I push my back harder against the crate, trying to steady my breathing, but the smoke's making it worse. It's everywhere now, thick and cloying, worming its way past the filters in my helmet. My throat burns with each inhale, and I can already feel my lungs starting to tighten, like I'm breathing through a straw that someone keeps pinching closed.

The guards are closer now--two of them moving in fast, boots thudding against the concrete, cutting through the smoke with their flashlights. The beams sweep across the haze, but it's too dense for them to get a clear view. I'm still invisible in here. Mostly.

I glance around the crate, tracking their outlines through the swirling gray. One of them's got his taser raised, the prongs glinting in the flashlight beam, while the other's covering him with what looks like a collapsible baton. Neither of them's got proper gas masks--just the same cloth face coverings--but they're pushing through the smoke anyway, eyes watering, shoulders tense.

Perfect.

I shift my weight forward, crouching low, and grab one of the metal rods that toppled over during the chaos. It's bent at one end, probably from Bash's earlier rampage, but it'll work. I grip it tight, adjusting my stance, and wait for the right moment.

The first guard steps too close.

I swing the rod low, sweeping his legs out from under him. He goes down hard, his taser skidding across the floor with a clatter, and before he can recover, I'm already moving. I lunge forward, planting my knee on his chest, and slam the rod against his arm, knocking his baton away.

He thrashes beneath me, coughing through his mask, but I grab the gauntlet on my wrist and give him a quick spray of pig's blood right across his face. It soaks into the cloth, dark and sticky, and I feel the outline light up in my blood sense--another one tagged.

"One down," I mutter, even though I know there are way too many left.

But I don't have time to celebrate. The second guard's already on me, swinging his baton down hard. I twist away, but the edge clips my shoulder, sending a sharp jolt of pain down my arm. I hiss, my balance thrown off, and roll backward, the baton swinging again, narrowly missing my ribs.

"Hands where I can see them!" he barks, but his voice is muffled by the mask, strained from breathing in the smoke.

I scramble to my feet, my back hitting a metal shelf, and raise my hands mockingly. "Like this?"

He charges.

I duck low, letting his momentum carry him forward, and slam my shoulder into his stomach. He stumbles but doesn't go down. I grab his arm, twisting hard, and yank the baton from his grip before landing a solid elbow to the side of his head. He staggers, dazed, and I take the chance to spray him too--pig's blood misting over his chest and neck.

Now I've got both of them glowing in my head, bright outlines moving through the haze. I back away, lungs burning, coughing hard as the smoke thickens again. My helmet's filters are definitely starting to fail--the pepper spray, the onion fumes, the smoke itself--it's all too much.

I slam my back against a support beam, breathing shallowly, and glance around. Through my blood sense, I see Bash still lumbering through the fog, slower now, but still moving. His massive form glows like a beacon in my head, each footstep sending tremors through the concrete. He's not chasing me, though--still hunting for Soot.

I shout through my helmet, my voice coming out rough and strained. "Soot... they're getting closer. You need to move!"

No response.

I glance toward the far end of the warehouse, where the guards are regrouping. One of them's coughing violently, slumped against a crate, while the other is waving his flashlight through the fog, trying to get a visual. The smoke is everywhere now--so thick I can barely see my own hands. My helmet's visor is fogging up from the inside, the filters hissing with each breath, struggling to keep up. I can feel my heartbeat pounding in my ears, my head starting to spin.

I need air.

I duck low, crawling along the floor where the smoke's thinner, trying to find some clearer space, but even down here, it's choking. I cough hard, my throat burning, vision blurring. My blood sense flickers for a moment, the outlines of the guards and Bash blinking in and out like a bad signal.

"Blood!" Jordan's voice crackles through the comms, sharp and urgent. "Status?"

I choke down another cough. "Holding... barely. Soot's still in here. Guards closing in."

"Sam, listen," Jordan says, their tone more serious now. "We got what we need. It's time to go. Get Soot, if you can, but don't die trying. Alarms are tripped and I'd bet cops are on the way. We've got two minutes, tops, before this goes totally out of our control."

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

The words hit me hard. Two minutes. I scan the area again, my blood sense barely holding on. Soot's flaring in my blood sense, bleeding into their hoodie, although I'm not sure from what injury. They're running low on smoke--less of it is coming out now--but they're still managing to stay ahead of Bash.

I push off the beam, trying to stand, but my legs are shaky, unsteady. My lungs feel like they're filled with cement, each breath a struggle. I cough again, my throat raw, and force myself forward, stumbling through the fog.

A loud crash echoes nearby--Bash slamming into another stack of crates. Metal groans and bends under his weight, but I can tell he's slowing down, too. The smoke's getting to him, even with whatever drugs he's juiced up on.

I take a shaky step forward, then another, following the glowing outlines in my head. The two guards I tagged are moving again, trying to regroup, but they're slower now, more cautious. The smoke's getting to them, too. One of them coughs hard, dropping to a knee, while the other stumbles blindly, flashlight beam flickering.

