for them to leave.
---
The next few nights blurred. Three more false leads. A dozen mouths with nothing real to say. Amber stopped bothering to write things down.
The break came from a kid who owed the wrong people too much. Cal rescuing him from a beating from those wrong people. He mentioned a guy who could rot steel with a touch, holed up in a Queens warehouse with backup. Said his name came up in the same breath as Henry's—maybe worked for him. Maybe sold for him.
It was enough.
---
The second floor of the warehouse was quiet now, except for Cal's boots crunching over shell casings and broken glass.
The powered man stood by a heavy metal desk. It was half-rotted through—one side curled and flaking like dead bark. He placed a palm flat against it.
The corrosion spread. Orange veins bloomed outward with a hiss.
"You like that?" the man said, grinning. His front teeth were gray. "Anything I touch goes like that. Rot. Rust. Doesn't matter. You think your skin's any different, Undead Man?"
Cal didn't answer.
He's bluffing, Amber said from outside. She crouched on top of a dumpster across the alley, eyes closed and mind reaching out. He just thought, 'Please let this bluff work.'
Cal stepped forward.
The man didn't grin anymore.
---
The fight was short. Loud, then quiet again.
Cal stepped out of the warehouse with blood on his sleeves and soot on his collar. He leaned against the wall beside the exit and let out a slow breath.
Amber met him there.
"He didn't know where Henry was," Cal said. "He gave me the name of a club that might have useful information. A paranoid owner keeps info for blackmail."
"Still a lead," she said.
Cal stared at the concrete. "This many powered people showing up this fast—Brutus, Henry, that guy, me, you…"
He trailed off.
"It's not nothing," Amber said.
He looked over at her. "You don't think it could be random?"
"I think we're past random."
They stood in silence a moment longer, watching the alley breathe around them.
—
It was late by the time Ryan left the warehouse, the city lights flickering on as the night settled in. Ryan pulled his hoodie tighter around himself, his breath misting in the cool air. He made his way to a secluded rooftop, the one he'd claimed as his own, and stood on the edge, looking out over the city.
He could see them, the people below, moving like ants, unaware of the dangers that lurked in the shadows. Dangers that he was now equipped to handle.
He thought of Cal, of the look on his face when he'd told Ryan to stay out of it, to let him handle things alone. That wouldn't happen again. Next time, when he stood by Cal's side, he would be more than ready.
His eyes narrowed as he spotted movement in a dark alley below. A group of men, four or five, surrounding someone. Ryan felt his pulse quicken, the familiar rush of adrenaline.
He leaped off the roof, landing silently in the alley. The men looked up, startled, their hands reaching for weapons. Ryan straightened, his voice casual but dripping with sarcasm.
"Well, well, well. Looks like I'm just in time for the party."
One of them sneered, pulling a knife. "Who the hell are you?"
Ryan smirked, tilting his head. "Just a guy who hates missing a good time."
The man lunged, the blade glinting in the dim light. Ryan didn't move, letting the knife connect with his arm. The blade snapped, the pieces clattering to the ground. The thug stared in shock, his eyes wide.
Ryan raised an eyebrow. "Shit! Sorry, I broke your knife. You want to grab a new one and try again?"
Without waiting for an answer, he grabbed the man by the collar, lifting him off his feet and slamming him into the wall. The others backed away, fear in their eyes. Ryan glanced at them, a wicked grin spreading across his face.
"You know, you guys really should have brought more than party favors."
The man in his grip struggled, gasping for air. Ryan leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Here's a tip: Next time, pick a safer hobby."
He threw the man to the ground, turning his attention to the others, who were already bolting down the alley. He let them go, his heart still racing, the thrill still coursing through him.
He glanced down at his hands, his knuckles still unmarred, his skin untouched. He could feel the power, the control, and it was intoxicating.
He looked back at the man, still lying on the ground, gasping for air. For a moment, Ryan considered going back, finishing what he started. He pictured Cal's disapproving look.
He shook his head, turning away, the man's gasping breaths following him as he disappeared into the night.
---
Back in his apartment, Ryan stood in front of his board, the one covered in articles and notes about Cal's recent activities. He traced a finger over a photo of them from years ago, their faces grinning back at him.
He clenched his fist, determination flaring in his chest. He was almost there. Just a little more, and he'd be ready. He'd show Cal that he wasn't a liability anymore, that he could stand beside him, fight beside him.
He just needed to be a little stronger, a little more ruthless. He turned away from the board, his gaze hardening. Next time, he wouldn't hold back against Brutus.
---
The city was quiet as he stepped out onto the roof again, the air cool and crisp. He looked out over the skyline, his mind racing. There was so much to do, so much to prove.
He spotted movement below, a group of thugs mugging someone. His heart sped up, his muscles tensing. He was ready.
Without a second thought, he leaped off the roof, a dark smile forming as he descended into the chaos below.