I have no idea what Cullen knows or how involved he is in his dad’s Death Mob ring. It’s only a matter of time before the Initiators throw the first punch, and they swarm their victim.

“The next attack,” I say. My breath scrapes against the back of my throat—the first sign my lungs are giving out on me. “The Swarm is going to attack the protestors.”

Cullen stares at me as if considering whether I’ve lost my mind.

“I have to at least warn them,” I plead.

He lets go of my wrist, and I take off toward the Water Tower.

Behind me, Cullen’s shoes click against the pavement as he follows me into the riot.

When we get to the edge of the plaza, the noise is deafening. Hundreds of protestors crowd around the limestone tower. Some of them hoist picket signs in the air while others mosh and chant with no aim or purpose.

Police officers form a broken perimeter on the streets. Some of them wait on horseback, watching the commotion unfold.

I point to them. “Tell the police.”

Cullen rubs his hands together for heat. “No!” He leans in, screaming in my ear above the noise. “We’re getting out of here as soon as you realize how idiotic this is.”

The officers are relaxed, like they’re hanging out on the street corner, eating hot dogs before a Cubs game. Some of them are laughing, joking. Didn’t Irving get my text? Or maybe he doesn’t care. Either way, they’re useless.

I turn to the crowd. Everyone wears hats, scarves, and winter coats. But I see Swarm. Already. They are hard to spot. But they’re in there. A short guy stands a few people in. His body is stiff. His hands are jammed into his pockets. He’s wearing sunglasses. Another bulky kid stands on the stairs of the Water Tower wearing a stocking hat, wool scarf. A protest sign dangles from his fingertips as if it’s a prop. The closer I look at the crowd, the more I see them. Teenagers, concealed identities, standing amid the crowd. They’re waiting—not participating in the protest. How did they all beat me here? And then I see a thin girl dressed in black: North Face coat, stocking cap, sunglasses, and a bright, coppery ponytail running down her spine. Copperhead. She disappears into the crowd, slinking behind a woman wearing a puffy down coat and carrying a baby strapped to her torso. The woman raises a sign high above her head as her baby clutches the carrier.

I run into the heavy mass, shoving people out of my way. Half the crowd chants, “Save the Parks.” Others slander the Lakefront Project, and the mayor for backing it.

The protest is utter chaos—the perfect storm for a massive attack.