The morning--or technically afternoon--slips in quietly, with sunlight spilling through the dusty Music Hall windows in thin, reluctant streaks. It's a dim kind of brightness, the kind that comes with February mornings where the cold still clings to everything, and the gray skies don't seem to want to clear.

I groan, blinking blearily at the room around me. The couch is predictably uncomfortable, my neck stiff from sleeping at a weird angle. Jordan's sprawled on the other side, a blanket half-slipped off their shoulders, and the TV is still on, though it's paused on some ridiculous frame from the robot anime they picked. Giant mechas are mid-pose, frozen in a dramatic battle against whatever monster-of-the-week they were fighting when we crashed.

I glance toward the window, and there's no sign of Akilah. My stomach sinks a little--not because I expected her to hang around all day, but because her presence last night had been… grounding. The knowing kind of grounding, like when someone competent is around and you can just let yourself breathe for a second.

Jordan stirs as I stretch, their face half-buried in the couch cushions. "Ugh… what time is it?" they mumble, voice muffled and thick with sleep.

"Almost noon," I reply, rubbing at the back of my neck. "Guess we're officially night owls now."

"You're welcome," they grumble, pulling the blanket over their head. "Akilah still here?"

"Nope," I say, nodding toward the spot she'd been keeping watch by the window. There's a note stuck to the edge of the windowsill, its corners weighed down with a pair of batteries. I get up to grab it, the stiffness in my legs protesting the movement.

The handwriting is precise and no-nonsense--exactly what I'd expect from her:

"Patrolled until 11 AM. No sign of anything unusual. Lucky I'm not counting this as billable hours. Stay sharp."

I roll my eyes but can't help the faint smile tugging at my lips. Typical Akilah. Always acting like she's all business, but the fact that she stuck around as long as she did says otherwise.

"Let me guess," Jordan says, sitting up enough to squint at me. "She left some snarky note about how she's too good for us?"

"Basically," I say, tossing the note onto the coffee table. "But she patrolled all night. So, you know. She cares."

"Shocking," Jordan mutters, running a hand through their bedhead. "Guess we're lucky she didn't charge us. Not like she needs the cash, though. Isn't her family loaded or something?"

"Something like that," I lie, heading toward the kitchenette to rummage for coffee. Truth be told, I don't know a lot about her. I know that she used to be a gymnast, I know all the stuff she told me at the inpatient facility, but other than that, she's just sort of a ghost - a person lingering on the edge of my life. My muscles protest every step, sore from yesterday's chaos and whatever weird positions I slept in. "You want anything?"

"Coffee," they say immediately, their voice perking up like the word itself is a spell. "And whatever snacks we've got left. I need fuel if we're gonna keep figuring this out."

"On it," I say, digging through the meager supplies we keep in the Music Hall's kitchenette. It's not much--instant coffee, some granola bars, and a half-empty bag of trail mix--but it's enough to get us moving.

The coffee machine groans as it starts up, and Jordan shuffles over to join me, leaning heavily against the counter. "So, what's the plan?" they ask, their tone still halfway between groggy and sarcastic.

"Figure out what's next," I say, pouring two mugs of steaming, questionably brown coffee and handing one to them. "Keep an eye on the HIRC, see if there are more fires. Maybe call Akilah later and see if she--"

Jordan snorts into their mug. "Oh, yeah, she'll love that. 'Hey, Akilah, can you babysit us again?' She'll probably send us an invoice just to mess with you."

"Maybe," I admit, sipping at the bitter coffee and wincing. "But it's not like we've got a lot of options. She's better at this than we are, and she knows it."

Jordan doesn't argue, just sips their coffee and nods. The silence stretches for a moment, broken only by the faint hum of the coffee machine and the creaks of the old building settling around us.

"Alright," Jordan says finally, setting their mug down with a decisive clink. "Let's get to work. If this thing's not gonna solve itself, we might as well hit the ground running."

"What, you mean going out?" I ask, already reaching for my actual costume, not just the lightweight travel version.

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"Obviously," they scoff.

The Music Hall's front door squeals like a dying accordion as I shove it open, letting the cold February air slap me in the face. Jordan trails behind, dressed in their usual non-costume layers of dark hoodie, jeans, and a puffy jacket. Their only concession to stealth is the baseball cap pulled low over their messy curls. Meanwhile, I'm fully suited up as Bloodhound, hood drawn and mask pulled tight. It's more than a costume--it's armor. And right now, I feel like I need it.

"Are you sure about this?" Jordan asks, hands shoved deep into their pockets. They're carrying the portable police-scanner-hijacker they cobbled together last year, a weird Frankenstein of plastic casing and salvaged tech that looks more like a 90s camcorder than any actual piece of surveillance equipment.

"Nope," I reply, stepping over a puddle of something that's probably not water. "But we're doing it anyway."

