The roar of the fire engine fades into the distance as I follow Crossroads through Mayfair--my own personal ghost town. My throat burns raw with every breath, a dry, scraping ache I can't ignore. My ankle protests each step, the lingering pain spiking up through my leg like glass splinters every time I land too hard. But I don't stop. I don't even slow down.

Aaron did this.

He set Kate's house on fire. He knew exactly where to hit me. He picked her because he knew she mattered, and that thought keeps ringing in my head louder than anything else.

Crossroads walks a few steps ahead, his coin flipping endlessly in his hand--the steady ping-thwp, ping-thwp grinding against my nerves like nails on glass. His jaw is tight, his movements purposeful, but he's slower than I want him to be.

"We're wasting time," I say, my voice hoarse. The words scrape like sandpaper up my throat, and I wince. I'm sweating through my hoodie, the heat from the fire still clinging to me like some ghost I can't shake.

Crossroads doesn't stop walking. "We're not wasting time. We're being smart about this."

"You don't get it," I snap, almost stumbling as my ankle twinges hard enough to send stars sparking behind my eyes. "He's probably packing up his little campfire right now while we stroll through the neighborhood playing Sherlock Holmes."

"And what's your plan, Bee?" he says, spinning on his heel to face me. The coin stops midair, pinched between two fingers. "Kick down every door in Mayfair? Scare the hell out of families who have nothing to do with this? I'm trying to keep you from doing something you'll regret."

"You think I'll regret it?" I laugh, short and humorless. "The only thing I'll regret is not catching him."

His expression doesn't change, but his voice softens. "No. You'll regret where this takes you."

I don't respond to that. I can't. He's wrong. He has to be.

Crossroads sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, muttering something under his breath. He flips the coin again, and the familiar ping-thwp pulls my focus back. "Fine. You're not going to listen to me. So let's do this your way."

"Finally," I mutter.

He holds up the coin, staring at me like he's measuring something I can't see. "But you need to understand what we're doing here. I can't just see Aaron sitting in a condemned house and wave you over to him. That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?" I ask. I'm trying to sound sharp, but my voice comes out ragged.

"You precommit," he says. "You pick a street, or a block, or a corner, one per side of the coin. And I look ahead to see if you find anything. If the answer's no, we eliminate it and try again. If a street gives us something, we note it down and keep going."

"Great. That doesn't sound hard," I say, clenching my fists to stop my hands from shaking.

Crossroads doesn't smile. "It is. It's a massive Fourth Amendment violation, and you're lucky I don't care as much about legal gray areas as Multiplex does. You realize that if this ever got out, it'd be a public storm the likes of which you've never seen before. Heads will roll."

"I don't care," I say, too quickly. "If we're caught, I'll take the blame. I'm the one kicking down doors, remember? Not you."

His eyes narrow, searching me for something I don't want to show him. After a long moment, he flips the coin again and catches it without looking. "Pick a street."

I glance around, my vision swimming for half a second. I blink hard and force my brain to focus. Pine? No. Too obvious. "Revere. Start with Revere. That's heads. Pine on Tails."

Crossroads tilts his head, the coin glinting as he flips it again. "You're sure?"

"Yeah," I say, pressing my teeth together as another jolt of pain shoots through my neck. "Let's go."

He doesn't move. Instead, he flips the coin again. Ping-thwp. It feels like a heartbeat now, steady and sickening. "No. Revere's clean. Pine's clean. New set."

"You're sure?" I ask, my voice a little sharper than I mean it to be.

"That's the point, Bee. I'm sure," he says flatly. "Pick again."

We keep moving like that, block by block, street by street. Revere's clean. Hawthorne's a dead end. Unruh--nothing there. I pick. Crossroads flips. And the world slowly narrows around me, squeezing tighter and tighter until every street starts to look the same. I'm limping now, my ankle throbbing so hard it makes my vision blur. My neck feels stiff, the muscles locking up every time I turn my head too quickly.

"Magee," I say finally, pointing toward the dark stretch of rowhomes up ahead. The streetlights flicker, and I feel the prickle of static in the air.

