The smoke's so thick I can't see my own hand in front of my face. It curls and billows around me, swallowing the metal shelving and chemical drums, swallowing Soot, swallowing the sounds of footsteps that could be Bash, Lenny, or maybe just one of the guards tripping over a fallen crate. I'm crouched low, my back against a metal beam, lungs burning with every inhale. Even with Gossamer's filters in my helmet, it's too much--pepper spray, fireworks smoke, and whatever else Soot mixed in to make this place a literal death trap.

The earpiece crackles, and for a second I think it's just interference, but then I hear Tasha's voice, sharp and panicked: "Sam, Jordan, everyone--"

I press my hand to my ear, trying to tune out the dull thud of Bash's footsteps in the distance. "Say again?" I whisper.

"Argus Corps just pulled up. No cop cars. No sirens. It's them." Her voice wobbles, like even saying it out loud makes it worse.

I blink, my mind catching up a half-second too late. "Argus?" Maggie whispers, barely audible over the hissing smoke in my other ear.

"Yeah," I say, breath catching. "I'm staring at them right now."

There's a beat of radio silence before Jordan cuts in, flat and sharp, "They sent Argus? No cops? No sirens?*"

"Nothing," Tasha confirms. "They came in a beat-up sedan. No markings. No lights."

"So this is off the books," Jordan mutters, and I can picture them running a hand over their helmet, thinking fast. "Okay. We're burning the clock. Gossamer, order the cab. Maggie, prep for evac. Sam--get out of there. Now."

But before I can even move, I hear it--a deep, booming voice cutting through the smoke like it owns the place. No hesitation, no doubt.

"Argus Corps, lock it down."

I freeze for half a second, heart slamming in my chest. That's Patriot. Of course it's him.

His voice carries through the warehouse, sharp and commanding, every word landing like a punch. "Jett--Bash is yours. Keep him busy, don't let him punch through anything explosive."

There's a titter of laughter somewhere deeper in the warehouse--probably Turbo Jett kicking into another gear--and the sound of metal creaking as Bash starts moving faster, heavier. I can't see them, only hear and feel them, rumbling transmitting through every metal strut and shelf.

"Captain Devil, on the smoke freak. Keep them cornered." That'd be Soot. Great. Like they didn't have enough problems already.

I catch a glimpse through the haze--a shadow moving toward Soot, the smoke bending away in wide, clean arcs. Captain Devil. Even through the fog, it's like he's got a direct line to them.

"Miasma," Patriot's voice cuts again, "that gray wolf's yours."

It takes me a beat to realize he means me. Does he know that there's not two wolf-themed... no, Derek, I mean... does... You know what? Never mind. I can't tell if he's being dismissive or if he genuinely thinks it's not me. Either way, I'm not looking forward to fighting Miasma.

"I'll mop up the trash," Patriot finishes, and I know exactly who he means. Lenny. The guards. The ones who aren't worth his time. Because that's how he works--heroes, villains, civilians--it's all just a tactical problem for him to solve.

I press my back tighter against the metal beam, lungs burning. "Jordan?" I whisper into the comms, "I think we've got our matchups. They don't know you or Flash are here."

"Copy that," Jordan replies, voice clipped. "New plan: stall, escape, survive."

I'm already trying, but there's a shape moving through the smoke--tall, broad, and way too calm for the chaos around us. Captain Devil.

He moves like the smoke isn't there. Not like Turbo Jett's palm thrusts and wild kicks that blow it apart, but in smooth, sweeping arcs, the haze bending around him like someone took a massive invisible paintbrush and dragged it through the air, clearing wide, clean paths. His face--what little I can see--is half-shrouded under his scarf, but his head tilts like he's watching me, even though I'm buried deep in the smoke.

I duck behind a stack of crates, holding my breath, but I swear I can still feel him closing in. No clue how--echolocation? Super smell? Something worse? I don't know, and that's the problem. He's just... finding people.

"Sam?" Jordan's still in my ear. "You moving?"

"I'm moving," I whisper, forcing my legs to keep going even though my lungs are practically clawing for air. "But I think Captain Devil's tracking me. Not sure how, but the smoke isn't slowing him down."

"We're working on it," Jordan says, but there's a tightness in their voice. They know we're outclassed here. We all do.

I keep low, sliding between two rows of stacked chemical drums, trying to get to the edge of the smoke where I might have a chance to breathe. My heart's racing, every nerve on edge.

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Then I hear it--crack-crack-crack--like concrete splitting. I turn just in time to see the smoke in front of me blow out in a straight line, like someone just fired a cannon through it.

Turbo Jett.

She zips into view, blurring at the edges, her goggles fogged but still locked onto me. "Found one!" she chirps, voice distorted through her cloth mask. "God, I love warehouses. So much junk to bounce off."

Her boots skid along the concrete as she stops, sliding into a crouch before kicking off again with a sudden boom. She's barely even paying attention to me. I scramble backward, trying to find cover, but I'm moving slow compared to her. Real slow. She's fast--faster than she should be--but there's something else. Heat. The air around her shimmers, almost like a heatwave rippling off asphalt. Whatever she's doing, it's not just speed.

"Jordan?" I choke into the comms, ducking low. "I could really use some help here."

"On it," Jordan replies, and then I hear a loud snap--space compressing--and the shelving units on my right slam together, crushing into each other like a giant trash compactor. The sudden movement forces the smoke to swirl back in, cutting off Turbo Jett's sightlines, but she slips out from between it before it can actually crush her.

