Day seven. Miasma's doing his supply check at the primary safehouse, methodical as always. I'm eating leftover Chinese food cold because the camping stove takes too long and I'm hungry now.

  "Question," he says, not looking up from his notebook. "Why do you think Maya's frame job is so sloppy?"

  I pause mid-bite. "What do you mean?"

  "You retired publicly. Derek's been operating as Bloodhound II since October - that's documented. The fake you gets unmasked on camera multiple times, which you never did during your actual career. The timing doesn't match your known schedule." He's ticking points off on his fingers. "Any competent defense attorney tears this apart in twenty minutes."

  "Yeah." I put down the container. "I've been thinking about that. It doesn't make sense unless--"

  "Unless conviction isn't the goal." He closes the notebook. "The frame job doesn't need to be airtight. It just needs to exist. Because even a weak case takes months to work through the courts. Even perfect alibi evidence requires legal proceedings, documentation, witnesses. Meanwhile you're a fugitive. Can't operate openly. Can't go to school. Can't have a normal life. Resources get drained on legal defense instead of investigation."

  I'm following his logic. "So she's not trying to put me in jail forever. She's trying to..."

  "Harass you. Intimidate you. Make you understand that crossing the Kingdom has consequences." He leans back against the wall. "The sloppiness is intentional. She's saying: we're not even trying hard and we can still ruin your life. Imagine what we could do if we actually committed resources."

  "That's fucked up."

  "That's strategic." His voice is matter-of-fact. "Criminal organizations don't always want people in prison. Prison is expensive, requires maintaining evidence, risks exposure during trial. But making someone a fugitive? Creating legal chaos? That's cheap. That's effective. That keeps you reactive instead of proactive."

  I think about that. About Mom and Dad hiring Jerry Caldwell. About Principal Heckerman trying to work with teachers. About me eating cold Chinese food in a basement instead of sitting in class.

  "So even if we catch Alice," I say slowly. "Even if we prove the shapeshifter exists. Maya's already won part of this. Because I've lost at least a week of my life dealing with her bullshit."

  "Yes and no." Miasma's sorting supplies again. "Yes, she's cost you time and resources. No, she hasn't won - because you're still operating. You're still hitting targets. You're still a problem she has to solve. The frame job was supposed to sideline you. Instead you've escalated. That's not winning from her perspective."

  "So she'll escalate back."

  "She already is. Argus Corps is actively hunting you now, not just responding to tips. Be ready for contact."

  He's right. I know he's right.

  I finish the Chinese food and start getting ready for tonight's operation.

  The target's a Kingdom front in Rittenhouse Square. Closer to Center City than I usually operate - I've been getting bolder, testing my range. It's a "consulting firm" that's really a money laundering operation. Good documentation potential, and Crossroads says it stays quiet tonight.

  I'm two blocks away when I smell smoke.

  Not cigarette smoke. Building fire smoke. Wood and plastic and that chemical smell of things that shouldn't burn.

  I move toward it. The "consulting firm" - the building's on fire. Ground floor, spreading up. I can see flames through the first floor windows.

  For a second - just a second - I see someone running away. Teenager, my height, dark jacket. The back of their head looks like Alex Kirby, the shock of bright hair, but I know intuitively that it's not him. His fire has a sort of... it has a smell, almost like a fucked up butane. It reeks, sharp and harsh, and I'd recognize the fumes anywhere.

  But I don't have time to linger. Someone's still in there, and they got cut on something sharp scrambling to get out. I can tell.

  My phone buzzes.

  C: Response incoming. Get out.

  Shit.

  Argus Corps is coming. Fire response probably - but I'm here, at a Kingdom front that's on fire, and there's someone bleeding inside. G-d damnit.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Fuck it.

  I pull the scarf up over my mouth and nose, pull the goggles down, and go in through the side entrance. The door's hot but not impossible. Inside it's smoke and heat and the crackling sound of fire eating drywall.

  "Where are you?" I'm shouting, trying to keep my voice low.

  "Here! Upstairs!"

  Upstairs. Of course.

  The stairs are concrete - not burning yet - but the smoke's thick. I'm coughing even through the scarf. My eyes are watering behind the goggles. I follow the voice.

  Second floor, office, door's closed. I kick it open. Guy inside, maybe thirties, coughing, on the floor. Smart - smoke rises. He's doing it right.

  "Come on." I grab him under the arms, haul him up. He's heavy, deadweight, barely conscious. "Can you walk?"

  "Can't--" More coughing.

  "Try."

  I get him moving. Half-carrying, half-dragging. Back to the stairs. The smoke's worse now. I can hear sirens outside. Fire trucks. And maybe--

  There's a cat. Orange tabby, terrified, yowling in the smoke. Hiding under a desk.

  "Are you fucking kidding me," I mutter, not really asking anyone.

  I get the guy to the stairs. "Go down. Stay low. Get outside."

  He stumbles down. I go back for the cat.

