The room smells like leather and hand sanitizer, which is weird, because I thought those two smells couldn't exist in the same universe. But apparently, that's the vibe we're going for in this lawyer's office. The chairs are all stiff and oversized, like they're trying to make me feel smaller than I already am. They're winning.

I'm sitting in one of those chairs, still in my costume--mask on, teeth hidden, everything buttoned up except my brain, which is busy screaming. My right arm feels heavy and awkward with all the bandages wrapped around it, even though the burns underneath are mostly scabbing over already.

It's not like the people here haven't been briefed on my powers, I assume. I just need to pretend for school, and I haven't really had time to change out of my bandages and gauze.

Across from me, Assistant District Attorney Patel is flipping through a thick folder with all the enthusiasm of someone reading a tax code. Her bangs are perfectly straight and cut just above her eyebrows, not a single strand out of place. I wonder if she cuts them herself or pays someone. It feels like something you'd have to do yourself to get them that precise.

"So, just to go over the basics again," Patel says without looking up, "you're here to provide testimony regarding Aaron McKinley's apprehension. The defense will ask questions; you'll answer honestly and to the best of your ability. If you don't know something, say you don't know. And if you're unsure about answering something, look at me. I'll jump in if needed."

"Got it," I say, trying to sound confident and failing spectacularly. My voice comes out flat and raspy, like I swallowed a mouthful of pool water two days ago and it still hasn't fully left my throat. Which, okay, maybe I did. But still.

Patel finally looks up, her dark eyes locking onto mine--or where she thinks mine are, behind the lenses of my mask. "This won't be like Chernobyl's trial," she says. "The defense attorney here is Katherine Huang. She's sharp, thorough, and experienced. She's not going to throw you softballs."

I nod, because what else can I do? My tongue feels like it's glued to the roof of my mouth. The only thing I can manage is a quiet, unnoticed "Illya, not Chernobyl."

Patel closes the folder with a soft thwap and stands, smoothing out the sleeves of her blazer. "Let's go. They're ready for us."

My legs don't really feel like cooperating, but I stand anyway, my boots squeaking against the polished hardwood floor. Patel leads the way out of the small meeting room we were in and down a narrow hallway lined with paintings that all scream, I am expensive art for lawyers. They're just big squares of color, none of them particularly exciting. One's entirely beige. I'm guessing that one's meant to inspire confidence in someone who really likes oatmeal.

When we reach the door to the deposition room, Patel stops and turns to me. "You'll be fine," she says, her tone clipped but not unkind. "Just remember: Answer only the question you're asked. Don't offer more than necessary."

I nod again, swallowing hard. My hands are clammy inside my gloves. It feels gross, and I want to peel them off, but there's no way I'm showing up barehanded to this. Bloodhound keeps her gloves on. Bloodhound doesn't fidget. Bloodhound... needs to pull it together.

Patel opens the door, and we step inside.

The room is exactly what I imagined: wood-paneled walls, a long conference table that looks like it could double as a dining table for a very fancy Thanksgiving dinner, and a little nest of recording equipment set up at one end. There's a woman sitting at the table, her posture so straight it makes my spine hurt just looking at her. She's got dark hair pulled into a sleek bun, a tailored black blazer that looks like it could cut glass, and glasses perched on her nose that somehow make her seem both intimidating and approachable. Like a teacher who gives you extra credit but won't let you retake a test if you bomb it.

"Bloodhound," she says, standing and extending a hand toward me. "Katherine Huang. I'll be representing Aaron McKinley."

Her handshake is firm but not crushing, the kind of handshake that says, I mean business, but I'm not here to break your fingers. I try to match it, but my bandaged arm feels like dead weight at my side, throwing off my balance. My left hand does its best to compensate.

"Hi," I say, my voice coming out way too quiet. I clear my throat and try again. "Nice to meet you."

"Likewise," Huang says, her eyes flicking over my costume, taking in every detail without lingering on any one thing. It's like she's filing away observations in some mental database. "I appreciate you taking the time to participate in this deposition."

She says it like it's a polite formality, but there's an edge underneath, like a scalpel hidden in a velvet case. I can already tell she's not going to let me skate through this.

Patel sits at the table, motioning for me to do the same. I lower myself into one of the chairs, which is just as stiff as it looked, and fold my hands in my lap to keep from picking at the edges of my gloves. The room feels too quiet, even with the faint hum of the recording equipment. My heartbeat thrums in my ears.

Huang sits across from me, adjusting a stack of papers in front of her. "Before we begin, I'd like to clarify a few things," she says. "You're aware that this deposition is being recorded, both audio and video?"

"Yes," I say, keeping my voice steady.

"And you've agreed to provide testimony voluntarily, correct?"

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"Yes."

Her eyes narrow just slightly, like she's testing the waters before diving in. "And for the record, your real identity is protected under the terms of this deposition. I'll refer to you only as Bloodhound. Does that work for you?"

"Yes," I say again, though my stomach twists at the reminder of how thin that layer of protection really is.

Huang nods, making a note on one of the papers in front of her. "Good. Let's get started."

The DA shifts slightly in her seat, and I catch a brief glance between her and Huang. There's something there--mutual respect, maybe, or just mutual acknowledgment of how difficult this is going to be. Either way, it doesn't make me feel any better.

Huang looks back at me, her pen poised over her notepad. "Bloodhound, before we discuss the events leading up to Aaron McKinley's arrest, can you confirm how you first became aware of his whereabouts?"

My breath catches in my throat. Here we go.

Huang leans forward slightly, her pen hovering above her notepad. "Let's start at the beginning. Can you confirm that you were present at the fire at Liam Smith's house on February 21st?"

"Yes," I say. My voice is steady, but inside, I'm bracing for the next question.