Crossroads flips the coin. Ping-thwp. He pauses, holding it in his hand, his brow furrowing. "Something happens here."

"What?" I ask, already moving toward the street.

"Not here," he says quickly, falling into step beside me. "Nearby. People saying they've seen a ratty looking guy lurking around at night. Unruh Street."

He doesn't finish. He flips the coin again, and his nose starts to bleed. Just a little, a trickle of red that he wipes away without comment.

"Charles," I reply, folding my arms over my chest, and then unfolding when it hurts too much. "Heads, Charles. Tails, Wells."

He flips his coin, eyelid twitching against his will. He stares at the result in his hand. He doesn't say anything.

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"What happens?" I press.

He stops walking and looks at me, his eyes suddenly very, very tired. "Vogt Park."

The words hit me like a fist to the gut. Vogt Park. A stone's throw from where I live, no more than a 10 minute walk, a ten minute jog. Close enough that he could've been watching the fire the whole time.

I swallow hard and nod, my pulse thundering in my ears. "Then that's where we go."

Crossroads's face hardens, and for the first time, he steps directly in my path. "No. Not we. You're not going alone."

"Yes, I am," I say, my voice calm and steady despite the chaos in my head.

"Bee, don't be an idiot," he snaps. "You're hurt. You can barely walk, let alone fight."

"I'll manage," I say, pushing past him. "I can heal. You can't. You're more valuable to soc--"

"That's not the point!" he says, grabbing my arm and spinning me around. The pain shoots through my shoulder like a hot knife, and I jerk away, gritting my teeth against the scream that tries to claw its way out of my throat.

"It is the point," I bite out. "I know what I'm doing, Crossroads. This isn't your fight."

"You think that matters to me?" he says, his voice quieter now, almost pleading. "You think I'm just going to let you walk into this alone? You're my friend. And my teammate, even if I graduated."

"Yes," I say simply. "Because you don't belong in this hole with me."

He stares at me for a long moment, his coin stilling in his hand. Finally, he exhales and shakes his head. "Fine. You want to be stupid? I can't stop you. But I'm not walking away completely."

"What does that mean?" I ask warily.

"It means you get an hour," he says. "One hour, Sam. I'll call dispatch, get a cop car and paramedics to Vogt Park. You do what you have to do, but when that hour's up, I'm coming back with everything we've got."

"Deal," I say immediately, because I know I don't need an hour. This will be over in five minutes.

He doesn't look happy about it, but he flips the coin one last time and walks away, pulling his radio from his belt.

I can't have him in this fight with me. I don't want him witnessing what I want to do to Aaron.

I stand there for a moment, staring at the dark line of Vogt Park up ahead, the trees shifting in the cold wind like shadows come to life. My neck aches, my ankle throbs, and every breath burns like fire in my chest.

None of it matters.

I start walking.

Aaron's waiting.

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

The front door is barely a door at all. I shove through it, the damp, moldy wood scraping against the frame as it splinters apart, bits of rotten plank crumbling under my fingers. It creaks like it doesn't want me here, and I don't blame it. The whole house looks like it should've been torn down a decade ago--condemned, graffitied, and sinking in on itself like it's tired of standing. My feet stick to something wet and grimy as I step inside, and I resist the urge to gag.

"What is it with you and abandoned houses?" I call out, my voice echoing off cracked walls and water-stained ceilings. I pause, listening for movement. Nothing yet. Just the faint creak of wood settling around me. "Don't have enough money to rent a place? You could hit a Motel 6 for, like, forty bucks."

Silence.

I take another step, my boots squelching in something I don't want to identify. It's dark--so dark I can't see more than a few feet in front of me. The only light comes from what little spills in through gaps in the boards covering the windows. Shadows crowd the corners of the room like they're alive, twitching with every slight movement I make.

"C'mon, Aaron," I say, my voice steady even though my throat still itches like I swallowed glass. "You're not even gonna say hello? I know you're here."

Nothing.

But the house *feels* occupied. It's a pressure in the air, like the walls are holding their breath. I step forward into what used to be a living room--a crumbling couch shoved against one wall, an overturned coffee table in the center, and a damp carpet that squelches underfoot. The smell of mildew and old smoke is so thick it coats the back of my tongue.

