The city praised us after the aquarium raid. Guards took credit. Channels argued. People made electric shark memes. The rescued fighters came to the Stormhouse and bowed so deeply I felt uncomfortable. I told them not to bow. Riley told them to bring food next time. Owen agreed too quickly.
But behind the jokes, we prepared. Harper studied the crystal engine. Grace studied my changing body. Riley pushed our vehicles beyond sanity. Owen mapped every Damian route he knew. I trained until the roof tiles melted under my feet.
My power evolved again. I learned to become current.
Not fully at first, just a hand, then an arm, then my whole body for a blink. I could dissolve into lightning, jump through a wire, and reform near the other end. The first time I tried it, I came out of a toaster, knocked over a chair, and scared Owen so badly he threw a sandwich at me. The second time, I traveled through the Stormhouse security line from the basement to the roof in one breath.
The third time I entered a phone. That was awful. Phones are crowded little cities full of notifications, photos, voices, panic, gossip, maps, games, and people writing messages they should absolutely not send. I lasted two seconds before popping out of Harper's tablet with smoke coming out of my ears.
Harper said, "Can you read my messages?"
I said, "I refuse to know you that deeply."
But the ability was powerful. Too powerful. So I made rules for myself. I would not invade private devices unless lives were in danger or criminals were actively using them to hurt people. I had been powerless once. I would not become the kind of person who treated everyone else as open wires.
That rule saved me from myself. It also made me angrier when Damian broke it.
He sent a message to every screen in the Stormhouse one evening while rain hammered the windows. It showed a live feed of Owen's old neighborhood. Damian's crews had surrounded the buildings. People were trapped inside. The message was simple. Come alone or watch them burn.
Owen went pale. Riley grabbed her keys. Harper started swearing at the screens. Grace looked at me and said, "You are not going alone."
"Of course not," I said.
Then I turned into lightning and vanished through the wall.
I know. Hypocritical. But I did not go alone because I trusted Damian. I went first because the trap was already closing, and sometimes the fastest way to save everyone is to arrive before the villain finishes his speech.
I shot through power lines across the city, skipping from pole to pole, transformer to transformer, street light to street light. Aster became a blur of signals. I burst out of a broken lamp in Owen's neighborhood and landed in the middle of the street with thunder rolling off my shoulders.
Damian's crew was everywhere. They had crystal flamethrowers, shock nets, drone blockers, and enough smug confidence to fill a stadium. Civilians watched from windows, terrified. One crewman held a burning device near a fuel truck and told me to kneel.
I looked around. Wet pavement, power lines, security cameras, parked cars, apartment buzzers, street lights, a fuel truck with an electric pump, drones overhead, people filming from windows despite the danger, because Aster citizens had survival instincts made of paper.
I could win instantly. But winning was not enough. I needed them arrested, exposed, and unable to crawl back out under Damian's money.
So I knelt.
The crew laughed. The man with the device stepped closer and told me I was finally learning respect. I bowed my head.
What I was actually doing was spreading current through every building intercom, every camera, every phone that had already started recording. Harper was not there yet, but her cloud drones were. I felt them entering the neighborhood from above, tiny storm eyes linking to my signal.
The crewman kicked me. I let him. The crowd gasped. He kicked me again.
I looked up and smiled. "Thank you," I said.
He realized too late that those were my favorite words.
Every screen in the neighborhood lit up. Every recording synchronized. The crew's threats, weapons, faces, and attacks broadcast across the city in real time. Then the fuel truck shut itself down. The flamethrowers vented harmless foam. The shock nets wrapped around the people holding them. Car alarms screamed in perfect rhythm as apartment doors unlocked from the inside, letting civilians escape through back halls Owen had mapped months ago.
Riley arrived like a silver bullet, her car sliding between the crew and the fleeing families. Grace emerged from the passenger seat with medical bags before the car fully stopped, because apparently my team had decided physics was optional if I was in trouble. Harper's drones dropped flash charges, not into eyes but onto the pavement, creating walls of light that separated criminals from civilians.
Then I stood. The crew understood fear.
I did not chase them. I let them attack.
One fired a crystal rifle. I split the shot into sparks and used them to write his weapon serial code in the air. One charged with a blade. I turned his belt buckle magnetic and stuck him to a lamppost. Another tried to hide in a building, but every elevator opened on the ground floor and politely refused him. The man who had kicked me ran toward an alley, slipped on foam from his own flamethrower, and slid directly into Riley's bumper.
City guards arrived to find the entire crew alive, tied, recorded, and furious. Owen's neighbors cheered from balconies. Owen arrived last, out of breath, carrying enough food for everyone, because panic apparently made him cater events. He hugged me so hard sparks popped from my coat.
I told him I was fine. Grace punched me in the arm. Then Riley punched me in the other arm. Harper said she would punch me later, after checking the footage. Fair.
That night I learned leadership was not standing above people while they followed. It was being reckless enough to arrive first and humble enough to let them be angry because they cared.
But Damian had not used his own hands yet. He was still testing me.