Upon arriving at Senator Crane's hotel building, Chase learned two things.

The first was that he instantly disliked the man's security team. They were rude, which was a bit ironic considering they barely spoke to him. But when they did speak, it sounded like they were a teacher and he was a delinquent student who just disrupted the class.

The second was that he learned that he did not like being treated like an animal. After he had met them inside the lobby, the guards corralled him into an elevator reserved for priority guests. They had shepherded him along, their hands pressed against his back as if he was an unruly sheep.

Or a prisoner.

He felt his hands aching from how hard he was clenching his fists.

The elevator ride to the top floor was uncomfortably silent. The guards kept their faces forward, but he could tell they were all looking at him. He stood in the center of the lift with the six security guards forming a box around him.

Chase narrowed his eyes at them, his foot tapping with nervous energy. Most of them pretended to pay him no mind, but he could sense their fear. Every now and then, he would catch a glimpse of the handguns clipped to their hips. A few of their fingers were a little too close to the firearms for his liking.

Were they expecting a fight?

They shouldn't have been. He wasn't a threat—at least not yet. If they kept shooting him dirty looks out the corner of their eyes, then he might have turned into one.

Besides, even if a fight did break out, their bullets wouldn't do anything but drop dead to the floor. Chase would walk away with a few holes in his shirt and a deep frown. But that would be it. If it really came down to it, he would be able to dispatch them all in ten to fifteen seconds tops. And that was being generous.

But why would it come to that?

"We're here," the lead guard grunted out as the elevator door's slide open.

Chase glared at the back of the man's skull as he followed him. He kept his own head on a swivel, his eyes narrowed, as he made his way to Crane's suite.

Once they were outside the senator's room, one of the guards pushed open the door. They checked the hallway twice before ushering Chase inside. They prodded him forward like he was a piece of cattle. With his teeth pressed tightly against each other, he resisted the urge to knock them all on their asses.

Despite his ulterior motives, he was there to have a civil conversation with Senator Crane; not to be treated like some war criminal.

As he entered the spacious penthouse, which was decorated with muted, leather furniture and priceless watercolor paintings, he spotted the senator himself standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the city of downtown Portland. A glass of scotch hung from his long fingers. His black hair caught the light of the afternoon sun outside.

He turned slightly, a sly smile on his lips. "Ah, you made it. I hope the drive wasn't too bad. I know Portland traffic can be terrible."

"I wouldn't know. I'm not from here," Chase replied as he approached him. He glanced at the guards, who had taken up strategic positions around the penthouse's living room.

"Where are you from, Sentinel?" Senator Crane asked thoughtfully as he turned around. He took a sip from the glass. "Not much is known about you superheroes. Atlas does a good job of scrubbing your records from...well, everywhere."

"I'm from nowhere," Chase answered shortly. "And you don't have to call me Sentinel. As you can see, I'm not suited up. My name is Chase." He took a peek at the guards stationed around the room, all of which had their eyes trained on him. "I'd appreciate it if you tell your goons to back off. I feel like a criminal in here."

Crane chuckled. "They're just protecting me. You never know with Primes." He brought his glass of scotch to his lips before lowering it again. "Also, you kind of are a criminal. I mean, you've killed people. You've also cost multiple countries millions of dollars in property damage. I'm surprised law enforcement hasn't branded you or your friends as vigilantes."

He fixed his freezing cold gaze on the man, his lips pursed.

"Did I strike a nerve?"

Stay calm, Chase. Stay calm.

"Look, with all due respect, sir, I didn't come here to talk about me."

"Hmm. What did you come here for? Pearce Shaw's message was very...cryptic."

"I came to talk about you."

Crane grinned. He gestured at two leather couches nearby. "Oh, then, by all means, have a seat. Let's talk."

The two of them cautiously sat down across from each other. Chase remained on the edge of his, just in case he needed to move quickly. The guards around him had their hands resting on their guns.

It was times like these where he wished he brought his sword and shield with him.

"So," Crane mused. "What exactly do you want to talk about?"

Chase paused. He didn't exactly have a set of questions ready; though, that would've been a good idea. Had he told Stella of his plans, she probably would've reminded him.

He frowned before gritting his teeth. He did what he had to do. The sooner he got some information on Crane, the less he had to keep the truth from her.

"Er, give me a second," he told the senator. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket and pretended to send a text.

"Teens these days," Crane grumbled with an air of disgust. "Must you spend every waking hour on those things?"

Chase ignored him.

Once he finished configuring the recording app he prepared to use, he pressed the big red button and slipped the phone into his pocket. With a slight smile, he looked up at Crane. "Now, where were we?"

