"One more time, Miss Smith," the site supervisor says, tapping his clipboard impatiently. "You're authorized for gaseous particulate removal only. No structural elements, no physical contact with the growth itself. Just the airborne--"

  "Spores, VOCs, mycotoxins, and any suspended particulate matter," I finish for him, already slipping the cheap plastic booties over my steel-toed boots. "Third time this month, Mr. Grayson. I know the drill."

  His face doesn't soften, but his clipboard lowers slightly. "Protocol's protocol. Especially with minors on site."

  I want to point out that technically I'm the reason his crew can finish this job in six hours instead of three days, but I just nod. "Yes, sir. Can I get started now?"

  The house we're in smells like death - not the dramatic, crime scene kind, but the slow, insidious kind that creeps into walls and foundations. Water damage from a burst pipe six months ago, undiscovered until black mold colonies had consumed nearly the entire finished basement of this fancy Center City brownstone. The homeowners evacuated two weeks ago when their eight-year-old started coughing blood. What a beautiful Saturday morning.

  The remediation team has already set up containment barriers, negative air pressure systems, and dehumidifiers. Three guys in full hazmat suits are preparing to physically remove the affected drywall. My job comes first: clear the air of the invisible shit before they start disturbing the visible shit.

  I pull the specially designed work mask over my nose and mouth - not my old Soot gas mask, which is currently buried in a waterproof container behind a loose brick in an abandoned building back in Tacony. This one's sleeker, government-approved, with my name printed on the side: KAITLYN SMITH - LICENSED JUVENILE METAHUMAN CONTRACTOR.

  Six months ago, I was sneaking into Kingdom warehouses and sabotaging their drug labs. Now I'm legally sucking toxic spores from rich people's basements. Life's funny that way.

  "Time check," I call out, starting my digital wristband tracker. Thirty hours a week maximum, no more than six hours per day. Like I'm flipping burgers instead of filtering toxins through my body.

  "9:47 AM," Grayson confirms. "You've got 'til 3:47, but we need this clean in two hours tops."

  I crack my knuckles. "Won't even take one."

  I close my eyes and let my power wake up. It starts as a tingling in my fingertips and neck - the places where I can release what I absorb. Then comes the awareness, like suddenly gaining a new sense. I can feel the air around me, taste its composition. The normal oxygen and nitrogen blend, but laced with thousands of mold spores per cubic foot, mycotoxins, and the distinct chemical signature of black mold - Stachybotrys chartarum.

  I breathe in deeply through my nose, but I'm not actually using my lungs to collect the toxins. My skin does that, pulling in the particulates like a million tiny vacuum cleaners. The process is invisible - no dramatic color changes or glowing effects - but I can feel the toxic soup flowing into me, collecting in whatever mysterious storage system my body created when I died for four minutes in that fire.

  The crew watches from behind their respirators as the digital particulate counter on the wall starts dropping rapidly. 75,000 parts per million. 70,000. 65,000.

  "Holy shit," mutters one of the newer guys, a skinny dude named Marco who's only worked with me twice before. "It's like watching magic."

  "It's not magic," I say without opening my eyes. "It's biology. Or chemistry. Or whatever."

  I never know how to describe what happened to me. The fire that killed me briefly, the smoke inhalation that should have destroyed my lungs but instead rewired my skin to become a filtration system for airborne toxins. Theology might be closer to the truth than science. Resurrection tends to be. A lot of the people at church say that powers are "miracles". I don't think a charism would be this gross, but sure, if you want to believe that.

  I continue absorbing until the counter reads 500 ppm - safe enough for the crew to start the physical removal. It takes a bit, but at this point I've gotten good at just shutting my eyes and meditating. Twenty minutes, maybe half an hour of silent absorption. Then I walk to the industrial filtration unit they've set up in the corner and place my palms against the intake port. I close my eyes again and push out just the contaminants, watching as the unit's filter mesh begins to turn grey, then black with captured spores.

  "Clear for phase two," I announce, checking my wristband. Forty-seven minutes. Not my record, but efficient enough.

  Grayson nods, satisfied. "Smith, take fifteen, then we need you on standby when we break into the wall cavity."

  I head upstairs to the kitchen, where the homeowners have left bottled water and packaged snacks for the crew. The house is one of those designer showcases that looks like nobody actually lives here - all white marble and gleaming appliances. Pictures of a perfect nuclear family smile from silver frames. Mom, Dad, son, daughter, golden retriever. The American dream complete with toxic mold in the basement.

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from my Dad.

  Kaitlyn, stopping by the site at lunch. Bringing papers from school for you to sign. Need anything?

  I type back: No thanks. Should be done by 1pm. Don't need to come.

  Three dots appear, disappear, then: Coming anyway. Your counselor says you missed two appointments.

  I shove the phone back in my pocket without answering. Great. Another lecture about "balancing work and school commitments" coming my way.

  He means well. Ever since we moved to Center City, he's been clean - no gambling, no loans, working his job managing construction instead of doing construction. The money I make from these remediation gigs plus what Sam's parents "invested" to help us relocate has kept us comfortably afloat. We've even started paying down his old debts. In another year, we might actually be free of them.

