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Chum
Chapter 148.3

Chapter 148.3

Aaron reels, the fire suppressant foam clinging to his face, obscuring his vision and dampening the flames he usually wields so effortlessly. He bends low, groping blindly through the wreckage until his hand closes around something solid--a claw hammer. His breathing is ragged, panicked, but his swings are wild and powerful, each one a deadly arc through the smoky air.

I duck, the hammer's edge whistling past my head, close enough that I can feel the disturbed air against my cheek. He swings again, and I weave to the side, my blood sense keeping me one step ahead of his blind strikes. Each missed blow throws him further off-balance, his frustration building like the heat around us.

I go low, pivoting on my good leg and driving a kick into his knee. The impact lands with a sickening crunch, and Aaron collapses forward with a guttural roar. Before he can recover, I step into him, bringing my elbow down hard into his ribs, the jagged teeth I've grown there tearing into his flesh. He howls in pain, the sound raw and animalistic, but he doesn't fall. Not yet.

His massive arm lashes out blindly, catching me in the side with enough force to send me sprawling into a smoldering corner of the basement. The heat bites through my costume, scorching the fabric and searing my skin. I bite back a scream, rolling away from the fire before it can catch. My ribs protest every movement, sharp pain stabbing with each shallow breath.

I can't take much more of this.

Aaron's voice cuts through the chaos, raw and venomous. He's shouting loud enough that I have no doubt the neighbors will here. "You think we're done? I'll crawl out of this fire just to light you up again, Sam! You can't stop me. I'll burn all those cops to a cinder and walk out of here a free man."

I wipe blood from my mouth with the back of my hand, my glare cutting through the smoke like a blade. "You're delusional," I rasp. "It's over."

He swings the hammer again, but this time I'm ready. I duck under the wild arc and charge him, my shoulder slamming into his chest with everything I have left. The impact drives him backward, his feet skidding across the wet, flaming floor. He crashes into the dehumidifier, the machine toppling over with a metallic clang. Water spills across the floor in a sudden rush, hissing and steaming as it meets the fire. Aaron slips, his footing lost, and he goes down hard.

I don't give him a chance to recover. I throw myself onto him, my fists lined with teeth as I give him everything my arms will offer. I feel bones creak and pop, ribs, shoulders, his nose, his jaw, my knuckledusters carving pockmarks into his skin through his clothes. The jacket of my costume rips free in the convection current, fluttering behind me in a burning halo.

Aaron catches my wrist mid-swing, his grip like iron, halting my momentum. His strength is staggering, and he twists hard, forcing my arm behind my back. Pain explodes through my shoulder as he wrenches my body sideways, nearly dislocating the joint. A gasp escapes me, but I grit my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a scream.

I pivot, using the force of his hold to my advantage. My head snaps forward, my helmet cracking against his nose with a bone-jarring crunch. He yells, releasing me as blood gushes from his already mangled face.

We're both panting now, the smoke and heat draining every ounce of energy we have left. The flames lick higher around us, the air suffocating, but I can't stop. Not yet. Not until this is finished.

Aaron reels back, blood pouring freely down his face as he clutches at his nose. His breathing is a wet, ragged rasp now, and his eyes--though wild--flicker with something closer to desperation than malice. The heat presses down on us like a living thing, the flames dancing across the walls and floor, closing in with every second.

His hand gropes blindly for the hammer, but it's just out of reach. He curses, the words choked and guttural, and turns his gaze back to me. Even blinded by blood and foam, his movements still have weight, still radiate danger. But now, for the first time, there's hesitation.

"You're running out of tricks, Aaron," I say, my voice low and hoarse, every word scraped raw by the smoke. My ribs scream with each breath, but I square my stance, teeth glinting faintly from the cracks in my gloves. "And I've got nowhere to be but here."

"Shut up," he spits, lurching forward in a clumsy attempt to tackle me.

I sidestep, my blood sense mapping his staggered movement before it even fully registers. His weight throws him off-balance, and I capitalize, slamming my knee into his gut, the serrated edges of my shin ripping into him like a sawblade. He doubles over with a strangled gasp, and I drive a hammerfist into the back of his head, sending him sprawling face-first onto the smoldering floor.

The heat radiates upward, curling my costume and filling the air with the acrid stench of burnt fabric and flesh. Aaron groans, his hands scrabbling weakly against the debris, but I don't let up. My adrenaline surges like a tidal wave, drowning out the pain and exhaustion.

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"You think this is about you," I rasp, my words barely audible over the roar of the fire. "But you're just a parasite. You're nothing."

He rolls onto his back, his chest heaving as he glares up at me through blood-matted hair. "I'm a survivor," he growls, his voice shaking.

I cut him off with a sharp kick to his side, the impact drawing a wet, rattling cough from his lungs. "Parasites survive. You can live off my shit the rest of your life if you want."

