Day four I hit two targets. Day five I hit three.

  I'm getting faster. More efficient. The lockpicking that took me forty seconds on day one now takes thirty, sometimes twenty five if my jiggler is cooperative. I know which angles avoid security cameras without having to think about it. I can read a room's layout from the doorway and know where the documents will be, where the money is, where someone might be sleeping.

  Crossroads texts me target assessments. I pick based on what I need - quiet nights when I want to gather evidence without complications, loud nights when I want Maya to know I'm not hiding.

  The safehouses rotate. Miasma's got me moving every two days - storage unit in Bridesburg, basement in Kensington, abandoned office in Frankford. None of them are comfortable but they're secure and that's what matters.

  In the Frankford office, there's a concrete support pillar. Good surface.

  I spend twenty minutes between operations doing knuckle conditioning against it. Slow, controlled strikes. Not about power - about bone density, callus formation, pain tolerance. My shins too - I do those against the wall when I'm reading Miasma's books. Gentle impacts while I flip pages. Building bone density one microfracture at a time, regeneration turning each tiny break into stronger structure.

  It's meditative. Physical sensation that keeps my brain from spiraling into "you're a fugitive" or "your parents are being questioned" or "what if they catch you."

  Just: impact. Heal. Impact. Heal.

  Apparently the Federation of Saharan States is led by an "Amenokal", not a President or King or Prime Minister. Tarek Ag Ibrahim is the current one, and he has "chlorokinesis", just like Jasmine - but he grows fruits. Specifically, fruits, and nothing else. Every like third chapter they are comparing the FSS to America or Europe, usually in a way that I can tell is trying to be academic but has like... this little undercurrent of vague despair. In the FSS, they don't have superheroes, just miracle workers. No supervillains, just criminals and malcontents, powers or no powers.

  I turn the page.

  By the time I'm done, my shins are aching, my brain is aching, and my belly is also aching. But I'm used to sitting on uncomfortable flooring now. Miasma tries to leave me with enough creature comforts that I'm not wanting to end it all just out of soreness. Shitty pillows are a dime a dozen. I start reading about Raj Chakravati, the "first superhero". Plenty of downtime between missions. A biography is a nice change of pace.

  Miasma leaves me cash. Not a lot - enough for food, enough for supplies if I need them. Twenties and tens in a ziplock bag with a note: "Operational funds. Don't get robbed."

  "Where's this from?" I ask during one of our brief check-ins.

  "I have money." He's organizing supplies, that endless methodical sorting. "Not like I spend it on much."

  "Rent?"

  "Paid annually. Safehouses are cheap."

  "Food?"

  "Like, a hundred bucks a month, superheroism pays decently well if you don't need health insurance." He glances at me through the respirator. "I am literally a corpse. What could I possibly be spending it on?"

  "Perfume, maybe?" I can't help it.

  "Hardy har." But I think he's smiling under there. Hard to tell.

  The cash means I can get warm food. Real food, not just protein bars and jerky. I start hitting bodegas and takeout places between operations - quick stops, hood up, pay cash, leave. Chicken over rice. Pho. Pizza by the slice. Stuff that's hot and fills the stomach and makes you feel human for twenty minutes.

  I'm eating constantly. Miasma wasn't kidding about the calories - I'm burning through food faster than I ever have. Regeneration plus constant activity plus winter cold means my metabolism is working overtime. I'm hungry ALL the time. Like, absurdly hungry. I finish a large pizza and I'm still thinking about food.

  The warm food helps. Makes the safehouses feel less like hiding and more like... I don't know. Operating. Like I'm a person doing a job, not a fugitive huddling in the dark.

  I'm getting used to it. The routine. Wake up (if I slept - sleep is inconsistent). Eat. Condition. Check messages from Crossroads. Plan the night's operations. Eat again. Move between safehouses. Execute operation. Eat. Sleep maybe.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  Repeat.

  The snow keeps coming. Philadelphia gets like this sometimes in winter - weeks of intermittent snow that never quite melts, just accumulates in gray slush on the sidewalks and ice in the gutters.

  I'm learning to move in it. Not just walk - really move. How to sprint without slipping. How to use ice patches to slide around corners faster. How to read which surfaces have traction and which don't just by looking.

  I find an empty lot in Tacony, three in the morning, no lights. Practice for an hour. Running, stopping, changing direction. Falling deliberately to learn how to fall safely. Getting back up fast.

  My hands go numb. My face hurts from the cold. But I keep going because this matters - if I have to run from Argus Corps, if I have to chase someone, if I slip at the wrong moment, I get caught or get injured badly. I need to be better than the terrain.

  By the end of the hour I'm not good at snow movement but I'm better. I know my limits. Know when to push and when to be careful. Know how my boots grip and where they don't.

