Not thinking, just moving. Over the porch railing, hit the ground, already sprinting. Behind me there's shouting - Mom, Dad, Patriot, Jett, cops, neighbors, everyone talking at once - but it's just noise. White noise. My blood sense maps the street ahead, tells me where the patrol car is parked, tells me exactly where to plant my hands when I vault over the hood.

  I'm over it before anyone can react. Land, roll, keep moving.

  "No guns!" Patriot's voice carries over everything else. Loud, commanding, the kind of voice that expects obedience. "Stand down! Let her go!"

  I don't stop running to question why he's calling off pursuit. I just run faster.

  Southwest. Away from home, away from the Music Hall, toward center city. Toward... I don't know. Somewhere that isn't here. Somewhere they won't expect.

  My sneakers slap against pavement. Cold air burns my lungs. The tracker bracelet bounces against my wrist with every step, and I can feel Mom and Dad watching the dot move, probably panicking, probably arguing about what to do next.

  Behind me, the sounds of the confrontation fade. Nobody's chasing me.

  That's wrong. That's really wrong.

  Patriot has enhanced everything - speed, stamina, reaction time. Jett literally has a power that makes her faster. There are cops with cars and radios and backup. I just assaulted a federal officer (kicked her toes, whatever, that counts) and fled arrest. They should be swarming me right now.

  Instead: nothing. Just me running through Tacony in the dark.

  I hear Patriot's voice again, distant now but still audible: "She's not going to get far. She just added fleeing, resisting arrest, and assault on a federal officer to her charges. Let her run herself out."

  Oh.

  Oh, that's smart. That's really smart and I hate it.

  He's not chasing me because chasing me makes him look aggressive. Not chasing me makes me look guilty. Running makes me look guilty. Every second I'm not in custody is another charge, another piece of evidence that I'm dangerous and uncontrollable and exactly what Maya Richardson's legislation was designed to stop.

  And they don't need to chase me because where am I going to go? Home is burned. Music Hall will be raided. Any known associate will be watched. My parents are wearing tracker bracelets now too - metaphorically, legally, however that works. Everyone I know is about to get very closely monitored.

  I'm running into a trap that hasn't closed yet.

  But I keep running anyway because stopping means going back, and going back means Patriot, and Patriot means - no. Not thinking about that. Just running.

  Three blocks southwest. Four blocks. Five. Into an area I don't know as well, where the row homes look slightly different, where my blood sense is picking up less familiar patterns. Fewer nosebleeds I recognize, fewer old injuries I've catalogued.

  I cut into an alley between two buildings, breathing hard, trying to think. My lungs are burning again. My legs are shaking. The adrenaline that got me off the porch is starting to wear off, and underneath it is just... exhaustion. Fear. The reality of what I just did.

  I'm a fugitive now. Like, actually a fugitive. Not "teenager doing vigilante work," not "hero operating in gray area." Fugitive. With charges. With a warrant. With every cop in Philadelphia probably getting my description right now.

  And I have nowhere to go.

  There's a sound behind me - footsteps, heavy and deliberate.

  I spin around, teeth already pushing forward, ready to fight or run or both.

  The figure in the alley is wearing a hazmat suit. Full coverage, fluorescent yellow material that looks industrial, respirator mask covering the face. The suit is moving, which means there's a person inside, but my blood sense is giving me nothing. Whoever's inside isn't bleeding. They don't smell. I barely even hear them. A sort of person-shaped absence.

  It takes me a second to place who this is. Then: "Miasma?"

  When he speaks, his voice is muffled through the respirator but recognizable - rough, economical. "Third building down across the street. Southwest corner. Basement access. There's a small red triangle on the next house over. Door's unlocked. Stay there."

  I stare at him. "What?"

  "Do I need to repeat myself?" He's already turning, speaking into his radio. "Target headed toward Frankford Avenue. In pursuit." Then, back to me, quieter: "Go. Now."

  He walks away, heavy footsteps echoing off the alley walls, and I'm left standing there trying to process what just happened.

  I don't have time to think about why. I just move.

