Illya Myronovych Fedorov.

That's his name. That's the name of the man who killed Liberty Belle.

Christmas passes without fanfare. Lily doesn't celebrate it, neither do I, and the winter break is giving me two weeks to distract myself from my flagging grades.

The notebook feels heavier than it should as I flip it open, its pages dense with Liberty Belle's meticulous notes. Her handwriting is sharp, precise, like her. I start with the first page dedicated to Fedorov. It's filled with basic info -- birth date, place, a few sparse details about his early life. It's like reading someone's biography, except this one's about a guy who is also a walking nuclear reactor.

"Born in Kyiv, Ukraine, 1985," I read under my breath. "Son of a school teacher and a librarian." Normal stuff, really. Nothing screams 'future supervillain here.' But then, I guess nobody really plans on going down that route. I feel a little weird about our shared commonality - the librarian mothers, the Jewish upbringing. But I push the feeling down.

The next pages detail his education. 'Graduated from Taras Shevchenko National University of Kyiv, major in Mechanical Engineering.' Belle even included a photocopy of his graduation picture. He looks normal, smiling, hopeful, almost handsome, with black salt-and-pepper hair that curls like an ocean wave over the side of his head, and big, broad shoulders. He looks just like any other grad. It's hard to reconcile this image with the monster that gave Liberty Belle the fight of her life. The man who killed Professor Franklin.

Her notes get more intense as they go. 'Masters in Nuclear Engineering from Kyiv Polytechnic.' That's when things start to get interesting. Belle noted his shift to the Zaporizhzhia Nuclear Power Plant, and that's where the normalcy ends. 'Accident. Details redacted.' The word 'redacted' is underlined twice.

I flip to another section, where Belle pieced together info about his life post-accident. There are newspaper clippings, interview transcripts, even some sketches that look like they're from a surveillance op. She really dug deep. 'Manifestation of powers during reactor malfunction.' I pause, imagining the chaos, the fear. What would it be like, to suddenly find yourself with powers like that, in the middle of a disaster?

The notes on his family are brief but poignant. 'Wife, Olena. Daughter, Yulia, born 2008.' There's a family photo clipped to the page. They look happy. Normal. A high school science teacher, and a girl almost exactly my age, although the only pictures Liberty Belle has are of her as a 7 year old. Does his daughter know what her dad turned into? Does she ever see him, or is he too dangerous now? Her hair is the same kind of wavy as mine.

Belle's notes on his psychology are the most chilling. 'Displays signs of PTSD. Increasingly paranoid.' No kidding. I guess having your whole life explode -- literally -- does that to you. Pages of assessments, files I couldn't even imagine how she got access to, emails sent under the guise of a concerned colleague or fake family member to ex-professors, ex-teachers, ex-coworkers.

The last part of the notebook, after the biography, the interviews, the pictures that seem to have been taken by Belle herself in Ukraine, leaves me with one final note. 'Nom-de-crime "Chernobyl" bestowed by US govt. Illya does not respond well to it. No shit.'

And for some reason, that catches me by surprise. He didn't name himself? Then, I second-guess myself - of course he didn't. Why would a Ukranian name themselves after the worst nuclear disaster of their country's history? Knowing that it was our government that gave him that name makes me feel a lump rising in my throat. It feels… disrespectful? Should I be feeling angry right now? Should I be offended on his behalf?

I need to keep reading. There's so much here, and I've barely scratched the surface. But every page, every word, feels like a step closer to understanding the man who killed my mentor. And maybe, just maybe, a step closer to finding out how to stop him.

I turn the page. There's only one word. I flip through the rest of the notebook, finding nothing. Hours digging into an autobiography of a walking nuclear disaster, and it ends with the word 'Porcelain?' underlined in red ink, bleeding through the page. What? Porcelain? What does that have to do with anything?

