Gossamer's scooter is even more cramped than it looks, which is saying something because it already looks like the kind of thing built for one person with a personal bubble the size of a postage stamp. Amelia grudgingly hands me a helmet--safety first, I guess--before slipping on her own and swinging a leg over the seat. She adjusts her scarf to cover the lower part of her face, the edges of her costume peeking out from under her jacket.

"Are you sure this is necessary?" she asks, her tone hovering somewhere between resigned and annoyed.

"Yes," I say firmly, jamming the helmet onto my head. "We don't have time to walk, and Jordan can't drive. Besides, I need to guide you. Blink can keep up on her skates."

Blink, already fastening her inline skates, gives Amelia a thumbs-up. "I'll be fine. I skitch shit on the reg."

Amelia mutters something under her breath that I'm pretty sure isn't complimentary but revs the scooter's engine anyway. It sputters like it's about to give up, but then it roars to life. Well, maybe "roar" is too strong a word--it's more of a determined wheeze.

"Fine," she says, gripping the handlebars tightly. "But if this thing breaks down because you overloaded it, you're paying for repairs."

"Deal," I say, hopping onto the back and grabbing the sides of the seat for dear life. There's no way I'm wrapping my arms around her waist. I have some dignity.

"Don't scratch the paint," Amelia snaps as she kicks the scooter into gear. We lurch forward, and I immediately regret not holding on tighter because this thing moves faster than it looks. Blink skitches behind us, easily keeping pace as we zip down the quiet streets of Tacony, her wheels letting out a quiet sort of hissing crackle as she helps juice the engine with her powers.

The ride is... interesting. Amelia handles the scooter like a pro, weaving through side streets and alleys with an ease that makes me think she's been doing this a lot longer than she let on. Blink, true to her word, glides effortlessly behind us, helping compensate for the weight of three almost fully grown women, her hands squeezing onto the seat for dear life.

We don't have to guess where we're going. Even from a couple of blocks away, the black plumes of smoke curling into the sky are impossible to miss. My stomach tightens at the sight of it, and I lean forward, tapping Amelia on the shoulder.

"There," I say, pointing toward the source of the smoke. "That's the house."

Amelia slows the scooter as we approach, pulling up a block away to avoid drawing too much attention. The house is one of the nicer ones in this part of Tacony--two stories, clean white paint, a well-manicured lawn. Or at least it was. The front window has been smashed in, shards of glass glittering on the porch, and the faint smell of smoke hangs in the air. The front door is shut, but the smoke is clearly coming from inside.

Amelia cuts the engine and turns to me, her voice low. "I'll stay out here. Someone's gotta be the getaway driver."

"Good plan," I say, hopping off the scooter. "Stay ready. We might have to bolt fast if the cops show up."

Blink skids to a stop beside us, adjusting her gloves. "What's the play?"

"We go in, figure out what's going on, and deal with it before the cops get here," I say, already moving toward the house. "Stay behind me."

The faint wail of sirens in the distance spurs me forward. We've got maybe three minutes before this place is swarming with uniforms. Plenty of time if we're quick.

The front door doesn't budge when I try it, so I motion for Blink to follow me around the side of the house. The broken window gives us an easy way in, though climbing through it is less "graceful infiltration" and more "awkward scramble." The shards of glass still clinging to the frame catch on my jacket, but I manage to get inside without cutting myself.

Blink follows right behind me, landing lightly on the carpeted floor. The living room is a mess--couch cushions thrown everywhere, picture frames knocked over, drawers yanked open and emptied onto the floor. The air is thick with smoke, but there's no sign of fire. I pull my mask tighter over my face and move toward the kitchen, motioning for Blink to stay close.

The source of the commotion isn't hard to find. A figure in a hoodie, baggy clothes, and a gas mask is rifling through the kitchen drawers, tossing anything valuable into a backpack slung over one shoulder. A purse lies on the counter, already emptied of its contents.

Before I can say anything, the figure straightens up and turns to face us. The gas mask hides their face completely, the black lenses making it impossible to see their eyes, but their posture stiffens when they see me.

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

"Bloodhound," they say, their voice muffled and distorted. "And... friend. Get out of here. I've got this scumbag."

It takes me a second to process what they just said. "Excuse me?"

The figure gestures vaguely around the kitchen. "This place. This guy. He's a scumbag. I'm cleaning him out."

I blink, my brain scrambling to catch up. "Wait, you think we're... what? On your side?"

The figure tilts their head slightly. "Aren't you?"

"No," I say, taking a step forward. "We're here to stop you. This isn't your house, is it?"

They shrug, unbothered. "Doesn't matter. The guy who lives here deserves it. He's got money, he's fine."

Blink shifts beside me, her voice sharp. "That's not how this works."

The figure doesn't respond, just starts rifling through another drawer like we're not even here. My patience snaps.

