I start compressions, pressing down hard and fast, counting under my breath. The motion is rhythmic, almost mechanical, but every push sends a jolt of determination through me. Her chest rises slightly with each compression, but it's not enough. Her pulse is weaker now, her breaths shallower, her body trembling faintly with the effort of staying alive.

"Is she--?" her dad starts, his voice breaking.

"She's going to make it," I snap, though the words feel more like a plea than a promise. "But I need quiet. If any of you have hoses, start spraying down the neighbors before the fire eats the entire row."

He nods, stepping back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The neighbors are still gathered nearby, their faces a mix of horror and helplessness. One of them--a middle-aged woman with a scarf wrapped tightly around her face--steps forward, holding out a water bottle. "Do you need--?"

"No," I say sharply, not looking up. "Just give us space."

Kate's dad claps his hands together, loudly, his voice taking on a raw, almost angry sort of edge to it. "Hoses, everyone!"

Alright, Mr. Smith. Get it covered.

I switch back to rescue breaths, tilting Kate's head back again and trying to force air into her lungs. It's like blowing into a clogged pipe, the air meeting resistance and refusing to go where it's needed. I can hear the wheezing now, louder and more urgent, each breath sounding like it could be her last.

My mind reels, grasping at every piece of training I've ever had, every scrap of knowledge that might make a difference. The swelling in her throat is the biggest problem, cutting off her airway entirely. If this were a hospital, they'd intubate her--force a tube down her throat to open the airway--but out here, I don't have the tools or the time.

"Crossroads, where the hell are you?" I mutter under my breath, my fingers trembling as I check her pulse again. It's weaker now, barely there, and my chest tightens with a mix of fear and frustration.

I go back to compressions, the rhythm pounding through my head like a drumbeat. Thirty compressions, two breaths. Thirty compressions, two breaths. My arms ache, the burns on my right arm flaring with every motion, but I don't stop. I can't stop.

Around me, the world blurs into a haze of noise and motion. The crackling of the fire, the faint wail of distant sirens, the murmurs of the crowd--it all fades into the background, eclipsed by the sound of Kate's wheezing breaths and the frantic pounding of my own heart.

I glance up briefly, my eyes scanning the street for any sign of help. Nothing. No ambulances, no fire trucks, no Defenders. Just the faint glow of the fire reflecting off the surrounding buildings and the thin layer of smoke hanging in the air like a shroud.

"Come on," I whisper again, my voice cracking. "Don't you dare give up on me."

I switch back to rescue breaths, the oxygen mask abandoned beside me. Her chest still isn't rising properly, the swelling in her airway acting like a dam. My thoughts spiral, racing through every possible solution, every desperate idea.

Tracheotomy. The word leaps to the front of my mind, unbidden and terrifying. It's a last resort--a procedure that involves cutting into the throat to create a new airway--but it's something I've only read about in training manuals. I don't have the tools. I don't have the expertise. And if I screw it up, I could kill her.

"No," I mutter, shaking my head. "Not an option."

I go back to compressions, my arms trembling with the effort. The world tilts slightly, my vision swimming as the heat and exhaustion press down on me like a weight. My own lungs feel raw, each breath a struggle, but I push through it. Kate's still alive. She has to stay that way.

The minutes drag on, each one feeling like an eternity. The neighbors are restless, their murmurs growing louder, but I block them out. I focus on Kate, on the steady rhythm of compressions, on the faint pulse beneath my fingers.

And then, finally, I hear it.

The distant roar of an engine, growing louder with each passing second. Headlights sweep across the street, cutting through the smoke and darkness, and a familiar figure steps out of the vehicle, his movements sharp and purposeful. Behind him, the bright lights of an ambulance bathe the street in harsh, clinical clarity.

"Bloodhound!" Crossroads' voice cuts through the chaos like a lifeline. He's running toward me, paramedics close on his heels. His coin flips idly between his fingers as he assesses the situation, his sharp gaze darting between me and Kate.

"About time," I rasp, my voice barely audible. "She's crashing."

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He nods, stepping back as the paramedics move in, their movements quick and practiced. One of them, a woman with short-cropped hair and a no-nonsense expression, drops to her knees beside Kate, taking over the chest compressions with an efficiency that makes my arms sag with relief. Another paramedic sets up an oxygen tank, the hiss of compressed air mingling with the chaos around us.

"Get her airway secured," the first paramedic says sharply, her hands never stopping as she keeps the compressions steady. "And prep for transport."

I sit back on my heels, my chest heaving as I gulp in air, the acrid taste of smoke burning in my throat. My head feels light, the edges of my vision blurring, but I fight it, clenching my fists until my nails dig into my palms. My regeneration is working overtime to keep me conscious, but it doesn't stop the pain--the deep, itching ache in my lungs that feels like it's clawing its way out.

"Hey, kid," the second paramedic says, his voice cutting through the haze. He's kneeling beside me now, his hands on my shoulders as he guides me down to sit. "You need to stay still. You're not looking great."

