The thing about living with your best friend who isn't your best friend anymore is that it feels a lot like living with a ghost. Except ghosts don't hog all the hot water or leave their stupid mugs all over the kitchen counter. I don't know why Kate even has a favorite mug. It's not like she drinks anything besides water these days.

But at least she and her dad are moving out sooner than we thought. Turns out someone--a whole bunch of someones, according to the very polite but totally vague note they sent--chipped in and paid off their debts. Cash in the mail. Like, actual physical bills, wrapped up with little notes about community and kindness and hope or whatever. Dad called it "a miracle of neighborly goodwill," and Mom cried about it in the pantry for twenty minutes. Me? I don't know what to think. Maybe I'm just not built to believe in miracles. Or maybe I'm too busy wondering if one of those "concerned neighbors" smelled like smoke.

Either way, it's not my business. I mean, it is my business--I'm the one who dragged Kate out of that fire--but if I spend too much time trying to figure out who's behind all the weird little coincidences in my life, I'll end up like one of those conspiracy guys who thinks birds aren't real. It's better if I focus on what I can do.

Like patrol.

The Auditors, at least, are starting to feel like a real thing. We're not exactly the Avengers or anything--more like a bunch of scrappy kids trying to duct-tape a team together--but it's working. Kind of. Gossamer's become our unofficial chauffeur since she's the only one with a license. Her Vespa's basically the backbone of our entire transportation strategy, even though it can only carry one other person at a time. It's not glamorous, but it beats walking when we're trying to move fast and stay out of sight.

We're running night ops now, waiting for the police to clear out before we make our moves. It's not glamorous--mostly breaking up fights between junkies or chasing down Jump dealers--but it's something. And Maggie's ribs are finally healed, so she's back in action, throwing up those repulsion fields like it's second nature. It's almost scary how fast she's picking it up. I think I've only seen her faceplant, like, twice this week.

That's been the other big thing. The Jump problem's getting worse. No matter how much of it we take off the streets, there's always more. Less of it's going to other cities now, which means whoever's making it is clearly trying to flood Philadelphia with the stuff. A couple of the dealers we've run into actually seemed relieved when we confiscated their stashes, like they knew the heat was coming and wanted out before it got worse. It's like watching a tidal wave roll in and knowing you're only holding a bucket.

The cops are barely keeping up. Vigilantes like us are picking up the slack, even at risk of getting arrested. And then there are the "community defense groups," which is a fancy way of saying "a bunch of pissed-off neighbors with baseball bats and nothing to lose." I get it, but it makes me nervous. Nobody wants to see what happens when a bunch of regular people try to play hero and end up getting in over their heads.

Meanwhile, the Kingdom of Keys? Silent. Not even a whisper. Mr. Nothing, Mr. Mudslide, even Mr. Tyrannosaur--gone. It's creepy. They don't seem like the kind of people who just... stop. It feels like the calm before the storm, and every instinct I have is screaming that it's going to be a bad one.

And then there's Soot.

I still don't know what to do about them. I know their name now, which feels like progress, but everything else? Dead ends. We've crossed paths a couple of times--none of it productive. They're frustrating, like trying to play chess with someone who keeps flipping the board. And no matter what I do, they're always one step ahead, always disappearing into the smoke before I can figure them out. It's driving me insane.

Jordan thinks I'm obsessed. Which... okay, fair. But it's not like I'm camping outside Kate's door or anything. She's out of the house a lot these days, and I'm trying to give her space. It's just... hard, you know? She's right there, but she's not. And I keep thinking about what she said in the warehouse, about sin and survival and how some people don't get to be heroes. It's been stuck in my head like a splinter I can't pull out.

At least school's back to normal. Sort of. Nobody asks about the bandages anymore, probably because they're gone. My arm healed weeks ago, but I kept it wrapped longer than I needed to, just to keep the questions at bay. It's funny--people will look at you like you're a freak if you've got shark teeth, but slap a couple of bandages on, and suddenly you're just another injured kid in the crowd.

Oh, and I think I might have actually dented Maya Richardson's approval rating. Nine points. That's not nothing, right? Or maybe it was the anti-vigilante ordinance. Either way, I'll take the win.

The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

Aaron's trial, on the other hand, is going nowhere fast. Katherine Huang and her Tremont & Fairfax army of lawyers are dragging it out as much as possible. They're like the legal equivalent of molasses--slow, sticky, and impossible to get rid of. Every time I think we're getting somewhere, there's another delay, another excuse. It's infuriating, but what else is new?

At least the fires are mostly over. The city's still scarred, though. There are places that still smell like ash and places that never will again, no matter how much bleach they use. Sometimes I catch a whiff of it on my way to school or patrol, and it feels like it's following me. Like it's in my clothes, in my skin. But that's just my imagination, right?