  The regeneration keeps me warmer than I should be. Not warm exactly - I'm still cold, still borderline hypothermic some nights - but the metabolic activity from healing and moving generates heat. Enough that I don't quite freeze. Enough that I can operate when normal people would need to be inside. Another advantage, just a little one. Is that enough to count as its own superpower, I wonder? G1 - regeneration induced mild hyperthermia. Ha ha ha.

  Day seven. Target: Silverstein.

  City councilman, Kingdom-connected. I've had him documented for a while - one of the people I know is dirty but can't prove yet. Maya Richardson's colleague. Probably not alphabet himself but definitely in the network.

  Crossroads says tonight's quiet. No operations flagged for Argus Corps attention. Good night to gather intelligence.

  I pick him up outside his office building downtown. Five PM, just getting dark. He's in a nice coat, leather gloves, scarf. Looks like every other politician leaving work.

  I'm across the street, winter gear, goggles up on my forehead. Just another person waiting for the bus.

  He walks. I follow.

  First hour is easy. He's going somewhere specific, moving with purpose. I stay a block back. I can't just bump into him and blade him, so I have to just have to use my eyes like a normal person. Harder in a crowd but doable.

  Second hour, he stops at a restaurant. Sits down, orders food. I'm across the street at a bodega, buying coffee and a sandwich. Eating standing up, watching the window.

  He's in there for forty-five minutes. I finish my sandwich. Drink the coffee. It's not enough - I'm still hungry - so I get another sandwich. And a bag of chips. And a protein bar for later.

  The guy behind the counter gives me a look but takes my cash.

  I'm burning calories just standing here. The cold, the constant low-level movement, the regeneration maintaining my core temperature. I remember what Multiplex told me - there's no free lunch. My regeneration almost hand waves away the caloric needs of new... skin and stuff. New scar tissue. That's easy. It's the muscles, that's the hard part. The parts my regeneration doesn't cover well.

  Third hour, Silverstein's moving again. I follow. My legs should be tired by now. Three hours of walking, most of it in the cold. Normal people would need to rest. He gets a small nosebleed from the dry, cold air, and I'm on him like white on rice. Now, I can take a step back. Hide behind corners without looking at him. Maybe, if I were feeling nicer, warn him that he needs to get his ticker checked before he keels over one day.

  But the thing I'm noticing in between trying to catalogue every one of his little habits is this: I'm fine. Not comfortable - my feet hurt, my thighs are sore - but it's not getting worse. It's level. Like I hit some kind of equilibrium between exertion and recovery.

  Fourth hour. He meets someone. Another guy in a nice coat. They talk for ten minutes on a street corner, shake hands, separate. I memorize the other guy's face. Document it mentally. Someone to research later.

  I keep following Silverstein.

  Fifth hour. He's slowing down. I can see it in how he walks - less purposeful, more tired. He stops at another restaurant. Sits. Orders. Meets with people I can't get close enough to eavesdrop on.

  I'm across the street again, eating another sandwich from a different bodega. This is my fourth meal in five hours. My wallet's getting light.

  But I'm fine. Better than fine. I'm not tired. My legs aren't giving out. The soreness leveled off around hour three and hasn't gotten worse.

  Sixth hour. Silverstein's still in the restaurant. He looks exhausted. No, not exhausted. Bored. He's not about to jump off a roof, he's just a guy who had a busy day in cold weather and had to exert himself. He's, what, 55? Pretty young for a politician. When he's done, he steps out for a smoke, and his crusted over nose breaks into another soft, gentle bleed. He cusses under his breath and mops it up with a napkin. He steps back in.

  I'm outside, doing calf raises to stay warm. Eating a protein bar. Watching. Six hours of walking through winter and he's done. He needs to sit, eat, recover.

  I don't.

  I'm tired. My muscles are sore. If I had to sprint right now it would suck. But I don't need to sprint. I just need to keep walking. And I can do that.

  For how long?

  Seventh hour. Silverstein leaves the restaurant. I bump into him and pickpocket in a little note. "Scuse me," I mumble, and he barely seems to care.

  "Stay bundled up out there, kiddo!" he says, cheerfully, trying to flag me down. Maybe when he gets home he'll read my warning and go to get his arrhythmia handled before he keels over. I tell myself it's not because I'm being nice, it's because if he dies there's nobody to prosecute.

  That's what I tell myself. I keep walking as he orders up a taxi from his phone. I've got what I needed - documentation of his route, his meetings, his patterns. Proof I can maintain operational tempo way longer than I thought.

  I head back to the safehouse - the Kensington basement tonight. Eat two more sandwiches on the way because I'm still hungry. My legs are sore but functional. Tomorrow I'll wake up and they'll be fine.

  And then I do it again.