We stand there for a second, hands still clasped, and I have no idea what comes next.

  Like, I just shook hands with a guy in a hazmat suit who smells like death and promised to go to war with a criminal organization that's already tried to kill me multiple times. My brain is still trying to process "fugitive" and "Miasma is a mole" and "I just assaulted a federal agent," and now we're apparently war buddies?

  I let go of his hand. He lets go of mine. We both just sort of... stand there.

  "Sit down before you fall down," Miasma says finally, his voice muffled through the respirator.

  "I'm fine," I say automatically, which is when I notice my legs are shaking. Not from exhaustion exactly - my stamina's still good - but from the adrenaline crash that's hitting me like a truck. My sneakers are soaked through. My toes went numb three blocks ago and I'm only noticing now. My jacket's wet from melted slush.

  "You're hypothermic and running on fumes," Miasma says, not unkindly. Matter-of-fact. "There's dry clothes in the bin over there. Change. Then sit."

  I look at the plastic bin against the wall. It's organized - folded clothes in clear plastic bags, sorted by size. The whole basement is like that, actually. Spartan but intentional. Sleeping bag, camping stove, water bottles, first aid kit. Everything has a place.

  "Do you just... have safehouses everywhere?" I ask, pulling out a plastic bag with clothes that might fit me.

  "Four in Philadelphia. Six in Boston. Two in New York. A couple more here and there. I don't really have a lot of other luxuries to fill my life with" He's moving around the space now, checking things, making sure everything's secure. "This one's burned after tonight. Can't risk them connecting you to me."

  I change quickly - hoodie, dry jeans that are too long, thick socks that are too big but warm. My wet clothes go in the empty plastic bag. The whole time I'm thinking about how I'm in a stranger's(?) safehouse changing clothes while my parents watch a dot on their phone and probably lose their minds.

  When I sit down on the sleeping bag, my legs basically give out. I didn't realize how tired I am.

  Miasma's checking the camping stove. "You eaten?"

  "Not since--" I try to remember. Lunch? That feels like a year ago. "Not recently."

  He opens the plastic bin next to the stove. It's full of jars and bottles and containers, all with aggressive labels. Kimchi. Hot sauce. Pickled jalape?os. Vinegar-based everything. The kind of stuff that makes your eyes water just looking at it.

  "Why do you only have hot sauce and kimchi?" I ask.

  "I'm literally dead," he says, pulling out a jar. "Do you think my tongue works?"

  "I mean..." I don't know what to say to that. "That's fair?"

  "Strong flavors or nothing." He's unscrewing the kimchi jar. The smell hits me even from here - sharp, fermented, aggressive. "Can't taste anything subtle. This is what I've got."

  I think about my teeth. How I've eaten them when I had to. How my body does things I don't control, grows weapons and armor I didn't ask for. Body horror solidarity, I guess.

  "I get it," I say. "Sort of. My body does weird shit too."

  "I know. Read your file." He pauses, reaches behind the kimchi jars. "But sometimes other people show up here too."

  He pulls out a bag of bagel chips and a jar of peanut butter. Normal food. People food. No, that's not true. Lots of people in the world like kimchi. I just can't really say I'm one of them.

  "Thanks," I say quietly.

  He hands them over along with a water bottle, then goes back to organizing his supplies. Not making a big deal of it. Just... providing.

  I eat the bagel chips with peanut butter and they taste amazing. Everything tastes amazing when you've been running for your life and haven't eaten in hours. The peanut butter sticks to the roof of my mouth and I have to work to swallow it, but I don't care.

  My phone buzzes.

  I pull it out. Seven missed calls. Thirty-two texts. Most from Mom and Dad. Some from the Auditors group chat. One from Pop-Pop Moe that just says "Call me when safe."

  "Your phone," Miasma says, not looking up from what he's doing. "They'll be trying to trace it. Maybe already started. You need to decide what level of risk you're comfortable with."

  My thumb hovers over Mom's name. I want to call so badly. I want to hear her voice, tell her I'm okay, hear her tell me it's going to be fine even if we both know it's not.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  "If you answer, keep it under thirty seconds," Miasma continues, still matter-of-fact. "If you text, keep it short. Better yet, don't use it at all until we establish secure communication."

  "Can they trace it if I just listen to voicemail?" I ask.

  "Probably not in real time. But it creates a data point - time, duration, tower location. Adds up."

  I stare at the missed calls. Three from Mom. Two from Dad. One from the house phone, probably both of them on speaker phone.

  "Your choice," Miasma says.

  I put the phone on speaker instead of holding it to my ear. If there's information being shared, Miasma should hear it too. It takes a couple of seconds, but the voicemail loads. Mom's voice comes through, and she doesn't sound scared.

  She sounds pissed.

  "Samantha." Not Sam. Samantha. "We know you're okay. We can see the tracker. We're not calling the police, we're not cooperating beyond what we legally have to."

  There's a pause, some shuffling. Dad's voice now: "That son of a bitch Patriot tried to arrest you in our front yard without even looking at the evidence. Your mother nearly took his head off."

  Despite everything, I almost smile.