"What do you want to ask?" the man took another sip from his scotch. "I'm an open book."

"Let's start with why you're so adamant about getting the PRA signed. Do you really think having the United Nations oversee everything is a good idea?"

Crane's smile dissolved, quickly replaced by a flat, unimpressed line. "Ah, I see what kind of interview this is going to be." He set his cup down on the wooden table between the two of them before leaning back into the couch. "Look, son. Chase, right?"

"Right."

"I'm just trying to keep people safe. I don't want people too afraid of going outside in fear of dying during a spontaneous Prime attack. I don't want people to have to fear losing their loved ones in an event they can't control—especially if that event could have been prevented."

"So...your answer is total control? You do realize you're making people who may not even have come exhibited powers register and relocate to...what did you call them? Rehab facilities?"

"Relocation centers."

"Right." Chase shook his head. "It's insane. You're taking away people's right to choose."

"People's 'right to choose' is what gets people killed."

"It's what makes us human."

Crane waved him off dismissively. "Oh, spare me." His nostrils flared and his eye twitched. He quickly straightened his posture and readjusted his dark blue tie. "I apologize. But you have to look at things realistically. You're still young. You don't realize all the things that happen behind the scenes of society. Choices don't exist. It's all an illusion. People believe they have the option to choose, but in reality, they don't. It keeps them comfortable. Complicit. Safe."

Chase tilted his head. "What're you saying?"

"People need to feel comfortable. Without it, people get angry. They get violent. They riot," he replied. "I have provided the masses with something they can get behind. Something that makes them feel safe."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Luckily, he was getting it all on tape.

"You don't really care about keeping people safe, do you?"

"Oh, no. I do." Crane twisted the silver band wrapped around his ring finger. "I do." He trailed off, his gaze straying beyond Chase's.

With an eyebrow arched, the boy glanced over his shoulder. An opened laptop sat on one of the kitchen's granite counters. A picture of the senator with a Hispanic woman with warm eyes and a lively smile served as the screensaver.

He furrowed his brow at the picture.

Who is that?

He then remembered the ring on Crane's finger. His father had one just like it.

Then it all clicked.

The person on the man's laptop screen was his wife. It had to be. Who else could it have been? Chase wasn't one to assume, but he was fairly sure it wasn't a relative. But how had he not seen any pictures of the woman anywhere? She hadn't shown up in the news or at any of his rallies. She couldn't even be found online.

But there she was on his laptop screen.

He faced the man before him. An idea hovered over his head like a lightbulb.

"You know, I've never seen your family anywhere," he began. "They're never on TV or at your events. If you're going to become president, shouldn't we get to know them too?"

"I thought this interview was about me."

"It is. Now answer the question."

Crane huffed. "I don't have any family."

"Oh really?"Chase gestured at the ring on the man's hand. "I think that says otherwise."

The senator's jaw muscles clenched as he reached for his drink. "I had a wife." He took a long sip of the dark scotch before setting it down. "Her name was Maria."

"Why do you hide her?"

"She's dead."

Chase flinched, his eyes widening. He blinked a few times, unsure of what to say next. He hadn't expected his question to result in that kind of answer. He didn't even know the woman was dead. He had figured the man was just keeping her out the eye of the public.

"How...how'd she die? If you don't mind me asking."

Crane stood up and walked back over to the window. He ran a hand over his head as he stared down at the busy streets below. Chase watched him expectantly. It seemed like hours before his response.

"I've hated you for a year, you know," he finally said.

"What?"

"You heard me," Crane snapped. His voice was low and full of malice. "Moscow. A year ago. You and your 'team' were there on a mission. Well, we were there too. Except we were there on vacation. Our ten-year anniversary. I want to go to Hawaii. She wanted to see Red Square. But the lady always wins. I'm sure you know how that is."

The boy gulped. He already knew where this was going.

"We were on our way out of St. Basil's cathedral," Crane continued wistfully. His fist rested on the windowpane while he pressed his forehead against his arm. "You know, the one that exploded during the attack."

"Sir, I—"

He spun on his heel, his eyes flashing with fury. He jabbed a finger at the boy, his face twisted in anger. "No. I'm talking now. And you're going to listen."

Chase fell silent.

"You and your team were tasked with stopping a Prime named Xeno. He was on a rampage through the city. We didn't know, though. We were just trying to enjoy ourselves in Moscow. But then the cathedral exploded in a storm of dust and rubble. It felt like I spent days looking for her. She had been right next to me. She was...right there. How had she moved so far?"

He took a breath before continuing.

"When I finally found her, she was already gone. Crushed beneath the weight of a wall."

