The scanner crackles again, cutting through the quiet hum of the Music Hall. The voice on the other end is clipped and professional, just enough static to make me lean closer.

"Unit 432, responding to reports of noxious smoke at the intersection of Longshore and Marsden. Repeat, noxious smoke reported, suspected arson."

The words noxious smoke send a chill down my spine, and my focus locks in like a laser. I sit up, staring at the scanner like I can force it to spit out more details.

"...thick black smoke, limited visibility. No active flames reported at this time," the voice continues. "FD notified. Units en route."

Jordan glances at me, their eyebrow raised. "Sam."

"I know," I say, my voice tight with tension. "But it's arson."

"It's suspected arson," Jordan corrects, pulling the scanner closer to study the display. "All they're saying is smoke. Nobody's even seen a fire."

"That doesn't mean there isn't one," I argue, already moving to grab the bag I keep stashed under the couch. My hand shakes just a little as I unzip it, adrenaline kicking in hard and fast.

"Jordan, this is like... three blocks from here," I say, standing and yanking out the lightweight undersuit that makes up the base of my costume. "We can't just sit here and wait for the police to handle it."

"You mean you can't just sit here," Jordan corrects, crossing their arms. "I can. Very easily, in fact. It's one of my best skills."

"Ha ha," I say, pulling the bag open and yanking out the first piece of my suit. "You know I have to check this out. Arson doesn't just happen randomly, especially not here."

"And what exactly are you planning to do when you get there?" they ask, their voice heavy with skepticism. "Stare menacingly at the flames until they go out? Your arm's still healing, Sam. You're not exactly in top shape for firefighting."

I glare at them, pulling on the lightweight undersuit that makes up the base of my costume. "I'm not going to fight the fire. I just want to see what's going on. And if someone's responsible for this, I want to know who."

Jordan sighs, running a hand through their hair. "You're not going to let this go, are you?"

"Not a chance," I say, grabbing the vest and fastening it over my torso. It's a little snug with the bandages, but it'll do.

They shake their head, muttering something under their breath. "Fine. But I'm coming with you."

"You don't have to--"

"Yeah, I do," they say firmly. "If you're going to throw yourself into a potential inferno, someone's gotta make sure you don't end up crispy again. And besides, it's not like I'm gonna let you have all the fun."

I grin despite myself, the tension in my chest easing just a little. "Fair enough. But you better keep up."

Jordan rolls their eyes, standing and heading for the storage cabinet where they keep their gear. "Please. I was born to keep up."

As I finish adjusting my pads and guards, I can hear the sound of Jordan unzipping their cloak and pulling out the modified lining. Fury Forge's experimental fire blanket is stitched into the inside, a gleaming silver material that looks like it could double as a space-age cape. It's not exactly subtle, but it's better than nothing.

"You know," Jordan says, fastening the cloak around their shoulders, "we could always, I don't know, wait for backup. Let the professionals handle this."

"Yeah, and miss out on all the excitement?" I say, pulling on my gloves. "Where's the fun in that?"

They snort, grabbing their helmet and slipping it over their head. "You're impossible, you know that?"

The walk down Longshore feels longer than it should, even though it's just a few blocks. Jordan keeps pace beside me, their cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze. The streets feel colder than usual, but the snow's been gone for weeks.

"You know," Jordan says, their tone almost conversational, "if there's no fire, I'm going to be a little annoyed. All that prep about fireproof cloaks and your lightweight, breathable outfit? For nothing."

I glance at them, my lips twitching toward a smile. "Don't jinx it."

"Please," Jordan says, throwing their arms wide. "Look at this place. Not a flicker in sight. Bet the smoke's just some idiot burning tires or--"

Their words cut off abruptly as we round the corner onto Marsden. The scene in front of us is... not what I expected. No flames, no roaring inferno, but a thick, black haze hangs low in the air, curling like a living thing. It smells acrid, sharp, the kind of smell that makes your lungs tighten and your eyes water.

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"Okay," Jordan says slowly, pulling their cloak up to cover their nose and mouth. "So, maybe not tires."

I take a cautious sniff, and the scent hits me like a slap. Underneath the thick, charred smell is something else, something familiar. My nose stings, my throat burns, and my eyes immediately start to water. I jerk back, coughing.

Jordan gives me a look, one eyebrow raised. "What was that?"

"Pepper spray," I manage, waving a hand in front of my face like it'll help. It doesn't. "Mixed with the smoke. That's what it is."

Jordan stares at me like I've grown a second head. "And how exactly do you know what pepper spray smells like?"

"Part of my training," I say quickly, not meeting their gaze. "Don't worry about it."

"Sure," they say, their tone dripping with skepticism. "Definitely not something I'll be circling back to later."

We're close enough now to see the crowd gathered at the corner of Longshore and Marsden. A handful of people stand in clusters on the sidewalk, watching something ahead but keeping a careful distance. Some of them are holding their sleeves to their faces, trying to block out the acrid smoke still drifting lazily through the air.

