Dad doesn't push me for an answer. He just lets the words hang between us, like he's waiting to see if I'll sit with them long enough to hear what he's actually saying instead of what I want to argue with. I don't. Not out loud, anyway.

I pull my knees up, arms looped around them, staring at the laptop screen like I can will myself back into caring more about triangulating Kate's movements than whatever this is supposed to be. But it's not working, because Dad's still here, still sitting on my bed like he actually means it, like this isn't just a speech he rehearsed with Mom before coming in here.

I don't know what I was expecting. Maybe some version of the same old argument: Sam, you have to stop getting into fights, you're going to get expelled, what do you think is going to happen when you graduate, blah blah blah, real life isn't a comic book. But that's not what this is. He's not lecturing. He's just looking at me, carefully, like he's trying to make sure I'm still hearing him.

"You're smart," he says, finally. "And you remind me a lot of your Pop-Pop."

That makes me look up, because that's not usually how this conversation goes. Pop-Pop Moe is the one who lets me get away with things, who thinks my superheroics are fine, actually, because I'm good at them and I have a strong moral compass and someone has to do the hard things in this world, so why shouldn't it be me?

Dad sighs, rubbing his hands together like he's working out how to put something delicate into words. "Your Pop-Pop is the smartest man I've ever met. He designed things that hold back floods. He ran calculations in his head that would take other engineers hours. And he had to be right, every time. Because if he wasn't, people died. Horvath-Small Ltd. is one of the best in the industry, and I don't say that just because he's my dad. He's really, just very good at what he does, which is extremely complicated mathematics designed to withstand the worst conditions this planet can throw at it. And, in his lifetime, that also started including superhumans."

I don't say anything. I know all this. I've heard the stories.

Dad leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So in his world, the answer was always obvious. If something's broken, you fix it. If something's wrong, you correct it. That's how he thinks. That's how he sees the world." He looks at me, eyes sharp. "And that's how you see it too, isn't it?"

I keep my face neutral, but I know he's right.

The thing is, I do see the world that way. It's how I've always seen it. The rules are just there to be sorted out, the problems just need a solution. That's how you deal with things. That's how you get from point A to point B. You don't sit around talking about how complicated it all is, you don't wait for permission--you just do it. When I played soccer, planning was for the other kids. I just hit the ball into the net when it was passed to me, and I was great at it.

"But people aren't equations," Dad says, before I can come up with an argument. "You can't just brute-force solutions with enough effort. You can't just decide that the problem has to give way to your determination. That's not how it works."

I scowl, shifting my weight, arms still locked around my legs. "So what? You're saying I should just give up? Walk away?"

Dad shakes his head. "No. I'm saying you should stop seeing yourself as the one acceptable cost."

I hate how calm he sounds. Like he's not just making a point, but stating a fact I should have already understood.

"You want to change things?" he says, voice steady. "Then live long enough to see it through."

I scoff under my breath, looking away. "That's easier said than done."

"I know."

Something in his voice makes me look back at him. He doesn't sound frustrated. He doesn't sound like he's trying to win an argument. He just sounds... tired.

"I know you, Sam," he says. "You don't just want to fix things. You want to fix everything, and you want it fixed now. You're not patient. You don't wait. You see a problem, and you go after it, and I--" He exhales sharply. "I get it. I do. But if you keep pushing yourself like this, if you keep treating yourself like you don't matter, then you're not going to get there."

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

I grit my teeth. "I don't care if it's hard."

Dad nods, like he was expecting that. "I know. But do you care if it's impossible?"

My fingers tighten on my sleeves, because I don't have a good answer for that.

Dad exhales again, rubbing the back of his neck. He's done pushing. He's said what he wanted to say. But before he leaves me with it, he reaches out and squeezes my shoulder, voice quieter now, more careful.

"I don't have all the answers. Neither does Pop-Pop. If you want to talk to him, go ahead. Get his perspective. I'm sure he'll tell you something different. I expect him to. But just... think about it, Sam. If you really want to win, then don't make yourself easier to break than you have to be."

I don't say anything.

Dad lets out a breath, nods to himself, and stands. "I'll let you get back to your homework."

I roll my eyes, but don't argue.

