Okay. Suited up. Got my mask on, hoodie pulled up, little grappling line just in case. I’m at the place Petunia sent me. Some sketchy old shipping yard on the waterfront that smells like rust, old fish, and capitalism.

I peek over the edge of the loading dock and instantly regret it.

Seventeen.

Seventeen villains. Are they unionized? Did I stumble into a goddamn villain convention? Is it evil deals weekend? “Buy one money-laundering scheme, get a briefcase of cursed diamonds free”? What the hell.

Using my incredible stealth—which is to say, crouching like a goblin and praying no one’s peripheral vision is working tonight—I crept closer. I ducked behind a stack of wooden pallets. One shifted under me and creaked like a haunted door hinge. Real ninja shit.

That’s when I spotted him.

Cicero.

Full D-lister. Wears a half-mask like he’s in a high school theater production of Phantom of the Opera and talks like someone who says “milady” unironically. Last I heard he was mostly dealing in conspiracy junk and identity scrubbing for other low-level supers. But tonight? He was holding court.

And the crowd he was playing to?

British. All of them. Not just accents—vibes. Sharp suits, polished shoes, power stances. The kind of villains who drink blood out of wine glasses and say things like “ghastly business, that” while committing war crimes.

Oh. Oh fuck.

Deathknell. Class B supervillain.

I ducked a little lower, heart thudding. Legit one of the scariest brutes on the continent. She’s like if a cathedral bench was sculpted into a woman and then enchanted with homicidal intent. Seven feet of muscle and menace wrapped in tactical leather and casual indifference. Her hammer was strapped across her back like it weighed nothing. By hammer I mean a giant bell on a stick. I’ve seen cars crumple under that thing like tinfoil.

And somehow she still looked... womanly? Like statuesque and terrifying and kind of hot?

Okay. Okay, fine. I like a variety of body types. Let me live.

There was a moment where I zoned out and imagined what her biceps might feel like around my neck and had to physically shake my head to get back on track.

Focus, Ivy.

Back to the conversation. I shifted to a new position behind a stack of crates, trying to stay quiet and listen in. The rain helped, at least.

“...Everything is here. Documents, tax forms, audio and video recordings.” Cicero’s voice carried just enough. His tone was practically dripping with sleaze and self-satisfaction. “This is the best quality blackmail in the world. On the most powerful man in the world.”

Wait. What?

Across from him stood this older woman I didn’t recognize. Elegant in that “retired spymaster turned mob boss” sort of way. Hair steel-grey, just barely dyed, styled into a clean, classic bob. Wrinkles like knife cuts around her eyes. She was wearing white pants and a matching blouse under a crimson dress jacket that hung off her shoulders like a cape. A cigarette burned between two fingers, smoke curling like lazy ghosts around her.

Absolute GILF energy.

And probably super illegal. Not just because she was, y’know, a supervillain doing a crime, but because the way she carried herself suggested a body count. She looked like she gave orders in wars people pretended never happened.

I cast a wide net, okay?

“I see,” she said, her voice smooth and rough at the same time. Like a glass of scotch that could kill you. “May I see some of it then?”

“Of course, of course,” Cicero said, spreading his arms. “Can’t have you think I’d rip you off. You don’t get called the best informant in the business by screwing over your clientele.”

I felt a shiver run down my spine. This wasn’t just some arms deal or underground casino. This was blackmail against someone untouchable. I didn’t know who they were talking about, but I had a very bad feeling I’d recognize the name the second they said it.

The older woman flipped through the pages slowly, cigarette perched on her lower lip like it had permanent residence there. Her smile curled upward with every turn of the page—tight, knowing, and way too satisfied for my comfort.

“Yes,” she said finally. “This is good. Very good.”

She gestured without looking. One of her henchmen—a big slab of muscle in a suit two sizes too tight—stepped forward, carrying a small wooden crate like it was precious cargo. Balanced neatly on top was a crowbar.

He set the crate down at Cicero’s feet with a thunk, slipped the crowbar under the lid, and pried it open in one clean motion. The wood groaned, nails squealing as they tore loose, and the top clattered to the ground.

Cicero leaned over eagerly, eyes gleaming behind his mask.

“Yes. YES!” he cackled. “Genuine articles?”

