Tasha and Jordan set up the tests in different spots around the Music Hall first, keeping everything small and controlled. Jordan starts with a match-a single match-held out as far as possible from me, like they're offering me some kind of sacrificial torch. The flame is tiny, flickering in the wind, barely even big enough to light a candle, let alone trigger anything serious. And yet, my pulse jumps a little. Not fear, exactly, but there's this unsettled, crawling feeling just under my skin.

I take a deep breath, shoving my hands deeper into my hoodie pockets. "I'm good. Fine. No big deal," I say, unconvincingly.

Jordan raises an eyebrow, clearly not convinced. "Mhm. Sure." They snuff the match, tossing it into a metal tin they brought along specifically for that purpose. "Okay, so that's the Music Hall baseline. Moving on."

We head down to the corner store where I usually stop for snacks after school, the place with the faded Pepsi sign and the clerk who always gives me side-eye for loitering. Jordan lights up another match, watching me closely as the tiny flame springs to life. It's the same little flicker as before, barely there, but my fingers start to tingle, the ache creeping back up my right hand like it's waking up from a nap. I clench my fist, trying to keep it steady.

Tasha notices immediately. "You're tensing up more here than you were back at the Music Hall. Any particular reason?"

I shrug, keeping my voice as nonchalant as possible. "I don't know, maybe I just... associate this place with fire now. Like, in some roundabout way."

Jordan grins, looking like they're enjoying this way too much. "Hey, if this turns into some primal territory thing, that's at least ten points for me on calling it early."

I roll my eyes. "You're not getting any points, Jordan. I'm not some wild animal defending its den."

"Actually..." Tasha starts, and I can feel the gears turning in her head, the same way they do when she's about to launch into one of her mini-lectures. "Humans do have similar instinct patterns to animals when it comes to territory. It's just-"

"Not helping," Jordan cuts in, holding up their hands in a peace offering before I can retort.

We make our way to the alley behind the school next, the same spot where we'd seen the trash fire yesterday. My heart rate's already picking up as we turn the corner, even before Jordan lights anything. This place... it feels tainted somehow, like the smell of smoke has seeped into the bricks and asphalt, and I can almost see that angry red flame from yesterday, bright and uncomfortably intense. My fingertips start to ache, harder this time, like a bad bruise right under the nail.

Jordan clicks the lighter on, and it's just a small flame again, barely bigger than a candle, but that familiar, gnawing dread starts creeping up my spine. The pain in my nails sharpens, as if the fire is pulling something out of me, like a magnet. I clench my right hand, pressing my fingers into my palm until they hurt for a different reason.

Jordan extinguishes the lighter and frowns. "Alright, so this is obviously worse for you than the other places. Looks like we've got a strong reaction here. Any ideas why?"

I shake my head, swallowing against the dryness in my throat. "I don't know. It just... feels wrong. Like I'm being pushed out of my own space, somehow."

Tasha scribbles something in her notebook, nodding to herself. "Interesting. The closer we get to areas you consider familiar, the stronger the reaction seems to be. But the size of the flame matters too."

"So it's not just fire, it's fire invading... places that feel like mine." I chew on that thought, not sure if I like where it's leading. It feels primitive, instinctive, like something that would make sense in a nature documentary but doesn't fit with, you know, regular human logic.

Jordan shrugs. "Hey, territorial instinct is a thing, even if it's not exactly flattering. I mean, maybe it's your brain's way of dealing with whatever set you off yesterday. Trying to defend your turf or something."

I wrinkle my nose. "I don't have 'turf.' I'm not a mob boss."

"Yeah, but it's not about that," Tasha jumps in, ever the science-minded one. "It's just your brain categorizing familiar places as 'safe,' and anything dangerous showing up here... violates that safety, even if it's just a trash can fire."

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"Great. I'm a caveman," I mutter, shoving my hands back into my pockets. The pain in my fingers has dulled, but it's still there, a reminder that whatever set me off yesterday wasn't just in my head.

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We test a few more places, moving further out and lighting little fires here and there. Some random stretch of sidewalk a few blocks away? No reaction. The middle of an empty parking lot? Mild nerves, but nothing close to what I felt behind the school. Tasha takes copious notes the entire time, murmuring to herself in that way she does when she's deep in thought. Jordan's just enjoying the process, goading me on with sarcastic commentary that would be funny if I wasn't so keyed up.