  Third building, southwest corner. I find it - old row home, windows boarded up, that condemned look that says the bank owns it now and nobody's checking on it. There's a basement access around the side, metal door set into the ground at an angle, padlock hanging open. The next house over it, someone's scratched a triangle onto the bricks with colored pencil. Or chalk. Could've been any random kid's art project.

  This isn't smart, but I can't run forever, and I don't have better options, and leaving me alone is more proof that he's on my side than whatever Jett was trying.

  I pull the door up. Stairs leading down into darkness.

  I go down.

  The basement is cold and dark and smells like... actually, it doesn't smell like much. There's a dehumidifier running in the corner, humming quietly, keeping the air dry. My eyes adjust slowly - there's a small window up near the ceiling letting in streetlight, enough to see by.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  It's not a shithole. That's my first thought. It's spartan, sure, but it's clean. Organized. There's a sleeping bag rolled up in one corner, a camping stove, bottles of water stacked against the wall. A plastic bin with food - I can see labels, all stuff with strong flavors. Hot sauce, pickles, kimchi, vinegar-based things. A battery-powered lantern. A first aid kit.

  This is someone's safe house. This is Miasma's safe house.

  He gave me his safe house.

  I sit down on the concrete floor, back against the wall, and just... breathe. My hands are shaking. The adrenaline is definitely gone now, replaced by the crash that always comes after. I feel cold. Tired. Like I could sleep for a week.

  My phone buzzes. I pull it out - group chat with the Auditors.

  Tasha: Everything okay, Sam? I heard sirens going towards your street.

  And then, about five, ten minutes later.

  Maggie: sam where are you?

  Lily: Are you okay???

  Tasha: News is saying there was an incident at your house

  I stare at the screen for a long moment, then type:

  Sam: I'm safe. For now. Had a run-in with Argus Corps. Long story. I'm okay but I'm going to be out of commission for a bit. Maggie, can you handle the next session with the kids? Not sure when I'll be able to get back to normal.

  The responses come fast:

  Maggie: Of course. Whatever you need.

  Lily: Do you need help? We can come get you

  Amelia: What do you mean out of commission? Are you hurt?

  Sam: Not hurt. Complicated. Might be a fugitive from the law now. I'll let you know when things are clear. If I need anything you guys can provide, I'll.

  Sam: I'll let you know.

  Tasha: Sam

  Sam: I'm serious. Don't try to find me. I'll be fine.

  I turn the phone on silent and pocket it. Can't risk them tracking it somehow, but I need to keep it for now. Need to be able to contact people.

  The tracker bracelet on my wrist catches the dim light. Mom and Dad can see I'm stationary now. Probably freaking out less than when I was moving, but still freaking out. At least they know I'm alive, and that I found somewhere to stop. Are they arguing with cops, now? Are they down at the station, turning me in? No. I don't even need to consider that thought - I flag it as intrusive and toss it away. They get on my nerves and they're overbearing but it's because they value my safety.

  Anything that would make me less safe, that's a fake thought. Toss it away.

  I should take it off - the bracelet, I mean. It's a liability. But... they need to know I'm okay. They just watched me run from cops. They need to know I'm safe.

  I leave it on.

  For now.

  A couple of hours pass. There's books in here, so I read them - stuff about the criminal justice system, a lot of periodicals about Daedalus, some stuff on international superhuman relations. I didn't even know there was a Federation of Saharan States. When did that happen?

  I think about a lot of things. About the warrant. About Mrs. Doppelganger running around Philadelphia looking like me, doing things that I'm getting blamed for. About Patriot's face when I ran. About Jett's grip loosening just enough. About Mom's expression - the fury that looked like Victor.

  About how I'm a fugitive now and I have no idea what comes next.

  I'm just about to find out about the most recent developments in Russo-Ukrainian relations when the basement door opens. I'm on my feet, and teeth are coming out of my knuckles, before I even have the chance to stop myself. I'm in a corner now, so it's fight or get captured.

  Miasma comes down the stairs slowly, hazmat suit rustling. He's carrying a bag - looks like cleaning supplies. He sees me, stops, raises one hand in a "calm down" gesture.