“Naturally,” the British woman said coolly. “These aren’t easy to find, you know. Some of them only circulated in Canada.”

Cicero let out a noise that could only be described as a squeal.

“Please! Come to me if you need anything else. My Beanie Baby collection is nearly complete!”

Beanie Babies.

This man just sold the blackmail equivalent of a tactical nuke—for Beanie Babies.

Beanie Babies.

I stared at the crate. Sure enough, nestled inside, lovingly packed with tissue paper and tiny plastic sleeves, were row after row of rare, pristine, absolutely mint-condition Beanie Babies. I spotted a Princess Diana bear. I think there was a wingless Quackers. There might’ve even been a Peanut the Elephant in royal blue.

Oh my god. This was real. This was actually happening.

Cicero bounced like a kid on Christmas morning, carefully lifting out each one and cooing at them like they were priceless works of art. Which, to him, they probably were.

Meanwhile, the British woman just took a long drag of her cigarette like this was all perfectly normal. Like she hadn't just traded top-tier kompromat for a plush duck worth $12,000 on eBay.

And then I slipped.

Not like fell over slipped, no—I bumped the edge of my boot against a loose plank behind the stack of grimy pallets I was crouched behind, and it shifted just enough that my elbow shot back in surprise and slammed into a bunch of rusted pipes stacked against the wall.

Which, in the cold quiet of the dockyard night, exploded like a goddamn brass band falling down a staircase.

CLANGKANGKANG-KRNNK.

The whole place froze.

I froze.

Then—

“Deathknell. Check it out,” said the GILF in red, casual as anything, cigarette still hanging from her lips.

Oh no.

Oh fuck.

Deathknell turned toward my hiding spot, cracking her neck like she was warming up for a goddamn Mortal Kombat fatality.

Okay. Sure. This was fine. This was great. I was about to get utterly flattened by an extremely jacked woman wielding what looked like a cursed bell tower on a stick. Totally manageable.

IVY’S STILL GOT IT, BAYBEEEEE.

I shot up from behind the pallets like a pop-up ad nobody wanted and flung my arms out dramatically.

“Stop right there, criminal scum!” I yelled, finger pointed like I had any authority whatsoever. “Nobody breaks the law on my watch! I’m confiscating your stolen goods! Now pay your fine or it’s off to jail!”

Why did I say that?

What deep-seated instinct decided now was the time to roleplay as a budget mall cop from an old video game?

No one answered. They just stared. All seventeen of them. Cicero paused mid-cackle. The henchman with the crowbar blinked like his brain blue-screened. Deathknell looked like she was trying to process whether I was a real person or a hallucination from the protein powder fumes.

Perfect.

I bolted.

Right at Deathknell, because apparently my survival instincts were on vacation.

I wasn’t going to win. I knew that. But if she was going to hit me, I’d rather it be with her body than that absolutely illegal murder-hammer. Maybe I’d even get lucky and bounce off those arms first.

Better to be broken by biceps than by bell, that’s what I always say.

(Okay I’ve never said that before but maybe I will if I survive the next sixty seconds.)

Deathknell didn’t say a word. She just grinned.

Which would’ve been hot if it didn’t immediately precede her swinging that massive bell hammer like she was teeing off at the world’s most cursed golf course.

I ducked.

Kind of.

The head of the bell missed my actual head, sure, but the shockwave alone slapped me back like I owed it money. I hit the concrete hard, shoulder-first, skidding a good couple feet across the wet dock like a hockey puck made of gay panic and bad decisions.

“Ow,” I informed the ground.

There wasn’t time to stand up before she was on me. No taunts, no dramatic monologues—just a goddamn wall of woman hauling me up by the collar like a sack of potatoes.

And then the punch.

One hit. That’s all it took to send me flying back into the side of a shipping container so hard I left a dent. My ribs screamed. I tasted blood. The stars I saw were definitely not romantic.

“Wha—huh—nggh,” I eloquently mumbled as I slumped forward.

Deathknell stalked toward me, hammer trailing behind her like a doom-sounding metronome. The rest of the syndicate just watched, like this was an episode of some supervillain reality show and I’d just been voted Most Likely to Suffer Internal Bleeding.

I managed to push myself to my knees.

