Vasquez jabbed the barrel of his high-tech stun-rifle between Christian’s shoulder blades. “Keep moving, He-Man. Our window to get you to processing safely is almost up, and I ain’t looking forward to carrying your bloated steroid butt after someone takes a shot at you.”

Holmes adjusted his grip on his own weapon. “Cut him some slack, Vasquez. Dude lost his brother.”

Christian’s jaw tightened. “Straight to prison? Whatever happened to due process?”

Vasquez answered Christian’s question with another jab of the barrel. “You’re an escape prisoner, convict, therefore you revoked your due process. Even have your old cell cleaned and ready. So, don’t expect this to end like a Robot Chicken sketch.”

Christian’s eyes flickered with rage, but he held it in. He was more intrigued by the sight of Vincent Galvani. The man carried himself with a serene confidence that didn’t match the orange jumpsuit.

Vincent caught his stare and gave a slow, knowing nod. A nod shared between men who’d seen actual combat.

“New meat,” Coven said, his voices layered with disdain. “Yet another washed-up hero becomes a convict? Cute.”

Vincent exhaled through his nose. “He’s no hero.” His eyes followed Christian as he walked across the yard, a callback to a more civilized time in a villainous world.

Coven’s many voices dripped with amusement. “Oh? Then what is he?”

Vincent’s fingers tapped a silent rhythm against his thigh. “A man with nothing left to lose. Dangerous company.”

Coven leaned in, his voices a poisonous whisper. “Aren’t we all?”

The yard buzzed back to life around them—inmates trading contraband, guards turning blind eyes. Another dawn in paradise.

Vincent exhaled, counting the hours until sunrise.

A chorus of voices pressed closer to Galvani. The odor of burned ozone clung to Coven like cheap cologne. “So, Galvanized,” the overlapping whispers slithered into Vincent’s ear, “are you gonna stare at the fresh catch all day, or we finally discussing our little arrangement?” His tattooed fingers drummed against the power-dampening bracelets.

Vincent didn’t flinch. He kept watching as they processed the new prisoner, whose colossal frame barely fit through the security scanner. “Patience, Coven,” he said, scratching at the stubble along his jaw. “I’m assessing the situation.” The lie came easy - he’d already memorized every guard rotation, every blind spot in the automated security. But letting Coven think he held all the cards kept the monster guessing.

A dry chuckle slithered from Coven’s throat, three different pitches harmonizing into something that made the nearest inmates shuffle away. “An assessment?” The word dripped with sarcasm. “Or hesitation? Don’t tell me the great Galvanized’s getting cold feet now.” His shadow stretched unnaturally long under the yard lights.

Vincent turned, meeting those mismatched eyes. “I don’t get cold feet.” He leaned in just enough to smell the sulfur on Coven’s breath. “I analyze risks. And right now?” A quick glance toward the watchtower where Vasquez was lighting a cigarette. “Getting caught’s got higher odds than your last exorcism.”

Coven’s bracelets flared red for half a heartbeat before dimming. “Equipment’s in place,” he hissed, voices dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Timing’s perfect. What do you need, a written invitation?” Behind them, someone in Block C started screaming about cockroaches on their mattress.

Vincent waited for the commotion to die down before answering. “Assurances.” His knuckles cracked as he flexed them. “That this isn’t some game. That you’re not planning to ditch me the second we’re past the fences and the force-fields.” The unspoken threat hung between them. Despite his imprisonment, Vincent had built his first plasma cannon at sixteen. Prison workshops had better tools than his old garage.

Coven’s smile showed too many teeth. “Trust’s for suckers, tin man.” One voice purred while another snarled. “But our interests align. For now. Your escape. My entertainment.”

Vincent snorted. “Entertainment? Thought you wanted out. The same as me.”

The air around Coven shimmered like asphalt in July heat. “Oh, I do.” All his voices dropped to a lover’s whisper. “But another dance with the pretty young heroine who defeated me?” A shiver ran through the yard, unnatural and sudden. “That’s the real prize.”

For a moment, Vincent considered driving his fist through Coven’s smug face. Instead, he wiped sweat from his brow. “The plan. Run it again.”

Coven obliged, voices layering over each other like snakes mating. “The items you asked for are in the laundry room vent - third panel’s loose.” His tongue darted out, black and forked. “Force-field's weak spot is by the south wall.”

Vincent’s mind raced - calculating distances, timing the patrols. The plan was solid. Too solid. Which meant Coven had been planning this long before he’d ever mentioned it.