  "It's just me," he says through the respirator.

  I force my teeth back. "What are you doing here?"

  "Burning the safehouse." He sets the bag down. "Going to clean it out, make it look like a random abandoned basement. Can't come back here after tonight."

  "Because of me."

  "Because it's tactically smart." He moves to the corner, starts unplugging the dehumidifier. "They'll check my known locations eventually. Better if this one looks unused."

  I watch him work for a moment. "Why are you helping me?"

  "Kingdom framed me for murder," he says, matter-of-fact. "You were there. You know they did it. I know they did it. Then, Richardson made a stupid fucking bonehead move and tried to put a leash on me with her stupid pack of attack dogs. Easy money."

  "You're a mole?" I ask, incredulous.

  The warehouse. Duh.

  "Richardson's name is Mrs. Zenith. Their organizational structure produces the occasional conflict between left hand and right hand. Lieutenants have a lot of latitude with what they can do, and that causes them to get in their own way. The first mover advantage was that they slid in after the Big Raid took out the major crime families in the Northeast. The first guys to really take advantage of what superpowers could do." He's packing up the camping stove now, efficient and methodical. "That competitive advantage only takes them so long. The real dogs are coming out to play now. Yes, I'm a mole, Bloodhound."

  The simple confirmation hits different than I expected. I knew, sort of, but hearing him say it out loud makes it real.

  "How long?" I ask. "And don't call me Bloodhound, please."

  "Since they formed Argus Corps. Richardson recruited me specifically because I was disgraced. Thought I'd be desperate enough to follow orders." He makes a sound that might be a laugh through the respirator. "She wasn't wrong about desperate. Just wrong about which orders I'd follow."

  He finishes packing, looks at me. I still can't see his face through the suit, can't get any blood signature, can't read him at all. It's unsettling.

  "The tracker bracelet," he says, gesturing at my wrist. "Your parents need to know you're alive. But when we move from here, it has to go. They'll get a warrant for the data eventually. Probably already working on it, if your folks aren't just giving them the phone data outright to prove your innocence."

  "How long do I have?"

  "I'll let you know when it looks like they're about to get it." He pauses. "You should keep it on until then. Let your family know you're safe. But be ready to ditch it."

  I nod slowly. That makes sense. Cruel sense, but sense.

  "What about you?" I ask. "If they find out you helped me--"

  "They won't. I reported you headed toward the bridge. Patriot thinks I lost you in the dark." He's moving toward the stairs now, bag in hand. "I'll keep them pointed wrong directions. Buy you time."

  "Why?"

  He stops, looks back at me. "What are you, stupid?" He shifts the bag. "Because someone has to. The calculus is simple. And it's what..."

  There's a long moment where we just look at each other - me and the hazmat suit with no blood signature, no face, nothing I can read. But I can see him anyway, in that way parents do with each other. It's what Liberty Belle would've done.

  Then he says: "I've been fighting them alone. You've been fighting them with your little gang of rugrats. But you did good work last time we worked together. I just wasn't in a position where I could risk calling it in. Seems like the right time to start cashing my cheques."

  I think about that. About all the investigations I've done, all the evidence I've gathered, all the times I've been one step behind the Kingdom because I didn't have enough resources or information or time. About Miasma doing the same thing from inside Argus Corps, sabotaging quietly, helping people escape, probably saving lives I'll never know about.

  "So what?" I ask. "We team up? Coordinate?"

  "Something like that." He extends a hand. Even through the hazmat glove, the gesture is clear. "She's ramping up. Whoever they used to frame me, they're probably using to frame you too. Probably a shapeshifter, or something like that."

  "Yeah. That's... my guess. Are there a lot of those?" I ask.

  "Outside of Hollywood, no. Why would you bother when you can make a killing in LA? So much less risky," he jokes, chuckling in a low way that makes his throat sort of buzz like a revving chainsaw. "But... you know what this means, right?"

  "What?" I ask, not knowing what this means. I reach out and grab his glove. We shake. I feel his tendons shift.

  "This means war."