I should have stayed down.

Instead I laughed. Wet, wheezing, idiotic laughter.

“Ohoho fuck me, I felt that one,” I coughed. “You hit like my ex.”

Her boot hit my stomach before the words were even cold in the air. Launched me flat on my back again. The pavement was cold. The air tasted like blood. No wait, that was my mouth. How could I bleed so much?

And… weirdly? It didn’t hurt as much as it should’ve.

Don’t get me wrong—I was going to be pissing blood for a week. But I could move. My vision was clearing faster. My body was already adjusting, twitching with some kind of low, buzzing energy under the pain.

Weird. Probably nothing.

I scrambled back to my feet, spitting blood and adrenaline. Just in time to dodge another swing of that absolute shitfuckingscary bell hammer. I didn’t so much dodge it as fall sideways in a vaguely evasive direction, but hey, style points don’t count when your bones are on the line.

Somehow—by the grace of sheer dumb instinct—I slipped in close and drove a punch into her ribs.

That hurt me more than her.

It was like punching a freight train wrapped in muscle and sadism. But I didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Her expression shifted, brow furrowing like she couldn’t quite believe I was still standing. Still fighting.

So I gave her a bloody grin, eyes wild.

Then I hit her again. And again. Each blow echoing through my knuckles, through her core, through the stupid air around us like it meant something. It probably didn’t. But I wanted it to.

And then she backhanded me like I was a fly buzzing around her drink.

My whole world blurred. I went airborne—actually airborne. Like a cartoon. I hit the ground and bounced, metal clanging under my back as I skidded across the deck. My breath left me in a wheeze.

Still, I started to push myself up. Dumb bitch instincts.

Except—

She wasn’t there.

The moment I noticed, I looked up.

“Oh fu—”

The bell came down like a goddamn meteor, and this time she didn’t miss. It wasn’t just pain—it was everything. My body lit up like a Christmas tree wired wrong, nerves on fire, vision whiting out as something deep inside me shattered and reformed all in the same heartbeat.

Worse than the Caprichi Gang taking turns kicking me while I was down and trying to shoot me two dozen times. Worse than Crusher using me as a ragdoll. Worse than Wendigo slashing at my face while pinning me down

It was like the whole world decided I was a punching bag with something to prove.

And fuck me, I was still breathing.

Still alive.

Still Ivy fucking Reid.

And I was brimming with kinetic energy.

Every nerve screamed, but not in pain—more like electricity was crawling under my skin, begging to be let out. My heartbeat was thunder, my muscles were coils of spring steel. Like I could punch the moon if I wanted to.

“Deathknell,” the British GILF said coolly, barely glancing my way. “Finish her off. We have places to be.”

Deathknell didn’t speak—she just grunted. One heavy sound, all brute certainty. She lifted that absurdly huge war bell again, the steel handle creaking with strain.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

The things I did to win.

The things I’d take just to prove I could stand back up.

But the strike never came.

No world-ending clang. No bones shattering. No impact turning my thoughts into static.

Instead—

Silence.

A weird, thick, cold silence.

I cracked an eye open.

And saw her.

Shadow. Blacker than black. Like the absence of light had wrapped around Deathknell’s massive form and frozen her in place mid-swing. A tendril of it curled lazily in the air, pulsing like it was breathing.

Of course.

Yeah. Sure.

Of course the woman I went on a date with a few hours ago was here.

Why wouldn’t she be?

Deathknell was terrifying, sure. Her arms could bend steel, her bell could collapse ribs. But Umbra?

Umbra could stop time. Well not literally, but still.

Could trap you in darkness so deep you forgot what warmth felt like.

Could freeze me in place, helpless, breath caught in my throat—and that was before I learned she had cheekbones that could cut glass and lips that looked like sin.

I stood up slowly, legs wobbling under me.

“…I am in so much fucking trouble.”

“Everyone, fan out,” said the British woman—calm, measured, utterly in control.

Before any of them could obey, shadows surged from the ground like black oil catching fire in reverse. In a blink, they snapped up around every villain in the vicinity—slithering up legs, over torsos, locking arms and weapons in place. Umbra’s signature move. A perfect ambush.

Everyone froze in place, immobilized by tendrils of pure darkness.

Well—everyone but her.

