I stand by the curb, my arms crossed against the cold as the taxi's taillights disappear into the swirling winter night. The driver hadn't seemed thrilled about the idea of ferrying someone with singed clothes and a raw, hacking cough, but Derek had shoved cash into his hand before the guy could say a word. Now, it's just me, the faint sting of smoke in my throat, and the dull throb in my head reminding me that I've taken more hits today than I care to regularly handle.

Derek's out of commission for the night, but he'll be fine after he goes wolf mode and back. Me? I'll be fine. Probably. My vision swims slightly as I turn toward the Music Hall, but I shake it off, blinking hard. Smoke inhalation, a slight concussion, and what feels like a thousand bruises--nothing I haven't handled before. Nothing that won't knit itself back together overnight. The last time I got a mild concussion, the doctor even said, you know, Sam, normally we'd be very worried, but it looks like your skull is just... Fine.

I'm fine! I'm fine.

The walk to the Music Hall feels longer than usual, the streets unusually quiet. Or maybe I'm just hyperaware of every sound, every shadow, every pair of headlights cutting through the dark. My thoughts chase each other in circles, spinning out endless possibilities: Aaron limping away into some hole to lick his wounds, or doubling back, ready to finish what he started. I know which one is more likely. He's not the retreating type. He's going to try again. He has to.

By the time I reach the Hall, my lungs burn from the cold, and the faint smell of mildew and wood polish feels almost comforting. The familiar creak of the door echoes as I push it open, stepping into the dimly lit interior, up the rotting stairs, past what looks like a fire blanket draped over the Bannister. Jordan's voice carries from the main hall, a low murmur punctuated by Tasha's sharper tones.

"You look like hell," Jordan greets me, glancing up from a battered laptop perched on a makeshift table. Their black hoodie is pulled low over their face, but the sharp glint of their eyeliner cuts through the shadows.

"Thanks," I mutter, dropping my bag onto the floor with a heavy thud. "Nice to see you too."

"You okay?" Tasha asks, her voice laced with concern. She's sitting cross-legged on the floor, a notebook in her lap, pen poised as if she's about to jot down an observation about my coughing fit.

"I'm fine," I lie, sinking onto one of the mismatched chairs lining the wall. The room spins slightly as I sit, and I grip the armrests until it steadies. "Derek's on his way home. He'll be out of commission until morning."

Jordan shuts the laptop with a quiet snap, leaning forward. "And you?"

I wave them off. "Nothing major. Just smoke and a bump to the head. I'm good."

They don't look convinced, but they let it slide. Instead, they gesture to the map spread across the table, dotted with sticky notes and thumbtacks. "We've been trying to figure out where he'll go next. Tasha's pulling up fire department reports, but it's a mess out there."

Tasha nods, flipping a page in her notebook. "There's been chatter about copycats, but Aaron's pattern doesn't match most of the new incidents. If anything, he's been moving more erratically. Either he's lost his usual hideouts, or he's trying to throw us off."

"Or he's desperate," I say, leaning forward to study the map. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "He's injured, no car, and no resources. He'll either run or retaliate."

Jordan snorts. "Knowing him, I'm guessing the latter. Wait, injured?" Jordan raises an eyebrow, their posture stiffening. "How do you know that? Did you see him?"

I realize I've skipped a step. My mouth opens, then closes, as I try to decide how much to say. But this is Jordan and Tasha. They're here for the whole thing. It's not like I can brush it off with a casual "don't worry about it."

"Uh, yeah," I say, scratching the back of my neck. "So...Derek and I found him. Earlier. Like, under the bridge. He, uh, may have tried to hit me with a car door. Among other things."

Jordan's tablet clatters onto the table as they gape at me. "You what?"

Tasha's head snaps up from her notes, her eyes wide. "You went after him? Sam, are you serious?"

I raise my hands defensively. "Okay, first of all, he went after me! We just followed the trail to see if we could figure out where he was hiding. It's not like I invited him to ambush us. And anyway, I'm fine. Derek's fine. Mostly."

"Mostly," Jordan repeats, deadpan. "You're telling me you went shark-jaws-first into a fight with Aaron and dragged Derek into it, and now you're sitting here acting like that's just...a normal Thursday?"

I wince. "When you put it like that--"

"Because it's insane," Tasha interjects. Her voice isn't angry, but there's a tightness to it that makes me feel worse than if she'd shouted. "Sam, what were you thinking? You could've gotten yourself killed. Or Derek."

"I was thinking," I insist, though it comes out more defensive than I intended. "I was thinking that Aaron is out there, and every second we don't do something about it is another second he's planning something worse. I couldn't just sit around and wait for him to light up half the city!"

This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

Jordan exhales sharply, running a hand through their hair. "Okay, I get it. But maybe you could've looped us in before diving headfirst into the arsonist's den."

I cross my arms, looking between them. "You're right. I probably should've. But I didn't, and now we know where he's been and what he's capable of. And, for what it's worth, I did give him a few good hits. Pretty sure he's nursing a broken rib or two."

Tasha shakes her head, muttering something about "self-destructive tendencies" as she goes back to her notes. Jordan, however, doesn't look away. Their gaze is sharp, scrutinizing me like they're trying to figure out what makes me tick.

Jordan lets out a breath, leaning back in their chair. Their fingers drum against the table as they glance at the map, then back to me. "So, what's the plan, Fearless Leader? Because if you're going to keep poking the bear, we might as well be ready for when it pokes back."

Tasha raises an eyebrow at Jordan's tone but doesn't comment. Instead, she flips a page in her notebook. "Sam's right about one thing--Aaron's running out of options. If he's desperate, that makes him more dangerous. We can't just wait around for him to make a move."