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You'd think turning 16 would feel bigger. Like, I don't know, more monumental. Instead, it just feels like any other Wednesday, except Mom won't stop humming "Happy Birthday" under her breath and Pop-Pop Moe keeps telling me I'm "getting too tall." Which, fine, is technically true, but he's been saying it since I was twelve, so it's kind of lost its impact.

We had Passover dinner a couple of nights ago. Quiet this year, just Mom, Dad, Pop-Pop, and me. Pop-Pop said he wanted a little peace and quiet after "the Rosh Hashanah circus". No arguments here--it was nice. A little weird without Kate and Mr. Smith joining in (they've been around for every meal lately - but today they were scoping out something house related), but nice. Quiet.

Tonight, though? Not quiet. Jordan and Maggie are over, and the three of us barely fit at the kitchen table with the giant cookie Mom got me. Because cake is gross, obviously, and I've been saying that since I was, like, six. Chocolate chip, big enough to take up most of the table, with "Happy 16th Birthday, Sam!" in squiggly frosting letters that look like they're trying to escape the cookie. I told Mom she didn't have to do all this, but she just waved me off and said, "Don't be silly. Sixteen is special."

Is it, though? I don't feel any different. Still me. Still Sam. Just taller.

"It's kind of horrifying," Jordan says, poking at the cookie with one of those plastic cake knives. "Why is it so big? Who thought this was a good idea?"

"Me," I say, grabbing the knife out of their hand before they accidentally break it. "And it's not horrifying. It's beautiful. Don't insult the cookie."

"Sorry," Jordan says, not sounding sorry at all. "But seriously, this thing could double as a riot shield."

Maggie giggles, already mid-bite. "It's good, though. Like, really good. I think I could live off this for the rest of my life."

"You're sixteen," Mom cuts in from the sink, where she's rinsing out coffee cups that don't need to be rinsed. She always finds something to fuss over when she's in a mood, and birthdays put her in a mood. "Don't let her eat the whole thing, Samantha."

"I'm not," I say, even though Maggie probably could eat the whole thing if we let her. "And just Sam, please, today. It's my birthday."

Mom rolls her eyes. "Not on your birth certificate, Samantha."

I roll my eyes right back, which makes Jordan laugh because apparently that's their favorite part of watching me interact with my mom. But at least Maggie's on my side, nodding like I just said something deeply profound. She always has my back, which is sweet, even if I don't always need it.

"So," Maggie says, leaning forward with frosting on her lip. "What's it like? Sixteen. Feel different yet?"

I shrug, picking at a piece of cookie that's already half gone. "Not really. Same old, same old. Just taller."

"Taller and wiser," Jordan says, smirking. "Maybe you'll finally stop doing dumb stuff."

"Ha ha," I say flatly, tossing a crumb at them. It misses, of course, because my aim is terrible, but Maggie still snickers. "Keep dreaming. I love being dumb."

"I bet you do," Jordan says, leaning back in their chair.

Mom glances over her shoulder, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. She doesn't say anything, but I can tell she's happy to see us like this. It's weird, though -- I'm sixteen now. I'm supposed to be, what, planning my future? Thinking about college? Thinking about... registering? Instead, I'm... whatever this is.

It's not like I'm ungrateful. I love my family. I love my friends. And I love that I get to be Bloodhound, even when it's hard. But sometimes I think about what it means to be a 16-year-old superhero--like, really think about it--and it's... heavy. There's no manual for this. No roadmap. Just trial and error and hoping you don't screw up too badly along the way. And the thing is, I know I'm good at this. I know I'm helping people. But sometimes I wonder what it's all going to cost me in the end.

"Earth to Sam," Maggie says, waving a hand in front of my face. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I say quickly, shaking off whatever that was. "Just thinking."

"About what?" she asks, because Maggie doesn't know how to let things go.

"Nothing important," I lie, stuffing another piece of cookie in my mouth to shut myself up. "Just, you know, life. The universe. Everything."

Jordan snorts. "Very profound."

Mom puts the coffee cups away and joins us at the table, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder. "You don't have to think about all that today, sweetheart. Just enjoy your cookie."

I nod, but it's hard not to think about it. Sixteen feels like a big deal, even if it's just another number. It feels like the kind of age where things are supposed to start happening. Big things. Important things. But for me, big things have already been happening. For two years now. And I'm not sure what comes next.

Pop-Pop Moe shuffles in from the living room, muttering about the Sixers blowing another game, and plops down in his chair with a dramatic sigh. "Sixteen, huh?" he says, looking at me over the top of his glasses. "You're gonna be taller than me soon."

"You said that last year," I remind him, but he just shrugs.

"Still true." He grins, a big, warm, Pop-Pop grin that makes me feel like a little kid again. "Happy birthday, kiddo. Make a wish."

I glance around the table--at Mom, at Pop-Pop, at Jordan and Maggie--and blow out the single candle stuck in the middle of the cookie. The smoke curls up into the air, and for a second, everything feels quiet and warm and right.