I slip around the side of the crowd, keeping my head down until I reach the spot Sundial indicated. She's waiting, her arms crossed and her expression unreadable.

"Bloodhound," she says, her voice calm but firm. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"Didn't expect to be here," I reply, my tone equally neutral. "What'd you find?"

Her lips twitch, almost a smirk, but she doesn't answer right away. Instead, she glances past me, her gaze briefly catching on Jordan's distant silhouette. "Jordan staying back?"

"They're… observing," I say. "This isn't their scene."

She nods like she understands, though I'm not sure she does. "The fire was deliberate," she says after a moment. "Very specific, very targeted, very superpowered. Whoever did this wanted it to burn hot and fast."

"Any guesses?" I ask, though I already know what she's going to say.

Sundial's eyes narrow slightly. "Not yet. But it doesn't feel random. This isn't a 'bored pyro' situation."

I nod, my jaw tight. "We've been keeping an eye on the pattern. It's… escalating."

Her brow furrows. "And you think it's someone specific?"

I hesitate, then shrug. "Could be. Just trying to figure out who before it gets worse."

Sundial studies me for a long moment, her gaze sharp. "You've got something you're not saying."

"Maybe," I admit, glancing toward the burned-out coffee shop. "But I'm not sure yet. And I don't want to waste your time chasing a maybe."

"Come with me," Sundial says, grabbing me by the wrist. My heart does a weird flutter as she drags me - very easily - over to one of the police officers.

"Good to see you, Bloodhound. I heard about what you did yesterday," the officer says, driving more of a blush out of me. "You need something, Sundial?"

"Pen and paper, please," Sundial insists, her tone clipped but polite. The officer hesitates for only a second before nodding and pulling a small notebook and pen from her jacket pocket, handing them over without a word. Sundial doesn't thank her--she's already moving, dragging me toward the edge of the cordon where the coffee shop's charred frame looms against the gray February sky.

She flips the notebook open and clicks the pen, her movements brisk and efficient. "Stay here," she tells me, gesturing for me to hang back while she steps closer to the wreckage. "I need to concentrate."

I hover near the cordon, my hands jammed into my pockets to keep them from fidgeting. The cold bites at my exposed eyes, but it's nothing compared to the nausea. Sundial's doing her thing now--her head tilts, her shoulders square, and her entire body radiates focus as she stares at the blackened ruins. It's like she's watching something invisible unfold in front of her, her gaze darting from one piece of rubble to another.

My mouth is dry. I know what she's going to find--I know it--but I can't say it out loud. Not yet.

"Accelerants," Sundial murmurs, her voice distant, like she's talking to herself. "High heat, quick burn. Methodical placement. This wasn't random. Kindling taped to the bottom of tables, bottom of chairs, where it wouldn't be found."

I force myself to speak, my voice raspier than I'd like. "Can you… see who did it?"

"Give me a minute," she replies without looking at me. Her hand moves, sketching lines and shapes on the notebook's page, but her eyes stay fixed on the ruins.

Her movements slow, her head tilting further as she steps toward the scorched remains of what was once a doorway. She crouches, her fingers hovering over the ground, not quite touching the ash. "Male," she says finally, her voice sharper now. "Mid to late twenties, maybe thirty. White. Five foot… eight, maybe nine. Well-built. A little cheek fat. Tattoos--tribal, partial, not full sleeves. They peeked out of his hoodie."

The knot in my stomach tightens. A little cheek fat? It doesn't really match the thin, lanky man who almost beat me to death with a crowbar - but everything else does. I swallow hard, my hands curling into fists inside my pockets. "What else?"

She stands, her pen scratching across the notebook in quick strokes. "Undercut," she continues, her tone clinical. "Two long braids. Casual clothes. Not trying to disguise himself, but his hood was up. He moved… methodically. Not panicked or rushed. Like he knew exactly what he was doing."

I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears as the pieces slot into place, one by one. The description is too specific, too familiar. My chest feels stiff and crunchy, like the cold air has frozen my lungs.

Sundial moves again, tracing an invisible path through the wreckage. "He stood here," she says, pointing to the doorway. "Just… staring. Not moving. Then the doorframe caught fire. It wasn't immediate--more like a buildup--but it happened right where he was looking."

