The walk back to Mayfair feels like it takes forever, even though it's just a few blocks. Parabellum insists on leading the group all the way to each person's door, her boots crunching against the pavement with the same deliberate, military precision as before. Egalitarian hangs back, trailing the group like a shadow, her sharp eyes scanning every street corner and alleyway as we go.

Melissa chatters the whole way, of course. She's practically vibrating with excitement, like this is the most thrilling thing she's ever done. "This was so cool," she says, her breath puffing in the cold air. "I feel like we actually made a difference, you know? Like, we're really out here, keeping people safe."

"Mm-hmm," I murmur, my hands stuffed deep into my coat pockets. My legs feel like they're made of lead, and every step toward home just makes the knot in my stomach tighter. I don't have the energy to match Melissa's enthusiasm, not with Parabellum and Egalitarian looming so close. Not with the weight of everything that's happened tonight pressing down on me.

The rowhouses of Mayfair come into view, their stoops lined with chipped flowerpots and forgotten snow shovels. The streets are quiet, the kind of quiet that only happens in neighborhoods like this after dark. A few porch lights are still on, casting pale yellow pools of light onto the sidewalks, but most of the houses are dark, their windows shuttered against the cold.

Parabellum halts abruptly at the corner, her head swiveling like she's listening for something. Melissa almost walks into her and lets out a sheepish laugh. "Sorry."

Parabellum waves it off and motions for the group to continue. "Stay alert," she says, her voice low and clipped. "We're almost done."

I exchange a quick glance with Melissa, who just shrugs and keeps walking. Egalitarian lingers a few paces behind, her hands tucked into her jacket pockets, her gaze darting toward every parked car and shadowed doorway. I can't decide if it's comforting or unnerving. Probably both.

By the time we reach my street, my chest feels like it's tied in a knot. The warm glow of my rowhouse's porch light is just a few steps away, but the weight of the night still clings to me. Parabellum stops in front of my house and gestures for me to go ahead.

"This you?" she asks.

"Yeah," I say, my voice quieter than I'd like. "Thanks for... you know. Walking me back."

"Of course," she says, her tone brisk but not unkind. "Get inside safe."

Melissa waves at me, her smile as bright as ever. "See you tomorrow, Sam!"

I nod, forcing a small wave in return. "Yeah. See you."

They wait until I've climbed the front steps and pulled my keys out of my pocket. I can feel their eyes on me, their presence heavy and watchful, and I fumble with the lock for a moment before pushing the door open just far enough to drop my bag inside. The door clicks shut behind me, but I don't step all the way inside.

Instead, I glance down the street, where a figure is huddled against the side of a building, wrapped in a ratty blanket. The dim light from a nearby streetlamp casts long shadows across the sidewalk, but even from here, I can see the outline of a scruffy beard and a weathered hat pulled low over the figure's face.

A homeless guy. Not exactly unusual in Tacony, especially in winter.

I hesitate, my keys still clutched in one hand. The group is starting to move again, Parabellum leading the way toward their next destination. Before I can overthink it, I step off the stoop and head down the street, my boots crunching against the frozen slush on the pavement. "Hey," I say softly, stopping a few feet away. "You okay? Need anything?"

The figure shifts slightly, and the blanket slips just enough to reveal a familiar face under the scraggly fake beard - dark skin but with the pallor of someone who gets out absolutely none, and floppy dreadlocks tucked under a beanie. My stomach does a weird little flip.

"Hey, kid," Sandman says, his voice low enough that it doesn't carry. "Fancy seeing you here."

"What the--" I lower my voice to a whisper, glancing around to make sure no one's watching. "What are you doing? Are you... are you pretending to be homeless?"

He grins, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. "It's called 'blending in.' You should try it sometime," he says casually. "You know, surveillance stuff. It's more convincing than standing on a rooftop with binoculars."

I gape at him, my brain struggling to keep up. "You're supposed to be watching my block, right? Sundial said--"

"Exactly," he says, nodding like this is the most reasonable thing in the world. "And what better way to keep an eye on things than being right here? Besides..." He pulls a battered old phone out of his pocket and waves it at me. "I've got food, a battery pack, and about fifteen different documentaries to catch up on. I'm good."

I blink at him, unsure whether to laugh or yell. "You're insane."

"Maybe," he says, shrugging. "But it works. And hey, you're safe, aren't you?"

I glance back toward the group. They're almost out of sight now, their voices fading into the cold night air. "You're totally nuts," I mutter.

"I've done this like thirty times. Nobody ever expects the sleeping guy with their eyes shut to be listening to every footstep. Don't worry about it," he answers to my unspoken question. His grin widens. "Now go get some sleep. You look like you need it."

Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.

"Yeah, okay," I say, taking a step back. "Just... don't freeze to death out here, alright?"

"Wouldn't dream of it," he says, tipping an imaginary hat. "I've got a serial arsonist to look out for. So you don't burn to death either, aiight?"

My face clenches up for a second. He cracks an eye open towards me and grimaces. "I'll try my best," I reply, unconvincingly.

I can feel sort of in his eyes that he wants to apologize for the off-color joke, but, unlike me in similar situations, he keeps the apology to himself. He eats it and swallows it. Instead, he just smiles a little bit wider. "Goodnight, Sam."

"Goodnight," I mumble, turning back toward the house. The porch light feels brighter now, warmer, and I climb the steps with a little less hesitation.

When I finally step inside and shut the door behind me, the warmth of the house hits me like a wave, and for a moment, everything feels almost normal. The familiar creak of the floorboards, the faint hum of the heater, the smell of whatever my mom cooked for dinner--it's all so mundane, so comforting, that I almost forget about the chaos outside.

"Sam?" My mom's voice drifts in from the living room, and I can hear the concern in it even before I see her. She's sitting on the couch with my dad, a blanket draped over her lap and a mug of tea in her hands. "You're home late."

