The smoke keeps curling in, thicker by the second, swallowing the edges of the warehouse until everything feels smaller, tighter. Like the air's folding in on itself. I crouch lower, my back pressed against a stack of chemical drums, the metal cold even through my gloves. My breath feels loud inside my helmet, fogging the visor just enough to be annoying. Jordan's a few feet ahead, peeking around the shelving, their body language calm, deliberate, like none of this is unexpected. But my mind's moving way too fast.

I stare into the haze, trying to piece it together. Soot. It has to be Soot. Nobody else throws down a smoke screen like that--dense but controlled, creeping exactly where it needs to be, covering sightlines without choking the place out. It's surgical. Like they planned this.

But why? Why here? Why now? How did they know to come here?

My stomach twists in that familiar way. If Soot really is Kate--and I don't know that, I can't know that, not for sure--but if they are, then this is my fault. All of it. She wouldn't be here if I hadn't dragged her into this world in the first place. She was normal before this. Well. Not normal, but she wasn't this. Wasn't sneaking into warehouses full of chemical drums and superpowered gangsters. Wasn't throwing herself into danger.

I keep telling myself that people make their own choices. That Kate--if it's her--knew what she was doing. But the guilt's still there, sticky and sharp, gnawing at the edges of my brain. Every time I see Soot, that feeling doubles down. It's like watching someone drown while holding the rope that could've pulled them out, but you threw it too late.

I glance at Jordan. They're focused on the smoke, calculating angles, probably already working out the most efficient way to stretch space and get us closer to the server room. Efficient. Focused. No emotional baggage cluttering up their brain. Not like me.

The smoke thickens, and that's when I see the second figure. Not Bash--he's still lumbering through the fog like a wrecking ball--but someone else. Leaner. Twitchier. A white guy, probably in his late twenties, covered in tattoos that crawl up his neck and spill over the sides of his shaved head. He's wearing a hoodie, jeans, hardly professional security attire, but the glowing blue veins, electric cyan pulsing up the sides of his face, tell me why a lout like him is in a place like this.

That's gotta be Lenny.

He moves through the smoke like it's not even there, eyes scanning sharp, like he knows exactly what he's looking for. His hands twitch at his sides, like he's waiting to punch someone out but doesn't know where they are yet.

I swallow hard.

This is where it all clicks--the mission's already loud. Soot forced it loud the second they showed up, and there's no walking that back. Bash is hunting. Lenny's here, veins glowing with something that's definitely not legal. Security's gonna close in fast, and Soot? Soot's out there in the middle of it all, alone, probably already fending them off.

I shift in my crouch, glance at Jordan again. My mind's racing, trying to justify what I already know I'm about to do. I can't just sit here while Soot gets torn apart. Morally, ethically--none of this sits right. And even if I shove all that aside, it's still the smart call. Soot's the perfect distraction. They're keeping security focused somewhere else, giving Jordan and Maggie the window they need to break into the server room and pull whatever files we can get before Argus Corps shows up.

But that's not why I want to run out there.

I want to run out there because if Soot is Kate, I can't let her get killed.

I tighten my grip on the edge of the shelving unit, the cool metal biting into my gloves as I turn to Jordan, trying to explain, to give them something, anything, that justifies what I'm about to do. "I'm gonna--"

But Jordan cuts me off with a sharp flick of their hand. "Sam. Go."

I blink. "Wait, I--"

"I get it," they say, voice low but steady. They don't even turn to look at me, their focus still on the shifting smoke and the shadows moving through it. "Soot's out there alone, and we both know you're not gonna sit here and twiddle your thumbs while that happens. You're the leader. You make the calls."

"I--" I start again, but it dies in my throat. My chest feels tight, words jamming up behind my ribs. I want to argue, to lay out my logic--that this is strategic, that Soot being alive is helpful, that this isn't just about me being soft. But Jordan doesn't need to hear any of that. They already know.