I shut the notebook, my eyes bleary, the world having skipped past without me. Already, the sun is starting to set, but I barely remember waking up this morning on the futon. Lily is out, her parents are at work - it's just me in the house, now.

It's just me until there's a knock on the door.

It's sharp, urgent, and loud. Shave and a haircut - two bits. I freeze, the notebook still in my hand. Who could that be? Lily's parents wouldn't knock, and Lily would just barge in like she owned the place - which, technically, she sort of does.

I shuffle to the door, my heart hammering in my chest. Peeking through the peephole, I see two stern-looking people in suits. One's a tall woman with a no-nonsense haircut, the other's a broad-shouldered man with a face that looks like it's never heard a joke it liked. My threat assessment instincts, still being tuned by practice and training, kick in nonetheless. There's a car behind them, probably theirs. They each have a gun, comfortably but noticably holstered on their hips. They could, theoretically shoot me.

Play along time.

The woman steps forward. "Are you Samantha Elisabeth Small, known by the vigilante alias of 'Bloodhound'?" Her voice is firm, almost accusatory.

I nod slowly, trying to keep my voice steady. "Yeah, that's me. Can I help you?"

The woman steps forward, flashing a badge briefly. It's too quick for me to actually read anything, but I guess that's the point. "We're from the National Superhuman Response Agency," she says. Her voice is firm, like she's used to giving orders and having them followed. "We need to talk to you about some items you've recently come into possession of."

I frown, my grip tightening on the notebook. "If you mean Liberty Belle's stuff, then yeah, I have it. It was left to me. What about it?"

The man, who's been silent till now, speaks up. "It's a matter of national security, Ms. Small. Some of the contents in those notes and drives could be… sensitive. Regarding particular terrorist threats."

My heart starts to race, but I force a shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. "I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't really gone through everything yet."

The woman's gaze sharpens, and I can tell she doesn't buy it. "We believe it's in everyone's best interest if those items are turned over to the NSRA for proper examination and handling."

I shake my head, stepping back slightly. "I can't do that. They were left to me, for me. Belle wanted me to have them."

The man's voice is stern and unyielding. "Ms. Small, this isn't just a request. We've already been in contact with Laura Zhang, and she's given us permission to retrieve Liberty Belle's belongings. We need your cooperation."

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My stomach knots. They're lying. They have to be. Laura wouldn't just hand over Belle's life's work to the feds, would she? But what can I do? Arguing seems pointless and dangerous.

I nod, trying to appear compliant while my brain screams for a solution. "Okay, I understand. The stuff, it's just upstairs. Can I go grab it?"

The woman's eyes narrow slightly, but she gives a curt nod. "Make it quick. We don't have all day."

I turn, my feet heavy as I trudge upstairs, each step echoing in my head like a death knell. In Lily's room, surrounded by her vibrant posters and stuffed animals, I feel a stark contrast to the cold dread filling me. I'm supposed to be smart, resourceful -- a superhero. But right now, I feel anything but.

I pace the room, my mind racing but getting nowhere. The box is right there, under the futon, just a thin layer of wood and fabric away from those agents. I can't let them have it. But what can I do? My powers are no match for the NSRA. I think of Clara, of her quick thinking and legal know-how. But she's not here. It's just me.

Minutes pass in agonizing silence. I have to go back down, have to face them with something. Anything. I take a deep breath and head back downstairs, my plan forming as I descend. It's flimsy, at best, but it's all I've got.

I step into the living room, where the agents wait impatiently. My heart hammers in my chest, threatening to leap out of my throat.

"I… I can't find it," I stammer, hoping my panic looks genuine. "I must've misplaced it, or maybe someone moved it. I don't know."

The man's expression darkens, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Ms. Small, this isn't a game. Those items are critical to national security. If you don't produce them now, we'll have to search the house ourselves. You understand, of course, the penalties for lying to a federal agent?"

I swallow hard, my mind screaming for a way out. But there's nothing. No backup plan, no hidden ace. Just me, two federal agents, and a box full of secrets lying just feet away.