"Yeah," I say, kicking off my boots and dropping my jacket onto the nearest chair. "I was out with Melissa, from school. Some... community thing."

My dad raises an eyebrow. "Community thing?"

"Yeah," I say again, not meeting his eyes. "Just, like... a neighborhood walk. Nothing big."

"I heard about those," Dad says, folding his arms, looking thoughtful. "Some local superheroes organizing neighborhood watches. I think there's the seed of a good idea there,"

"Maybe. But don't put yourself in any more danger than... than you normally do, okay, Samantha, darling?" Mom asks. I feel my stomach do a weird lurch, because being called by my full name is the danger zone indicator - that she's been up all night worrying about me. I don't know if she's doing it on purpose as some sort of signal to let me know that she's been worrying, but she's been worrying. She doesn't use my full name unless she's worrying. Or if she's mad, but if she's mad, I'd know.

"I'm staying safe. No heroics," I say, running my hand through my hair. I decline to mention the fire I jumped into. I'm sure they saw me on the news, or heard from someone who heard from someone that Bloodhound and Safeguard rescued civilians from a burning coffee shop. I'm sure they've heard, directly or indirectly, about the suspected arsonist in North Philly.

Have they connected the dots? My mom and I make eye contact, until it becomes painful two seconds later, and I look above her head and a little bit to the left. "Alright," she says quietly. "There's food in the fridge if you're hungry."

"Thanks," I respond, already heading for the stairs, not hungry. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, sweetheart," she calls after me.

I collapse onto my bed without even bothering to change out of my clothes. My body feels heavy, like the weight of the day is pressing me into the mattress. My mind is still buzzing, replaying every awkward moment, every tense word, every glance from Egalitarian, every pereson wearing a hoodie that we passed by. But the exhaustion is stronger.

Upstairs, my room feels almost untouched by the chaos of the day. The posters on the walls, the cluttered desk, the unmade bed--it's all so familiar, so ordinary, that it feels out of place in the rest of my life. I'm sleeping here only half the time, like I'm already a foot in one world, a foot in the other, like Persephone. I've eaten the superhero's pomegranates. Do I get to come back for the summer?

I close my eyes, and for the first time all day, I let myself stop thinking. The hum of the heater, the distant sound of cars outside, the faint creak of the house settling--it all fades into the background as sleep pulls me under.

And for a few hours, at least, the world goes quiet.

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

Morning comes too fast, as always. I wake up tangled in my sheets, my alarm blaring like it's trying to shake me out of the half-dream I've been stuck in all night. My heart pounds as I reach over to silence it, and for a moment, I sit on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor and trying to remember how to breathe.

Just another day. Just school. Just people. Nothing I haven't done a thousand times before.

I drag myself through the morning routine. Teeth brushed without looking at my face in the mirror, face washed, hair pulled into a ponytail, adjusted to the center of the back of my head. I throw on my hoodie and jeans, grab my bag, and head downstairs. Breakfast is a granola bar wolfed down on the way to the door, my parents' usual morning chatter barely registering as I mutter something about needing to leave early.

The walk to school with Jordan is quieter than usual. They've got their headphones in, scrolling through something on their phone, and I'm too lost in my own head to ask what. The cold air bites at my face, but I barely notice it. My thoughts are spinning, caught somewhere between the patrol last night and the memory of Sandman's grin under that ridiculous fake beard. Everything feels heavier than it should, like the weight of the day is pressing down on my shoulders before it's even started.

By the time I reach my locker, I've already gone through the mental checklist of everything I need for the day three times. It's a habit, a way to keep my brain from spiraling. Math homework? Check. English notes? Check. Gym clothes? Check. Nothing missing, nothing out of place.

I open the locker door and start arranging my books, the motions automatic. It's almost comforting, the normalcy of it. Then something slips out and flutters to the ground, landing by my feet.

I freeze, staring down at it. A plain white envelope. Unremarkable. No markings, no name, no address. Just a rectangle of paper, sitting there like it's been waiting for me.

My throat tightens as I pick it up, my hands trembling. It's light, barely weighing anything at all, but it feels heavier than it should. I glance around the hallway, my heart pounding in my chest. Nobody's paying attention to me. Just kids talking, laughing, rushing to class like it's any other morning. Nobody's watching.

With a shaky breath, I tear the envelope open. Inside is a gift card, the kind you'd get at any random corner store. "Happy Nails & Spa" is printed across the front in cheerful pink letters, complete with a little cartoon nail polish bottle. My brain stutters, trying to process it.

A gift card? For a nail salon?

No. No, no no. No. No. Stop. No, no. No. I don't want this.

My stomach twists, and my hands feel clammy as I flip the card over. On the other side, a sticker - cartoonish, brightly colored.

A small, round sticker of a hammer, the kind you'd get from a kid's craft kit.

My vision tunnels. My breathing turns shallow, each inhale sharp and stinging in my chest. The hallway feels like it's tilting under my feet, like the walls are closing in. I can't think. I can't move. All I can do is stare at that stupid sticker, my fingers digging into the edges of the card like it's the only thing keeping me tethered to reality.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

My heart is racing, my chest tightening until it feels like I'm suffocating. The sounds of the hallway blur into a distant hum, the laughter and chatter distorted and meaningless. My body feels frozen, every muscle locked in place as my brain screams at me to run, to hide, to do something.

The card trembles in my hand, the hammer sticker taunting me with its cheerful simplicity. I swallow hard, my throat dry and tight, and shove the card back into the envelope, cramming it into my pocket like that will somehow make it disappear.

The bell rings, sharp and jarring, snapping me out of my stupor.

Class. Gotta get to class.

Gotta shove it down.

Everything's fine.