The older woman didn’t even flinch. She didn’t panic. She didn’t so much as blink.

Instead, she calmly took a drag from her cigarette, then let the smoke curl from her lips like punctuation. Her voice was smooth as velvet and sharp as a razor’s edge.

“I said…” she began again, her heel clicking once against the dock with queenly precision, “EVERYBODY. FAN. OUT.”

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

It didn’t just echo—it resonated. It was like her voice knew your name, your fears, your mother's maiden name. It wasn’t volume that made everyone tremble—it was command. It was presence.

It was like she’d spoken directly to your spine.

Even I, swaying on my feet in front of Deathknell with blood in my mouth and ringing in my ears, felt it in my teeth. That voice didn't shout. It didn't beg. It just was—like gravity, or taxes, or the crushing certainty that I was deeply, deeply fucked. It was the kind of voice that made you want to salute and apologize at the same time.

Not that I listened, of course. I wasn’t one of her goons. I was Ivy fucking Reid. Nobody bossed me around.

…Even if I maybe flinched a little.

Then the air began to glow.

No—not glow. It shimmered.

From the ground beneath the shadow-bound goons and Cicero himself, golden chains erupted—slow and deliberate, like snakes coiling out of molten light. They rose with a regal gravity, catching the dark tendrils that held her people in place… and crushed them.

There was a sound like shattering glass, and Umbra’s shadows—so firm, so unyielding a moment ago—began to crack and crumble, breaking apart like ash in wind as the chains constricted around them.

The golden links pulsed once, blindingly bright—and the shadows were gone.

All around the dockyard, Cicero and the other villains collapsed to their knees, gasping, as if the chains weren’t just holding them down—they were judging them.

I watched, wide-eyed, jaw half-hanging, because… well, holy shit.

This wasn’t just power.

She was Sovereign.

B-Class supervillain. The kind of woman who looked like she could call down a drone strike with a raised eyebrow.

What the fuck was I thinking, showing up here alone?

Before I could dwell on my poor life choices, Umbra dropped from above like a silent specter, landing dead center in Sovereign’s goon squad. Her shadows surged up from the ground instantly—black tendrils coiling, forming beasts, whipping toward the nearest armed assholes.

And for a second, it was working.

Until Deathknell turned.

Not to Umbra.

To me.

“Fuck,” I wheezed, scrambling upright just in time to see her massive bell swinging sideways like a wrecking ball.

I dove, rolled, felt the pavement scrape across my ribs, and got to my feet just barely ahead of the next earth-shaking impact behind me.

She was back on me like a curse. No banter. No gloating. Just pure, focused violence.

I went for her midsection again—same spot I’d managed to hit before. Fist to muscle. And okay, I think she flinched this time? A little? Maybe?

Then her knee hit my stomach and I folded like a lawn chair.

I hit the ground coughing, ears ringing, vision spotting, but somehow still upright enough to stagger back. My power was crackling under my skin again—hot, dizzying, itching to release.

I was breathing hard. Blood in my mouth. And grinning.

“Round three, bitch,” I spat, and charged.

Okay. Bold of me. Especially considering she was faster than me. And stronger. And—wait, did I already say faster?

Yeah. Definitely said that twice.

Concussion time, baybeee!

I swung a punch like it might matter. She caught it.

Effortlessly.

Like I’d offered her a handshake and she was mildly offended by the form.

I grinned at her. Real sheepish. Real "haha just kidding unless you liked it" energy. I tried to yank my hand back but nope. Her grip was like iron wearing brass knuckles wrapped in sin.

With her other hand, Deathknell set her ridiculous fuck-off war bell down—gently, face down on the pavement, like she was tucking it in for a nap.

Then she lifted me one-handed like I weighed nothing. Like I was an empty duffel bag full of bad decisions. And slugged me across the face.

Then again.

And again.

My brain was doing the Windows restart sound. The world flickered sideways.

And somewhere in that hellstorm of knuckles, I had two simultaneous realizations:

1. I might be a masochist.
2. Something was off.

Because yeah, this hurt. Like, excruciatingly. But also... not as much as it should have?

Deathknell was stronger than Crusher. Way stronger. Yet I was not a smear on the concrete. A tragic, gay-shaped stain.