"I trust you," they add, finally turning to glance at me, helmet tilted just enough for me to feel the weight behind the words. "So stop wasting time."

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, something loosening in my chest. The sounds of chaos in the warehouse are getting louder--heavy footsteps pounding against the concrete, metal scraping as security teams reposition. Somewhere deeper in the smoke, I hear a dull thud, like someone's body hitting a wall, followed by a sharp hiss of smoke twisting tighter. Soot's holding their own. For now.

Jordan turns to Maggie, who's been bouncing on the balls of her feet, eyes darting between us and the rising smoke.

"Flashpoint," Jordan says, "your repulsion fields--do they go through objects, or do they stop at surfaces?"

Maggie squints, like she's just now realizing she's about to become a wrecking ball. "Uh... I think they go through? Like, walls don't really stop them? But I haven't exactly tried to break into a reinforced security door before."

Jordan hums, already running a gloved hand over the rough metal surface of the door to the security room. "Doesn't matter. We were gonna find someone with access, but this is faster. We don't need the whole door gone--just the right parts."

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"Like the hinges?" Maggie suggests, tilting her head.

"Maybe the keypad," Jordan suggests, gesturing to the panel next to the door. "If we fry the electronics, it might pop the lock, or if we just punch the keypad through we can reach in and disengage the lock manually."

Maggie squints at the door, then shakes her head. "You'd end up locking it down harder."

Jordan pauses, considering that, but Maggie steps forward, tapping the door near the handle. "If I slam the deadbolt against the strike plate, or maybe aim the other way around, I might be able to jimmy it out. But if it's magnetically closed... No, we could just bust the strike plate out. Yeah. I can probably break the screws out."

Jordan blinks, turning to look at her properly. "Wait, how do you even know that?"

Maggie shrugs, a little too casual. "I help my uncle fix up houses sometimes. Learned some stuff."

Jordan chuckles, sounding genuinely impressed. "Well, look at you, Ms. DIY. Alright, let's hit the strike plate."

Maggie grins wide under her mask, already pulling off her gloves to get better control over her fields. "I like this plan. Less people-punching, more door-punching."

Jordan chuckles, but then their helmet snaps back toward me. "And you--" they point, "--why are you still here?"

I hesitate, heart thudding loud in my ears, but then I hear it--the sharp sound of fists colliding with something hard, the echo of footsteps scrambling over metal, and the low growl of someone--probably Bash--somewhere deeper in the smoke.

I don't wait any longer.

I bolt.

The sounds of Maggie and Jordan talking fade behind me as I weave through the shifting clouds, my heart racing and my stomach knotted tight. The smoke swirls thick around my legs, and I can already hear the scuffle ahead--grunts, gasps, the slap of shoes against concrete, the metallic clang of something heavy being thrown.

The smoke thickens fast, curling into dense pockets between the shelves, swallowing everything in a gray-blue haze. Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, there's the heavy thud of boots against concrete, the low growl of Bash's voice cutting through the fog. I can't see him, but I can feel it -- the dull reverberation of something massive moving with way too much force for a normal human. Every step makes the metal shelving creak like it's seconds away from folding in on itself.

But what catches my eye first isn't Bash -- it's the sudden, sharp-edged glow of light slicing through the smoke. A wall. Bright cyan-blue, flat and gleaming, rising up out of nowhere like someone just hit "spawn" in a game. Another one appears perpendicular to it, boxing off part of the smoke, forcing it to billow upwards and around the edges.

Soot's trying to keep the fog spread out, but these new barriers are cutting it off, corralling it into useless corners.

Then I spot him -- the guy behind the walls. Lanky, wiry, wearing jeans and a loose hoodie that looks about three sizes too big, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His skin's pale, but what really grabs my attention are the veins -- thin lines, glowing the same cyan as the force fields, snaking across his forearms and up his neck in jagged, branching patterns.

Lenny.