The words felt like knives dragging against Chase's skin.

"I...I'm sorry, sir," he offered timidly. "I know that mission didn't go the way it was supposed to. I take full—"

"You didn't, though," the man interjected. "You didn't take responsibility. Atlas did. Pearce Shaw did. He handled the press, he conducted the meetings. He apologized on your behalf for your shortcomings."

He felt himself sinking into his seat. The walls of the penthouse felt like they were closing in, squeezing all the air out of him. Sweat coated his hands. He could feel it sliding down his temple. Within seconds, his breaths grew choppy and rapid.

Moscow had been a disaster. Everyone knew it.

But not everyone knew that it had been mostly his fault. He couldn't stop Xeno before he blew through that cathedral. He couldn't stop him from killing all those people. He couldn't save Senator Crane's wife.

A lot of people died that day because of him. His failure.

It weighed on him like a thousand pianos, each of them playing a somber note that stabbed through his heart with enough force and rigor to bring him to tears.

"You failed," Crane said. He returned to the couch. "You got my wife, and many others, killed. You destroyed a lot of families that day, Chase." An ominous shadow passed over his sharp features. "I think it's time I returned the favor."

Chase shot up from his seat. He felt the fire rising in his stomach, threatening to explode from his mouth. Or worse: his hands. The tendons in his neck tightened as he prepared to surge forward.

But the sound of six handguns cocking and barks from the security guards around him stopped him in his tracks. He eyed them, aware that they couldn't hurt him. That wasn't what he was worried about. If they fired those guns, Atlas would be done for. Director Shaw, the agents, all of his friends.

The responsibility sat upon his shoulders like the weight of the sky.

"Stand down!" one of the guards barked.

He didn't want to. He wanted to punch the senator square in the jaw. He wanted to take his PRA and rip it to shreds.

Stella's words invaded his mind like a harsh light shining through a dark tunnel.

"We can't just do whatever we want."

She was right. They had powers—powers that made them stronger than most of the population. Because of that, they needed to keep their emotions in check. They needed restraint.

Still breathing heavily, Chase sat back down and glared at Crane.

"That was a bit...dramatic." The senator downed the rest of his scotch and slammed it onto the table. The noise echoed around the silent room. "If you wouldn't mind. I'd like to revisit your first question."

Chase said nothing.

"We need the PRA. It protects us from your kind. Yes, your kind. You aren't natural. You shouldn't exist. You're a result of some crazy scientist who tried to take over the world. Primes are monsters. Abominations. If I could, I'd get rid of you all." He smiled sweetly at the boy. "But I'll settle for my legislation."

With his lip quivering slightly, Chase shook his head. "Y-You won't win."

"Sure I will. I always do. And with my—" He froze. All the humor had left his face. Clearing his throat, he rose from the couch again. "I think we're done here."

"Wait!" Chase stood up as well. "What were you about to say?"

"Nothing. It's time for you to go."

"No, you were about to—"

Crane snapped his fingers. In an instant, two of his guards appeared at Chase's side. One of them grabbed his forearm, a stern scowl on their face. He ripped his arm from their grip, his own mouth curled into a snarl.

"Let's go," they ordered.

"It was nice speaking with you, Sentinel," Crane said, his eyes twinkling with malevolent glee. "Until next time."

Chase cast Senator Crane one last rueful look. A million different thoughts—most revolving around a scheme to toss Crane out the window without getting arrested—swirled around his rage-filled mind.

"You won't win," he repeated. "You won't. I will stop you."

The man simply turned around to face the window.

Shaking his head, Chase pushed past the guards and stomped towards the front door.

#

Chase wished he never went back to The Acropolis.

Then again, where else could he have gone? It wasn't like he knew anyone in the city and his parents currently lived on a ranch in Idaho—courtesy of Director Shaw and his enormous bank account.

As he walked through the compound's hangar, the sounds of machinery whirring and jet engines roaring around him, he replayed his meeting with Senator Crane in his head. It certainly hadn't gone how he thought it would.

The man hadn't revealed anything incriminating. But he had said some things Chase knew the public wouldn't like. Crane had called them sheep. He said they didn't have any choice in what happened to them.

Chase disagreed.

Everyone had a choice. Everyone.

He thought back to Moscow. Then Crane's rally in Texas. That wasn't their fault, no matter how much they blamed themselves. It was because of those rogue Primes, who tried taking the law into their own hands by eliminating the polarizing senator.

That was their choice. And soon, they would pay for it.

Before they could go after them, though, they needed to deal with Crane. Chase pulled his phone out of his pocket and studied the clip of the recording from his earlier meeting. He hoped it was enough.