"I'm fine," I say, though the words come out slurred. My body feels heavy, my limbs sluggish, but I force myself to stay upright. "Just... focus on her."

"We're doing everything we can," he says, his tone calm but firm. "Let us handle it."

I nod weakly, my gaze fixed on Kate as the paramedics work around her. Her chest rises faintly as they get the oxygen flowing again, and for the first time since I pulled her out of the house, I feel a flicker of hope.

Somewhere behind me, I hear the distant wail of sirens--fire trucks, closing in fast. Help is here. Finally.

The adrenaline rush from the fire hasn't worn off, and my head feels like it's swimming in a fog of smoke, exhaustion, and raw emotion. The sight of the paramedics working on Kate should give me some kind of relief--should make me feel like I've done my job, like I've protected someone. But all I can think about is how close it was. How thin the line is between saving someone and losing them entirely.

And how Aaron is still out there, probably watching.

I turn to Crossroads, who's standing a few feet away, watching the scene unfold with the quiet, deliberate calm he always wears. His coin flips between his fingers in a rhythm that grates against my nerves, and I feel something snap.

"Where is he?" My voice is hoarse, raw from smoke and shouting, but I push through it. "You can see up to two hours into the future, right? Just tell me where he's going to be."

Crossroads blinks, his expression unreadable. The coin pauses mid-flip, catching the light before he pockets it. "Sam--"

"Don't 'Sam' me," I snap, cutting him off. "You know he started this fire. You know it. I know it. Everyone knows it. So why are we standing here instead of hunting him down?"

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. "It's not that simple."

"It is that simple!" My voice cracks, but I don't care. The words tumble out like they've been building for hours, and I can't stop them. "You've got powers that can literally pinpoint where he's going to be. So use them! Flip that stupid coin as many times as it takes until you narrow down the street he's hiding on."

"It doesn't work that way," he says, his tone even but laced with frustration. "I can see inflection points. Decisions. Outcomes. But I can't just... pluck an address out of thin air."

"Then flip the coin!" I shout, stepping closer, my fists clenched at my sides. "You're always flipping that damn thing anyway. Just flip it! Heads, he's in Tacony. Tails, he's in Mayfair. Heads, he's east. Tails, he's west. Keep going until you narrow it down to the fucking house!"

"Sam," Crossroads says, his voice low but firm. "You're asking me to use my powers to surveil someone without probable cause. You know I can't do that."

"Don't give me that legal bullshit," I hiss. "He lit a fucking house on fire! He's a terrorist. What more probable cause do you need?"

"It doesn't matter if he's guilty," Crossroads says, his expression hardening. "The law still applies. If I use my powers to find him and it gets out, the case against him gets thrown out. Everything he's done, every person he's hurt--it all goes away because we didn't follow the rules. You want that?"

I stare at him, the words bouncing around in my head like they don't belong. "He's out there burning down houses," I say, my voice trembling. "He tried to kill me. He tried to kill my friend. And you're worried about rules?"

"I'm worried about doing this the right way," Crossroads says, his voice quiet but unyielding. "Because if we don't, he wins."

It's like a punch to the gut, but I can't let it sink in. Not now. My hand moves before I even realize it, and the crack of the slap echoes in the smoky air. His head snaps to the side, but he doesn't flinch, doesn't step back. He just stands there, his cheek reddening where my palm landed, his eyes fixed on the ground.

"Do you even care?" I whisper, the words barely audible.

His eyes flick up to meet mine, and for a moment, I see something break through his stoic mask. Something raw and human and painful. "Of course I care," he says softly. "But caring doesn't give me the right to break the law."

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes, but I blink them away. "He's going to kill someone," I say, my voice cracking. "You know he is. He won't stop until someone stops him. And you're just standing here, flipping your coin, acting like you're above it all."

"I'm not above anything," Crossroads says, his voice calm but tired. "But if we start cutting corners, if we start using our powers the way he uses his--then we're no better than he is."

"Don't compare me to him," I snap, my fists trembling. "Don't you dare."

"I'm not," he says, holding up his hands. "But you need to think about what you're asking me to do. If we do this the wrong way, we lose. You know that."

A paramedic steps toward us, probably drawn by the escalating tension and the soot on my costume, but the glare I shoot them sends them right back to Kate's side. Crossroads doesn't even acknowledge them, his focus still locked on me.

I take a deep breath, my chest aching from the smoke and the shouting and the sheer weight of everything. "Fine," I say finally, my voice low and steady. "I'll go and I'll smash everyone's doors down until I find him hiding in someone's basement. Would you rather I do that?"

Crossroads doesn't respond right away. His eyes search mine, and for a moment, I think he's going to argue again. But then he nods, slowly, and pulls the coin from his pocket.

"I'll do what I can," he says quietly. "But if this backfires, it's on you."

"I'll take the blame," I say, my voice firm. "Just find him."

He flips the coin, the motion fluid and practiced, and the faint glint of metal catches the firelight.