Finally, they light another match back in the alley by the school, this time directly over the same spot where yesterday's trash fire had been. My fingers throb again, the ache in my nails so intense that I have to grit my teeth to keep from wincing. The memory of that vivid red flame burns in my mind, brighter than it should be, and I can feel my pulse spiking, my breathing picking up like I'm about to run again.

"Okay, that's it," Tasha says, snuffing the match out. "It's definitely related to territory. The more familiar the place, the stronger your reaction to any kind of fire here. And the color thing... that was a red herring." She smirks a little at her own pun, but Jordan just groans.

"So what are we saying here?" I ask, still flexing my hand to work out the lingering pain. "That I'm some kind of... territorial shark now? I thought this power set was weird enough without adding a caveman brain to the mix."

Jordan shrugs, flicking the lighter a few more times just to watch me roll my eyes. "I mean, it makes sense if you think about it. You're kind of a shark on land already. Why not add a little territorial flair?"

I give them a look that could probably peel paint. "Not funny."

"Hey, just saying." Jordan holds their hands up, grinning. "And besides, now we know that whatever happened yesterday was probably more about you feeling like your space was being... I dunno, invaded? It's like fire showing up in 'your' spaces messes with your head."

I chew on that thought, feeling uneasy. It doesn't exactly make me feel better to know that my brain has apparently added "protect my turf" to the list of things it thinks are important. It feels... animalistic. Primal. And I don't like the idea that some part of me might be operating on a level that basic.

"Alright, we've got a pattern," Tasha says, snapping her notebook shut. "Familiar spaces plus fire equals bad. Which means... we just avoid lighting fires around places that feel like home to you. Simple solution."

"Great," I say dryly. "So I'll just stick to patrols in totally random places where nothing means anything to me. Should be fine."

Jordan grins, clapping me on the back. "Look at it this way, Bee-at least now we know what makes you tick. Mostly. Sort of."

"Mostly sort of," I repeat, shaking my head as we start heading back toward the Music Hall. "What's wrong with me?"

"You have severe PTSD from almost two years of fighting supervillains as a teenager, and pyrophobia in addition to that?" Tasha summarizes.

"When you put it like that, it almost sounds simple," I reply, sighing as melodramatically as I can. "Plus, all I can smell now is smoke. You guys have ruined my nostrils,"

"Huh?" Tasha asks, but I'm not sure what exactly what she's "huh"-ing at.

That is, of course, when the fire engine horn screams to life three blocks down, scaring me pissless.

The moment that horn splits the air, my stomach does a full somersault, like it's trying to drop out through my shoes. There's no time to think-my body's already moving before my brain fully catches up. Jordan's right behind me, and I can tell from the urgency in their footsteps that they're as rattled as I am, but trying not to show it.

We round the corner at the same time, our favorite coffee spot - this tiny little place, Amy's, you can't miss it - looming up ahead. The acrid smell of smoke hits me full force, unmistakable and sharp, and I realize I hadn't been imagining it after all. The building's front windows are fogged with smoke, and I catch flashes of movement inside-people pushing and stumbling toward the back, trying to get away from whatever's on fire.

"Travel suits?" Jordan whispers, pulling a spray-painted motorcycle helmet out of their backpack and tugging it down over their head. It gives them this bug-eyed, almost alien look, almost like a Power Ranger, but it'll do. I tug shit out of my backpack while I stumble through the slush, a padded jacket over top of my existing winterwear, and my own travel mask clipped out over my short hair. Then a facemask, strapped to my ears, since I have a sinking feeling this is gonna get a little smoky.

We both take off down the street at a sprint, dodging pedestrians who barely glance at us, too busy fleeing from the fire, while Tasha watches from a safe distance. It's not a secret that things go weird around here sometimes, and no one wants to get involved.

By the time we skid to a halt in front of Amy's, my pulse is pounding in my ears, and my chest feels tight, but I can't tell if it's from running or if it's that same choking dread as before. The coffee shop's main entrance is blocked, thick smoke seeping out around the edges of the door like it's being pushed out by something inside. Even from here, I can catch the smell-something acrid and wrong, like burning rubber mixed with a hint of... garlic? My stomach twists again. That combination can't be safe.

"Let's get in there before the whole place goes up," I mutter, grabbing a handful of the slushy snow piled up against the curb. I scoop it over my pants, wiping it down my arms too, because this might be stupid, but I'd rather be a little stupid than a lot burned. Jordan's watching me, half-amused, but they don't comment as they pull up the zipper of their padded jacket.