"Move now," Jordan says.

I bolt through the gap, coughing hard as I duck between two collapsing shelves, the steel beams groaning and bending overhead. I don't stop running until I'm behind a thicker wall of smoke, the sounds of Turbo Jett cursing fading behind me. "There's more bogeys, or wolf girl has some space compression power!" I hear her yelling, loud enough for everyone to hear.

"You're good?" Jordan asks.

"For now," I pant, pressing my back to the wall. "But Captain Devil's still tracking me. He's... different."

"We're trying to pull him off. Maggie's moving in. Blink's got shots lined up if she can see an opening."

"And Soot?" I ask.

Silence. For a beat too long.

"We can't save them all, Sam," Jordan says finally, but I can hear the edge in their voice.

I grit my teeth, ignoring the burning in my lungs. "I'm going for them."

"Sam--"

"No time," I cut in. "They're about to get boxed in. Captain Devil's pushing them hard."

I duck lower, feeling the weight of the comm go silent before Jordan mutters, "Fine. But get out fast."

The smoke shifts again--wide, clean arcs cutting through the haze, the edges curling like the air itself is being sliced. Captain Devil. Still moving closer. I crouch lower, trying to hold my breath, but it's hard. The smoke stings worse now, and my helmet filters are already struggling. None of them are having any trouble because none of them are breathing the smoke. Patriot - I can glimpse his silhouette for a moment or two - is dancing around the edges, and Miasma, well, I'm not sure if he even needs to breathe.

Speaking of which, I round the corner and nearly slam into Miasma. He just stares at me, and then turns around, pretending he didn't see me.

I stumble but push forward, heart hammering. "Not today," I mutter, more to myself than to him.

"Sam--Soot's moving," Jordan says suddenly, their voice urgent. "Captain Devil's off them now. We've got a window."

"Then I'm taking it."

I break into a sprint, pushing through the smoke, the arcs of cleared air still sweeping around me, but I stay low, weaving between the thicker clouds. Miasma still behind, but I don't look back.

Ahead, I spot Soot--barely a silhouette in the swirling haze. They're still moving, but slower now, like they're running on fumes. Their hands flicker, thin streams of fog leaking out, but it's weaker--barely enough to keep them hidden.

"Soot!" I call out, but they don't turn. Of course they don't.

I slide next to them, grabbing their arm. "We need to go."

They yank away but don't bolt. There's, what, something they need to do? "Safeguard's got an exit lined up. We just need to--" I start.

The whole warehouse shudders as another of Jordan's spatial compressions snaps through the space, slicing a section of shelving near the back diagonally. It snaps the labyrinth, changes the configuration. Nothing's getting crushed, but it's hard to move in zero visibility when the walls keep changing around you.

"That was me," Jordan confirms, breathing hard. "We've got a path. But you need to move--now."

I tighten my grip on Soot's arm, pulling them along as the smoke thickens around us again. Captain Devil's still behind, but Jordan's compressions are forcing detours, slowing him down.

"Gossamer's getting the cab out front," Tasha says over the comms. "And Blink's lining up shots if anyone follows."

I try to respond, but all I can manage is a sharp cough. My lungs are burning--like, really burning now. Every breath feels like I'm sucking in glass shards, my helmet filters long since overwhelmed. The air is thick with whatever cocktail of smoke Soot mixed together--fireworks, pepper spray, maybe actual chemical fumes at this point--and I can't tell what's worse: breathing it in or holding my breath and feeling my vision blur from lack of oxygen.

I stumble, knees almost giving out, but catch myself against a metal shelf. The whole thing wobbles, and for a terrifying second, I think it's about to tip over on top of us. But no--it stays upright. I blink hard, trying to focus, but my vision's swimming at the edges, like the world is tilting sideways and spinning at the same time.

Somewhere deeper in the warehouse, I hear shouting--someone grunting, a loud thud as a body hits the floor, metal clattering against concrete. It echoes through the space in a way that makes it impossible to tell how far away it is. Jordan's compressions aren't helping--they're saving our asses, yeah, but it's disorienting as hell. Like being stuck in a maze where the walls keep moving and you can't even see the next turn because there's a literal fog of war clouding everything. I can barely keep track of my own body, let alone anyone else.

I cough again, harder this time, and I feel it--wet and sharp in my throat. My head's swimming now, the edges of my vision going soft, and my legs feel shaky, like they might just fold underneath me.

And then, over all of it--the smoke, the coughing, the yelling--I hear something new.

Soot. Speaking.

Their voice cuts through the haze, low and muffled, but still clear enough to make my stomach drop. The gas mask makes them sound mechanical, distant, but the words come through anyway.

"Everyone needs to leave."

I freeze, blinking hard, trying to make sure I actually heard that. "Soot?" I choke out, still half-doubled over from coughing.

"Now," they say, more forceful this time. "I'll handle this."

The words echo in my head, distorted through the mask and the comms, but there's no mistaking the meaning. Soot isn't planning to run.

"Wait, what? No--" I start, but my voice cracks from the smoke. I can barely get the words out.

"Just go," Soot snaps, yanking their arm out of my grip. Their body language is tense--determined, almost--but there's something else there too. Like this was always their plan. Like this was what they came here for. "Unless you like chlorine gas."

No.

They're going to nuke the whole warehouse.