Jordan makes a small, skeptical noise but doesn't argue. The streets of Tacony are quiet in the way neighborhoods get after something big happens, like the collective anxiety has sucked all the sound out of the air. The coffee shop fire is only a few blocks away, and as we round the corner, the quiet is replaced by the unmistakable buzz of a media frenzy.

News vans line the street, their satellite dishes pointed skyward like a flock of metallic vultures. Reporters with microphones and cameras mill around, some trying to interview locals, others rehearsing their lines in overly dramatic tones. The police have set up a cordon around the burned-out husk of the coffee shop, the charred remains of the building still smoldering faintly in the cold air. Fire investigators in heavy jackets are poking through the wreckage, their faces grim.

"Great," Jordan mutters, stopping just short of the cordon. "It's a circus."

The media circus is almost palpable--bright lights, booming voices, and the clatter of camera equipment competing with the lingering smell of smoke. It makes my teeth itch, in that specific way everything does when there are too many people and too much noise to focus on one thing. Jordan hangs back by a lamppost, half-hidden in the shadow of a defunct mailbox, while I tug my hood lower and stride toward the chaos.

"I don't like this," Jordan mutters, just loud enough for me to hear. "Too many cops, too many cameras. We're begging to get made."

"We won't," I say, more to convince myself than them. "Nobody'd do anything with this many cops around."

Jordan doesn't reply, but I can feel their skepticism like a hand on my shoulder. I push forward anyway, weaving between clusters of reporters and locals who've stopped to gawk at the scene. The cops are doing their best to look like they're in control, but it's all for show--they've roped off the area, stationed a few patrol cars strategically, and called it a day. Their real job is managing the reporters, not solving anything.

One officer stands near the edge of the cordon, her gloved hands raised to ward off a particularly persistent journalist. "No comment!" she barks, but her voice carries that tired, exasperated note of someone who's repeated the phrase a hundred times too many. The journalist just steps back far enough to make it look like they're respecting boundaries, their mic still held high, ready to pounce on the next soundbite.

I keep my head down and scan the crowd, looking for something useful. Anything that isn't the endless cycle of "tragic community loss" talking points the news crews are eating up. Then I see her - Sundial, standing near the burned-out shell of the coffee shop, just inside the cordon.

She's in full gear, her tattered white gi and padded armor making her look like a martial artist who wandered out of a time travel movie. The small visor-mask thing she wears covers her eyes and part of her nose, but her posture--straight-backed and confident--makes her unmistakable. Her hands are raised, not in surrender but in focus, her fingers splayed like she's feeling the air for something invisible. The slight tilt of her head and the way she shifts her weight tell me she's doing her thing, "reading" the site's timeline.

"She's here," I mutter, angling myself toward her.

Jordan follows my gaze and snorts. "Of course, she is. She gets invited to this stuff."

"Yeah, because she's good at it."

"And we're not?" Jordan quips, though it lacks their usual edge.

"It's her wheelhouse," I sort of half-ask. "Right?"

"Iunno,"

I shoot them a look but don't bother answering. Sundial's in her element, moving slowly through the wreckage like she's walking through an invisible movie of what happened. I watch her pause near the remains of a table, crouching to run her fingers over the charred edge. She doesn't touch it directly--smart--but the way her head tilts tells me she's picking up something. Her lips press into a thin line.

I step closer to the cordon, trying to catch her eye. She's not looking at anyone, though, her focus entirely on the space around her.

"What's she doing?" Jordan asks, their voice low.

"Time thing," I say, my eyes still on Sundial. "She can rewind, basically. See what happened up to a day ago."

"That's… creepy."

"It's useful," I counter, watching as Sundial stands and brushes ash from her gloves. A police officer says something to her, probably asking if she's done. She shakes her head, curt but polite, and moves to another part of the wreckage.

Jordan's voice drops even lower. "Think she knows it's not one of the usuals?"

I grimace. "She probably thinks it's Hotwire or Johnny Matchstick. Or maybe someone new."

"Not Aaron?"

"Doubt she's even heard of him," I admit. "He's sort of a very personal nemesis."

"I thought you barely even thought of the guy. Now he's your nemesis?" Jordan asks, quirking an eyebrow.

"He pried off all the nails from my right hand with a claw hammer. You don't really forget stuff like that," I mutter. "That being said, if we're going by sheer volume, it's gotta be Mudslide."

"What a maroon," Jordan sighs. "That guy's an embarrassment, through and through."

Sundial finally looks up, her gaze scanning the crowd until her eyes -- at least, I think they're her eyes under the visor -- land on me. Her head tilts slightly, a question in the gesture, but she doesn't approach. Instead, she motions subtly toward the edge of the cordon, away from the press and most of the cops.

"She wants to talk," I murmur to Jordan, already moving.

"Good luck with that," they mutter, sinking further into the shadows.