The critical moment comes, like a thundercloud rolling in. Katherine Huang's eyes flick down to her notes and back up at me, and I know what's coming next.

"Let's discuss the apprehension itself," she says, her voice smooth and measured. "You've testified that you located Aaron McKinley in an abandoned building near Vogt Park on the morning of February 22nd. Could you describe what happened after you entered the building?"

I grip my gloves tighter under the table. "He attacked first," I say, my voice steady. That part's the truth, at least. "He started using his powers quickly."

"And his power is...?" Huang prompts, tilting her head slightly.

"He can ignite things by staring at them," I say, careful to keep my tone neutral. "When we met for the first time, it was just a yellow fire with a weird smell and a weird light. But recently, it became bright red and metallic."

"Did you feel that your life was in immediate danger?"

"Yes," I say, without hesitation. "He'd already set a house fire earlier that day that almost killed a teenager. I knew what he was capable of."

Huang leans forward slightly, her pen hovering over the notepad. "How did you proceed?"

I take a breath, keeping my answers short. "I tried to close the distance. I needed to neutralize him before the fire spread."

She nods, making a note. "Neutralize him. Could you elaborate on what that entailed?"

I force myself to stay calm. "I disarmed him," I say carefully, ignoring the spike of guilt at the word. "He had set up a sniper's nest in the basement, so I broke through to close the distance. Then, he came at me, and there was... combat in the process of lawful apprehension."

"A sniper's nest?" She asks, raising an eyebrow.

"A fortified position. Where he had line of sight on me for his powers, but I couldn't see him," I answer. "No, uh, no guns were involved, to my knowledge."

Huang doesn't look up, her pen scratching lightly across the page. "And in the process, you broke his shoulder and elbow. Correct?"

"Yes," I say, my jaw tightening. "But that wasn't intentional. It was... incidental. He was struggling, and I didn't have a lot of options."

She finally meets my eyes--or where she thinks they are behind my mask. "So, to be clear: You're testifying that Aaron McKinley sustained those injuries during the course of his active resistance?"

"Yes," I say again. "I didn't go in planning to hurt him. I just wanted to stop him."

Her pen pauses, the silence stretching like an over-tightened rubber band. Then she nods once, writing something down. "Understood. And after you subdued him?"

"I knew the paramedics were outside at that point, and the house was rapidly going up in smoke," I say. "I didn't stick around. He had set booby traps in the house with... gasoline, and I didn't want to stick around to let him get a last shot at me. So I left before my injuries became too severe."

Huang raises an eyebrow. "Speaking of your injuries, the hospital report lists second-degree burns across your right shoulder, arm, and hand, along with multiple fractures. Would you agree that those injuries are consistent with what you described--being attacked with McKinley's power?"

"Yes," I say, my voice firm. "He was aiming for me, and he got me."

She scribbles another note before closing her folder with a quiet snap. "Thank you, Bloodhound. That concludes my questions."

Patel straightens in her chair, her lips pressing into a thin line. "The deposition is adjourned, then."

The recording equipment clicks off with a faint whir, and the room seems to exhale. Huang gathers her papers with methodical precision, not sparing me another glance. Patel, on the other hand, gives me a tight nod. "Good work," she says quietly.

I nod back, but the knot in my stomach doesn't loosen. My hands feel clammy inside my gloves, and I can't tell if it's from the heat of the room or something else entirely.

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

In the hallway, the low hum of distant conversations filters through the wood-paneled walls. Patel is already on her phone, pacing a few steps away, and I lean against the wall, letting myself breathe for the first time in what feels like hours.

That's when I hear Huang's voice, calm and clipped, coming from just around the corner.

"I still don't understand why Tremont & Fairfax is involved in this," a man says, his voice low and tense. "You're a senior partner. This case is small-time."

"It's a favor for a long-time client," Huang replies smoothly. "You know how this works."

"And the funding?" he presses. "'Concerned citizens for due process'? That doesn't strike you as odd?"

"It's not my job to question who foots the bill," Huang says, her tone sharpening. "My job is to ensure that Mr. McKinley receives fair representation. If you have an issue with that, I suggest you take it up with the partners' board."

There's a pause, heavy with unspoken tension. I can picture the man shaking his head. "This isn't just about due process, is it?"

Huang doesn't answer right away. Then, with a faint note of finality, she says, "Everything I do is about due process. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have another meeting."

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The sound of footsteps approaches, and I step away from the wall just as Huang rounds the corner. She stops when she sees me, her expression unreadable but not exactly surprised.

"Bloodhound," she says with a polite nod. "Can I help you with something?"

I hesitate, glancing over her shoulder at the man she was talking to. He ducks into a side room without another word, leaving the two of us alone.

"Yeah," I say, swallowing hard. "Off the record... Can you make sure Aaron doesn't say my real name on the stand? He knows who I am, and I don't trust him not to use that against me."

Huang's eyebrows lift slightly, but she doesn't look surprised. "I'll keep it in mind," she says. "But I'd recommend speaking to the assistant DA about that. A gag order would be up to the judge."

"I will," I say quickly. "But you know him, I'd assume. You know he'll do whatever he can to screw with me."

Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think she's going to argue. But then she nods. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thanks," I mutter, even though it doesn't feel like enough.

Huang doesn't reply, just gives me another polite nod before striding down the hallway. I watch her go, the knot in my stomach tightening again. I try to un-knot it - it doesn't work.

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When I get home, the first thing I notice is how quiet it is. It's not the comfortable kind of quiet, like when everyone's off in their own corners doing their own thing. This is heavier, like the house is holding its breath.