  Free. What a concept.

  My wristband buzzes, alerting me that my break is over. Back in the basement, the crew has opened up the first section of wall, revealing a nightmare landscape of black fuzzy growth extending through the insulation. The particulate counter is spiking again.

  "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," I mutter, slipping my mask back on.

  "Ready when you are, Smith," Grayson calls.

  I step forward, hands extended toward the exposed wall cavity. This is going to be a bigger job than I thought.

  Two hours later, I'm sitting on the brownstone's front steps, waiting for my Dad to arrive. My body feels heavy, like I've run a marathon. Absorbing that much toxic material takes a physical toll, even if it doesn't technically harm me. The wristband shows I processed nearly eleven times the normal concentration we'd expected. My completion bonus just tripled.

  "Impressive work in there, Smith."

  I look up to see Marco exiting the house, hazmat suit peeled down to his waist. He's older than me, maybe twenty-four, with the lean build of someone who does physical labor for a living.

  "Thanks. Just doing my job."

  "Most metahumans I know wouldn't touch this kind of work." He sits down beside me, leaving a respectful distance. "They're all trying to be heroes or villains. Not many in the middle, just making an honest living."

  I snort. "Nothing honest about the pay scale. I make four times what you do per hour."

  "Yeah, but you're literally filtering poison through your body." He shrugs. "Seems fair to me."

  We sit in silence for a moment, watching Center City lunch traffic. Business people in suits hurrying past, tourists consulting maps, bike couriers weaving dangerously between cars. So different from Tacony.

  A silver Prius pulls up to the curb, and my Dad steps out, looking uncomfortable in his business casual attire. He's never quite adjusted to the Center City dress code at his new job.

  "That's my dad," I tell Marco, standing up. "See you on the next job?"

  Marco nods. "Cypress Street tomorrow. Historic building, asbestos removal. Should be cake compared to today."

  I wave goodbye and walk to the car, where Dad is waiting with a manila envelope.

  "How was work?" he asks, the question still sounding strange in reference to my powers.

  "Profitable," I answer, taking the envelope. Inside are permission slips for a field trip and forms for my college applications. Right. Because apparently I'm supposed to be thinking about that now.

  "Good. Your counselor called again." He starts the car but doesn't put it in drive. "She thinks you're taking too many jobs. Says your grades are fine but you seem... distant."

  I look out the window. "I'm making good money. Paying down your debts."

  "Our debts," he corrects quietly. "And they're not going anywhere. You can slow down, Kaitlyn. Take some weekends off. Maybe see those friends you mentioned from school?"

  I haven't mentioned any friends, because I don't have any. Not real ones. Not like--

  "I'm fine," I say, cutting off my own thoughts. "Let's go home. I need a shower."

  As we drive through Philadelphia's gleaming downtown, past the office buildings and luxury apartments, I catch myself scanning rooftops and alleyways. Old habits. Looking for masks, for trouble, for something more meaningful than mold.

  My phone buzzes again. A text from a number I haven't deleted but rarely use anymore.

  Hey stranger. Derek says hi. So does Maggie. Miss your stupid face. You doing okay?

  Sam. I close the message without responding. What would I even say? Thanks for nearly dying to save me. I'm sucking toxic spores for rich people now while you take your retirement laps. Everything's great.

  "Was that Sam?" Dad asks, too perceptive for his own good.

  "Yeah."

  "You should answer her sometime. You're allowed to have friends, you know."

  I lean my head against the window. "I'm allowed a lot of things. Doesn't mean they're good for me."

  He sighs but doesn't push it. Another change since we moved - he's given me more space, more respect. Treating me like the adult I've had to become.

  As we turn onto our street, I catch a glimpse of St. Augustine's church, where I've been going to confession every week since we moved. Not that I tell the priest anything real. How could I? Forgive me father, for I have sinned. I let someone else take bullets for me. I abandoned my mission. I ran away.

  The real sin, though, is that some nights I still dream about going back. About mixing chemicals in that abandoned rowhouse, about pulling the gas mask over my face, about hunting Kingdom dealers through dark alleys. About making them pay for what they did to our neighborhood, to Sam, to me.

  Dad pulls into our building's garage. "There's leftover lasagna in the fridge. I've got a late meeting, so don't wait up."

  "Okay."

  "And Kaitlyn?" He looks at me seriously. "You saved us. You don't have to keep saving us. It's okay to save a little of yourself, too."

  I nod without really agreeing. He doesn't understand. Neither does Sam. Neither do the remediation crews or the school counselors or anyone else. When you've been to hell - literally, actually been there - you don't get to save yourself. You just try to make it mean something.

  Tomorrow there's asbestos to absorb, toxic fibers to filter through whatever strange system my body has become. It's not bringing down drug lords or stopping corrupt politicians. But it's something. It's clean. It's legal.

  And unlike being Soot, it won't get anyone I care about killed. Probably.