Sandman exhales through his nose, his gaze steady on mine. His posture doesn't change--still relaxed, leaning slightly to one side like he doesn't have a care in the world--but his eyes tell a different story. They're sharp, calculating, scanning my face like he's trying to peel away the layers and get to whatever truth I'm not saying out loud.

"And you think breaking him is the solution?" he asks, his voice calm but firm. "That's what makes him stop?"

"I don't think," I snap, "I know. He's not afraid of the cops. He's not afraid of the Delaware Valley Defenders or the Tacony Titans or the Auditors or anyone else in a cape. But he's afraid of me."

Sandman tilts his head slightly, considering me. "And what happens if you're wrong?"

"I'm not."

The certainty in my voice surprises even me, but it doesn't shake him. He crosses his arms, the motion slow and deliberate. "You don't know that, Sam. You can't. People like Aaron don't scare easy. Pain doesn't teach them lessons. It just makes them worse."

"That's bullshit," I say, the words bursting out before I can stop them. "You think he's going to stop just because someone slaps cuffs on him and locks him in a box? He's not afraid of the system, Sand. He doesn't give a damn about consequences. The only thing he understands is power."

"And you think you showing him yours is going to change that?" His tone sharpens just enough to sting. "He's a rabid dog, Sam. You don't tame that. You don't fix it. You put it down."

My breath catches in my throat, and for a second, I can't respond. His words hang in the air, heavy and cold, and I feel the sting of them settle deep in my chest. "I'm not a killer," I say finally, my voice low and tight.

"I know you're not," he says, softer now, almost apologetic. "But you're talking like one."

That stings more than I want to admit. "I'm talking like someone who's tired of letting people like him run the board," I say, my voice rising despite myself. "He ripped my nails off with a fucking hammer, Sandman. Today, he lit me on fire. In broad daylight. In front of my entire school, along with like six other students. And why? Because he knows I care about the people he's hurting. That's it. That's the only reason. He's not some nihilistic lunatic trying to watch the world burn. He's doing this to fuck with me."

Sandman doesn't flinch, doesn't interrupt. He lets me talk, his expression steady and unreadable, but the silence only pushes me further.

"If he stayed in the underworld, dealing with people who expect violence, I could almost let it slide. Let the cops, the Defenders, whoever deal with it. But he's not. He's burning down family businesses. Schools. Neighborhoods. He's dragging innocent people into his bullshit, just to get at me. And I can't let that happen. I can't let him keep thinking he can hurt people to get what he wants."

"And you think beating him to a pulp sends the message you're hoping for?" Joshua's tone is still calm, but there's a new edge to it--frustration, maybe, or something close to it.

"Yes," I say, my voice firm. "Because if he's not scared of me, he's never going to stop."

Sandman sighs, long and slow, and rubs a hand over his face. "Sam, you're not going to scare him straight. He's not going to have some epiphany where he realizes he's been wrong all along and decides to turn his life around."

"I don't need him to turn his life around," I snap. "I just need him to stop coming after mine."

We stare at each other, the air between us taut like a wire stretched too thin. I can feel the weight of his judgment pressing down on me, but I don't back down.

"You're not going to let this go, are you?" he asks finally, his voice resigned.

"No," I say, the word coming out more softly than I intended. "I can't."

For a moment, I think he's going to argue again, to try one more time to talk me out of it. But instead, he just exhales sharply and shakes his head. "You're a stubborn little shit, you know that?"

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"Takes one to know one," I shoot back, a faint smile tugging at the corner of my mouth despite everything.

He chuckles, but it's humorless. "Fine. Do what you've got to do. But don't come crying to me when it all blows up in your face."

"It won't," I say, though the words sound hollow even to me.

"Sure," he says, his smirk returning.

I don't respond. There's nothing left to say, not really. He steps back, his hands slipping into the pockets of his jacket as he studies me for a moment longer. "Don't be an idiot, Sam."

My gaze hardens. "I won't be."

"Good," he says, turning away and heading back toward his makeshift camp. "Because if you get yourself killed, I'm not explaining it to your parents."

I watch him go, his figure disappearing into the shadows, before turning back toward my house. The street is quiet again, but the tension in the air hasn't lifted. If anything, it feels heavier now, pressing down on my shoulders like a weight I can't shake.