  The cat does not want to be rescued. The cat wants to stay under the desk and yowl. I grab it anyway, get scratched across the forearms for my trouble, and carry it toward the stairs. It's a lot harder to handle than getting the person out. The person can cooperate. The cat is squirming for dear life and would love nothing more than to fling itself back into danger.

  "Gear one!" mother fucker.

  I'm at the top of the stairs, holding a cat, covered in smoke, and the superhero who's supposed to arrest me is about to come through that door.

  I could drop the cat. Run the other direction. There's got to be another exit.

  I look at the cat. The cat looks at me with those stupid dilated pupils that mean it's terrified. It has the same eyes as Box, and it's stopped trying to claw me and at this point is just kind of squirming.

  "This is so stupid," I tell the cat.

  Jett's coming through the front entrance as I hit the ground floor. She sees me immediately. Freezes.

  I'm walking toward her. Civilian's already outside - I can see him on the sidewalk, coughing, as ambulances start to swirl around like seagulls. I've got the cat.

  "Bloodhound," Jett says, neutrally.

  I don't say anything. Just walk closer.

  She's not in a stance. Not preparing to fight. Just standing there, looking at me, and I can see the conflict on her face even through her fire goggles.

  I stop two feet away and hold out the cat. Jett takes the cat automatically. It immediately tries to climb her face. She adjusts her grip, gentle, keeping it secure. "He's cut enough that I can see his lungs. He's not in lethal danger, but he's not going to have a good time without medical assistance. His calf got scratched open and it's probably going to get infected if you don't clean it. I would, but..."

  I can hear her earpiece. Faint but audible. A man's voice - Patriot, probably. "--confirm visual? Jett, do you have eyes on--"

  "I have eyes on Bloodhound," Jett says into her comms. Her voice is flat. Professional. Uncomfortably monotone. "Civilian extracted. Building's clear."

  The voice comes back. I can't make out words but the tone is clear. Orders. Instructions.

  "Copy," Jett says.

  She looks at me. I look at her.

  The cat yowls.

  "I should--" Jett starts.

  "Yeah," I say.

  Neither of us moves.

  "The civilian," I say. "Check on him. Make sure he's breathing okay."

  "Sam--"

  "Are you a superhero or not, Jett?"

  She's holding the cat. Both arms occupied. The civilian's outside, might be going into shock. Fire trucks are arriving. There are witnesses.

  She could pursue me. Could call for backup. Could try.

  "Go," she nearly growls, and it sounds disturbingly out of character. She's mad. At what? Me?

  I can't tell if she means it. Can't tell if she's letting me go or if I'm escaping. Can't tell if this is mercy or just circumstance - she's holding a cat, there's a civilian who needs attention, the fire's still burning.

  But I see her face. See the way she's not moving to stop me. See the way she's not calling into the earpiece that I'm running.

  I turn and walk. Not running - that would make it obvious. Just walking, like I'm supposed to be here. Around the corner. Into the alley. Then running.

  Behind me I hear Jett's voice: "Lost visual. Securing civilian. Requesting EMS."

  I'm back in the Kensington safehouse an hour later. Hands still smell like smoke. The cat scratches on my arms are already healing, just red lines that'll be gone by morning.

  I keep thinking about Jett's face. The way she looked at me. The way she said "go."

  She didn't want to catch me or chase me. And I'm so angry at that I could bite my fingers off. Why does everything have to be so... morally complicated, G-ddamnit? I want to be angry at her. Would be simpler if I could hate Argus Corps. Hate Patriot, sure - that's easy. But Jett? Captain Devil? He even tried to pin me down and deliver me to the cops in person and I still can't make myself hate him. Just a vague sense of acid-nausea disgust.

  They're not the problem. They're tools. Weapons.

  Maya's holding the leash. Maya's deciding who they chase, who they hunt, who they hurt. She's got them on these tight spiked collars - step out of line, you lose your second chance. Back when Jordan and I were breaking up dog-fighting rings, that's what this is reminding me of. Gamblers and hustlers keeping their pitbulls on the spiked leashes, yanking hard when they wouldn't fight, yanking so hard they bled.

  Why is it so hard to just hate them? My parents always taught me to never accept 'just following orders' as an excuse. For good fucking reason. Jett thought chasing me was a funny little game. But she also let me go... maybe. The person whose life I saved was probably actively laundering money when the place went up in smoke, or getting ready to sell drugs, or whatever the fuck. It makes me angry!

  Damnit, damnit, damnit! I scrunch my face up, angrily gnashing a power bar to pieces between my teeth. Then, my face relaxes, because there's nobody around for me to emote to, so what's the point. Back into that steady, neutral, even keel. The only person I could possibly complain about this to is Miasma right now. Or maybe the Auditors, but, like... I don't know. Man, why don't they make fugitives for therapists? I mean therapists for fugitives.

  I pick up my Non Burner Phone and stare at it. Messages still coming through about operations, patrols in Mayfair and Tacony. Every so often. End to end encrypted. I'm safe. No reason to isolate myself.

  Sam: Good work team.