The oxygen mask smells like rubber and antiseptic, and it's clinging to my face like it's got something to prove. Every breath feels like I'm drinking the world's flattest soda, all fizz and no flavor, but at least it's doing its job. I try to sit still while the paramedic--a gruff-looking guy in his forties with a beard so patchy it looks like he's growing it out for a dare--checks my elbow. He's got a flashlight, a penlight, and a level of patience I can only aspire to.

"You're lucky," he says, dabbing something that smells like rubbing alcohol onto the scrape I barely even noticed. "That glass could've done a lot worse. Take a deep breath, this is for the smoke inhalation."

Buddy, I've been taking a deep breath.

"Yeah, well, luck's my middle name," I mumble, watching the firefighters through the gaps in the crowd. The coffee shop's still smoking, the flames mostly gone but leaving behind the kind of destruction you only see on insurance commercials. The whole front of the building looks like it's been chewed on by something big and angry, and the smell... it's acrid and metallic, like someone set a scrapyard on fire and decided it was art.

"Luck, huh?" The paramedic smirks. "Guess you didn't need my help with that window, then."

"I mean, I had it under control," I say, which is technically true. My elbow's throbbing in time with my pulse, the joint stiff and swollen, but it's already knitting itself back together--I can feel the dull, itchy tug of my body doing its thing. The paramedic doesn't know that, of course. He's got this calm, no-nonsense expression, like this is just another Saturday and not one of the weirdest days of his week. "But, uh, thanks for patching me up. Appreciate it. You wanna peek at my elbow real quick?"

He bends down and frowns at the reddened skin, the small, bloodless hole where the tooth emerged, already shrinking, his fingers brushing over it in a way that makes the sharp pain flare for a second before subsiding. I've broken bones before, though. Definitely not broken. "Doesn't look broken. Maybe a mild sprain. I'll wrap it, but you should see a doctor if the swelling doesn't go down."

I nod, not bothering to tell him that the swelling will probably be gone before I even get home. That's the fun thing about being me--nobody's long-term medical advice applies.

Jordan's sitting a few feet away, their oxygen mask dangling around their neck as they poke at the phone in their lap. The reflective bug-eye visor of their motorcycle helmet is shoved up, and they've got the kind of expression that says they're about one snarky comment away from making this paramedic's day a lot more interesting. They've got a different paramedic fussing over them, but they keep glancing over at me, their eyebrows raised in a way that clearly says, Are you good?

"This isn't exactly how I pictured our Saturday going," they say, mid-glance. "I was thinking maybe coffee, maybe watching some terrible anime, not playing firefighter. But, hey, life's full of surprises."

"You're welcome, by the way," I reply, giving them the flattest look I can muster through the mask. "For, you know, saving your favorite coffee spot."

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, saving it from, like, half burning down. Great job, team. Truly heroic. I'm done, bee tee dubs," Jordan says to the paramedic, sitting up straight again and waving the guy off. "Seriously, you can go save a life or something. I just need some water and maybe a therapist."

"Stay put," their paramedic replies, clearly unimpressed. He's already turning away, muttering something into his radio as he moves toward the next cluster of people.

My paramedic gives us a look like he's debating whether or not to intervene, but thankfully he doesn't say anything. Instead, he finishes wrapping my elbow with the kind of efficiency that comes from treating people way worse off than me and waves me off like he's dismissing a particularly annoying fly. "You're good to go, but keep that clean. Smoke inhalation might hit you harder later, so don't ignore it if you feel off, alright?"

I nod, pulling the mask down and letting the cold February air sting my lungs again. It's not pleasant, but it's better than feeling like I'm suffocating under all that rubber and antiseptic.

The firefighters are still working on the building, hoses blasting arcs of water into the smoke-blackened windows. Amy's is mostly gone now--burnt out in this skeletal, half-collapsed way that makes my stomach twist. The sign above the entrance is charred and unreadable, and the front wall looks like it's about one solid push away from crumbling into the street. The fire started in the doorway, and the firefighters have it under control now, but at least 60% of the structure is just gone. Even from this distance, the air is heavy with the smell of wet ash and something sharper, metallic, like a hot iron left on too long.

The firefighters start spraying down the last stubborn patches of flame while a few of them pick through the rubble near the entrance. One of them--this stocky guy with a mustache that belongs in an '80s action movie--waves over the fire chief, who's been standing near the truck with her arms crossed and an expression that could shatter glass.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"That's Amy, right?" Jordan nudges me, nodding toward a woman standing near the firefighters. She's in her fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a ponytail and an apron that's seen better days. The front of it is smeared with soot, and her hands are shaking just enough to make me feel bad for even noticing.

"Yeah, that's her." I push myself up, ignoring the paramedic's half-hearted attempt to tell me to sit back down, and make my way over. Amy's talking to the fire chief--who looks exactly like someone named Chief Patterson should look: square-jawed, all business, and probably able to bench press a refrigerator--and they both turn as I approach.

