“I know you do,” she said. She leaped forward and gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’m okay. Weirdly calm. Focused.”

“Are you keeping a journal? Like I suggested?”

“Yeah. You should see it though,” she said. “I have actual handwriting by the end.”

I reached to the back of her head, and leaned forward, gently bringing my forehead to rest against hers. Like we’d done at the Asylum. The only comfortable way of establishing contact with two people who weren’t freely able to move, one of whom was primarily made up of a face.

“I’m really happy I have that, at least,” she said. “I have arms, courtesy of Rain. They’re… not as good.”

“I know,” I said.

“But I have arms. And they feel like mine. And he’s trying to figure out how to emulate the skin that Ashley has over her hands.”

“That’s amazing.”

“Isn’t it?”

She smiled. “Come on. I feel better about this job than the last one.”

I made a face, but nodded. I followed her through the doors.

Inside, Moonsong talked to Anelace and Signal Fire. Behind them, Weld, Golem, and Vista were standing on the other side of a desk. Members of a Patrol I didn’t know stood by.

The floors were maple, lacquered, the walls stone and wood. The building was narrow, joined to the buildings on either side. Six paces cleared the width of the lobby, and maybe twelve covered the length. There were desks and booths for employees, rich wood and pretty, computers dark and phones silent, the employees absent. A stairwell at the back led to the upper floors, where business and meetings would be conducted, and a large semicircular window above that stairwell illuminated ninety-five percent of the space.

Three parahumans were bound, on their knees. A fourth was sedated.

I’d read the files. I’d seen the mugshot photos. They’d been given their masks back, and I was left to determine who was who by what they wore.

Two men, two women.

The larger and older of the men would be Drillbit. There were heroes who aspired to climb the ranks and achieve notoriety, and Drillbit was the inverse of that. Reputation didn’t matter and was something to be avoided and discouraged. He was street level and fought to stay street level, moving around to strike out and take down villains of the lowest rung. Somewhere along the line, he had developed a substance abuse problem. He’d targeted dealers to get a supply.

There was a woman who looked like she’d received plastic surgery enough times that things hadn’t held up. Her nose was too sharp and wasn’t straight anymore, her skin sagged by one eye. It was painful to see. That had all been pre-trigger. Her eyes locked on each of us in turn, pausing on me. She went by Sightly in the files.