I duck behind another crate, my body screaming for air, and key the comms again. "Jordan... I don't know if I can--" My voice cracks, another coughing fit cutting me off.

"You can," Jordan snaps. "You've got this. Just grab Soot and get out. We're almost there."

I grit my teeth, forcing down the coughs, and push forward again. The smoke is suffocating now--my helmet's filters are shot, barely keeping anything out. My vision swims, and I can feel my pulse pounding in my head.

I stumble into a clearer patch, coughing hard, and finally spot Soot's silhouette through the haze, lining it up with where it sits in my blood sense. They're crouched low, near a stack of chemical drums, still releasing smoke from their hands, but they're moving slower now, too. I can see the exhaustion in the way their shoulders slump, the way they keep glancing over their shoulder at Bash.

"Soot!" I call out, my voice hoarse. "We need to go! Now!"

They don't respond, but they turn slightly, their head tilting like they heard me. Then they flick their wrist, releasing another burst of smoke, but it's thinner this time, more transparent. They're running out.

I start toward them, forcing my legs to move, but then a loud crash echoes through the warehouse--Bash slamming into another shelf, sending crates flying. One of them clips my shoulder, knocking me sideways. I hit the ground hard, the wind knocked out of me, and for a moment, everything blurs.

I cough violently, trying to suck in air, but it's useless. The smoke is too thick. My lungs feel like they're on fire, my head spinning.

"Sam!" Jordan's voice cracks through the comms again. "Get out of there!"

I try to push myself up, my arms shaking, but my vision keeps blurring. I glance toward Soot--they're still there, still crouched low, but now they're looking at me, their face obscured by the smoke.

I force myself to my feet, swaying, and stagger toward them. "Soot! We need to go!"

But before I can reach them, a loud, metallic creak echoes through the warehouse, followed by a booming voice.

"GEAR THREE!"

The metallic creak grows louder, the shutter groaning under immense strain as it's forced upward. Through the gaps in the rising door, I catch the flash of bright red gloves, fingers curled under the edge like hooks. The whole thing lifts slowly, the metal screaming in protest, dust and debris raining down from the warped hinges.

And there she is--Turbo Jett--grinning like she's about to set a world record. Her red jacket glints in the warehouse's flickering lights, flame decals swirling around her legs as she plants her feet and forces the shutter higher, muscles rippling with each pull. She huffs through her nose, then, with one last heave, slams it into its holding above her head.

Then she lets go.

The shutter slams down behind her with a deafening clang, sealing us all in, along with the silhouettes flanking her side.

A deeper voice chimes in from the haze, lazy and unimpressed. "Could've just ripped it open."

Captain Devil steps through the swirling smoke, massive and deliberate. His trench coat sways with each step, his red scarf fluttering behind him like a banner. His face is mostly hidden behind his domino mask, mouth set in a firm line, but even without seeing his eyes, I feel them. Like a weight pressing down on my chest. The wrongness creeps in, slow but steady, like ice water seeping into my veins.

My brain tries to logic through it, but something deeper--instinctual--pushes past all that. Fight or flight. Predator. I tense, hands shaking slightly, heart racing like it knows something I don't. Every part of me is screaming to get away, even though he hasn't done a damn thing yet.

Turbo Jett bounces on her heels, completely unfazed. "Come on, Cap! It's way more fun this way," she says, flashing a grin at him over her shoulder.

"Fun," Captain Devil replies, flat and cold, without breaking stride.

And then the smell hits--sharp, acrid, something like rot and bleach mixed together. I cough hard, my lungs already burning, but this makes it worse. It seeps through the filters in my mask, wrapping around my throat like smoke that's not smoke. Double smoke. Smoke squared. A figure steps through the doorway next, yellow hazmat suit practically glowing against the dark warehouse. Miasma. His skeletal mask stares straight ahead, the wide, grinning jaw molded into a permanent sneer.

He shuts his hazmat suit back up. "No loading bay ripping," Miasma says, voice hollow and distorted through the mask. He waves a gloved hand through the air, casual. "Job's to avoid collateral damage, remember? We're here to look good for Maya."

Turbo Jett laughs. "Pfft. You sound like a dad."

"Worse things to sound like," Miasma deadpans, the skeletal grin making it worse.

I cough harder, pressing a hand to my chest. The smoke around us is starting to thin--not because of any powers, but from the sheer displacement as these four push deeper inside.

And then the heavy boots hit the ground, each step deliberate, echoing through the space.

"As a wise man once said... 'I'm made of metal, my circuits gleam. I am perpetual, I keep the country clean.'"

Patriot enters, bald head gleaming under the warehouse lights, the eagle insignia on his chest practically shining. He carries his shield slung over his back, hands clenched into fists at his sides. Every step feels calculated, like he's done this a thousand times before and already knows how it ends.

He scans the warehouse once--just once--before barking out his order. "Detain the capes. Get the civvies out. Let's roll."

Turbo Jett claps her hands together, giddy. "Finally!"