As the final words of farewell are spoken and the echo of the closing prayer fades into the solemn quiet of Laurel Hill East, the gathered crowd begins to stir. The ceremony, a span of hours that felt both eternal and fleeting, has come to an end. Liberty Belle, Diane, has been laid to rest among Philadelphia's fallen, her story now etched in the memory of the city she protected.

I'm bone-tired, the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your marrow, a weariness not just from today, but from the accumulation of loss and the relentless march of days that followed Diane's death. The somber cloud that hung over us as we stood in respect now begins to dissipate, and the crowd slowly transitions from mourners to clusters of people, talking, sharing stories, or just silently reflecting as they amble around.

The workers at the cemetery move with a practiced efficiency, folding chairs and clearing the space with a quiet respect for the sacredness of the event that just took place. They're like ghosts, unseen yet integral to the fabric of this day, their movements a whisper against the backdrop of goodbyes.

But I notice. I'm more interested in them than every other big wig here.

How must it feel to be made to pack away chairs on a day like this?

I reach out, seeking the familiar comfort of Jamila's presence, but my hand finds only empty air. I turn, searching for her in the crowd, but she's already gone, swept away in the tide of people. A pang of loneliness hits me, and I’m reminded, not for the first time today, that despite the sea of people, I am fundamentally alone.

The realization settles heavy in my stomach as I stand there, a 14-year-old dressed in the garb of a hero among a sea of adults who've known each other, fought with each other, and now grieve with each other. They schmooze - you know, they chatter about with each other, but schmooze is what Pop-Pop Moe says - with a familiarity borne of shared experience, their laughter and tears mingling in the chill air, while I stand on the periphery, cloaked in the guise of Bloodhound, feeling anything but heroic.

I feel the weight of the mask on my face, a barrier that's supposed to offer anonymity but instead seems to accentuate my isolation. Around me, the cemetery is coming back to life, the starkness of the funeral giving way to the muted sounds of life going on—footsteps in snow, the murmur of conversation, the distant sound of traffic from beyond the cemetery gates.

After the sun sets, the crowd will be let inside to pay their respects. But not before.

With nothing left to anchor me to the spot, I begin to navigate through the dispersing crowd, each step an effort to shake off the numbness that the day has draped over my shoulders. I need to move, to walk, to feel something other than this hollowness.

I don't know where I'm going, and right now, it doesn't matter. I just need to be anywhere but here, away from the echoes of speeches and the silent pressure of expectation. Maybe I'll find Jamila, or maybe I'll just find a quiet corner to unravel in. Either way, I move, because standing still feels too much like giving in to the sadness that's been threatening to swallow me whole.

The weight of the day presses down on me, a tangible force as I weave through the dissipating crowd, each step an effort to distance myself from the grave and the ceremony that still seems to reverberate through the air. I'm lost in the anonymity of my mask, a shield against the world, when a tap on my shoulder jolts me back to reality.

I spin around, the instinctive hope that it's Jamila or any of the Young Defenders fizzling out as I come face to face with a stranger — a man with a notepad in one hand and a pen poised in the other. He's got that look, the one I've seen on adults who are trying to be gentle with kids who've scraped their knees — a mix of sympathy and awkwardness.

"You must be Bloodhound?" he ventures, his eyes flicking to my mask for confirmation. The dog-themed design, meant to be a symbol of my powers, now feels like a beacon drawing unwelcome attention. "Jarvis Wallace, with the Philadelphia Inquirer."

"Yeah, that's me," I reply, the words sticking slightly in my throat. I'm not used to this, being the focus of someone's interest, especially not today. "Can I help you?"

The reporter nods, his expression earnest. "I'm sorry for your loss. Liberty Belle… she was a hero to all of us." There's a pause, heavy with expectation, before he continues, "She mentioned her protégés now and then. Would you mind sharing what she was like as a mentor?"

His question opens the floodgates, and suddenly, I'm not just a face in the crowd anymore. People start to gravitate towards us, drawn by the possibility of a story, of a glimpse into the life of the hero we've just buried. They form a semi-circle around me, their presence a pressure at my back.

I should feel trapped, but instead, there's a flicker of something else. Gratification? It's confusing, this sense of importance, of being the keeper of part of Liberty Belle's legacy. It's a role I never asked for, but the attention feels like fresh water down my throat after a day in the desert. The sunlight bounces off the snow at the wrong angle, as the sun begins to dip low, getting ready to set at its winter 5 o'clock.

"She was…" I start, searching for the right words, "She was tough, you know? Made you work hard, push yourself. She believed in doing the right thing, always." It's the truth, but it feels hollow, like I'm reading from a script I didn't write.

The reporter's nod is like the cue for an orchestra, and the first question he asks leads into a symphony of others. "What was the most important lesson Liberty Belle taught you?" he inquires, his pen ready.