Aaron lashes out suddenly, his hand closing around a jagged piece of debris. He swings it upward, aiming for my face, but I twist aside, the shard scraping harmlessly against my helmet. His movements are slower now, weaker, the fight draining out of him with every labored breath.

I grab his wrist, twisting it sharply until the makeshift weapon clatters to the ground. His scream is raw and guttural, echoing off the basement walls. I yank him up by the collar, forcing him to meet my gaze.

I'm reaching my limit.

There's nothing more in me to give.

But there's just one thing left I have to do before I pass out and burn to death.

Aaron coughs, the sound wet and ragged, his body trembling as he struggles to keep himself upright in the pool of water spreading across the basement floor. The flames lick higher around us, snapping and hissing like they're alive, closing the circle with every passing second. Smoke curls thick and dark, coiling around his battered form as he tilts his head back to look at me.

His smirk is faint, bloodied, and weak, but it's still there. "You can't do it," he rasps, his voice cracking. "You need me. We're Mr. Orange and Mr. White. You're the Batman to my Joker. You'll never kill, you don't have the balls. You can't exist without me. Admit it."

I stare down at him, my breath coming in shallow, painful gasps. Every inch of me aches--my ribs scream with every movement, my ankle feels like it's on fire, and my throat feels like it's been scraped raw from the inside out. And yet, there's a clarity in his words that cuts through the haze of pain and exhaustion. Is that what this is about? Could this all have been avoided?

No. I don't think so.

"I don't need anyone," I say, my voice low and cold. The words aren't loud--they don't need to be. They cut through the smoke and the fire like a blade.

I step forward, planting my boot squarely on his shoulder, the one I tore into almost two years ago. His smirk falters as I press down, slowly, deliberately, until I feel the joint creak and pop beneath my weight. There's a sickening crack, and his grunt of pain is loud and guttural, echoing off the crumbling walls.

He doesn't scream, though. I'll give him that much.

I lean down, grabbing his wrist with one hand and twisting until something gives in his elbow. It's not a break--not quite--but the sharp snap of a dislocation sends his arm hanging limp and useless at his side. His face twists in agony, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts as he fights not to cry out.

It's more mercy than he deserves. And he knows it.

"Don't bring the fire if you're not ready for the smoke," I say, feeling the words bubble up from inside me like boiling acid. I let his wrist go, his arm falling uselessly into the water, and straighten up.

The flames are everywhere now, consuming the walls, the ceiling, the floor. The heat presses down on me, suffocating and relentless, but it's not enough to drown out the raw satisfaction thrumming through my veins.

I limp toward the remains of the stairs, barely more than charred wood and ash. "Crossroads will be here soon. Enjoy your last stand."

Behind me, Aaron sputters something--another taunt, another empty boast--but I don't bother listening. He's finished. Whatever fire he had is gone, snuffed out by his own hubris and the weight of his defeat.

I haul myself up the broken stairs, each step a battle against the screaming protests of my body. The firefighters' hoses spray water down through the gaps in the house, the sudden rush of steam hissing and boiling as it meets the inferno below. The air is thick with mist and smoke, but I push through, my hand gripping the charred banister as I drag myself forward.

The moment I emerge into the open air, the night slams into me like a wave. Cool, damp, and alive with the sounds of chaos--shouting voices, the wail of sirens, the crackle of fire being extinguished. The world blurs around me, my vision swimming, but I manage to raise one arm in a gesture of surrender as I stumble forward.

"Bloodhound!" Crossroads' voice cuts through the noise, sharp and urgent. He's running toward me, his figure outlined by the flashing lights of the police cars and fire trucks surrounding the scene.

"I'm fine," I croak, though the words are barely audible. I'm not fine. My lungs are burning, my ribs are screaming, and every step feels like it might be my last. But I'm standing. That's enough.

Crossroads catches me before I collapse, his arms steady and firm as he helps me to the paramedics waiting nearby. "You look like hell," he mutters, his tone half-joking, half-concerned.

The obvious response eludes me. "I don't believe in Hell, sorry," is what I end up saying instead.

The paramedics pull me onto a stretcher, their hands gentle but efficient as they begin treating my burns and checking my oxygen levels, one of them pulling the oxygen mask off of me, replacing it with a more professional one, something designed to keep my lungs alive. I don't fight them. I don't have the energy. My eyes flicker over to the house, still smoldering, as the firefighters work to douse the last of the flames.

It doesn't take long for them to drag Aaron out.

He's cuffed before he even hits the ground, his arm immobilized in a makeshift sling, his face a mask of defeat and scabs and red. The firelight glints off his bloodied features as the officers shove him toward the back of a squad car. He doesn't look at me. Not once.

I watch from the ambulance, silent and still, as they haul him away. The paramedics are talking to me, asking questions, but I barely hear them, and I definitely don't respond. My focus is on Aaron, on the slump of his shoulders and the flicker of fear in his eyes as the car door slams shut behind him.

END OF ARC 9: SHEOL