I nod, grateful for the shift in focus. "Agreed. We don't have time to play defense forever. He knows where we operate. He knows us."

Jordan tilts their head, smirking faintly. "Yeah, well, he doesn't know me half as well as he thinks he does. We've got the upper hand here if we're smart about it."

"Exactly," I say, straightening. My voice feels steadier now, like I've got a grip on the chaos swirling around us. I glance at the scattered sticky notes and thumbtacks dotting the map. "Look, he's like a cornered animal. Running doesn't come naturally to him. He's going to lash out. And he knows where to find us."

"He knows where to find us?" Tasha asks, incredulously. "What?"

"Derek smelled him doubling around the Music Hall. He definitely suspects I'm here frequently, even if he doesn't know for sure. And I don't think he's the kind of person that confirms these things," I explain. Tasha makes a face and starts looking around for a fire extinguisher.

"Surveillance," Jordan says immediately. "We've got the advantage now. He's stuck in our territory, and we know his moves. If we keep eyes on the key spots, we'll see him coming before he gets close."

"And if he does get close?" Tasha asks, raising an eyebrow.

"We deal with it," I say firmly. "He's on the defensive now. We just need to stay one step ahead."

Jordan's gaze sharpens, their tone turning skeptical. "You're really leaning into this whole 'hunt him down' thing, huh?"

I meet their eyes, my jaw tightening. "You saw what he did at the coffee shop. He's not stopping unless we make him."

For a moment, they hold my gaze, their expression unreadable. Then they lean back in their chair, folding their arms. "Fine. But if this goes sideways, don't say I didn't warn you."

"It won't," I say, the words more for myself than for them.

"I'll take the first watch," Jordan offers, their voice still tinged with reluctance. "You need rest, Sam. You look like you're about to keel over."

"I'm fine," I insist, though the room feels too warm, the edges of my vision a little too soft. "But thanks."

Jordan doesn't argue, which is somehow worse than if they had. Instead, they stand, brushing past me to grab their coat. "Go sleep or something. You're no use to us if you pass out in the middle of a fight."

The night stretches long, the kind that feels like it's wrapping around you, heavy and close. The Music Hall is quiet, save for the low hum of the space heater in the corner and the occasional creak of the old wooden floors. Jordan and Tasha are huddled on the couch, an anime playing on Jordan's laptop. The volume is low, barely more than a whisper of sound, the characters moving in exaggerated expressions of panic or joy. I don't recognize the show--something with robots or space, probably--but none of us are paying attention anyway. It's just noise to fill the space between the waiting.

I'm by the window, leaning against the sill, my fingers drumming a soft, restless rhythm on the cold brick. The street below is still, save for the occasional passing car. The air smells faintly of snow that hasn't fallen yet, sharp and clean. My breath fogs the glass as I peer out, scanning for movement. My body aches from earlier--every joint, every bruise, a reminder of how close things came to going sideways under the bridge.

"You've been staring out that window for an hour," Jordan says, not looking up from their laptop. Their voice cuts through the quiet like a blade, but there's no real bite to it. Just the kind of weary sarcasm that settles in when you're running on fumes.

"I'm fine," I say, though my back aches and my head is still buzzing from earlier. I can't sit down. Not yet. "Someone's gotta watch."

"Tasha's turn in ten," Jordan replies, flipping a hand toward the couch. "You're not doing anyone any favors by staying up all night and keeling over in the morning, you know."

Tasha glances at me, her eyes soft with concern, but she doesn't say anything. She knows better than to push.

"I said I'm fine," I repeat, more to myself than to them.

The minutes crawl by. Shadows stretch long across the floor, cast by the dim lamp on the table. The Music Hall feels too big, the corners too dark, like there are spaces that weren't there before. Every sound feels sharp, amplified--the ticking of the clock, the rustle of a page in Tasha's notebook, the distant hum of the city outside. My fingers keep drumming on the sill, a nervous, relentless rhythm.

Then I hear it. A sound so faint I almost miss it. A metallic scrape, somewhere out back. I freeze, my breath catching. It comes again--faint, deliberate. The rattling of something against the back entrance, near the dumpsters.

"Shh." I hold up a hand, and both Jordan and Tasha go still, their heads snapping up to look at me. The anime on Jordan's laptop continues to play, oblivious, a character yelling something about honor or betrayal.

"What?" Jordan whispers, their eyes narrowing as they follow my gaze toward the back of the building.

"Listen," I murmur, my voice barely audible.

Another sound. A quiet thud, followed by a softer scrape, like someone testing the door. My stomach tightens.

"Someone's out there," I say, stepping away from the window. My hand brushes the edge of the table, instinctively searching for anything I can use as a weapon.

Tasha rises slowly, her notebook forgotten. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," I say, keeping my voice low. "Back entrance."

Jordan's already on their feet, their movements quick and precise as they shut the laptop and grab a baseball bat from the supply corner. "Stay here," they say, glancing at Tasha.

"Like hell I'm staying," I whisper back, my pulse quickening. "It's my fight."

Jordan doesn't argue. They just nod, their expression grim, and motion for me to follow.

The three of us move toward the back of the building, the air heavy with tension. Every step feels loud, every creak of the floorboards like a shout in the silence. The shadows seem deeper here, the dim light from the hallway barely enough to guide us.

We stop just before the door to the back entrance, our breaths shallow and quiet. The rattling comes again, louder this time. My heart pounds in my chest as I press my ear to the door, straining to catch any other sound.

SLAM!