He heads for the door, and I listen to his footsteps as he goes downstairs, the sound disappearing into the background hum of the house.

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

The house is quiet in the way only a house full of sleeping people can be. There's a certain weight to it, a stillness pressing against my ears, making my own movements feel too loud no matter how careful I am. The tiny click of my laptop waking up sounds like a gunshot in my room. My heart is already hammering like I'm about to pull off a heist instead of just hitting "record" on a camera.

This time, I make sure everything is actually set up right. Power settings adjusted. Screen brightness turned all the way down. Hard drive space double-checked. No stupid mistakes. No wasted time.

I tell myself it's just an experiment. A little test. Nothing major. But I can already feel it gnawing at me, that crawling anticipation, that something is about to happen feeling I get right before a fight.

It's ridiculous. I'm just recording my own bedroom door. It's not like I'm about to catch a supervillain breaking into my house.

Or maybe I am.

I shove that thought down before it can get its teeth in me.

Instead, I turn my focus to the group chat, watching messages roll in from Jordan and the rest of the Auditors. They've been monitoring Soot sightings all night, trying to track anything relevant. So far, it's mostly scattered reports--nothing concrete yet.

> Jordan: one confirmed sighting at 11:40pm in Germantown. Gone by 12:20. No repeat sightings yet.

> Maggie: good god do any of you sleep

> Jordan: says the girl texting at 1am

> Maggie: i have insomnia it's different

> Sam: did anyone see them leave? Or just disappear?

> Jordan: vanished. just like last time.

My fingers hover over the keyboard, but I don't reply. Just like last time. Every report about Soot ends the same way. No dramatic escapes. No lingering evidence. They just... stop being there.

Which means they have somewhere to be. I glance toward Kate's side of the room. Her bed is empty, the covers barely disturbed. I swallow, ignoring the weird twisting feeling in my stomach, and flip the laptop towards the door. It's fine. I'll know in the morning.

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

I wake up before my alarm.

The sky outside is still more black than blue, the kind of early morning where the world feels like it hasn't rebooted properly yet. I stare at the ceiling for exactly three seconds before my brain catches up with my body, and then I'm sitting up, reaching for my laptop with the urgency of someone checking for a test score they already know they bombed.

The screen flickers to life, and my stomach is in knots before I even press play.

Hours of nothing. My closed bedroom door, the hallway light spilling under the crack, the occasional flicker of shadows passing by. I fast-forward through it, eyes flicking between the screen and the timestamp. Midnight. 1 AM. 2 AM.

Then--at 3:04 AM--movement.

I hit pause. Rewind. Play it back in real time.

Kate steps inside, shutting the door behind her. She doesn't turn on the light. She moves like she's done this a hundred times before--silent, precise, no wasted motion. Slips out of her jacket, kicks off her shoes, disappears into bed like nothing happened.

I press my fingers against my mouth, breathing hard through my nose.

I don't need to rewatch it. I already know.

Kate came back at 3 AM. The last confirmed sighting of Soot was at 12:20. I start doing the math. It's pretty easy deductive reasoning, all things considered. If Kate leaves the house at 11 PM, and Soot is sighted between 11:30 and 12:20, then Kate is out during the same window that Soot is active. If Kate returns home at 3 AM, and Soot hasn't been seen since 12:30, then that means Soot stopped while Kate was still out.

It doesn't prove anything. Not technically. But we're bumping up against the Batman problem. Are Kate and Soot ever seen in the same area? I rub my hands over my face, trying to untangle the buzzing mess of thoughts in my head.

I have no smoking gun. No footage of Kate in the costume - she doesn't come home in a hoodie and her clothes don't smell like anything. I'd know. No firsthand witness statement. Just a timeline that lines up too neatly, the way a fake alibi starts to unravel when you look too close.

And that's the problem.

What if Kate just sneaks out for something else? What if Soot is someone else entirely? What if I say something, and it blows up in my face, and I lose the only chance I have to actually figure this out? Or, probably more importantly - great prioritization, Small - what if I destroy what's left of our friendship? The, like, extremely tattered, strained threads that are already a baby's breath away from snapping.

I press my fingers against my temples, breathing slow.

No.

I need more.

I shut my laptop quietly, scrunch my face up, and go back to bed.