"And what brought you there?"

I glance at Patel again, and she gives me the faintest nod, like she's reminding me of what we practiced. Keep it simple. Keep it truthful--mostly.

"I was patrolling the area," I say. "I noticed the fire and went to help."

Huang doesn't write that down. Instead, she fixes me with a look that's way too calm for my liking. "Patrolling the area. Is that a usual part of your activities?"

"Sometimes," I say. "If I hear about something suspicious going on, or if there's been trouble in a neighborhood, I check it out."

"Trouble like what?"

"Gang activity, mostly," I say, shrugging with my good shoulder. "Drugs, fights, stuff like that. It's not exactly quiet out there."

Huang finally makes a note. "So, you arrived at the fire. What happened next?"

"I saw smoke and flames coming from the house," I say, careful to keep my tone matter-of-fact. "There were people still inside. I went in to get them out."

"And you succeeded?"

"Yes."

Huang looks up at me again, her pen still for a moment. "Was Aaron McKinley one of the people you found inside?"

"No," I say. "He wasn't there. I didn't see him until later."

"Later, when?"

"A couple hours later," I say, shifting slightly in my chair. "When I found him near Vogt Park."

Her pen scratches across the notepad, the sound almost louder than her voice. "Let's talk about how you found him. You've publicly stated that you used your powers to track him down. Can you elaborate on that?"

This part we rehearsed. I take a deep breath, letting my hands relax just a little in my lap. "My powers include something called 'blood sense,'" I say. "I can pick up on traces of blood in the air. If someone's bleeding, I can track them."

"And Aaron McKinley was bleeding?"

"Yes," I say. "Just a little, but it was enough. He had cuts on his arms."

Her eyebrows raise slightly. "Do people have unique blood signatures, then? Like fingerprints?"

I nod. "Sort of. It's hard to explain, but yeah--different people's blood smells or... feels different, I guess. Once I've picked up on someone's signature, I can recognize it again."

Huang tilts her head, watching me like she's trying to spot a crack in the plaster. "You'd encountered Aaron McKinley before, hadn't you?"

"Yes," I say. "We'd crossed paths a few times."

"Meaning you'd fought him."

"Yeah," I admit. "I fought him."

"And during those fights, did you use your powers to detect his blood?"

"Yes."

"So you recognized his 'signature' on February 22nd?"

"Yes."

She jots something down, then looks back at me. "But that's not all you relied on, is it? You've also mentioned that you suspected he was hiding in abandoned houses near Vogt Park. Why there?"

I sit up a little straighter, trying to sound like I have my act together. "Because I know the neighborhood. I grew up there. There are certain places that get used for hiding out--abandoned houses, old factories, that kind of thing. McKinley has a pattern. He used places like that before."

"And you searched them methodically?"

"Yes."

Huang's pen pauses again, and she taps it lightly against the notepad. "How many locations did you search before you found him?"

"Five or six," I say. "It wasn't random. I focused on the ones I thought he'd go for--abandoned, out of the way, easy to get in and out of."

Her expression doesn't change, but I can feel the weight of her skepticism settling on my shoulders. "And you did this alone?"

"Yes," I say, without hesitation.

"No assistance from anyone else?"

"No," I lie, keeping my face as neutral as I can. "Since the Young Defenders were put on ice a couple of months ago, I've been working solo."

"Interesting," she says, her tone still maddeningly calm. "Because the timeline here is... tight. You responded to the fire at Kate Smith's house on the 21st, sustained significant injuries, and yet within four hours, you not only identified McKinley's general location but also tracked him down in a specific building. That's impressive work."

I swallow hard, feeling the sweat start to build under my gloves again. "Thanks," I say, like this is a compliment and not a trap.

Huang leans back slightly, her eyes still fixed on me. "Did you notify the police immediately after locating him?"

"Yes," I say. "As soon as I confirmed he was there. I relayed the information to one of my old teammates, who called it in. I knew he would be able to get backup faster than me. He's an adult now, not a minor. So, yeah, I confirmed he was there and then... called."

"How did you confirm it?"

"I picked up his blood signature," I say. "When someone's actively bleeding, I can see their entire vascular system. So if someone's inside a house and they're bleeding, I can see that a person is there. So, I knew where he was."

"And you didn't go in yourself?"

I hesitate, just for a fraction of a second. "Not for a bit. I called it in, but... I didn't want to risk him getting away before they showed up."

"So you entered the building."

"Yes."

Huang makes another note, her pen moving in small, deliberate strokes. "We'll come back to that. For now, let's focus on the search. You mentioned using your powers to detect his blood. Can you describe how that works? What it feels like?"

I pause, not because I don't know the answer but because I'm not sure how much to say. "It's... hard to describe," I start slowly. "When I pick up on blood, it's like everything else fades out. In my head, it's just red and black. Blood is red; everything else is black. I can follow the red."

Her pen pauses again, and this time she looks directly at me. "That sounds... precise. Almost clinical."

I shrug. "It's not perfect. It works best when the blood is fresh, and even then, I have to be close enough to pick up the scent. A couple blocks on a good day."

"And you were close enough near Vogt Park."

"Yes."

Her pen taps against the notepad, a rhythmic little click-click-click that makes my skin crawl. "So, to summarize: You suspected Aaron McKinley would be hiding in an abandoned building near Vogt Park based on your knowledge of his patterns and the neighborhood. You methodically searched several locations using your blood sense to narrow down his exact position. Once you confirmed he was there, you called the police and entered the building to ensure he didn't escape. Is that correct?"

"Yes," I say, the word sticking in my throat like a splinter.

Huang leans back, her expression unreadable. "Thank you, Bloodhound. I think we're ready to move on."