The coffee shop employees are clustered together on the sidewalk, wrapped in mismatched coats and emergency blankets. One of them--a young guy with a buzzcut and an apron that's more soot than fabric--keeps glancing back at the wreckage like it might spring back to life if he looks away. His hands are shaking, and the paper cup of water he's holding is spilling all over his boots, but he doesn't seem to notice.

I approach slowly, hands in my jacket pockets, trying not to come off as intimidating. Bloodhound might not be the scariest name in the city, but there's a vibe people expect, and I'm trying not to give it off too hard. "Hey," I start, keeping my voice low. "You good to answer a few questions?"

Buzzcut doesn't answer right away. One of the other employees, a barista with bright green hair pulled into twin buns, nudges him. "He's fine," she says, her voice sharp. "Just a little freaked out."

"I can tell," I say, glancing at the coffee-soaked boots. "Sorry, but anything you remember about what happened could really help. Did you see how it started?"

Buzzcut blinks a few times before finally looking up. "I... I don't know," he says, his voice shaky. "It was normal, you know? Like, people were coming and going, and then... there was this weird light."

"Weird how?" I ask, leaning forward just enough to keep him talking.

He hesitates, chewing on his lip. "It was... red. Like, really red. Not like fire. It was brighter, almost like... like one of those emergency strobes? It was coming from the front, near the door. And then there was smoke, and everything just... went nuts."

"Red light first, then smoke?" I repeat, trying to piece it together. He nods, clutching the cup tighter. I glance at Green Buns, who's listening but not saying much. "What about you? Did you see anything?"

She shrugs, but her eyes dart toward the wreckage. "I was in the back, stacking cups. Didn't see the light, but I smelled something. Metallic. Like burning wires, you know? I thought it was the espresso machine overheating or something. Next thing I know, everyone's shouting, and the smoke's pouring in."

I chew on that, trying to line it up with what I saw. "And the fire? Did it start with the smoke, or--?"

"Before," she says quickly. "The smoke was first. The fire came after."

That's weird. Fires usually come first. Smoke follows. Not the other way around. "What about evacuation?" I ask, pulling my focus back. "Did you see anything on the way out? Anyone suspicious?"

Buzzcut snorts, bitter. "Too busy trying not to die to take anything in. People were pushing, yelling, trying to get out through the back. Sprinklers didn't work, alarms barely made a sound... it was chaos."

Green Buns nods. "We tried to keep it calm, but..." She gestures toward the crowd of evacuees, her face tight. "Not everyone listens when they're panicked, you know? Some girl fell, hit her head. Is she okay?"

My pulse ticks up, and then back down. "I got her covered, don't worry."

Green Buns points toward the paramedics clustered near the fire engines. "Over there. She was at the front, closest to the door. Might've seen more."

"Thanks," I say, stepping back. "You did good getting everyone out. Seriously."

Green Buns gives a small nod, but Buzzcut just stares at his boots again, muttering something I don't catch. I leave them to their blankets and water and head toward the paramedics.

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The girl they mentioned is sitting on the edge of the open ambulance, a bandage wrapped around her forehead and an ice pack pressed to her temple. She's young, maybe early twenties, with dark curls and sharp, hazel eyes that narrow as she spots me. "Bloodhound, right?" she asks, her voice a little slurred but still steady.

"That's me," I say, stopping a few feet away. She squints at me like she's trying to figure out what's under the mask, and I can't tell if it's curiosity or suspicion.

"You're shorter than I thought," she says, and I bite back a groan.

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"Yeah, well, cameras add height," I reply, trying not to sound too defensive. "How's your head?"

She lifts the ice pack, showing off the bandage with a wry smile. "Doc says I'll live. Just a bump, nothing serious."

"That's good to hear," I say, shifting my weight awkwardly. "Are you good to talk?"

She nods at me, her eyes twinkling a little bit.

"Can you walk me through what happened? Anything you saw before or during the fire?" I ask.

She frowns, leaning forward a little. "I was sitting near the front, working on this essay--well, procrastinating on this essay, if I'm being honest--and there was this... I don't know, this flash? Like, bright red, out of nowhere. And then the smoke started pouring in. Or maybe the smoke came first, it was hard to tell, but it was really close together. It was so fast, like someone flipped a switch. I barely had time to grab my stuff before everyone was screaming and shoving toward the back."

"What about the fire?" I ask. "Did you see it start?"