He continued for Director Shaw's office. Atlas agents passed by him, greeting him as they went by. He paid them no mind; he was on a mission.

Something Crane had said—or, rather, hadn't finished saying—stuck out in his mind. The man had hinted at something, but Chase wasn't sure what. Then he remembered Emily's theory.

She insisted that Crane hired those Primes to help get the PRA signed. The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. How else would they have been able to get that close to the man's stage without security suspecting something? How had he been rescued from them without being killed—which was supposed to be their main goal?

How had they gotten into The Vault?

Perhaps he was the one who placed a mole within Atlas' ranks. Either way, everything was tracing back to Crane. The thread just needed to be found. And once it was, they needed to cut and burn it.

Chase arrived at Director Shaw's door. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

He stopped in his tracks upon seeing Stella standing next to the man's desk. Director Shaw upturned his hands, an apologetic look on his aging face.

"I made a promise to you all that I wouldn't lie to you anymore," he said. "I had to tell her the truth."

Stella glared at him with her arms folded across her chest. She tapped her foot against the ground.

Chase's breath caught in his throat. He looked around frantically, wondering if he could somehow escape the room without her noticing. Alas, his superpower was hyper-strength, not invisibility.

"Stella, I—"

"Save it." She scoffed at him. "I already know what you did."

"I wanted to tell you," he told her. Against his better judgment, he took a step toward her. She recoiled, her lips curling. "I...I just couldn't. I knew you wouldn't like it, but I need to do something." He held up his phone to her as if it would mean something. "I recorded our conversation. If you could just listen maybe—"

She swiped her hand through the air. The anger in her eyes burned with the force of a thousand suns. His words faltered and died in his mouth. He felt his chest tighten as he anticipated her next words.

"I don't care," she said, her voice quiet but menacing. "Do you know why I'm supporting Senator Crane and the PRA? Have you ever thought to ask me why I care so much?"

He shook his head.

"We need an external system to help us operate," she explained. "With all due respect, Director Shaw, we have too much freedom here. And we're not professionals. I mean, come on, Chase. We're kids. We're not even twenty yet. What are we doing being superheroes?"

His face contorted in confusion. "Something gave us these powers, Stella. It's our duty to—"

"No, an accident gave us these powers," she said dryly. "It was a coincidence. We're kids, Chase. Holly was fifteen. Fifteen." She rubbed her forehead and sighed. "We need the PRA. It will only help us and others around the world. It will keep people safe. It will succeed where we fail. I've read the thing. A few of the articles are a bit iffy, but the United Nations will deal with that as they see fit. But as a whole, it's a good idea. It's more than a good idea."

"You need to wake up, Stella," Chase told her. He hadn't realized just how much she had bought into Senator Crane's ideology. If she believed him whole-heartedly, he couldn't even begin to imagine how the rest of his supporters felt. "If you could just listen to the tape—"

"I want people to stop being afraid of us," she continued. Tears welled in her hazel eyes. She wiped them away before they could fall. "Do you know why I haven't been home in a year? Do you know why I stopped talking to my dad?"

He said nothing. He didn't know the answer.

She didn't talk about her family often. He knew her parents were divorced and that she used to stay with her dad and her stepmom, but she never said anything about them. He had assumed she just preferred living at The Acropolis.

"My stepmom hates me," she said. "Her kids think I'm some kind of monster because I can fly and shoot light out of my hands. They think I'm a demon. My dad told me they don't feel comfortable when I'm around. So, I stay here. I don't talk to them."

"Stella..."

"We need to change something. If we don't, things between us and the rest of the world will only get worse. People will start to get angry. Some may do things that will get us, and others, hurt. If we can do something about that before it happens, I'm all for it."

She walked up to him and placed her soft hands on his cheeks. Her deep eyes bored into his, digging straight into his soul. He felt himself getting lost in his honey irises. He relaxed into her touch.

"Please, Chase," she coaxed. "Please be on board with me about this."

He stuttered, not sure what to say.

"Please."

He cast a drowning glance to Director Shaw. The man said nothing.

Clenching his jaw, he gently removed Stella's hands from his face. He dropped his gaze to the ground and stabbed his foot into the hardwood floors. "I can't, Stella. I can't."

She nodded slowly at him. Through her calm expression, he could see the faint traces of anger running through her.

"Fine," she snapped. "You're on the wrong side. For your sake, I hope you figure that out for yourself soon."

Without another word, she stormed past him. He reached for her, but she was already gone. The door to Director Shaw's office slammed behind her.

He remained in the center of the room, his shoulders slumped, and his heart broken.

Only a single thought remained in his head.

What have I just done?