-8 MONTHS AGO-

  In the cold, early hours of the morning, two hunched figures moved quickly around stacked shipping crates. They approached a large, darkened warehouse and took up position on either side of a massive bay door. Power to this building and the surrounding lights had been cut long ago, cloaking them in shadow.

  "You sure he's here, Buck?" said the smaller of the two, a mole-kin. He pulled a firearm from inside his coat and checked the chamber.

  "Considering what I paid Angus for the info, he better be." Buck said, checking his own weapon. "Once we're inside, head around the perimeter. I'll go down the main hall. We should catch him in the middle."

  Buck slowly pushed open the door. The hinges cried for oil as they slipped inside and split up. Sam’s footfalls echoed softly and grew distant. The lack of any kind of cover made Buck nervous, so he slowed his pace and perked his ears, listening for any sign of this Crimson Lotus: Arsonist-for-hire. Multiple buildings had gone up without warning over the last few months. The city hadn't put much effort into investigating, blaming faulty wiring or the errant cigarette. The public wasn't much help either, calling the Lotus a hero of the people. Helping desperate citizens to start over. Buck had seen what was left behind. The ash. The displaced families. The lies.

  With some financial persuasion, a contact had provided them with the location of the Lotus's next target. This place was old and dilapidated. A perfect canvas. His thoughts were interrupted by a splash as he stepped in something wet. He sniffed the air.

  Gas. The Lotus was here.

  Peeking through an open door ahead, the silhouette of someone crouched low against the far wall was backlit by blue, flickering light. Buck took a slow breath in and out, inching forward with his weapon raised. His foot kicked something small and there was the scratch of metal against concrete. The figure turned, the blue flame shifting to orange then red. A container at the figure's feet tipped and spilled.

  The hallway erupted in flames. The fuse had been lit. Flames licked along the walls like liquid, illuminating every surface in sudden, merciless light. The shadows were obliterated and revealed the culprit. Orange fur. Green suit.

  "SAM! I got him!" Buck called out.

  Then everything happened at once.

  The building groaned. The floor vibrated. His aim slipped. The target turned and vanished around the corner.

  A shove at his side. The air exploded in heat and dust as Buck hit the floor.

  CRACK.

  His revolver fired.

  A tail disappeared into shadow. The ping of a ricochet.

  Then—collapse. Bricks. Timber. Dust.

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  The inferno continued to rage. Buck picked himself up off the ground, coughing and waving the smoke away with one arm. Outstretched under a pile of rubble, a familiar, unmoving hand. "No. No, no no no," Buck choked as he dug at the pile in a panic. The jagged stones tore at his hands. His muscles strained against a large beam that groaned as he managed to roll it aside. "Sam! C'mon partner, we gotta-"

  Sam lay on the floor, covered in debris. Blood pooled beneath him and mixed with the dust. A bullet wound bloomed red on his chest, staining his suit.

  The fire cared little and continued to grow, devouring the building piece by piece. Buck hauled Sam’s arm over his shoulder. The dead weight dragged at his spine. He stumbled toward a sliver of light but the ceiling screamed and gave way. More burning debris rained down. Buck pushed Sam to one side and leapt the other way. Flaming rubble separated them and blocked his way. Low to the ground, eyes stinging, he found a gap. Just big enough.

  Smoke clawing at his lungs and eyes stinging from smoke and dust, Buck scrambled through the gap and burst out a side door, collapsing to the ground and coughing until his ribs ached. The warehouse behind him was fully engulfed. A horrible funeral pyre. Sirens in the distance were slowly getting closer. Buck stood just long enough to know there was nothing he could do.

  He turned, heart hammering, and vanished into the dark.

  -Present day-

  The others were silent as Buck finished recounting his memory. He sat, eyes burning a hole in the floor, revolver in his hands.

  "When your partner is killed, you’re supposed to do something about it. In the detective business, it's a bad look to let the killer get away. Sam was a mole-kin. He must have felt the building coming down and came back for me." Buck brought his head up and stared at Sparks with tired eyes. "You were the reason we were there. That's why I've been chasing you. My shot killed Sam, but the thought of catching you would finally let me put Sam's soul to rest."

  Sparks met his gaze, leaning forward earnestly with his paws together. "Buck, I'm terribly sorry for your loss, but I've never had a job in The Stairs. I do get contracted to burn down buildings from time to time but it's more than just a job for me. It's a passion. A connection to Kindling that is powerful and wondrous and beautiful. It's art. What you described, with the gas?" Sparks scoffed. "I would never. Not to besmirch Sam’s memory but are you absolutely sure you saw me?"

  Buck shuddered, recalling the feeling of Feng rummaging through his mind. He'd said he'd missed something about that night. Sam was a mole-kin. Maybe he…!

  "I have to go." Buck shot up from his chair and went for the door. Sparks and Krouri followed, leaving a perplexed Hazelnut behind. They caught up with Buck as he was climbing into a taxi and piled in after him.

  "Where are you going, Buck?" Krouri asked in frustration.

  Buck didn’t answer. His eyes were glassy, locked on a point somewhere far beyond the cab’s grimy window. When the cab rolled to a stop, he stepped out like a man waking from a dream.

  Asphalt stretched before him—cracked, barren and utterly empty. A yawning chain-link fence marked the edges of the lot. Buck's breath hitched. "No," he whispered. "No, that’s not—" He staggered forward, one hand trailing against the cold metal of the fence. Where there should’ve been crumbling walls and the scorch marks of a fire long gone, there was only a slick real estate sign hanging from the fence:

  Patience Realty and Construction

  Sparks joined him at the fence, resting a hand lightly on Buck’s shoulder. "I’m sorry, Buck. But this seals it. I’ve never set foot here."

  Buck’s jaw twitched. His mind spun, grasping for something solid. Patience Realty...wasn’t that? No, it had another name once. Underhill Limited. Excavators. City diggers. They’d gone belly-up five years ago. Absorbed. Rebranded.

  He could see the threads now, tightening into a noose. "Patience," he muttered. The word tasted like acid. His lips curled into a sneer. "Pazienza." He reached into his coat and tossed away the envelope the Don had given him. Klopen bills spilled across the pavement, scattering like spilled garbage. "This is hush money," he growled. "And he owes me more than silence."

  He turned back toward the cab but the world tilted sideways. His knees gave out before he could catch himself and he crumpled to the ground.

  Krouri joined Sparks and rushed to help Buck back to his feet. "You're drunk, exhausted and beat-all-to-hell," she admonished gently. "Go home. Sleep. There will be time to figure this all out later. We've got plenty to talk about now." They gave the cab driver Buck's address. He was out like a light by the first intersection. The fire that had kept him moving finally guttered out.