I take a deep breath, steadying myself, and start walking. There's still so much to do.

The house is dark when I step inside, making the space feel bigger than it is. I kick off my sneakers by the door, the rubber soles squeaking faintly against the tile, and shrug off my hoodie. The chill clings to me for a moment before the warmth of the house takes over, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket.

I don't bother turning on the lights. It's better this way--less inviting, less noticeable. The glow from the streetlights outside filters through the blinds, painting faint patterns on the walls. It's enough to see by.

The stairs creak faintly under my weight as I make my way up to my room. The familiarity of it all--the way the floorboards groan, the faint smell of pine cleaner lingering in the air--feels almost surreal. Like I've stepped into a memory instead of reality.

Once I'm upstairs, I head straight for my closet. The duffel bag is right where I left it, tucked in the back corner beneath a pile of old soccer jerseys and mismatched shoes. I pull it out and unzip it, the sound sharp and satisfying in the quiet room.

Inside, everything is exactly as I packed it: Fury Forge's firefighting gadgets neatly arranged in their compartments. The pellets sit in their reinforced case, tiny spheres of concentrated suppressant foam. The smoke mask rests beside them, its filter pristine and ready. And the fire blanket, folded tightly, feels heavier in my hands than it should. Along that is the remains of Miss Mayfair's gear, but I doubt I'll need to inject anyone with fake poison or fly a drone into Aaron's face. Maybe next time.

I set everything out on the bed, arranging it with the precision of a mortician. My fingers move automatically, checking each item, running through the mental checklist that's become second nature by now.

Bandages next. I sit on the edge of the bed and unwrap the ones from the hospital, wincing as the cool air hits the burns. The gel they gave me has dulled the pain, but the skin is still raw and tender, every movement sending little jolts of discomfort up my arm. I get my first aid kit and re-wrap new, fresh gauze around my arm. Good as new.

My stomach growls, breaking the silence, and I realize I haven't eaten since... I can't even remember. The fridge downstairs is probably full of leftovers. Mom's tendency to overprepare for every culinary contingency means there's always something waiting, even when they're not here.

Mom and Dad. My chest tightens at the thought of them, safe in Ventnor with Pop-Pop Moe, exactly where they should be. I told them to stay there, convinced them it was for their own safety, but the weight of that decision sits heavy on me now. If Aaron is willing to light me up in broad daylight, he'd go after them in a heartbeat.

They're better off far away from this. From me.

I head downstairs, the faint glow of the fridge lighting up the dark kitchen as I rummage through it. Leftover chicken, some roasted vegetables, and a bowl of rice. Can't go vigilante on some guy's ass on an empty stomach. I pile it onto a plate and pop it in the microwave, the hum filling the silence as I lean against the counter.

When it's done, I eat standing at the counter, one hand holding the plate while the other peels back the bottom half of my mask. The fabric settles around my neck, loose and familiar. It's strange, eating like this--half in costume, half out--but it feels right. Like I need to be ready at a moment's notice.

The food tastes bland, the flavors muted by the thoughts swirling in my head. Plans, contingencies, routes through the city--it's all jumbled together, a chaotic mess that I can't quite untangle. I force myself to finish anyway, scraping the last bit of rice onto my fork before setting the plate in the sink.

As I start to rinse it, something catches my attention. A faint smell, sharp and acrid, curling around the edges of the room. Smoke.

I freeze, my hand hovering over the faucet. Did my mom leave something in the oven? Did I leave something in the microwave? I glance around the kitchen, my eyes scanning for anything out of place, but everything looks normal. The faint glow from the streetlights filters through the blinds, soft and steady.

Then I see it.

A flicker of light, faint and orange, through the front window. My heart skips, and I move to the door, my footsteps quick and quiet against the tile. The cool night air hits me as I step onto the porch, and the smell of smoke is stronger now, unmistakable.

I look around, my gaze sweeping the quiet street. Everything seems normal at first--the rows of parked cars, the dark windows of sleeping houses--but then I see it. Around the corner, on the row behind this street. A place I know by heart, by distance, even if I haven't been over in two years.

Kate Smith's house is on fire.