"There," I say, pointing toward the boarded-up house at the center of the commotion.

The house is a classic Tacony special--a squat, ugly thing with peeling paint and warped boards nailed haphazardly over the windows. Everyone knows what it is: a dump where squatters and low-level dealers crash. Nobody calls the cops unless things get really bad.

Jordan tilts their head, surveying the scene. "Looks like the usual--except for, you know, the part where everyone's coughing up a lung."

We push closer, slipping through the crowd until we're at the edge of the commotion. A couple of guys are sprawled out on the sidewalk, one on his back, the other on his hands and knees, hacking like his lungs are about to revolt. There are more of them, too--three, maybe four, no, three, slumped against the wall or curled up on the pavement, their faces pale and slick with sweat.

Pocket knives, switchblades, and cheap knockoff multitools litter the ground around them, gleaming faintly in the streetlights. The weapons look pathetic, almost laughable, but there's something chilling about the way they've been left scattered, like someone made a point of taking these guys apart without leaving them any options.

Jordan whistles softly. "Well, someone had a busy night."

I scan the scene, my blood sense flickering faintly with the pulse of the people around me. Nobody's bleeding out--thank God--but some of these guys don't look great. I clip my oxygen mask into place and adjust the straps, the familiar weight settling over my face.

"Keep the crowd back," I say, pulling a small first-aid kit from my bag. "I'm gonna check on them."

Jordan nods, stepping up onto the curb and spreading their arms. "Alright, folks, you've had your show. Let's give the lady some space to work her magic, yeah?"

The onlookers shuffle back reluctantly, murmuring to each other but keeping their distance. I crouch beside the first guy on the ground, a skinny teenager who can't be older than eighteen. His breathing is shallow, his face streaked with tears and soot, and his hands are clutching at his throat like he's trying to keep something inside.

"It's okay," I say, my voice muffled by the mask. "You're gonna be fine. Just take slow breaths."

He doesn't respond, but his eyes flick toward me, glassy and red-rimmed. I open the kit and pull out a bottle of saline, flushing his face gently to clear away some of the residue.

The second guy isn't much older--early twenties, maybe--with a patchy beard and a busted lip. He's coughing so hard it sounds like he might crack a rib, but at least he's conscious. I hand him a damp cloth and tell him to hold it to his face while I check for any more serious injuries.

Jordan calls out behind me, their tone light but firm. "Anybody know what happened here? Or are we all just enjoying the ambiance?"

"Smoke," someone mutters from the crowd. "Came out of nowhere. Thought the place was on fire."

"But it wasn't," Jordan says, glancing at the house. "No flames, no damage. Just... pepper spray smoke. Right?"

A few people nod, but nobody volunteers any more information.

I move to the next guy, who's slumped against the wall with his knees drawn up to his chest. He's coughing less than the others, but his eyes are swollen shut, and his hands are trembling. I check his pulse--steady, if a little fast--and tilt his head back slightly to help him breathe.

"Who did this?" I ask quietly, more to myself than anyone else.

"They got Gracie," the guy mumbles, spit spilling out over his lower lip. "They got my dealer, man..."

Jordan answers anyway, their voice low and dry. "Somebody who really doesn't like sharing air, apparently."

I stand slowly, my eyes sweeping over the scene again, filing information out for later. The smoke is thinner now, but the smell lingers, sharp and biting. Whoever did this didn't just show up to scare these guys--they wanted to make a statement. Where's this Gracie? That's a girl's name - I don't see any girls, but I don't see or smell any blood, either. Did someone get abducted? Scared off?

"Vigilante?" Jordan guesses, watching me carefully.

"Maybe," I say, though the word feels heavy in my mouth. "Or someone who wants it to look like one."

Jordan tilts their head, their expression thoughtful. "You're thinking... what? New player? Or old player with a new playbook?"

"I don't know yet," I admit, my gaze lingering on the house. "But this doesn't feel random. Somebody wanted these guys out of commission. And they didn't stick around to take credit."

Jordan nods slowly, their cloak rustling softly as they shift their weight. "Which means they either don't care about the credit... or they've got bigger plans."

"Exactly."

I glance back at the first guy I helped. His breathing is steadier now, his eyes half-closed as he leans against the curb. The others are in similar shape--shaken, miserable, but alive. "Took all the stuff, man," he mumbles, clearly more upset about the drugs than anything else. I make a note to myself to check for this 'Gracie'. Local dealer, I'm assuming.

Jordan steps closer, their voice low. "You thinking what I'm thinking?"

"Probably," I say, though I'm not ready to say it out loud. Not yet.

We stay like that for a moment, the weight of the scene settling over us like the smoke still clinging to the air. Somewhere in the distance, I hear the faint wail of sirens, getting closer.

"Time to go," Jordan says, their tone brisk.

I nod, stepping back and slipping my first-aid kit into my bag. The crowd is starting to disperse, their curiosity replaced by the instinct to avoid answering any awkward questions when the cops show up.

Whoever did this wasn't just cleaning house--they were sending a message.