“What about the guards?” Vincent cut in, eyes tracking Holmes flirting with a telekinetic woman from Block D. “Vasquez isn’t dumb, and Holmes may play nice, but he’s got reflexes like a cat.”

Coven’s laughter echoed off the concrete walls. “Vasquez is all talk. And Holmes? Let’s just say he’s got... distractions lined up.”

The warning bell rang - five minutes to lockdown. Vincent silently nodded as he stared at Coven, at the madness swirling behind those eyes. His every instinct screamed this was a trap. But Gale was out there somewhere... And despite everything, he trusted her.

***

Amanda sniffled in the police interrogation room. The reek of stale coffee and desperation wrinkled her nose. She shifted in the metal chair, acutely aware of her broken bra strap. With no support, her bosom bounced in rhythm with her breathing.

Detective Walsh dropped a file on the table with a thud that made her jump. “So, Ms. Smart,” he said, scratching his salt-and-pepper beard. “You wanna explain why a college student was playing superhero at the museum?”

Across the table, Amanda crossed her arms—then quickly uncrossed them when she remembered her current wardrobe situation. “I was just trying to help,” she muttered, glaring at the two-way mirror where she knew other cops were watching.

Walsh sighed, popping the lid off his coffee. “Help? You nearly got yourself killed by a two-hundred-pound wrestler with a metal arm.” He took a sip, wincing at the temperature. “Cripes, this tastes like battery acid.”

Amanda’s fingers tapped against the table. “I held my own, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the point, kid.” Walsh leaned forward, his trench coat rustling. “You’re not trained. Not equipped.” His eyes flicked to her torn sports bra before glancing away. “And frankly, not dressed for the job.”

A blonde female officer walked in. Her gaze held on Amanda’s endowments before turning her attention to Walsh. “I just received word. They processed Grimm at Primm.”

Walsh nodded at the female officer, who winked at Amanda before leaving.

Walsh shook his head, then waited until the door clicked shut again. “Look, I get it. You’ve got powers.” He rubbed his temples. “But Christian Grimm? That’s pro-level villainy. What were you thinking?”

“That someone had to stop him!” Amanda’s voice cracked. “He was going to steal the Soul Ruby to bring—”

“To what?” Walsh’s pen hovered over his notepad. “This is the part that I actually care about. Why’d Grimm want the Scarab Heart so bad?” He asked, nodding to one of the two rubies in a cellophane evidence bag.

Amanda hesitated. The ankh around her neck pulsed warm against her skin. “He... he thought it could bring his brother back.”

The detective’s pen froze. “Hanz Grimm? That’s not possible.” But his eyes said he’d seen stranger things.

Visible solely to Amanda, the ghost of Dr. Douglas appeared at her side. “Tell him about the Soul Ruby’s properties,” he urged. “The resurrection myths I have discovered.”

A frown creased Walsh’s face as he noticed Amanda’s distraction. “Are you getting psychic radio signals or something?”

“Or something,” Amanda said. She took a deep breath. “The Ruby Scarab Heart isn’t just a gem. It’s... a vessel. According to ancient texts, we, I mean I, recently looked up. It can hold a spirit. Maybe even transfer one.”

The room went quiet except for the hum of the AC unit. Walsh’s coffee sat forgotten, a dark ring staining the file folder.

He exhaled sharply. “Well, shoot.” He grabbed the evidence bag before leaning back. The chair creaked under his weight as he stared at the two rubies inside. “That explains why Grimm’s been hitting every occult museum from here to Atlantic City.”

Amanda nodded. “He’s desperate. Grieving.” She thought of Christian’s hands around her throat, the raw pain in his voice. “But that doesn’t make him any less dangerous.”

Walsh studied her for a long moment as he put his hands in his trench coat pockets. “You’re not wrong.” He sat up and tapped the folder. “I’m gonna cut you loose. But—” He held up a finger when her face brightened. “No more vigilante crap. At least not without backup.”

Amanda opened her mouth to argue. But she paused when Walsh stood and took off his coat. “And please consider something more combat ready next time.” He covered her with the trench coat. “Don’t worry. I have an entire closet of them.”

Amanda gratefully accepted the trench coat, wrapping the oversized fabric around her like a makeshift shield against the world. The wool smelled like stale coffee and gunpowder. “Thanks, detective,” she said, tightening the belt with a tug that sent dust motes swirling. “I appreciate it. But I’m not making any promises about the vigilante thing.” Her fingers brushed against something lumpy in the pocket - probably spare change or receipts.