I stumble for a moment, caught off-guard. "Discipline," I find myself saying. "She was all about control — controlling your powers, your emotions, your actions. Everything measured, everything with a purpose. Discipline and knowledge."

A woman, her face kind and lined with the marks of time and concern, steps forward from the crowd. "Did she ever talk about her own mentors? Who shaped her into the hero she became?"

I shake my head, regretting that I can't provide what she's seeking. "She didn't talk much about her past. It was always about the here and now, the mission at hand." It's an incomplete answer, but it's all I have. Anything I learned about Professor Franklin was given in half-sentences. I have nothing to add that the world hasn't already picked at like vultures.

The questions keep coming, each one chipping away at the barrier I'd built around myself. They ask about her favorite moments, her quirks on the field, how she dealt with the weight of her responsibilities. With each query, I dredge up snippets from the past, offering them like fragments of a mosaic that these people are desperate to piece together.

A man in a neatly pressed coat raises his hand, his demeanor respectful. "Did she ever express what she wanted for the future of Philadelphia, for the next generation of heroes?"

I think about the letter. I stop. I inhale.

The air is cold in my lungs.

"She told me to question authority. And search for the truth relentlessly," I say, feeling my heart beginning to thud in my chest. I feel a sudden rush of anxiety, like I just said something I wasn't supposed to. My palms begin sweating. "Never accept the easy answers."

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

"And how do you feel, Bloodhound?"

I freeze, turning slowly, as a familiar voice cuts into me like brambles. The world seems to tilt slightly as I lock eyes with Mrs. Z. Her hair is as I remember it, a cascade of bouncy waves, her skin a rich, dark canvas for the narrow, angular features that are set in an expression of cool curiosity. The woman from the storm, the one who called forth the rain as Mr. T-Rex tore through my life like an out-of-control piece of construction equipment.

My heart hammers against my ribcage, a caged bird frantic to escape. My breath catches, each inhale sharp as shards of glass in my lungs. Panic claws its way up my throat, and I can feel the edges of my vision begin to blur, my heart beating inside my ears. The cemetery, the crowd, the questions — they all recede, leaving nothing but the piercing gaze of Mrs. Z.

Why is she here, inside the cemetery, where only honored guests and close acquaintances tread? She should be outside, with the other civilians, shouldn't she? That thought alone sends a shiver down my spine, a whisper of suspicion that makes my skin crawl. Her presence among the mourners means something, hints at a connection I can't see, a piece of the puzzle hidden in plain sight.

"I—uh—" My voice is a strained whisper, and I hate how weak it sounds. I have to get out of here. I can't let her see how much she affects me, can't give her the satisfaction.

Mrs. Z's eyes narrow slightly, her head tilting as if she’s reading the chaos of thoughts racing behind my mask. "It's a lot, isn't it? For someone so young," she says, her voice almost sympathetic.

I nod, swallowing hard against the lump in my throat. "I need to… check on something," I stammer, the words clumsy, an excuse to escape this confrontation, to escape her unnerving scrutiny.

The urge to lash out, to throw a punch at Mrs. Z, is like an itch in my fists, but I clench them at my sides, knowing that violence isn't the answer. Not here. Not now. I have to be smart, have to be like Diane—like Liberty Belle—and keep my composure. I squeeze my nails into my palms.

I back away, the world narrowing to the pounding of my heart in my ears. The crowd feels like a wall closing in, and I need space, air, escape. Instinct kicks in, and I turn, my feet finding their rhythm, faster and faster.

The cemetery transforms into a blur as I run. My legs are a flurry of motion, each stride a testament to the training and reflexes honed over countless hours. I'm Bloodhound, fast as a bullet, swift as a shadow. The snow-covered paths twist and turn before me, but I navigate them with ease, my body moving on autopilot.

The crowd thins as I push further from the heart of the ceremony, from the site of my panic, from Mrs. Z and her judgmental eyes. The world around me grows quieter, the murmur of voices fading into a distant hum, the clatter of folding chairs a faint echo.

I keep running, my breath forming clouds of steam in the rapidly cooling air. The sky, a vast expanse above me, darkens ominously, the late afternoon sun obscured by gathering clouds. It feels like the day is collapsing into night, the light fleeing as if in sympathy with my own need to escape.

Then, snowflakes start to fall—gentle at first, then growing in intensity, a silent cascade from a steel-grey sky. My first thought is Mrs. Z. Is this her doing? Another display of her power? The notion sends a fresh spike of adrenaline coursing through me, and I push harder, faster, trying to outrun my own racing thoughts.

The cemetery is a maze of monuments, but I navigate it with the ease of the hunted, darting past statues that watch over the resting with silent vigil. The snowflakes swirl around me, catching in my hair, melting on my skin. They're cold, but my body burns with exertion, embarassment and fear flowing through me faster than any blood.

I slow to a stop, my chest heaving, my body slick with sweat despite the cold. I turn to look back at the expanse of graves and tombs, now shrouded in a veil of falling snow. It's quiet.