The panic claws at me, a wild animal trapped in a cage, as I stand there, frozen. I'm about to lose it, to scream, to let out all the fear and frustration, when suddenly, the air is filled with a horrifying stench. It's like death warmed over, a putrid smell of rotting flesh, so strong I almost gag. My blood sense tingles, alerting me to the presence of someone… or something.

I see him in my mind's eye before I actually see him sprinting around the street corner, high-visibility buttons flashing, glinting in the streetlights. There's something wrong with his blood. It's moving, it's flowing, but his heart is barely pumping, and his blood is thick, like jelly. He's covered in open wounds that are still wet and fresh, giving me an easy sight into his rotten arteries, but aren't leaking or dripping. And instantly, I understand what the smell is from.

Through the window, I see a figure vaulting over the agents' car with an eerie grace. The smell is overwhelming now, and I realize it's coming from him. His blood is like pudding, unctuous and coagulated, moving through his veins like molasses if at all. He's like a zombie, straight out of a horror movie. His head is wrapped in what looks like the tattered remains of a winter jacket, the hood and buttons forming a makeshift cloak around his shoulders. It gives him a bizarre, almost wizard-like appearance. I don't know his name, but there's something unmistakably familiar about him.

As he strides into view, confidence oozing in his every step despite the macabre aura he carries, I recognize him from Liberty Belle's funeral. He was the one in the hazmat suit, the first to speak, but now his suit is missing its headpiece, allowing the nauseating scent to escape freely.

The agents whirl around, hands instinctively going towards their weapons, as the smell hits them. They're visibly repulsed, their faces contorting in disgust. For a moment, everyone is frozen, caught in a painting of shock and confusion. Me too, to be honest. I'm having to resist the urge to vomit from sheer revulsion.

"Who the hell are you?" the female agent demands, trying to mask her revulsion with authority.

The man doesn't answer right away. Instead, he looks straight at me, his eyes piercing through the cloud of decay. There's a message in his gaze, a silent communication that speaks of urgency and understanding. He's not wearing a mask, the skin of his face instead mummified around the skull, his lips missing - his nose missing. There's no blood visible, only a thick, black fluid that's smeared like warpaint across him. For a moment, I'm frozen in awe and horror, as I realise that the black stuff is his blood.

His sclera, the white part of his eyes, and his colored iris are almost the same color, an eerie off-pink-grey that reminds me of meat that's been left out a little too long. His pupils look like pinpricks. His eyes glint out from under his hood.

Then, he turns his attention to the agents, his voice calm and steady. "You might want to put those away. I'm not here to fight. I'm here to talk with Ms. Small."

His presence seems to fill the front room from all the way over here, despite the agents' attempts to distance themselves from the overwhelming stench, taking steps back on the sidewalk. "Name's Miasma," he says, his voice deep and reedy, like gravel being dragged across rough concrete. "Heard from a little birdie that some feds were giving an innocent young girl a hard time. Couldn't just walk by, you know?"

His eyes, sharp and calculating, flick from me to the agents, who are now visibly struggling to maintain their composure. The female agent's face is pinched in discomfort, her hand subtly covering her nose.

Miasma steps closer, the agents instinctively stepping back. "So, are you bothering this upstanding young citizen?" he asks, his tone casual but edged with something darker. Meaner. Something extremely different from anything I've seen before - closer to the people I've seen from the Kingdom than anyone else. "Got any warrants for this… investigation of yours?"

The agents exchange a glance, their confidence wavering under Miasma's scrutiny. "We have authorization to confiscate the items in question," the man says, but his voice lacks its earlier conviction.

Miasma chuckles, a sound that's more a raspy wheeze than anything. I watch the cloth of his cloak ripple around his throat, the air seeming to escape where it shouldn't. "Authorization, huh? Properly contested the will and all that?"

I am about to ask how he knows about the will, and then I remember. