I don't feel great about skipping school, but after the week I've had, it's not like I'm going to get much out of classes. Instead, I'm sitting on the cold, uneven floor of what used to be a Tacony thrift store, waiting for Derek to show up. The building's been condemned for years, but the city's slow crawl toward demolition means it's still standing--barely. The roof leaks, the windows are boarded up, and the air smells faintly of mildew and old fabric softener. It's perfect.

I sent Derek a message at midnight. I knew he wouldn't see it until morning--because, well, wolf stuff--but I still felt guilty when the reply came through at dawn, short and to the point:

"You better have a good reason for this. I hate being in North Philly."

The sound of boots crunching over broken glass pulls me from my thoughts. Derek steps into view, his orange hair catching the weak sunlight filtering through the boards. He looks annoyed, which is pretty much his default expression, but his scowl deepens when he sees me sitting cross-legged on the floor.

"This better be important," he says, voice low and gravelly. He's wearing his usual uniform: battle jacket covered in patches, jeans, hoodie underneath for the February chill. An unlit cigarette dangles from his mouth.

I stand, brushing off my jeans. "It is. Thanks for coming."

He snorts, crossing his arms. "Yeah, well, you're lucky I didn't have plans. What's so urgent it couldn't wait until school let out?"

I hold up the envelope. The hammer sticker catches the dim light. "I need you to smell this."

Derek stares at me, unblinking. "You've got to be kidding."

"I'm not," I say firmly, stepping closer. "It's from a serial arsonist who's targeting me direc-- haven't you been following the group chat, man?"

"No," he answers flatly.

I sigh. "He left it in my locker. I need to figure out where it came from."

He takes a half-step back, holding up his hand. "First of all, I don't care who it's from. That's disgusting. Second, what am I, your personal bloodhound?"

"Ha, ha," I cross my arms, meeting his glare. "Come on, don't make me fight you for it. You're the only person I know who can do this."

Derek groans, dragging a hand down his face. "Why me?" he mutters, but he doesn't leave. Instead, he flicks the unlit cigarette into a corner and snatches the envelope from my hand. "Fine. But if this smells like gym socks, I'm out."

I bite back a smile as he lifts the envelope to his nose, his face scrunching in concentration. After a moment, he lowers it, brow furrowed.

"There's a lot here," he says, tone begrudgingly serious. "Paper, ink, cheap adhesive... and something chemical. Like nail polish remover."

"Nail polish remover?" I echo, pulse quickening.

"Yeah." He sniffs again, then hands it back. "It's faint, but it's there. You said this guy's an arsonist? Could be accelerant residue. Or he just got lazy with his mom's office supplies."

I tuck the envelope into my bag, mind racing. "Either way, it's a lead. Thanks."

Derek narrows his eyes. "You're not going after this guy alone, are you?"

"Of course not," I lie. "I just need to figure out where he's been."

He doesn't look convinced but doesn't push it. Instead, he jerks his thumb toward the door. "Let's get this over with. Where are we headed?"

"Happy Nails & Spa," I say, pulling up my hood. "I think it's the last place he hit before the envelope made its way to me. The gift card was the letter, I mean."

Derek raises an eyebrow. "You think he left a scent trail? And why'd he send you a gift card? Thought this guy was trying to kill you."

"Long story," I say, feeling a flicker of hope. "He's never met you. I doubt he'd wear enough cologne to fool a tracking hound."

"Yeah, well, don't get excited," Derek says, pulling up his own hood. "If he's as careful as you say, he probably covered his tracks."

"Maybe," I admit, stepping outside. "But if he didn't, he's screwed."

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The walk to Happy Nails & Spa is quiet, but tension squeezes the air from my lungs. Derek keeps pace beside me, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the street like he's expecting an ambush. Our cloth masks make conversation awkward, but I don't mind the silence. It gives me time to think.

Aaron messed up. He thinks he's untouchable, that he can play his little games without consequences. But he doesn't know about Derek. He doesn't know that I'm not just scared anymore - I'm angry. And when I'm angry, I don't stop.

We're half a block from the spa when Derek stiffens, head tilting slightly. I follow his gaze, heart pounding.

"What is it?" I whisper.

He doesn't answer immediately, eyes narrowing as he sniffs the air. Then he exhales sharply, shoulders relaxing.

"Nothing," he mutters. "Thought I smelled something, but it's gone now."

I nod, forcing myself to stay calm. "Let's keep moving."

We round the corner to Happy Nails & Spa, its neon sign flickering in the gray afternoon light. The place hums with its usual activity--chairs full of women leaning back for manicures, feet soaking in warm water, the chemical tang of acetone hanging in the air. The workers move with practiced precision, filing nails, scrubbing feet, applying polish.

Derek sniffs the air as we step inside. A small bell jingles overhead, and I'm hit with a wall of warmth and overlapping conversations.

"Busy," Derek mutters.

"Yeah," I say, pulling out the envelope and the printed sketch of Aaron. My heart picks up as I glance around. Everything feels normal--totally normal--and that's almost worse than the alternative.

The woman at the counter looks up as we approach, polite but curious. She's young, maybe early twenties, with straight black hair in a low ponytail. Her nails are painted coral, matching the salon's tidy decor.

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

"Hi," I say, sliding the envelope and sketch across the counter. "Sorry to bother you, but I need to ask about something."

She glances at the sketch, eyebrows pulling together. "What's this about?"

"It's complicated," I say, keeping my voice steady. "This guy--he's been causing trouble. I think he might've been through here recently."

Her frown deepens, but then her eyes flick to me, widening slightly. "Wait--Ms. Small?"

I blink. "Uh, yeah?"

"You used to come here with your mom, right?" A small smile tugs at her lips. "It's been a while, but I remember your eyes."

"Oh," I say, caught off guard. "Yeah. Few years now."

"I always remember the regulars. Even the ones who only came five or six times."

"Guess I made an impression," I say awkwardly, glancing at Derek. He's still sniffing the envelope, muttering something about chemicals.

The woman looks back at the sketch, her smile fading. "He does look familiar. Think he was here last week. Got a manicure, bought a gift card on his way out."

My stomach drops. "You're sure?"

She nods. "Pretty sure. Just another customer at the time. But if he's dangerous..."

"He's on the news," I say carefully. "Have you seen?"

"Ah... I don't think I have. I would've reported him if I did," she says, jaw tightening. "He was here about a week ago. He didn't do anything weird. Just got his nails done, paid cash, left."

"That would be before the news report, so that makes sense," I mutter. I glance at Derek, who's still sniffing the air, face scrunched in concentration. "Anything?"

"Envelope matches," he mutters. "Nail polish remover, acetone, dude smell, marijuana. But there's something else--faint, but it's here."

"What kind of 'something else'?"

Derek shakes his head. "Don't know yet. Could be cologne, could be accelerant. Need to keep following it. Metallic, though. Smoky."

The woman watches us, concerned. "Is he dangerous?"

"Very," I say bluntly. "But we're trying to stop him before he does anything worse."

She nods slowly, fingers tapping the counter. "I'll ask if anyone remembers anything else, but he didn't stand out much."

"That's already a huge help," I say, managing a small smile. "Thanks."

Derek straightens. "We should go. Burning sunlight."

"Right," I say, giving the woman a quick nod. "Thanks again."

"Be careful," she calls as we step back into the cold.

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

We step back out into the cold, the warmth of the salon fading as the door closes behind us. Derek sniffs the envelope again, his eyes narrowing as he catches something.

"This way," he mutters, jerking his head toward the main street. "It's old, but it's there."

The next few hours blur together as we follow Aaron's trail through Tacony. Derek moves methodically, stopping at corners to reorient himself, explaining what he's picking up as we go. The scent is distinctive--something chemical underneath the human smell, sharp and artificial.

"Road flares," Derek says around noon, after we've covered maybe half of Tacony. "That's what I couldn't place before. He smells like road flares and sweat."

I pull my hoodie tighter against the chill and follow him. The streets are quiet, amplifying every sound--passing cars, distant shouts, gravel crunching under our feet. Derek moves with purpose, but he's careful, taking time at each new location to build a picture of Aaron's movements.

"So what's the verdict?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady. "Are we actually tracking him?"

"Yeah," Derek says, checking his phone. Almost two o'clock now. "But it's complicated. He's been all over, different times of day. The fresher the smell, the more recent the visit."

I chew the inside of my cheek, my mind racing. The idea that Aaron had been methodically mapping my neighborhood makes my stomach churn. I shove my hands into my pockets to keep them from trembling.

We cross another street, and Derek slows, tilting his head. "Strong here," he mutters. "Really strong. Recent too--maybe yesterday. But he didn't stick around long."

The afternoon wears on as Derek weaves us through back alleys and side streets. The further we go, the more the pieces start to fall into place. Aaron's trail snakes past my school, looping around to the side entrances and staff parking lot. Derek stops in front of one of the gates, his expression grim.

"Heavy concentration here," he says, voice low. "Multiple visits. Some old, some fresh. He's been coming back."

My chest tightens. "You think he was watching the school?"

Derek shrugs, but there's no mistaking the tension in his shoulders. "Maybe. Probably. You think it's a coincidence?"

"It's not," I cut in, my voice sharper than intended. "He's been watching me. He knows where I go. What I do."

Derek doesn't argue. Just turns and starts walking again, his nose leading us further along the trail. We pass by the park where Jordan and I sometimes hang out, the corner deli where I grab snacks, even the Music Hall. Each stop feels like a punch to the gut, a reminder of how thoroughly Aaron has mapped out my life.

"He doubled back here," Derek says, stopping in front of the Music Hall. The sun's getting low now--we've maybe got two hours before he needs to head home. "More than once. Most recent was yesterday."

I glance at the building, its familiar silhouette suddenly feeling foreign and exposed. "He was looking for me," I say quietly.

"Probably," Derek says, tone clipped. "Checking if you were inside. When he couldn't tell, he'd leave and come back later. You should probably let Jordan know."

The idea of Aaron circling the Music Hall, trying to figure out if I was inside, makes me want to yank my skin off. I grit my teeth, forcing myself to focus. "Where's the trail leading now?"

Derek sniffs the air again, then starts moving with renewed purpose. "It's stronger this way. Heading east. And fresher--maybe just a few hours old. He's been moving while we've been tracking."

We follow the scent toward the Delaware, the streets growing quieter as we leave the busier parts of Tacony behind. The trail thickens as we approach the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge, the air colder and sharper near the water. The winter sun hangs low, painting everything in long shadows.

"He spends a lot of time around here," Derek says, stopping at the edge of an overgrown lot. "The scent's layered. Old and new, like he keeps coming back. Most recent is..." He sniffs again. "Today. This morning, maybe."

I stare at the bridge in the distance, its steel beams cutting against the darkening sky. "Why here?" I ask, more to myself than to Derek.

"Could be a hideout," Derek says, checking his phone again. We're running out of time before he needs to go to his cage. "Could be nothing. But the trail's fresh, and it leads right here."

"Let's check it out," I say, my voice steady despite the knot in my stomach. "You've got time for one more stop before sunset?"

Derek hesitates, but nods. His jaw sets as he starts walking again, the trail pulling us toward the bridge and whatever waits beneath it.

The trail leads us down Levick Street, under the looming shadow of the Tacony-Palmyra bridge. The winter sun is getting dangerously low, painting long shadows across the construction site that stretches out before us. Chain-link fences line the perimeter, topped with rusted barbed wire, but there are gaps where the metal has pulled away from the posts.

Derek stops abruptly, his whole body going rigid. "He's here," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Right now. The scent's fresh--minutes old, not hours."

I scan the area, taking in the scattered construction equipment, the piles of gravel and concrete barriers, the bridge utility station squatting beneath the massive steel spans overhead. My heart pounds against my ribs as I realize Aaron could be watching us right this second.

"Where exactly?" I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.

Derek's eyes narrow as he scents the air. "Under the bridge. Near that utility building. And..." He hesitates, checking his phone. "Sam, I've got maybe forty minutes before I need to start heading back."

I nod, mind racing. Aaron's been living here, using the bridge as cover. Probably sleeping in his car, maybe breaking into the utility station for warmth. It's perfect--hidden from view but with clear sightlines to watch anyone approach. Just like an underpass. Just like last time.

"You think he can see us?" I ask, though I already know the answer.

"Almost definitely." Derek's shoulders are tense, his eyes constantly moving. He turns to me, jaw set. "We should take care of this now."

I blink, surprised. "What? But you just said--"

"Yeah, I know what time it is," he cuts me off. "But think about it. He's seen us. If we leave now, he'll just find somewhere else to hide, and we'll have to start all over. Plus..." He grins, showing too many teeth. My brain inserts the word "Glaswegian" but I couldn't tell you why, or even what that means. "Two on one. Better odds than you usually get."

He has a point. Aaron's not exactly known for standing his ground when the odds aren't in his favor. And if we leave now...

I catch movement in my peripheral vision--just a flash, maybe nothing. But it confirms what I already knew: Aaron's watching. And now he knows that we're hunting him.

"Okay," I say quietly, squaring my shoulders. "Let's end this."

Derek's grin widens as he checks his phone one last time. "Forty minutes," he says. "Better make them count."