The rattling turns into a sharp metallic crack just as Jordan tightens their grip on the bat, mouthing a quick "Stay back" to Tasha. Before I can fully register what's happening, the back door creaks open, and Aaron shoves his way inside.

Greasy, definitely not as skinny as he was when we first met. He looks well fed, not in a fat way, but in a "recovering from anorexia" way, like he's been on a vacation all this time, his skin tan and smooth. Even in the winter, he's not wearing nearly enough, a ripped-open wifebeater exposing those tattoos I'm sure he thinks are so cool.

But Jordan doesn't hesitate. They swing the bat in a clean arc, catching him square in the stomach with a satisfying thud. Aaron doubles over with a gasp, but before Jordan can follow through, he recovers, staggering back with wild eyes and a manic grin. His hand snaps upward, fingers curling as a sharp, angry burst of yellow flame erupts from the floor. There's no distance to cross - his fire is instantaneous when he needs it to be.

The fire splashes against the metal doorframe, spitting embers into the hallway. The air fills with the acrid stench of burning paint and singed wood, and for a split second, everything is chaos.

"Get it!" Tasha shouts, already fumbling for the fire extinguisher in her hands. I hear, don't see, the sound of spraying foam, belching out just like it sounds on the TV.

The flames sputter and crawl along the walls as Aaron stumbles back through the door, clutching his side. The scorch marks around the metal door tell the story--he couldn't burn his way through, not with brick and steel standing in his way. This was desperation, a last-ditch effort.

"He's mine," I say, already moving.

Jordan's about to protest, but I cut them off. "Stay here. Help Tasha with the fire. He's not getting far."

I don't wait for a response. The cold night air hits me like a slap as I burst through the back door, my eyes locking on Aaron's retreating figure. He's moving fast, but his gait is uneven, favoring one side where Derek and I probably cracked a rib or two earlier. He glances back once, just enough for me to catch the wild panic in his expression.

"Don't run!" I shout, even though I know he won't listen. "We were just getting started!"

He bolts, and I take off after him.

The streets of Tacony blur around me as I push myself forward, my sneakers pounding against the pavement. Aaron's ahead, weaving through parked cars and slipping into alleys, his breath visible in the frigid air. He's fast--faster than I expected for someone so banged up--but I'm faster. My legs burn with the effort, every stride bringing me closer.

He glances back again, his face twisted in frustration. I see the flicker of yellow in his eyes as he twists his head, his arm snapping up. A quick burst of flame shoots out, wild and unfocused, and I dart to the side, feeling the heat as it splashes against a parked car. The air smells of melted plastic and scorched metal.

"What's the matter, Aaron," I call out, my voice carrying over the sound of our footfalls. "Scared of a little girl?"

Aaron doesn't answer. He doesn't even look back this time. His focus is entirely on the path ahead, darting through the maze of Tacony's narrow streets. I'm gaining on him, my breaths coming hard and fast, but I can feel the adrenaline surging, drowning out the ache in my muscles and the lingering sting of smoke in my lungs.

We cut through a side alley, our shadows stretching long and jagged against the brick walls. Aaron stumbles, catching his foot on a discarded crate, and I almost reach him, my fingers brushing the back of his jacket before he surges forward again. He turns his head, just enough to let out another flare of yellow fire, forcing me to drop back as the flames burst against a dumpster.

He's slowing down, though. I can see it in the way he moves, the way he clutches his side. He's running out of steam.

So am I.

The chase spills out onto a wider street, the orange glow of streetlights reflecting off the wet pavement. Aaron veers left, heading toward a small park, its skeletal trees casting spidery shadows across the grass. I follow, my shoes slipping slightly on the damp ground as I close the gap between us.

"Give up!" I shout, my voice raw. "You can't outrun me!"

Aaron spins suddenly, his feet skidding in the mud. His eyes lock on mine, and for a moment, I think he's about to surrender. But then something changes. His gaze sharpens, his body tensing like a spring about to snap.

And then the world goes white.

It's not fire--not like the yellow flares he's been throwing. This is something else entirely. The light is blinding, a searing, unnatural brilliance that makes me throw up my arms to shield my eyes. The heat is immediate, oppressive, like standing in front of an open oven, and I can feel it scorching the air around me. It's hard to express just how much brighter and hotter it is than any other fire he's given me, anything else I've seen. Even this tiny flare lights up the park like a spotlight.

"What the hell?" I stumble back, blinking against the afterimages burned into my vision.

Aaron doesn't wait, but for a moment, I can see it in him, too - he's just as surprised as I am. He takes off again, leaving a trail of smoldering grass and singed leaves in his wake. The white fire sputters out quickly, far faster than the usual fires, but its impact lingers, the ground around it scorched black and smoking.

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I force myself to move, my legs heavy, my lungs burning. The chase isn't over--not yet. But Aaron's gaining ground now, his desperation giving him a second wind. He's leaving small fires in his wake, little flashes of white and yellow that lick at the edges of trash cans and street signs.

"Dammit," I mutter, pushing myself harder. He's slipping away, and I can't let him. Not after everything.

But then he rounds a corner, disappearing into the night, and when I follow, he's gone.

The street is empty, save for the faint, acrid smell of - what, ammonia? - and the lingering heat in the air. I slow to a stop, my hands on my knees as I gulp in lungfuls of icy air. My chest heaves, my heart hammering against my ribs as I scan the shadows, my ears straining for any sound.

Nothing. He's gone.

FUCK!