"Not exactly," she says, shaking her head. "The smoke was so thick, I couldn't see much of anything. But there was this... smell. Metallic, kind of sharp. Like burning coins or something."

That tracks with what the others said. I nod, filing it away. "Anything else? Anyone acting weird beforehand?"

She hesitates, her eyes darting to the ground. "There was this guy by the window. He wasn't doing anything, just sitting there, but he kept staring at the door. Like... really staring. It was creepy, but I figured he was just waiting for someone."

"And after the fire started?" I prompt.

"Gone," she says, shrugging. "Didn't see him after that. He must've bolted like everyone else."

I glance toward the wreckage, my thoughts racing. Staring at the door. Smoke before fire. Metallic smell. None of this adds up to anything good.

"Hey," she says, pulling me out of my thoughts. "Thanks for pulling me out of there. Seriously. You saved my ass."

"Just doing my job," I say, but she shakes her head.

"No, really. You don't have to do the stuff you do, but you do anyway. That takes a lot, you know?"

Her tone shifts, a little too warm, and I can feel the awkwardness creeping in. "Uh, thanks," I mumble, taking a step back.

She grins, clearly amused by my sudden discomfort. "You single, or is Bloodhound off the market?"

I nearly choke, my brain short-circuiting. "Uh, not really the time," I manage, and she laughs, waving me off. I can tell that she's college-aged, and for a second I'm almost ready to get seriously pissed off, and then I remember that I'm wearing a mask and that she probably can't tell my age under all the bulk.

"Fair enough. But seriously, thanks. I owe you one."

I nod quickly, mumbling something about staying safe, and make a beeline for the other side of the lot before she can say anything else. Jordan's there, leaning against the fire engine with their phone in hand, their visor tilted down just enough to hide their expression.

"Make a new friend?" they ask without looking up, their voice dripping with amusement.

"Shut up," I mutter, crossing my arms. "What're you looking at?"

Jordan tilts their phone toward me, the screen glowing with a news alert. "Another garbage fire. A couple blocks from here. Same weird red light, same metallic smell."

My stomach drops. "You think it's connected?"

"Yeah," they say, scrolling through the report. "And so does everyone else. Forums are already lighting up--pun intended--with theories. People are freaking out, Bee. They think it's a serial arsonist, maybe even a super."

I glance back at the coffee shop, the charred remains still smoldering in the cold February air. My hand aches, the pain sharp and insistent, and I can't shake the feeling that this is just the beginning.

"I have my theories," I say, already pinning a name to the top of my internal list. "Let's skedaddle?"

Jordan nods, their grip tightening on the phone. "Yeah. Let's."

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The Music Hall feels colder than usual when we trudge up the stairs, each step creaking under our weight like it's groaning at the sheer effort we've put into the day. My clothes reek of smoke--so does Jordan's--and every inhale reminds me of the burning coffee shop, the metallic tang of the air, and the heat crawling up my skin. My elbow throbs faintly as I shrug out of my jacket, hanging it over the back of a chair in the common area. It's fine now, just the residual pain leaking out.

Jordan tosses their helmet onto the couch with a little more force than necessary, then flops into their chair at the computer setup, their fingers already dancing over the keyboard. "I swear," they mutter, pulling up what looks like five tabs of local news and forums, "if this turns out to be some Jumphead with a flamethrower, I'm gonna lose my mind."

"Flamethrower would've been easier to spot," I mumble, yanking off my gloves and draping them over a radiator that doesn't really work but might dry them faster than leaving them. The helmet comes last, the familiar weight leaving my head and neck feeling weirdly light. I set it on the counter next to Jordan's helmet and glance around the room. The hall's emptier than it usually feels, the air heavy in a way that isn't just the smell of burning fabric.

"You still smell like fire," Jordan calls over their shoulder, not looking up from their screens.

"So do you," I shoot back, grabbing one of the extra hoodies from a hook on the wall and pulling it over my head. It smells faintly of mothballs, but it's better than the lingering scent of ash. I drop onto the couch, pulling my knees up and scrolling through my phone as Jordan starts muttering to themselves. The Tacony HIRC is already buzzing, post after post about the coffee shop fire, speculation running rampant. A few people mention the weird red light; others talk about seeing smoke rising from alleys or dumpsters in the neighborhood.

"I hate this," I mutter, throwing my phone onto the cushion next to me. "Everyone's panicking, and we don't even have a clue who or what's behind it."

Jordan swivels in their chair, one eyebrow raised. "Well, lucky for you, I've been getting a suspect list going. Wanna play detective?"