I'm not breathing. My heart is hammering against my ribs as I force out the words. "What did he do after that?"

"Looked surprised," she says, turning to me with a faint frown. "Like he didn't expect it to catch, or maybe he didn't expect it to catch the way it did. He moved inside, but the fire followed him. Someone knocked over a chair, and it hit his leg. That's when it got weird."

"Weird how?" I ask, trying to keep myself from yelling or yelping.

"The smoke," she says, her gaze shifting back to the ruins. "Went from making fire to making smoke. White, thick, almost like… like it was coming from him. It started tracking wherever he looked."

She wrinkles her nose.

I swallow again, my throat dry and tight. My mind is racing, screaming Aaron's name over and over, but I can't say it. Not yet.

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"He stayed there, didn't flee the scene, not yet," Sundial continues, her tone matter-of-fact, her eyes looking somewhere far away, sort of past me. "Blended into the crowd. If I skip forward…" She pauses, her head tilting again, her expression tightening. "There. He was here during the rescue. Right next to you."

My stomach drops, the ground feeling like it's tilting under my feet. "What?" The word comes out more as a squeak than anything else.

"He was there," she repeats, her voice steady. "Standing with the others, looking as panicked as everyone else. Didn't do anything to stand out. He just… left."

I dig my nails into the palms of my gloves, fighting the nausea rising in my throat. My head feels light, like I'm not getting enough air. "Why didn't he… why didn't he attack me? Or Safeguard?"

Sundial glances at me, her expression unreadable. "Could be a lot of reasons," she says. "Maybe he didn't want to draw attention. Maybe he wasn't ready. Maybe he doesn't even know who you are."

"That doesn't make sense," I mutter, my voice shaking. "He's--he--" I cut myself off, shaking my head. I can't explain Aaron without spilling everything, and Sundial doesn't need to know. Not yet.

"Doesn't matter why," Sundial says, her tone firm. "What matters is figuring out how to stop him."

I nod, though it feels more like a reflex than a decision. My brain is stuck on the image of Aaron standing in the middle of the chaos, watching everything burn.

"What about the sprinklers?" I ask, desperate to focus on something else. "Did he… did he mess with them?"

Sundial frowns, stepping toward the edge of the ruins again. "They were already damaged when he got here," she says after a moment. "Twisted out of place, but not melted. There's gum in the valves, clogging them."

"Sabotage," I say, feeling a hair calmer about it, for reasons I can't explain.

Sundial nods. "Deliberate. Whoever did this wanted it to burn."

My legs feel shaky, and I force myself to stand still, clenching my fists until my nails bite into my palms through the cloth of my gloves. "Okay," I say, my voice tight. "Thanks. That… that helps."

Sundial studies me for a moment, her gaze sharp again. "You've got a name in mind, don't you?"

"His name's Aaron McKinley. He used to run this small time gang of losers, the Tacony Coyotes," I say, folding my arms over my chest in a very bad attempt at keeping myself still and sane. "Familiar?"

"Vaguely. Someone bumped off all four of them about a year and a half ago, always thought it was a random drive-by," she answers. That makes my brain feel like it's clenching up. Firstly, Sundial, there were five of them, and also, what the fuck? The other four are dead? Someone shot them? But I don't say that out loud. I just think it very hard.

I chew on my lip as I rephrase. "There were five of them. Aaron was the only one with any powers, and we have… a complicated history,"

"That's what people say when they hook up with someone. Consider rephrasing," she suggests humorlessly.

I bite down an exaggerated gag. "No, he has like… a weird psycho murder boner for me. I guess I was the first person to not bow down and kiss his boots right or whatever. I don't know what his problem is. But he's definitely here to try and get back at me."

"I see," Sundial responds.

"Can you get that sketch to the police? Like… I want to know if we can see this guy before he burns my bedroom down while I'm sleeping. It's been kind of a rough week," I ask, trying to sound less meek than I feel.

"Why do you think I was making a sketch? Nothing I see with my psychometry is admissable as evidence but the police like to call me down to see if I can get sketches of local criminals anyway. Among other reasons," she says, trailing off into a slightly shy sounding mumble. She sees the question before I'm about to start asking it and waves her free hand over my face. "Don't worry about it. The legal stuff is a conversation for later."

