Principal Heckerman's office feels heavier after school, the muted tones of the wood-paneled walls and the faint hum of the overhead lights pressing down on me as I sit across from his desk. The bowl of M&Ms is back in its rightful place, and Heckerman himself is hunched over his computer, clicking through tabs with the kind of deliberation that makes me think he might be a little too used to taking his time.

"Alright, Miss Small," he says, leaning back slightly and cracking his knuckles, and then wincing. "Where should we start?"

I glance at the monitor, my nerves coiled tight. "Uh, halfway through yesterday?" I suggest. "Then we can work backward or forward depending on what we find. It's like a binary search--Jordan taught me this--where you start in the middle and--"

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand. "Miss Small, I'm sixty years old. I know what a binary search is."

I blink. "Oh, alright."

He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk with a faint, amused smile. "I didn't spend my formative years overseeing temperamental VCRs and fighting with floppy disks for nothing, young lady. I've done my fair share of searching for needles in haystacks."

"Right," I mutter, my face warming slightly. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize," he says, his tone even. "Just let me handle the technology."

He navigates to the school's security system with the practiced ease of someone who's done this a hundred times. The footage pops up, grainy and monochrome, and he rewinds to just before the end of the school day. "Here we are. Yesterday afternoon. Let's see what we've got."

The screen flickers, and the camera feed from my locker's hallway fills the monitor. Students mill about, moving in and out of frame, their movements jerky and sped up as Heckerman scrubs through the footage. My stomach tightens with every second, my eyes locked on the screen.

"Patience," Heckerman murmurs, not looking at me. "This isn't exactly CSI, Miss Small."

"I know," I say, my voice sharper than I intend. "I just--"

"There," he says suddenly, pausing the footage. He clicks to slow it down, and the image smooths out. The timestamp reads 3:27 PM. A figure steps into frame, walking toward my locker with casual confidence.

It's Melissa.

She's not even trying to hide it. She's got the envelope in her hand, out in the open, like she's delivering a flyer for the bake sale. She glances around once, slips the envelope into my locker, and walks away without so much as a backward glance.

"Well," Heckerman says, sitting back in his chair, arms folded over his chest in triumph. "There's your culprit. Mrs. Marshall seems to have left our little note."

"That's Melissa?" I say, my voice caught between disbelief and a strange, hollow betrayal. "Melissa Marshall? That's her last name?"

Heckerman snorts softly, a sound that seems to surprise even him. "What's funny?" I ask, my tone sharper than I mean.

"Nothing," he says, waving a hand dismissively. "You're friends with her and you don't know her last name yet? It's a very nice name, I'll give her that. Something earnest about it. Very 'Peter Parker'."

"Earnest," I repeat flatly, trying so hard to resist the urge to roll my eyes.

"Not the point," he concedes, gesturing toward the screen. "Let's focus. That's your friend, yes?"

"She's not my friend," I mutter. "She's... someone I know. You know, a classmate. She... exists in my orbit."

"Ah," Heckerman says, nodding slightly. "I understand that well enough."

I cross my arms, glaring at the screen. "Why would she do this? Is she working for him? Is he paying her? Did he threaten her?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions," Heckerman says, his voice measured. "When you've been in this business as long as I have, you see a lot of notes dropped into lockers. Most of the time, it's something harmless. Sometimes it's a favor. Sometimes it's a dare. Sometimes it's for money. But rarely, if ever, does the messenger know the full story of what they're delivering."

I clench my jaw as Heckerman goes on about favors and dares. Does he not get how serious this is? That people like Aaron don't just stop? Everything he's saying makes sense--fine, I'll give him that--but it doesn't make me feel any less like I'm falling behind, like I'm already losing this fight.

I shake my head, my frustration bubbling over. "You're saying she might not even know what she's doing?"

"I'm saying it's possible," he says. "Look, she doesn't seem to be stressed out at all. You'd think someone working for an alleged serial arsonist would be a bit more nervous about it. Wouldn't you?"

"Nothing alleged about it," I mumble. The thought of her being manipulated or paid off doesn't make me feel any better. If anything, it makes me feel worse. My anger fizzles into something duller, heavier, sitting in my chest like a weight I can't shake.

Heckerman leans back, his gaze steady but not unkind. "This is why we take a step back and assess the situation before we act. Rushing in with assumptions only makes things messier."

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I glance at the monitor again, at the frozen image of Melissa walking away from my locker. "She didn't even try to hide it," I say quietly. "Like it wasn't a big deal."

Heckerman nods. "Like I said, if she thought it was something sinister, she probably wouldn't have been so casual about it."

"Or she's just stupid," I mutter.

"That's another possibility," he says dryly. "But I find it's usually more productive to assume ignorance before malice. They call that "Hanlon's Razor", you know."

I don't respond, my eyes still locked on the screen. The longer I stare at it, the more the image blurs, Melissa's figure melting into the grainy static, like when you look up at the night sky and all you can see are those individual photons, every shade and color of black poking at your eye nerves.

Heckerman clears his throat, pulling my attention back. "Miss Small," he says, his tone firm but not unkind. "I know this feels personal. I can see that. But if there's one thing I've learned in my years of dealing with teenagers--and I've dealt with more than my fair share--it's that people are rarely as malicious as they seem. Sometimes they're just... caught in the middle of something bigger than they can handle."

I swallow hard, my throat tight. "Yeah," I say quietly. "Maybe."

