Locke's phone had four missed calls by the time he got out of the shower.
All from the same number, which he didn't have saved but recognized as Gwen's — she'd texted it to him after the chemistry session as a matter of practical habit. He called back while toweling off.
"Hey." Her voice had the particular quality of someone who had been awake for a while and was doing a careful job of sounding casual about it. "Are you okay?"
"Fine. Minor cuts, like the EMT said."
"I know what she said. I was there." A beat. "I'm asking how you actually are."
Locke paused for a half second. It was such a Gwen thing to say — the distinction between the medical report and the real question. "I'm fine, Gwen. Genuinely."
A shorter pause on her end. "Okay. George is going to drive us to school. He's already outside."
Starlight Tower's lobby had a police cruiser parked at the curb when Locke came down. George was behind the wheel, Gwen in the passenger seat. Locke got in the back and the car pulled into traffic without ceremony.
"Morning, Mr. Stacy."
"Morning." George's eyes moved briefly to the rearview mirror in the way that communicated I see you without making it a statement.
Locke watched Manhattan slide past the window. Sitting in a police cruiser had a specific quality to it — the small persistent awareness that the driver had a badge and a service weapon and, now, a professional interest in a case that Locke was directly relevant to in ways George didn't know yet.
The ride took twelve minutes. Neither of them felt the need to fill it.
Gwen's friend Kem had apparently spent the previous afternoon incommunicado — some family thing — and arrived at school to find the entire student body already three news cycles deep into what had happened. By morning break she had cornered Gwen outside her locker with the energy of someone who had a lot of questions and intended to ask all of them.
Locke was eating alone in the cafeteria when he saw Kem break away from the conversation and head toward him with her tray.
He set down his phone.
Kem sat across from him and got straight to it. "So. Are you and Gwen together?"
Gwen, who had followed her over, slid into the seat beside her with a look that said I tried to stop this.
"No," Locke said.
"You sure?" Kem tilted her head. "Because she left school in your car, you had dinner at her house, you saved her from an explosion—"
"Chemistry project," Gwen said. "Dinner was a thank-you. And the explosion was coincidence."
"Sure." Kem did not sound convinced.
Locke looked at Gwen. "You have a very persistent friend."
"I'm aware."
Kem folded her arms. "Gwen's literally the most sought-after girl at this school, you know."
"I believe it," Locke said, which was not the answer Kem was looking for, judging by her expression. "Look — if I were dating Gwen, I'd tell you. I wouldn't be subtle about it."
Gwen glanced at him sideways. Something about that answer seemed to land differently than she'd expected. She picked up her fork and changed the subject: "Are you actually okay? Your back—"
"Healed." True. The Tenacity talent was functioning exactly as advertised — the shallow lacerations from the night before had closed overnight without drama. He'd checked in the mirror. Clean skin.
Gwen accepted this with the slight narrowing of the eyes that meant she didn't entirely believe him but didn't have grounds to argue.
Kem, redirected, leaned forward with a different kind of energy now — the kind that came from having processed a dramatic story and arrived at the part where it became exciting rather than scary. "I genuinely wish I had someone who'd just — react like that. Pull me out of the way. No hesitation."
Locke glanced at her.
You do. He thought it clearly enough that he almost said it. Kem's father, from everything he'd been able to piece together from Gwen's mentions over the past two days, was a man who had left some kind of government or military career, was divorced, had primary custody complications, and was reportedly — in Gwen's words — extremely strict. The pieces assembled themselves in Locke's head with the neat click of pattern recognition.
Bryan Mills. Retired CIA. A man who had once talked a kidnapper through exactly what was going to happen to him over a phone line, in complete calm, and then followed through on every word.
If that was who Kem's father was, the girl was completely unaware that she walked around inside one of the better safety nets available to a person in any city.
He said none of this.
"You'd be surprised what people do under pressure," he said instead.
Kem looked at him for a moment, then apparently decided to file that under mysterious. She turned back to Gwen. "Oh — are you still doing the Oscorp thing this week?"
Gwen nodded. "Wednesday. Dr. Connors' lab." She looked at Locke. "We mentioned it yesterday — intern positions. You should come. It's a real opportunity, good for applications, and honestly just interesting work."
Locke turned the idea over. Dr. Curt Connors — Oscorp, cross-species genetics, missing arm, future resident of the Spider-Man villain roster. An Oscorp internship would put him in close proximity to Norman Osborn's orbit at exactly the moment when things were going to start escalating in ways that could generate significant mission triggers.
Strategically, it was almost too convenient.
But.
"Can't this week," he said. "I've got something to sort out."
Gwen looked at him. "The car thing?"
"The car thing."
She opened her mouth, closed it, and clearly decided not to argue with whatever she saw in his expression. "Okay."
Kem looked between them. "What car thing?"
"His car got destroyed in the explosion," Gwen said.
"Oh." Kem considered this. "That's really—"
"Fine," Locke said. "It's fine."
It was not entirely fine, in the sense that someone had tried to blow up his street and he didn't know yet whether it was the Fraternity or something unconnected, and either answer had significant implications. But he wasn't going to unpack that at a cafeteria table.
Mission first. Explanations later.
The afternoon bell released the school, and Locke walked out to the lot to find a silver Audi R8 sitting exactly where his old one had been parked yesterday morning.
The insurance agent handed over the keys with the brisk efficiency of someone who had processed a lot of unusual claims and didn't ask questions anymore. Same model, same color. Replacement vehicle, full value, delivered same-day per the policy.
Locke looked at the car for a moment.
Then he got in, turned the engine over, and listened to it catch.
Right then.
He pulled out of the lot, the R8's exhaust note settling into its familiar rhythm, and merged into the afternoon traffic heading toward Midtown. He had two things on his list: identify who had been behind the explosion, and take another contract before his bank account became a genuine emergency.
The Fraternity could wait one more day.
His finances, less so.