The Music Hall feels like it's holding its breath. The usual creaks and groans of the old building have faded into a tense silence that matches the weight pressing down on my chest. Jordan's still glued to their monitors, fingers flying over the keyboard in bursts of motion that almost look frantic if you don't know them. I do, though. This is what they do when they're trying to stay calm: work themselves into a fugue state of data and pixels so they don't have to think about what's happening outside.

I'm not much better. My hand hasn't stopped aching since the coffee shop fire, a dull, persistent throb under my nails that makes it impossible to sit still. I've been pacing for what feels like hours, my boots scuffing against the worn wooden floor with every step. Every so often, I glance at my phone, like the notification for some magical solution is just waiting to pop up.

Nothing. Just HIRC updates about more garbage fires, each one closer to home.

"They're not answering," I say, breaking the quiet for the third time in as many minutes. The Young Defenders group chat sits open on my phone, the little read receipts staring back at me like taunts. Jason saw my message but hasn't responded. Amelia sent a thumbs-up emoji and nothing else. Spindle, predictably, is MIA - handling things with his new family. I try not to feel resentful and sour grapes about it. "Why aren't they answering?"

"Because it's Saturday," Jordan replies without looking up, their voice clipped. "Normal people are doing normal things, not tracking some psycho arsonist through Tacony."

"Yeah, well, we're not normal," I snap, pacing faster. "And neither is Aaron. If this is him--"

"They don't know it's him," Jordan cuts in, their fingers pausing on the keyboard just long enough to give me a pointed look. "And until we do, freaking out isn't gonna help. Sit down or something, you're gonna wear a hole in the floor."

I glare at them but drop onto the couch anyway, my legs bouncing with restless energy. "What if it is him? What if he's--"

Jordan holds up a hand, stopping me mid-spiral. "Okay, let's think about this rationally. If it's Aaron, what's his endgame? He's not exactly the 'big plan' type, so why would he be setting fires in your backyard?"

"To piss me off," I mutter, crossing my arms. "Or to send a message. He's done it before."

Jordan tilts their head, conceding the point with a small shrug. "Fair. But he's not the only one who could've done this. We've pissed off plenty of people in the last year. Maybe it's someone new."

I open my mouth to argue but close it again when my phone buzzes. For half a second, hope flares in my chest, only to fizzle out when I see the notification: a new HIRC post about another fire. This one's barely two blocks from the Music Hall. My heart sinks as I skim the details--same red light, same metallic smell, same ominous lack of witnesses.

"Jordan," I say, holding up the phone. "It's getting closer."

They don't respond, their attention locked on their screen. I lean over to see what they're looking at, but it's just a tangle of maps and spreadsheets, the kind of chaos only Jordan can make sense of.

"Can't the DVD handle this?" I ask, half to myself. "It's their job, right? Superhuman arsonist in their territory, they should be all over it."

Jordan snorts, shaking their head. "Yeah, because the Delaware Valley Defenders are totally on top of things."

I grimace. "It's their job. I'm calling them anyway," I say, pulling up the hotline number.

"Knock yourself out," Jordan mutters, their focus already back on the monitor.

"The Defenders are currently handling an active situation in West Philadelphia," the dispatcher says, their tone clipped and efficient. "If this is an emergency requiring immediate assistance, we recommend contacting local law enforcement."

"This is local law enforcement," I snap back, pacing again. "It's Bloodhound. I've met you in person, Jean. They're already dealing with the fires. I'm just saying, if someone can spare five minutes--"

"Please leave a detailed message, and we'll follow up as soon as possible," they interrupt. "I'm sorry, Bee. I don't want to seem callous. We're just stretched so thin right now,"

I grunt and hang up on her mid-sentence.

"Great," I say, forcing a smile she can't see. "Thanks for nothing."

I hang up and toss my phone onto the couch, resisting the urge to throw it harder. Jordan glances over, one eyebrow raised. "How'd that go?"

"About as well as you'd expect," I mutter. "They're busy. Big surprise."

Jordan hums in acknowledgment, their fingers flying across the keyboard. "So, what's the plan? Sit here and hope someone else takes care of it, or...?"

I glare at them, but the frustration bubbling in my chest isn't aimed at Jordan. They're just the only person here. I dangle my phone in my hand, staring at text messages that all say the same thing. "I don't know, okay? Everyone's either busy or ignoring me. Jason's out of town visiting NYC, Amelia's useless in a fight, Lily hasn't answered yet, and Connor--" I break off, shaking my head. "He's probably doing family stuff. I don't want to drag him into this."

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

"And tall, dark, and handsome?" Jordan asks, referring to Crossroads. "You still have his phone number, even though he graduated, right?"

"Yeah. He said 'don't worry about it'," I say, worrying about it.

Jordan smirks, but it's fleeting. The tension in the room feels like it's about to snap, and I don't know how to fix it. My hand aches, my chest feels too tight, and all I can think about is how close that last fire was. Too close.

My phone buzzes again, and this time it's a text from Lily. Sorry, can't make it tonight. Family emergency. Be safe, okay?

"Great," I mutter, tossing the phone aside again. "Just great."

Jordan leans back in their chair, spinning it in a slow circle as they watch me. "You know, we could just... not do anything. Let the fires burn themselves out. See what happens."

I whip around to glare at them, my hand curling into a fist at my side. "Are you serious?"