Instead, I was… still breathing. Still bleeding, sure, but standing. -

My bones felt like they were humming.

My skin itched like it was too tight.

And somewhere under the bruises, I was buzzing with kinetic energy.

Holy shit.

Was I actually getting more durable?

I was definitely still getting punched in the face—repeatedly—and yet… only kind of bleeding? My vision was full of cartoon stars and gay panic, but I was conscious. Upright-adjacent. Functional, technically.

Deathknell looked mildly irritated that I wasn’t paste yet. Her lip curled. She was crime hot. Illegal hot. The kind of hot you needed a permit for and a psych eval afterward.

Then she picked me up by the wrist like I was a toddler’s shitty attempt at a kite and ragdolled me into the ground.

Not onto it. Into it.

There was a me-shaped dent in the concrete now. I made a long, dramatic groan—very Oscar-worthy—and went limp, eyes shut, holding my breath like a kid pretending to be asleep so Mom won’t ask about the broken lamp.

Silence.

Then—

“How are you not dead?”

God her voice.

Rich, sharp, dripping disdain and a hint of... Italian? Maybe? Sexy either way. Like she was about to slap me and ask me to confess.

I held still.

Dead girls don’t get interrogated.

Or punched.

“Your acting is pointless.”

Ah, shit.

I cracked one eye open. “Wuhh… wellp. You guh... got me. I’m unkill’ble. Y’can’t take me down ‘n I can’t do shhhhit to you.”

Lies.

I was absolutely vibrating with stored kinetic energy. Every punch she landed just charged me more. I was a human superball about to explode in every direction.

Should I do the shockwave thing?

It’d send her flying, maybe buy me a second to breathe—

But then I’d probably hit Umbra, too.

And I really, really wanted to date Umbra.

Like, fix-her-and-ruin-my-life-in-the-process levels of want.

God, she’d look so good on top of me. Just… as a general vibe.

Wait. Shit. How was she doing?

I craned my neck around the edge of the crater I’d been punched into. Umbra had flattened half the goons, shadows roiling around her like a black hole in yoga pants. Cicero was gone—probably scampered off with his stupid beanie babies—and Sovereign was still standing there, arms folded, looking like she was contemplating the most efficient way to conquer a small nation.

Nonchalant.

Commanding.

Dangerous.

Probably smelled like expensive perfume and old money.

Great.

Everything was on fire.

My ribs were cracked.

And I was the most powerful I’d ever been.

...I should probably do something about that.

I shakily got to my feet, swaying like a drunk at closing time. Every inch of my body screamed, but my bones were still somehow in the right places. Probably.

There she was—Deathknell, looming over me like a fucking cathedral of muscle and menace. Her massive bell hammer rested beside her again, but her posture didn’t need it. She could squash me flat with a look.

“Okay… okay…” I muttered, trying to focus, vision doubled and speech thoroughly scrambled. I raised a fist, kind of. “I’z gunna fuck you up now,” I slurred defiantly, chin lifting. “Get ready, 'cuz izz gunna hurrrt real bad.”

I nearly tripped over my own boot.

Deathknell blinked. Just once. Her lips pressed into a flat line of something between amusement and pity. “Your endurance is impressive,” she said with a thoughtful frown. “Yes. I am impressed.”

I pointed at her—or at least, somewhere near her general direction. “Heyyyy… d’you have to do a crimez though?” I asked, wobbling a step forward. “Yer pretty fuckin’ hot. Like… real hot. ‘S a shame. Crimez don’t look good on hot people.”

She tilted her head slightly. “You are concussed.”

I saluted with two fingers and immediately lost my balance. “Yup.” I coughed, blood dribbling down my chin as I tried to grin. “But I still got legs, baby! And so much kinetic bullshiiiit it’s practically comin’ out my ears.”

My whole body started humming with that stored-up energy, fingertips sparking with heat as I staggered forward, the barest trace of a comeback rising in my chest.

“Kinetic bullshit?” Deathknell raised an eyebrow, arms folded as she loomed above me like a pissed-off statue.

“Yuuup,” I said, wobbling dangerously on my feet, one eye half-closed. “Worse I getz beat up, worse it iz for you. Like, real bad. Kinda… kinda like hittin’ a wasp nest with a shovel. Except the wasps are punches. That I do. Oh—whoops. Probz shouldn’ta said that out loud.”