"I don't know," she's saying as I walk up, oxygen mask dangling loosely around my neck. "I wasn't here when it started. I had a bad feeling yesterday, you know? Like, one of those gut instincts that tells you something's off. But what am I supposed to do? Close up shop because of a vibe?"

"Any idea what caused the fire yet?" Patterson asks, hands folded up in front of her arms almost defensively.

Amy wrings her hands, her gaze flicking between me and Patterson. "I don't know... it just happened so fast. One second I was at the counter, and the next..." She gestures helplessly toward the smoldering remains of her shop. "The sprinklers didn't even go off. I thought those were supposed to kick in automatically."

"When was the last time they were inspected?" Patterson asks, matter-of-factly.

Amy rubs the back of her neck, looking embarrassed. "Last year? Maybe the year before. They've been fine so far, so I didn't think... I mean, they should've worked. They've gone off before. It's a coffee shop, we have a kitchen in the back, fires happen."

I clear my throat, stepping closer. Both of them glance at me, the fire chief raising an eyebrow. "Uh, sorry to interrupt," I say, stuffing my hands in my pockets. "But I noticed something weird inside. The sprinklers? They didn't just not go off--they were... broken. Or melted. I couldn't really tell, but it looked deliberate."

"Bloodhound, right?" Patterson's voice is clipped, like she's got better things to do than make small talk with costumed vigilantes. "Not to get off topic, but you did a good job in there."

"Thanks," I say, trying not to sound too awkward. Compliments from authority figures always feel like they come with invisible strings.

"You said it looked deliberate?" Patterson asks.

"Very," I reply, curtly, professionally.

Amy's eyes widen, and she looks back at the fire chief, her voice sharp. "Like... Like someone sabotaged them?"

"It's a possibility," the fire chief says, his expression shifting into something grimmer. "But we won't know for sure until we've had a closer look. Right now, we're just focused on making sure the fire's completely out."

Amy's face crumples, guilt written all over it. "I should've known something was wrong. Yesterday, there was this guy... I don't know, he just gave me a bad feeling. He was sitting by the window, didn't order anything, just kept... staring."

"Staring at what?" Jordan pipes up, appearing at my side like they've been there the whole time. They've got their helmet visor down again, so it's impossible to tell if they're actually interested or just messing with her.

Amy hesitates, glancing at the fire chief like she's looking for permission. "At the doorway, mostly. And the counters. I thought he was just... I don't know, weird. But now..." She trails off, wringing her hands harder.

"What about the cameras?" I ask, glancing at Amy. "Do you have security footage?"

She sighs, rubbing her temples. "No. They stopped working yesterday, some time between close and open this morning. I should've closed up shop, gotten it checked out..." There's guilt in her voice, and it's the kind that settles deep, the kind that'll stick with her even though it's not really her fault.

The fire chief scribbles something on his clipboard and turns back to Amy. "We'll do a full investigation once everything's cooled down. In the meantime, you'll want to get in touch with your insurance company. This kind of damage is... substantial."

Amy nods, her shoulders sagging. "Yeah. Thanks. And, uh, thank you, too," she adds, glancing at me. "For... you know. Getting people out."

"Just doing my job," I mumble, looking down at the ground. The pavement's wet and slick with soot, reflecting the orange glow of the fire engines' lights.

Patterson lets out a low sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose. "If there's anything else you or your partner have for us, Bloodhound, you can let us know or send a report to the station. Otherwise, we've got damage control to--"

"The fires were red," I cut in, surprising even myself. My mouth's moving before my brain can catch up, the details tumbling out in a rush. "Like, road flare red. And they smelled... metallic. Not like regular fire. You noticed that, right?"

Patterson narrows her eyes, but she doesn't brush me off. "Yeah. Strange signature on the burn patterns, too. Could be a chemical accelerant, but I've never seen anything like it."

"Road flare," Jordan mutters, and I can tell they're filing that away in their mental Rolodex. "So, what, some guy walked in here with a pocket full of flares and a grudge?"

"It's not impossible," Patterson admits, her expression softening just enough to suggest she's as frustrated as we are. "But fires don't start themselves. Someone did this, and they knew exactly what they were doing."

Amy lets out a shaky breath, her eyes darting toward the firefighters still picking through the rubble. "Do you think... was this some kind of--?"

"Superhuman arson?" Jordan finishes for her, their tone halfway between sarcastic and serious. "Probably. I mean, fires don't usually sabotage sprinkler systems and smell like the inside of a battery."

"Not helping," I mutter, elbowing them in the ribs. "Look, Chief, if there's anything we can do--"

Patterson cuts me off with a sharp wave of her hand. "We'll handle it. You've done enough for one day. Let us do our jobs. Take a break."

It sounds dismissive, but I think that's just what this person is like. I nod, stepping back but keeping my gaze fixed on the smoldering wreckage. My fingers twitch at my sides, my right hand painful.