I'm left feeling hollowed out, but the panic has passed. I straighten up, wipe the tears that have spilled over, and set my jaw.

The labyrinth of gravestones and monuments falls behind me as I slow to a standstill, my breath clouding in the frigid air. The panic that propelled me through the cemetery has ebbed away, leaving behind a residue of exhaustion and a hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. The serene beauty of the snow-covered tombs almost makes me feel better.

As I turn back to take in the sight, my heart nearly leaps out of my chest when I see Jamila and Gossamer suddenly appear beside me. Gossamer, always the epitome of fashion even in mourning, is wrapped in stylish winter layers, her domino mask perfectly in place. Jamila, her concern etched clearly on her face, is also in her mask, a look of relief flooding her features when she sees me, hijab wrinkling with her movements.

"Sam, where did you go?" Jamila's voice is tinged with worry. "We've been looking everywhere for you. You just… vanished after the reception."

I open my mouth, words failing me at first. How do I explain the encounter with Mrs. Z, the surge of panic, the overwhelming urge to flee? "I… I had to get out of there," I manage to say, my voice shaky. "Mrs. Z was there, and she spoke to me. It freaked me out. I just… I couldn't stay."

Gossamer's expression shifts to one of deep sympathy. Without a word, she steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a hug. It's warm and comforting, but also a bit too much. I squirm in her embrace, not used to such open displays of affection, especially when I'm still trying to process everything.

Jamila watches us, her eyes soft with understanding. "It's okay, Sam. You're safe now. We're here for you," she reassures me, her voice soothing. "You saw… Mrs. Z? From…"

"From the Kingdom. She was there when the T-Rex guy…" I pant, still trying to catch my breath, like trying to squeeze toothpaste back into a bottle. "You know, when he destroyed my house. She was here. Why was she here?"

Jamila's brow furrows in confusion as she processes what I've said. "Mrs. Z was at your house during the attack, and now she's here? That's… weird. And kind of scary."

"Yeah," I agree, my words tumbling out in a rush. "It doesn't make sense. Why would she be here, at the funeral? It's like she's following me or something."

Gossamer releases me from the hug but keeps a protective arm around my shoulders. "We need to tell someone about this. Councilman Davis, maybe. He should know what's going on, especially if it involves the Kingdom."

I nod, a little dazed. "Yeah, maybe he can do something about it. Or at least figure out why she's here."

Jamila looks between Gossamer and me, her expression one of concern. "We should stick together for now. It's safer that way, and… well, I don't want you to be alone after something like that."

I manage a weak smile, grateful for their support. "Thanks, guys. I… I really appreciate it."

Gossamer gives my shoulder a squeeze. "Let's head back to the group. We'll keep an eye out, and we'll talk to Davis as soon as we can."

As we start walking back towards where the rest of the mourners are gathered, I can't help but glance over my shoulder, half expecting to see Mrs. Z lurking in the shadows. But there's nothing—just the silent, snow-covered graves and the fading light.

The conversation trails off as we rejoin the crowd, the noise and movement a stark contrast to the quiet solitude of the cemetery's edge. The anxiety that had gripped me so tightly begins to loosen its hold, but it's replaced by a nagging sense of unease. Why was Mrs. Z here? What did she want with me?

The cemetery, once teeming with mourners, has begun to fill back up in its ebb. The important guests have departed. The sky, painted in hues of orange and purple, signals the opening of the gates, and the civilians who had been waiting patiently outside begin to filter in, their expressions a mix of respect and curiosity. A larger, unrulier crowd.

Gossamer glances at the growing number of civilians and then at us. "Hey, Gale, why don't you and Bloodhound go flying to get out of here? I'll find Councilman Davis and fill him in. You two should take a break, grab some Wawa or something. We'll touch base later, okay?"

Jamila looks at me, her eyes asking a silent question. I can barely manage a nod, my mind still reeling from the encounter with Mrs. Z and the overwhelming day. The idea of flying, of leaving the ground and all its complications behind, even just for a little while, sounds like a welcome respite. I don't want to touch the snow anymore.

I hate the snow. I hated it before and I'm beginning to hate it even more.

"Yeah, okay," I agree, my voice a mere whisper. Jamila's wind powers are gentle but firm, and I find myself clinging to her as she summons a gust strong enough to lift us both, billowing under our clothes and fluffing them out like parachutes.

The wind whips around us, tugging at our jackets and scarves and hair as we rise above the cemetery. The ground falls away, and with it, the weight of the day seems to lighten, if only slightly. Below us, the cemetery transforms into a patchwork of stone and snow, the mourners reduced to dolls ambling about in their diorama.

We glide through the air, the city sprawling out beneath us in a tapestry of lights and shadows. The cold air bites at my cheeks, but it's refreshing, a stark contrast to the stifling atmosphere of the funeral.

As we drift towards the promise of comfort food and a momentary escape, I let myself relax just a fraction into Jamila's hold.