I snorted and wiped some blood from my nose with the back of my hand. “Hehe... Sooo you wanna, y’know, turn ova new leaf? Join a book club? Gardenin’? Or am I’z gunna hafta fuck you up now?”

She smirked, just a hint of teeth showing. “You might be durable,” she said smoothly, stepping closer, “but can you breathe underwater?”

Okay. Yikes. I blinked, hard. Uhhh, that was not a good sign.

Sure, I probably could survive drowning. My healing factor’s freaky like that. But it would suck. A lot. Definitely didn’t wanna test that theory in the middle of a dockyard brawl with someone who swings a bell like it’s a flyswatter.

Still. I had a reputation to uphold.

I staggered back with a dramatic gasp, flinging one arm over my face. “Nooo, pleaze don’t! Not the waterrrr!” I cried, taking a wobbly step in the opposite direction—then careened to the side and full-on faceplanted with a meaty thump.

There was a beat of silence. Then I groaned theatrically and rolled onto my back. “I’m fine!” I croaked, one finger raised in the air like I’d just declared war. “Don’t worry ‘bout me! Miss Momentum, still in the fight, baybeeee.”

Deathknell looked down at me, unimpressed, as I lay there vibrating with stored-up kinetic energy like a cracked glowstick about to explode.

She should’ve been worried. She really, really should’ve been.

I got back up, legs like jelly, face like tenderized meat, and absolutely buzzing with potential violence.

“Okay…” I slurred, wiping spit and blood from my mouth with the back of my sleeve. “You gunna get it now, ya big fuckin’ bell cow.”

I staggered forward like I was on a bender, which, to be fair, I might as well have been. My fists were up. Kinda. More like hovering vaguely near my chest. But I had heart. And a concussion.

Deathknell didn’t even flinch. She reached down, lifted her massive war bell off the ground one-handed like it weighed nothing, and wound up for another swing.

“Aw shi—”

I tripped. On a goddamn rock. Just—my foot clipped it mid-step and I pitched forward like a sack of bricks with a vengeance. Pure slapstick.

Except my fist, bless it, didn’t miss.

My whole body collapsed, but my knuckles found her leg—right above the knee—and that’s when everything I’d been banking, every bruise, every bone-rattle, every bell-to-the-face beatdown she’d given me… unloaded.

All at once.

Time didn’t just skip—it screamed.

A thunderclap of kinetic backlash tore through the dockyard as every ounce of punishment I’d taken came roaring back, compressed into one gloriously unintentional sucker punch. The shockwave cracked the pavement beneath us, blew out nearby windows, and made every loose sheet of metal in a hundred-meter radius clatter like a war drum.

Deathknell didn’t just stagger.

She launched.

One moment she was towering over me, the next she was a blur of red and black, crashing through a stack of cargo containers like a bowling ball through soda cans. She tore through the corner of a loading crane—ripped through the steel girders like they were styrofoam—and vanished into the distance, a hurtling projectile of raw muscle and bell-themed vengeance.

She hit the water in the bay a second later with a boom like a meteor strike, sending up a towering geyser of seawater that sprayed half the dock.

Silence followed. Brief, awed silence.

I groaned from where I was face-down on the ground.

“Heh… wrecked,” I slurred, then coughed. “Deathknell got donged.”

Everything went quiet.

Like, eerily quiet.

The kind of silence that rings in your ears after something huge and violent just happened and the world hasn’t quite caught up yet.

I pushed myself up on shaking arms and looked around, blinking through the haze of dust and sea spray.

The goons? Mostly out cold. Some were groaning on the ground, twitching feebly, like puppets with their strings half-cut. A couple had dragged themselves behind crates or pallets, clearly deciding they wanted no part in whatever just went down.

Sovereign was down. Actually down. Lying flat on the concrete like someone had unplugged her. Her golden armor was scorched and cracked, one of her gauntlets smoking slightly. It didn’t look like she was dead—just… stunned. Or recovering. Either way, not moving.

And Umbra?

Gone.

No flapping of her cloak, no slither of shadow, no whisper of movement. Just absence. Like she’d never even been there.