He leans forward slightly, his expression softening. "You'll figure this out. But you don't have to do it alone."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy and unspoken. I don't know what to say, so I just nod.

"After all," he adds, his tone lighter, "you're not the only person in this school with problems, though yours might be the most exciting at the moment."

I let out a faint, humorless laugh. "Thanks, I guess."

He smiles faintly, reaching for the mouse to close out the footage. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a very important meeting with the fire department about the state of our sprinklers. And you, Miss Small, have a neighborhood to tend to. Or at least, a school to navigate without causing any more scenes."

I stand, slipping the envelope back into my pocket. "Thanks," I mutter. "For, you know. Helping."

"Anytime," he says, his tone warm but steady. "Take care of yourself. Go get some ice cream. I'd give you money for the truck, but I'm not allowed to give money to students, and it's February."

"I've seen the ice cream truck in February," I mutter, mostly to myself, on my way out the door. I don't give him a second glance back - already, I'm trying to put him and his little bowl of M&Ms behind me.

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I trudge through the streets, my feet dragging against the uneven pavement as I try to shake off the day. The bundle of blankets where Sandman had been huddled last night is gone, leaving just a faint impression in the slush-covered sidewalk. Probably still around, just smarter than I am about keeping out of the cold. Or maybe not--maybe he decided my block wasn't worth his time anymore. Who could blame him?

The air is sharp, biting at my cheeks and ears. Even bundled in my hoodie and jacket, I feel exposed, like the cold is slicing straight through to my bones. Tacony's streets are quieter than usual--quieter than I like. The kind of quiet that doesn't just settle; it crawls into your skin and sits there.

By the time I make it to my block, my jaw is clenched so tight I almost don't notice the flickering blue glow of the TV through the living room window. I step inside, the familiar warmth of the house rushing to meet me. My mom's voice drifts in from the kitchen, steady and soothing as she talks to my dad about some coworker drama.

"Sam!" my mom calls as I kick off my boots by the door. "Dinner's almost ready. Go wash up."

I grunt something resembling acknowledgment, shuffle to the bathroom, and splash cold water on my face. It does nothing to clear the fog in my head. By the time I join my parents at the table, the smell of my mom's chicken stir-fry has filled the room, warm and comforting in a way that feels almost mocking.

"How was school?" my dad asks as I slide into my usual seat.

"Fine," I mutter, poking at my food. My appetite feels like it got left on the sidewalk somewhere.

Mom exchanges a glance with Dad, the kind of glance that says they're both trying to figure out how much to push. "You look tired, sweetheart," she says gently. "Are you sleeping okay?"

I stab a piece of broccoli with my fork, wishing I could sink into the chair and disappear. "Yeah. Just... school stuff. You know."

Dad clears his throat, shifting in his seat. "Well, if you need to talk about anything--"

"I'm fine," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. "Really."

The awkward silence that follows is almost worse than the conversation. I shove a bite of chicken into my mouth, chewing mechanically as the TV in the living room drones on in the background.

"...marking the end of the third day of the blockade at the Penn Medicine facility. Professor Poppet, the notorious supervillain known for his autonomous creations, has reportedly surrendered after extensive negotiations with the Delaware Valley Defenders..."

The newscaster's voice grates against my nerves, every word digging a little deeper. Seriously? That's what they've been dealing with? Three days of babysitting some unhinged inventor while we have an arsonist tearing through Tacony? My jaw tightens as I swallow the bite of chicken, the bitterness of my own thoughts mixing with the taste.

"...no injuries reported, and authorities are praising the Defenders for their nonviolent resolution of the crisis..."

"Great," I mutter under my breath. My mom looks up, frowning slightly, but I wave it off. "Nothing. Just... tired."

She doesn't push, just nods and goes back to her plate. Dad makes a quiet comment about the news, something about how it's nice that nobody got hurt. I tune it out, my focus drifting back to my food, the flavors muted and distant. Every bite feels like a chore, but I force it down anyway. I can't deal with the concerned looks my parents give me when I don't eat.

After dinner, I mumble something about homework and head upstairs before they can corner me with any more questions. My room feels colder than usual, the air heavy with the kind of stillness that presses against your ears. I close the door behind me and drop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

The envelope is still in my pocket, minus one gift card, its weight digging into my hip like a stone. I pull it out and toss it onto my desk without looking at it, the motion sharp and angry. It lands on top of a pile of notebooks after doing about two and a half flips.

I don't want to think about it. I don't want to think about Melissa, or Aaron, or Heckerman, or any of it. I just want to stop feeling like my skin is too tight and the world is too small.

My laptop sits on the desk, dark and unassuming. I open it and start pulling up old soccer highlights, the familiar sound of commentary filling the room like white noise. It drowns out the silence without demanding anything from me. No stakes. No expectations.

I curl up on my bed, pulling the blanket over me as the highlights play on. The screen flickers with images of players weaving through defenders, the crowd roaring in the background. It's so far removed from everything I'm dealing with that it almost feels like stepping into another life.

My thoughts keep circling back, no matter how hard I try to focus on the game. Melissa's face, frozen on the security footage. The hammer sticker. The newscaster's voice, praising the Defenders for their heroics. Sandman's stupid grin under that fake beard.

I close my eyes, willing my brain to shut up, to just let me rest for once. The commentary fades into a dull hum, blending with the faint creaks of the house settling around me. I don't know when I finally fall asleep, but when I do, it's restless, the kind of sleep that leaves you more tired when you wake up.