Detective Walsh shrugged, the buzzing fluorescent lights catching the silver in his scruffy beard as a tired smile crept across his face. “Didn’t think you would.” He jangled his keys absently before fishing out a peppermint from another pocket. “There’s a car waiting outside. It’ll take you wherever you need to go.” The candy crunched between his teeth. “Even the Nevada state line if you’re feeling adventurous.”

Amanda arched one eyebrow so high it nearly disappeared under her pink bangs. “Really?” She crossed her arms, making the oversized sleeves flap like wings. “That’s generous for someone who was just about to book me for grand theft.” The ankh around her neck pulsed against her collarbone, as if laughing at the situation.

Walsh chuckled, the sound like gravel in a tin can. “I’m partial to big-hearted people.” He leaned in conspiratorially, the aroma of peppermint and Old Spice suddenly thick between them. “Especially those with a healthy dose of powers.” He said with a wink that made crow’s feet appear at his eyes, “Besides, I’d rather have you out there monitoring Grimm than sitting in a cell.”

As Amanda pushed through the station’s heavy doors, Dr. Douglas materialized mid-stride, his golden form casting no shadows across the pavement. The streetlights made his translucent mustache gleam as he frowned. “A car to the Nevada state line?” His voice had that particular disapproving tone. “That’s too convenient, Amanda. I don’t trust it.”

“I know, I know.” Amanda rolled her eyes so hard she nearly tripped over a sidewalk crack. “But I’m not exactly in a position to refuse.” Through the parking lot gate, she spotted the waiting sedan - black, of course - its windows tinted darker than her freshman year goth phase. “Besides, detective Walsh is right. I can monitor Christian, I mean, Grimm.”

The driver’s door opened with a soft, pneumatic hiss as Amanda approached. The woman behind the wheel couldn’t have looked more like a clichéd government agent if she tried - a sharp bob haircut, a scar over her eyebrow, lips pursed in permanent disapproval. She nodded once, the motion barely visible in the dim light, then tapped something on her wristwatch.

Amanda hesitated, her fingers twitching toward the ankh as she glanced back at the glowing police station windows. “Well,” she said to no one in particular, “here we go again.” The leather seats sighed as she slid in.

Before the door had closed, Dr. Douglas phased through the headrest like a very judgmental ghost. “Now,” he began in that lecturing tone that made Amanda’s eye twitch, “about that outfit, young lady...” His translucent finger wagged at her yoga pants, which now sported several new rips from broken glass encounters.

“Oh, for—” Amanda pinched the bridge of her nose, the trench coat’s oversized sleeves flopping dramatically. “Doc, please.” The car purred to life, silent but for the faintest electric hum. “Not now.”

Douglas remained stubbornly unfazed. His projection floated cross-legged mid-air as the sedan merged onto the highway. “But Amanda,” he started, gesturing with both hands now, “you can’t go around fighting supervillains in a sports bra and yoga pants!” The streetlights strobed across his see-through face as they passed under overpasses. “It’s impractical, it’s dangerous, and, to be frank,” he said with a very pointed cough, “it’s a bit... revealing.”

Heat rushed to Amanda’s cheeks as she pulled the trench coat tighter. “I’m working on it, okay?” The words came out sharper than intended, hanging between them like an accusation. Outside, the city lights blurred into streaks of color. “Besides,” she said, jabbing a finger into the seat’s memory foam, “it’s comfortable.” The ankh pulsed again, warmer this time. “What do you want me to wear, a combat leotard?”

“Well, yes, actually,” Dr. Douglas said without missing a beat, his golden hands already sketching designs in the air. “Something with armor plating, energy shielding. For the ankh, of course,” his mustache quivered with excitement, “maybe even a built-in jetpack...”

Amanda cut him off with a sharp bark of laughter that made the driver’s shoulders tense. “Doc, you’ve been watching too many supernatural documentaries.” She sank deeper into the seat, the leather cool against her neck. “I’m not Jonas Richmond, okay?” The city limits sign flashed by in a blur of reflective green. “I’m just a college student trying to do the right thing.”

As the sedan sped up onto the open highway, Amanda absently shoved her hands into the trench coat pockets - and froze. Her fingers brushed against something decidedly not lint. Slowly, carefully, she extracted a clear plastic evidence bag containing two familiar blood-red gems. The streetlights made the rubies glitter mockingly. Their facets caught every passing headlight.

“Well,” Amanda paused, her pulse loud in her ears, “shoot.”