And then--finally--a voice.

"Didn't take you long."

I stop cold, every nerve in my body snapping to attention. His voice isn't coming from a single direction. It's muffled, distorted, like it's seeping through the walls.

"That's a good nose you got there, Sammy." His tone is light, almost conversational, but there's a sharpness to it, a casual menace that makes my skin crawl. "Sniffed me out all the way from Mayfair, huh?"

"Yeah," I say, forcing my voice to stay level. "You're not subtle."

The floor creaks above me. Or maybe below me. My head snaps toward the sound, every muscle tense, but I don't see anything. The whole house feels alive with him--his voice, his presence, like he's everywhere at once.

"What's wrong?" Aaron taunts, his voice still drifting through the rotting plaster. "Lost your sense of direction? Or maybe you're just scared."

"Scared?" I scoff, stepping carefully around a hole in the floor. "You're the one hiding in the walls, Aaron. What's the matter? Don't want me to see your face?"

"Oh, I think you've seen enough of my face," he replies, his tone almost smug. "I mean, you're the one who rearranged it for me, right? Gave me that brand new nose. Three stitches on my face. I look better than ever."

"You earned that."

He chuckles, the sound low and hollow. "Maybe I did. And you know what? You were right."

I freeze. "What?"

"You were right to put me in the dirt," Aaron says, his voice softening, almost thoughtful. "Because it's the only place I could grow. You ever hear that, Sammy? How pressure makes diamonds? How steel gets forged in fire?"

I grit my teeth, every word crawling under my skin. He's stalling. Keeping me talking.

"I went to therapy after you fucked me up," he continues. "Sat there, week after week, learning all about my issues. Anger. Control. Boundaries." His voice twists, mocking the words. "And you know what I realized? They weren't problems. They were gifts. I just needed to learn how to use them."

"And burning down people's houses is you using them?" I snap, my eyes scanning every shadow, every crack in the boarded-up walls. "You think this makes you better?"

Another creak--below me this time. I turn sharply, my gaze locking onto the edge of a doorway leading to the basement. I try the knob - slowly, carefully, but it doesn't budge. Locked from the inside.

"Better?" Aaron echoes, like he's considering the word. "I am better. I know what I'm capable of now. Turns out, there's more to me than anger. You wouldn't believe what I can do when I'm not just pissed off."

"You sound like you want me to be proud of you."

"No, Sam," he says, his voice lowering into something darker, heavier. "I just want you to know. Everything I am is your fault. I couldn't have gotten this good without you."

"You were already like this," I snap. "Don't pin that on me."

"Is that what you tell yourself?" he sneers, and for a second, I swear his voice is right behind me. I whirl, fists clenched, but there's nothing there. Just empty space and damp walls. "That this isn't your fault? That you didn't start this? We both know that's bullshit."

"You're delusional," I growl. "This isn't about me."

"Of course it's about you." His voice drips through the ceiling now, directly above me. "Everything I do is about you. You think I'd still be here if you hadn't put me in the ground? You gave me a reason to get back up. I should thank you."

The whole house feels like it's listening to us. The walls, the floor, the ceilings--all of it soaked in him. And something else hits me: the dampness. The whole place is wet, every surface I touch clammy and slick. He soaked this place down, didn't he? Watered it like a garden so he wouldn't accidentally burn it to the ground with himself inside.

"Where are you?" I demand, my voice hard and sharp. "You don't have line of sight to me, Aaron. If you did, I'd already be on fire."

"Smart girl," he replies, and now there's laughter in his voice--low and mocking. "Go on, then. Take a guess. You're the detective, right? Go play superhero. Find me."

I stare at the basement door, trying to see through it - a chair on the other side, wedged under the door. It's obvious now. He's down there, under me, trying to find an angle. Trying to find line of sight through the holes in the wood. I'm already standing on the edge of a deathtrap.

"Are you stalling for time?" I say, narrowing my eyes at the door. "Waiting for something?"

"No," he says softly. "I just want you to know how much you mean to me."

BWOOMF!