"No," Jordan says, rolling their eyes. "But you need to calm down before you do something stupid. Running out there without a plan isn't gonna solve anything."

"And sitting here is?" I shoot back, my voice rising. "People are scared, Jordan. They're counting on us to do something."

Jordan doesn't respond right away, their gaze flicking back to the monitors. When they finally speak, their voice is quiet but firm. "They're counting on you to not get yourself killed."

The words hit harder than I want to admit. I sink back onto the couch, my head in my hands as I try to pull myself together. The ache in my hand is worse now, sharp and insistent, like it's trying to tell me something I don't want to hear.

"We'll figure this out," Jordan says, their tone softer. "But you've gotta stop acting like it's all on you. It's not."

I nod at Jordan's words, my jaw tight as I pick up my phone again. I scroll through my contacts, my thumb hesitating over Akilah's name. Then, lacking other options, I decide.

She's nearby, and she's got experience, and will probably be available. I exhale sharply, more a huff of frustration than an actual sigh, and hit call.

She picks up on the second ring. "Bee," she says, voice sharp and familiar. "What's going on?"

"Hi, Akilah. Aaron might be back," I say, not bothering with pleasantries. "Or someone like him. Fires, weird patterns, targeting my routes. It's getting bad, and Jordan and I can't handle this alone."

There's a pause, just long enough for me to hear the faint sound of traffic on her end. "And you're calling me because...?"

"Because you're in the area," I reply, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "I don't need you to do anything huge, just... keep watch. Help cover us at night. I can't make myself investigate right now. I'll do something stupid."

Another pause, then a sigh. "I'm not interested in going door-to-door looking for an arsonist, if that's what you're angling for."

"I'm not," I say quickly. "I just need someone who knows what they're doing. Someone who can--"

"Someone who can watch your back," she interrupts. "Got it. I'm not far. I'll swing by."

She hangs up before I can respond, leaving me staring at my phone like it might give me a follow-up explanation. It doesn't.

"She's coming," I tell Jordan, who doesn't even look up from their monitors.

"Great," they mutter, the sarcasm barely there this time. "Puppeteer to the rescue. Bet she'll be a real ray of sunshine, that girl who choked you out because she was mad that you upstaged her."

"It's Marionette now, and you also dragged my entire skull through a row of canned soup. People change," I shoot back.

"Meh," Jordan replies.

True to her word, Akilah arrives less than twenty minutes later. The Music Hall's back door creaks as it opens, and she steps inside like she owns the place. She's in costume - black and purple and brick browns designed to blend into the old streets of North Philadelphia. Her dark eyes sweep the room, taking in the monitors, the cluttered workbench, and finally me and Jordan.

"Cozy," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking up. "Looks a little less like shit every time I come in here,"

Jordan raises an eyebrow but doesn't bother with a retort, just gestures vaguely at the couch. "Feel free to sit wherever. Or don't. Whatever."

Akilah turns her attention to me, her expression unreadable. "What's the plan?"

"Not much of one yet," I admit. "Just... stay here tonight. Keep an eye on things. Maybe patrol the area if you're up for it."

"Patrol's easy," she says, crossing her arms. "What about during the day? You expecting this guy to keep to a schedule?"

"Not exactly," I say, glancing at Jordan, who's still glued to their screen. "But the fires have been mostly at night so far. That's when we're vulnerable."

Akilah nods slowly, then tilts her head toward the monitors. "What's the latest?"

Jordan fills her in with a quick, efficient summary, their tone neutral but not unfriendly. Akilah listens without interrupting, her sharp gaze flicking between the screens and Jordan's face like she's sizing them up.

When Jordan finishes, she turns back to me. "And you think it's Aaron?"

"I don't know," I say, my voice tighter than I want it to be. "Could be. Might not be. But he's the best guess I've got."

Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn't push. "Alright. I'll keep watch. You've got my number if anything happens."

"Thanks," I mutter, though the word feels awkward coming out.

Akilah shrugs like it's nothing and turns her attention to the room. "How's Devonte?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can think better of it.

Her shoulders stiffen slightly, but she doesn't look at me. "Still adjusting. The implant surgery's scheduled for next month. Until then, he's... managing."

"That's good," I say, and I mean it. What happened to him wasn't fair, but fairness doesn't mean much in our line of work.

Akilah doesn't respond, just nods curtly and steps toward the nearest window, her posture straight and purposeful as she scans the street below.

"Alright, that's enough brooding," Jordan declares, spinning their chair around to face me. "You, couch. We're watching something stupid."

"What?" I blink at them, caught off guard.

"Anime night," they say, grabbing a remote and gesturing for me to sit. "You're doing a Girls and They's Night, and I'm not letting you leave this hall until you chill the fuck out."

I glance at Akilah, who raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," Jordan replies, already scrolling through their streaming queue. "Pick your poison: space ninjas or giant robots?"

I sigh, dropping onto the couch with a groan. "Fine. Giant robots."

Jordan grins triumphantly and hits play. The screen lights up with an overly dramatic intro sequence, all flashing lights and power chords, and for the first time all day, I feel a flicker of something resembling normalcy.

Akilah stays by the window, silent but watchful. Every so often, she glances back at us, her expression unreadable. I can't tell if she's judging us or just keeping her distance, but I decide not to push it.