The air crackles faintly, the faint static of a neighborhood too tense for its own good, as Sundial flips her notebook closed and tucks it under her arm. Before I can ask what she's planning, the distant sound of whirring catches my attention. I glance up just in time to see Moonshot descending in a slow, deliberate arc - I guess the rest of the Titans are flowing in, now.

Moonshot straightens, adjusting her flight goggles before gently, steplessly sliding along the ground towards Sundial. "Heard you might need backup," she says, her voice cool and professional. "Bloodhound."

"Moonshot," I reply, equally curt.

A few beats later, Compass rounds the corner on foot, her hood up against the biting wind. Her long strides eat up the distance quickly, and she stops just short of the group, her sharp eyes flicking between Sundial, Moonshot, and me.

"I was nearby," she says simply, her tone a weird mixture of flat and eager. "What's the situation?"

Sundial gestures toward the smoldering wreckage. "Arson. Deliberate. Suspect's methodical, probably local. Bloodhound has some context."

I bite back a groan. Context. Sure, let's call it that.

Moonshot's gaze sharpens. "Do we think this is the same pattern as those other fires in the area?"

"Looks like it," Sundial says, her tone calm but clipped. "But the target's changed. It's getting more… specific."

I feel the weight of three sets of eyes landing on me, and my shoulders stiffen instinctively. "Yeah, okay, fine," I say, folding my arms again over my chest. "I think it's about me. He's been circling my patrols, my school, my routes."

Compass's brow furrows. "Territorial behavior. Makes sense. This kind of escalation usually leads to a confrontation."

"Which is what I want to avoid," I snap, the words coming out sharper than I mean. "I don't need this guy showing up on my doorstep."

Sundial holds up a hand, her expression measured. "No one's saying you should. I'm going to get Sandman to keep watch on your block until this boils over."

I blink, caught off guard by the offer. "Seriously? You know where I live?"

"Seriously," Sundial replies. "I meant more you and Safeguard, but sure, we can guard your parents, too."

"That's not," I start, before sighing and throwing my hands up. "Fine. I appreciate it, sorry."

"Don't worry about it. We keep us safe," Compass says, slapping a hand on my shoulder that makes me jump.

----------------------------------------

Back at the Music Hall, the tension hasn't faded--it's just changed shape, settling into an anxious buzz that fills every corner of the room. Jordan's at the monitors, Maggie's curled up on the couch with a blanket draped over her shoulders, and Tasha is leaning against the kitchenette counter, nursing a mug of hot cocoa like it's a lifeline.

Maggie glances up as I walk in, her face lighting up with a smile that only makes me feel guiltier. "Hey, Sam. Heard you needed some moral support."

I shoot a look at Jordan, who shrugs unapologetically. "Figured you could use it," they say, not bothering to look away from the screen.

Maggie pats the couch next to her, and I drop into the seat with a sigh. "Thanks for coming," I mutter, my voice tight. "But you're not patrolling. Not with that rib."

"I know," she says, her tone patient. "I'm just here to hang out."

Tasha snorts softly. "Maggie, you're the only person I know who can make 'hang out' sound like a battlefield strategy."

"It's a gift," Maggie replies with a grin, but her voice is quiet. The blanket shifts slightly, and I catch a glimpse of the brace still wrapped around her midsection. My chest tightens.

The TV hums faintly in the background, tuned to the local news. A reporter stands in front of the burned-out coffee shop, the smoke and rubble making for a grim backdrop. "Authorities have yet to identify the individual responsible for this string of fires, but eyewitness accounts suggest--"

My breath catches as the screen cuts to a sketch. Sundial's sketch.

It's him. Aaron. The undercut, the braids, the tattoos. Even through the static-y resolution of the broadcast, it's unmistakable. Talking about how the fires have "suddenly stopped" - yeah right, he just knows the pressure is on. Why would you start a fire when there's fifteen news vans down the block?

"Sam," Jordan says quietly, their voice pulling me back. "You okay?"

I tear my eyes away from the screen, my stomach twisting. "Yeah," I lie. "Just… tired."

Jordan doesn't look convinced, but they don't push. The conversation shifts around me, Maggie and Tasha talking softly about school, Jordan muttering something about logistics, but it all feels distant. My thoughts are stuck on that sketch, on the way the newscaster's voice had described him:

methodical,

dangerous,

rapidly escalating.