He waves one hand sharply, and another flat pane snaps into place, slamming down just inches away from a swirl of smoke, cutting it off like a guillotine. The stuff rebounds, swirling helplessly against the forcefield before dissipating into the haze. It's weird -- the smoke doesn't burn away or get blown aside. It just... gets denied.

His other hand flicks sideways, tracing lines through the air, and more barriers snap into place -- clean, sharp lines, all flat surfaces. He's building makeshift mazes out of the smoke, pushing it back, boxing Soot in.

But it's clear that even though he's got all this control over the barriers, he's not watching his own back.

I don't think. I just move.

I weave through the thickest parts of the smoke, using it as cover, keeping low. My gloves scuff against the concrete, knees sliding across patches of oily grime as I duck past a barrier that juts out just over my head. I can see Lenny's outline now -- wiry, sharp-angled, all jittery energy as he throws up another sheet of force to block off a new wave of smoke.

I get right behind him, crouched low, and then lunge.

My shoulder slams into his spine, catching him square in the back before he even realizes I'm there. He stumbles forward, a strangled yelp slipping out of him, and I capitalize, wrapping an arm around his neck and dragging him down.

But before I can pin him, something slams into me.

A flat wall -- one of his barriers -- appears out of nowhere, catching me mid-move and knocking me sideways. It doesn't throw me hard -- it's more like being shoved by an invisible hand -- but it's enough to break my grip. I skid across the concrete, rolling back to my feet fast, my breath hissing between my teeth.

Lenny spins around, eyes wide, his glowing veins pulsing brighter as he recognizes me. "You--what the hell--"

I charge again.

This time, he tries to throw up another wall between us, but I'm faster. I duck low, sliding under the half-formed barrier before it fully materializes, and slam my gauntlet into his side, right under the ribs. There's a satisfying crack as something in the gauntlet discharges, sending a sharp jolt through his body -- not enough to knock him out, but enough to make him stumble.

He yells, half in pain, half in panic, and his focus wavers. One of the barriers falters, flickering before collapsing entirely, letting a fresh wave of smoke billow back into the area.

That's when I hear the heavier steps.

Thoom. Thoom.

I pivot just in time to see Bash barreling through the haze, his massive frame cutting through the fog like it's not even there. His skin's flushed, glistening with sweat, muscles swollen with the same unnatural density I saw at the marina. His power -- making him heavier, denser, without slowing him down -- makes every footstep sound like a car accident waiting to happen.

He doesn't even hesitate. He charges straight at me, one arm raised like he's going to swipe me clean off my feet.

I barely dodge in time, throwing myself to the side as his fist slams into the ground where I was standing. The concrete cracks, a spiderweb of fractures spreading outward. The sheer force of it sends a shockwave through the floor, knocking over nearby shelves, sending crates toppling.

I scramble up, heart racing, but Bash is already turning back toward me, grinning. "Oh, you're here. Good. Was hoping for a warm-up."

I clench my jaw, trying to keep my breathing even. He's stronger now -- heavier, faster -- but not unstoppable. I just have to be smarter.

But before I can make a move, Soot emerges from the smoke behind Bash, their silhouette barely visible through the thick haze. They throw something -- a glass canister -- that bounces once before releasing a burst of dense, gray vapor right at Bash's feet.

Bash coughs, waving the smoke away, but it's thick, swirling, clinging to him like oil.

Soot doesn't say anything -- they never do -- but there's a moment where their head turns toward me, like they were expecting me to show up. Not surprised. Not relieved. Just... accepting.

I adjust my stance, glancing between Bash and Lenny, who's still on the ground but trying to push himself up, cyan veins glowing brighter as he summons another barrier. It snaps into place between him and Soot, cutting off the new cloud of smoke.

I grit my teeth, raising my gauntlet. "Hey, Soot!" I shout through the fog. "You looked like you could use a hand."

They don't respond. Of course they don't.

But they don't tell me to leave either. Which, for Soot, is basically an invitation.