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The walk back to the Music Hall feels like trudging through molasses. My legs are heavy, my lungs still ache from the magnesium smoke, and my thoughts are a scattered mess of frustration and exhaustion. Aaron got away again. Every time I think I've got him cornered, he finds a new trick, a new way to slip through my fingers. And now, I'm dragging myself back to a building that almost burned down, because of him.

The smell of charred wood and chemical extinguishers greets me as I push through the back door. The fire's out, but the air inside still feels thick and heavy. Jordan and Tasha are huddled in the main room, Tasha perched on a crate with her phone in one hand and a fire extinguisher in the other. Jordan is pacing, their face set in a tight scowl, an unlit cigarette twitching between their fingers.

"Welcome back," Jordan says dryly, not bothering to look at me. "Guessing you didn't catch him?"

"No," I mutter, slumping against the nearest wall. My legs buckle, and I slide to the floor, the cold of the brick seeping into my back. "He got away."

"Shocker," Jordan deadpans, tossing the cigarette onto the table. "Meanwhile, we were here, saving your sorry ass from living in a pile of ashes."

I glance around, taking in the blackened walls near the back entrance and the faint scorch marks creeping up the beams. It could've been worse--probably should've been worse--but they kept it contained.

"How bad was it?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

"Bad enough." Jordan gestures to the ceiling, where faint wisps of smoke still linger. "The flames started licking at the electrical wiring. If Tasha hadn't grabbed the extinguisher when she did, we'd be calling the fire department right now. This piece-of-shit building's older than anyone here. It's practically begging to go up in flames."

Tasha nods, her expression tired but resolute. "The wood's so dry, it might as well be kindling. We got lucky."

I let out a slow breath, guilt gnawing at my edges. "Thanks," I say quietly. "For...you know. Saving the base."

Jordan finally stops pacing, their sharp eyes settling on me. "We've got this covered, Small. You don't have to keep pushing yourself like this."

"He's not coming back tonight," Tasha adds, her voice gentle but firm. "Go home. Get some sleep. We'll regroup tomorrow."

I want to argue, but the weight of the night presses down on me, dragging my body toward the floor. They're right. Aaron's not coming back--not tonight, anyway. And if I'm going to face him again, I need to be ready. Rested.

"Fine," I mumble, hauling myself to my feet. "But call me if anything happens."

Jordan smirks, raising an eyebrow. "Don't worry, mom. We'll be fine."

I shoot them a tired glare, but it's half-hearted at best. The warmth in their sarcasm is still there, beneath the frustration, and it's enough to push me out the door with a little less guilt.

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The sky is starting to brighten by the time I trudge through my front door. The faint glow of dawn seeps through the windows, casting everything in a soft, sleepy haze. My mom is already up, standing by the kitchen counter with a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her work uniform is crisp and neat, her hair pulled back into a bun that looks more functional than fashionable.

"Sam?" she asks, blinking at me in surprise. "What are you doing up this early?"

"Late night," I say vaguely, kicking off my sneakers and shuffling toward the couch. "Just...couldn't sleep."

She frowns but doesn't press the issue. "You should get some rest. You've got school in a couple of hours."

I mumble something incoherent, collapsing onto the couch with my bag still slung over one shoulder. The last thing I hear before sleep claims me is the soft clink of her coffee mug against the counter.

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I wake up to the smell of eggs and toast, my body protesting every movement as I sit up. The living room is awash in pale morning light, and the clock on the wall reads just past seven. My mom is at the stove, humming softly to herself as she flips a pancake.

"Morning, sleepyhead," she says over her shoulder. "You've got about thirty minutes to get ready."

"Yeah," I croak, rubbing at my eyes. "I'm up."

She slides a plate onto the table, the toast perfectly golden and the eggs arranged like a smiley face. I sink into a chair, the warmth of the food and the familiarity of the moment settling something fragile inside me.

As I pick at my breakfast, Mom sits across from me, her own plate untouched. "Did you hear about the library?" she asks, her tone too casual.

I freeze, my fork halfway to my mouth. "What about it?"

"There was a fire last night, near the dumpsters around the back," she says, laughing nervously. "Can you believe that? The Tacony Library, of all places. Thankfully, everyone's been getting their sprinklers and fire alarms checked recently, so I don't think there was any real damage. Good thing I don't work there anymore, huh?"

Her words hit me like a kick in the pelvis. Of course. Aaron. I don't even need to guess - I know it's him. He's lashing out, trying to hit me where it hurts. And... I don't know if he watched me freak out behind the library, or if he's been spying on my parents, or what, but he's trying to shoot closer and closer.

"I guess so," I say, forcing a weak smile. My appetite disappears, but I keep picking at my food, trying to act normal.

"People are getting crazier every day," Mom mutters, shaking her head. "I hope they catch whoever did it. That crazy guy on the news, I bet."

"Yeah," I murmur, my voice hollow. "I hope they catch him too."

I should tell her. Warn her. But the words stick in my throat, heavy and unformed.

The clock ticks closer to 7:30, and I shove the rest of the toast into my mouth, forcing myself to move. "Gotta get ready," I say, already backing toward the stairs.

Mom watches me with a faint frown but doesn't stop me. "Alright. Don't forget your lunch."

"Thanks," I call over my shoulder. "And, Mom?"

"Yes, pumpkin?" She asks.

"Do you think you could stay a little overtime at work today? And tell Dad to, too? Call it, uh, an. Extracurricular hunch," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

She looks at me a couple of times, her eyes widening, and then narrowing, in a sort of pained recognition. "Do you think we need to go to Moe's for the weekend?"

I swallow hard and it hurts. "Might be a good idea to give him a call over lunch."

She nods. She breathes, and I keep up the stairs to take a shower. To rinse the ash off.