I kick off my boots by the door, careful not to make too much noise, and hang my jacket on the hook. The smell of coffee lingers faintly in the air, mixed with the sharper, cleaner scent of lemon disinfectant. My mom's handiwork, probably. She's been on a cleaning spree ever since Kate and Liam moved in, like scrubbing the counters will somehow make the situation less awkward.

The faint shuffle of papers draws me toward the kitchen, where I find Kate sitting alone at the table. She's hunched over a workbook, her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, a pencil tapping rhythmically against the edge of the table. There's a tall glass of water next to her, along with a small plastic device that looks like a weird cross between a whistle and a thermometer. She's been using it pretty religiously since the fire - something supposed to help rebuild her lung capacity.

She doesn't look up when I walk in, which is probably for the best. Our conversations have been... weird. Not hostile, exactly, but strained in a way that makes every word feel like it's teetering on the edge of something sharp.

"Hey," I say, grabbing a glass from the cabinet and filling it with water.

Kate glances up briefly, then back down at her workbook. "Hey."

I lean against the counter, sipping my water and trying to think of something to say that doesn't sound forced. The tension between us feels like a rubber band stretched too tight, ready to snap at the slightest tug.

"You working on homework?" I ask finally, nodding toward the table.

"Yeah," she says, her voice flat. "Geometry. I'm still catching up."

I take another sip, stalling for time. "Need any help?"

She shrugs, which isn't a no but also isn't exactly a yes. I set my glass down and slide into the chair across from her, glancing at the workbook. It's the same curriculum we use at Tacony Charter - I think it's standardized across the state - but she's about two weeks behind. That's not bad, considering everything she's been through.

"Let me see," I say, pulling the workbook a little closer. The page is filled with diagrams of triangles and theorems, the kind of stuff that feels more like a puzzle than actual math. "What're you stuck on?"

Kate sits back a little, crossing her arms over her chest. "This one," she says, pointing to a problem about calculating the area of a triangle using Heron's formula.

I skim the problem, trying to push past the awkwardness settling in my chest. "Okay, so Heron's formula is all about the semi-perimeter," I say, picking up her pencil. "You take the lengths of the sides, add them up, divide by two to get the semi-perimeter, and then plug it into the formula."

Kate watches as I write out the steps, her expression unreadable. She doesn't say anything, but she doesn't stop me, either.

"See?" I say, pushing the workbook back toward her. "You just follow the formula from there."

She nods slowly, picking up the pencil and tracing over my work. "Thanks," she mutters.

"No problem." I sit back, letting the silence settle again. It's not comfortable, but it's better than nothing.

For a while, the only sounds are the scratch of Kate's pencil and the occasional shuffle of paper. I tap my fingers lightly against the edge of the table, the rhythm uneven and restless. My eyes drift to the doohickey sitting next to her water glass.

"You been keeping up with that thing?" I ask, nodding toward it.

Kate glances at it, her lips pressing into a thin line. "Yeah. Three times a day."

"Good," I say, and then immediately regret how patronizing that sounds. "I mean, it's important. Keeps your lungs strong."

She doesn't respond right away, just picks up the doohickey and turns it over in her hands. "It's annoying," she says finally. "Feels like I'm trying to blow up a balloon that never inflates."

I can't help but snort a little at that. "Yeah, but at least it's not, like, actual surgery or something."

Kate gives me a look that's equal parts tired and annoyed. "I think I'd take surgery over this. At least with surgery, it's over quick. This is just... every day."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just watch as she raises the thingamabob to her lips and takes a slow, deep breath. The little ball inside the tube wobbles upward, hovering for a moment before dropping back down. She sets the device down with a sigh, her shoulders slumping.

"You're doing good," I say, and this time I mean it.

Kate shrugs again, her fingers picking at the edge of the workbook. "Not good enough. I still can't run without feeling like my chest is gonna explode. It'll be a while before I can play basketball again."

"You'll get there," I say, trying to sound reassuring. "It takes time."

Her gaze flicks up to meet mine, and for a moment, there's something angry and unguarded in her expression, like an angry lion, or maybe an alligator. "You didn't die in that fire, Sam. I did."

"You mean almost die, right?" I ask, before I can think about what I said.

Kate looks away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the workbook. "I thought I was done for," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "When it got too hard to breathe and I blacked out, I was sure that was it."

I swallow hard, the weight of her words settling heavily on my chest. "But it wasn't," I say. "You made it out."

"Barely," she mutters, her tone bitter. "And only because of you."

The silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I don't know how to respond, so I reach for her workbook again, flipping to the next problem. "Let's try another one," I say, my voice a little too bright. I feel... fake. Bad.

Kate doesn't argue, but the tension in her shoulders doesn't ease. She picks up her pencil and starts working through the problem, her movements slow and deliberate. I watch her for a moment, the way her brow furrows in concentration, and I can't help but wonder how much of this is her pushing through the pain.

When she finishes the problem, she sets the pencil down and leans back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest again. "There," she says. "Happy?"

I glance at the workbook, checking her answer. It's right, of course. "Yeah," I say, giving her a small smile. "Nice work."

Kate doesn't smile back, but there's a flicker of something in her eyes--maybe not quite gratitude, but something close enough. She picks up the thingamabob again, and I watch as she takes another slow, measured breath. The little ball rises, wobbles, and falls, just like before. It spins and spins like a death roll.

"Keep at it," I say, standing and grabbing my glass from the table. "You'll get there."

Kate doesn't respond, just sets the doohickey down and picks up her pencil again. As I head toward the sink, I hear the faint scratch of graphite on paper, steady and relentless.