"Hey!" I bark, stepping closer. "Put the bag down and step away from the counter. Now."

They freeze for a moment, their shoulders tensing, but then they turn back to face me, their posture more defensive now. "You don't get it. People like him--people like this--they're the reason--"

"I don't care," I cut them off, my voice firm. "You don't get to decide who deserves what. That's not your job. Now put the bag down and step away."

For a moment, neither of us moves. The sirens are louder now, probably only a block or two away. Blink shifts her weight, ready to act, and I tighten my stance, preparing for whatever's about to happen.

The figure's shoulders rise and fall in a deep sigh, their hands still half-raised. "You don't know who lives here, do you?" their voice crackles, distorted through the gas mask. There's something tired in their tone, like they're explaining basic math to someone who just doesn't get it. "What do you even know about Mayfair? About Gregory Winters?"

I open my mouth to respond, but they press on, their words tumbling out in a rush. "He's a loan shark. He preys on desperate people. Single moms. Immigrants. Anyone too scared or too broke to go to a bank. And when they can't pay him back? You don't even want to know what happens then."

They pause, glancing at the window, the sirens growing louder by the second. "He's tied up in his bedroom. Alive. I'm not going to hurt him any more than I already have, but someone had to stop him. Someone had to--" They gesture at the backpack on the counter. "--return some of his ill-gotten goods, turn his financials in to the authorities. You know how many lives this guy's ruined?"

The words hang in the smoky air, thick and heavy. I glance at Blink, who's watching the figure with narrowed eyes, her hands flexing at her sides like she's ready to move. I know what she's thinking because I'm thinking it too: this isn't that different from what we do. Not really.

But the difference, the line, is that we don't tie people up in their bedrooms and ransack their houses. We don't decide who deserves what. And we definitely don't fill a house with smoke and leave a mess for the cops to untangle. When Jordan and I rob bad guys, it's in their hideouts, in the dark shadowy places, where we steal their drugs and dispose of them. That's... different. It's different. It's different!

"I get it," I say, my voice quieter now but no less firm. "You think you're doing the right thing. Maybe you even are. But you're not the judge, jury, and executioner. That's not how this works."

The figure tilts their head, and I swear I can feel the weight of their stare through the mask. "Isn't it, though? You've got blood on your hands too, Bloodhound. Don't act like you're above this."

My stomach tightens. I'm trying to grab for a way to counter them, but really, wasn't I just suggesting this to Davis? Can't we just find out where they live and take the fight to them? But I don't have time to argue the finer points of morality because Blink steps forward, her voice sharp and cutting through the tension like a knife.

"Yeah, okay, great speech," she says. "But here's the thing--you're still breaking into someone's house. You're still making a mess of things. And now you're wasting our time."

The figure takes a step back, their hands lowering slightly. "I don't want to fight you," they say, their voice calm but edged with something that feels like resignation. "But I will if I have to."

Blink doesn't hesitate. "Yeah, you will," she snaps, reaching for one of the bolas clipped to her belt.

Before she can throw it, the figure raises their hands, palms facing us, and everything shifts. Smoke pours from their hands in thick, curling tendrils, but it's not just smoke. The air is suddenly filled with a noxious mix of irritants--pepper spray, Febreze, something that smells like burning plastic. My eyes water instantly, my throat burning as I choke on the fumes.

Blink stumbles back, coughing violently, and I drop to one knee, pulling my mask tighter over my face. It barely helps. The air feels heavy and sharp, every breath a struggle.

"Stay down," the figure says, their voice muffled and distant through the haze. "You don't want this."

I hear Blink's bola whiz through the air, the sound cutting cleanly through the chaos, but there's no telltale thwack of impact. Instead, there's a loud crash--probably the bola hitting the wall or a cabinet--and then silence. When I manage to force my eyes open, blinking rapidly against the stinging smoke, the figure is gone.

Blink is on her hands and knees beside me, coughing so hard it sounds like she's about to hack up a lung. I crawl toward her, my own chest heaving as I try to catch my breath.

"We... good?" I rasp, my voice barely audible.

Blink waves me off, wheezing but nodding. "Fine," she manages, her voice rough. "Totally... fine. Love this for us."

The distant wail of sirens pulls me back to reality. "Cops," I croak, grabbing Blink's arm and pulling her to her feet. "We've gotta go."

We stumble back through the house, every step a struggle as the smoke clings to our clothes and skin. By the time we make it to the broken window, I can see the flashing red-and-blue lights reflecting off the nearby houses. We climb out as quickly as we can, coughing and stumbling toward the scooter where Amelia is waiting, her eyes wide behind her scarf.

"What the hell happened in there?" she demands as we collapse onto the pavement beside her.

"Later," I wheeze, waving her off. "Just--go. Now."

She doesn't argue. The scooter sputters to life, and we're off, speeding away from the house as the first police car pulls up to the curb, my costume covered in a fine layer of soot.