  Mom's voice again: "We have a lawyer. We have the tracker data. We have timestamped photographs, school attendance records, everything. You didn't do this and we're going to prove it." Her voice gets quieter, more intense. "We love you. We're furious, but not at you. Stay safe. We'll handle this."

  Dad: "Don't answer this. We know they might be tracing. Just know we're fighting for you."

  The voicemail ends.

  I sit there staring at my phone, eyes burning, trying not to cry because that's stupid and doesn't help anything. But they're not scared. They're not trying to control me or stop me or make me come home and turn myself in. They're just... in my corner. Completely. For the first time maybe ever, when it comes to the superhero stuff, they're just on my side.

  "Good parents," Miasma says.

  "Yeah," I manage. "They try."

  He doesn't say anything else. Doesn't try to comfort me or tell me it'll be okay. He just goes back to packing up his supplies, giving me space to feel it without making it weird.

  I open my phone. I'm immediately thinking security, which feels uncomfortable, but I remember something Jordan told me once. End to end cryptography, or something? That HIRC is always safe to use because it was invented by several paranoid nutcases worried about technopaths or whatever. So the group chat is fine.

  I type carefully:

  Sam: I'm safe. Can't say where. Please text my parents and tell them I got their message and I'm okay. I'll check in when I can. Don't try to find me. Maggie, can you still handle the next session with the kids?

  The responses come fast.

  Maggie: of course. stay safe. i love you.

  Maggie: like as a friend and mentor

  Tasha: Your parents are already blowing up Lily's phone asking if we know anything.

  Sam: Tell them I heard their voicemail. Tell them thank you. Tell them I love them.

  Amelia: Do you need anything? Supplies? Money? We can dead-drop something.

  I look at Miasma. He shakes his head slightly.

  Sam: Not yet. I'll let you know. Just... keep things running. Act normal. They'll be watching all of you.

  Lily: We can handle it. You just stay safe okay?

  Maggie: we've got your back. no matter what.

  I close the app and pocket the phone. I breathe a prayer for small mercies.

  "I need to check in," Miasma says. He's got his own phone out now. "You can stay, just be quiet."

  He doesn't step away - nowhere to go in a basement this size - just turns slightly, makes the call.

  "Hey," he says, and his voice is different. Still rough through the respirator but... softer? "Yeah, still in Philadelphia. No, it's fine. Boring surveillance work, you know how it is."

  Pause. Someone talking on the other end.

  "Miss you too. Tell Marcus I'll be back by Friday. Yeah, I know. I'll bring the good kimchi."

  Another pause. Then something that might be a laugh, this weird rattling sound through the respirator.

  "No, no morgue stuff. You know that's a you thing... At least I'm cold on both sides, honey." I nearly choke on my bagel chip. Miasma continues like I didn't just almost die: "Love you. I'll call tomorrow. Yeah. Bye."

  He hangs up, pockets the phone.

  We sit there for a second.

  "What?" I ask, because I have to know.

  "Fiancée. Seven years next month."

  "And they just... they're okay with..." I gesture vaguely at the hazmat suit, the basement, the whole situation.

  "She knew what she was getting into." Miasma shrugs. "She works at a funeral home. I happen to have a taste for women who like corpse paint. Everything shakes out."

  "I meant more the... Gross!" I scrunch my face up like I swallowed a lemon. "Corpse paint? I was talking about you being in Philadelphia!"

  "You don't know what corpse paint is?" He asks. I can hear his raised eyebrow. "Never mind. Yes, she's fine with it. We're both independent adults. We're a team. Not conjoined twins."

  "That's..." I don't know how to finish that sentence. "That's really nice, actually."

  "Life's weird," Miasma says. "You make it work."

  He starts gathering his things - the bag of cleaning supplies, some equipment I don't recognize. "I need to get back. File my report, maintain cover. I'll be back in a few hours with more information."

  "What do I do until then?" I ask.

  "Stay quiet. Don't use the phone unless it's an emergency. There's a bucket in the corner if you need it, numerous wet wipes, toilet paper, et cetera." He gestures to the far wall. "If someone comes who isn't me, you can pull the bookshelf back - there's a bug-out tunnel to hide in. I'll put the internal lock in, so you'll hear it if someone tries to rattle."

  "What counts as an emergency?"

  "Building on fire. Armed intruders. Patriot kicking down the door. Anything else, you sit tight."

  "What if you don't come back?"

  He pauses at the stairs. "If I'm not back in twelve hours, assume something is keeping me. There's a burner phone in the first aid kit, number's taped inside. Call it, if I don't pick up, then you can start worrying and call the second number."

  "Gotcha," I say, feeling unsure. Feeling... tired. Feeling... I don't know. I don't think I have a good track of what emotions are like, only the sensations of them. My feet still hurt. But they're slowly warming up, and it feels weird and tingly. "Well. Good luck?"

  "You too, Sam. I've got ideas. Gather your thoughts, and then we'll plan when I get back." he instructs. Then he's up the stairs. I hear the metal door close, the padlock click shut from outside. And then the inner lock sort of engages itself after a couple of seconds. And then...

  I'm alone.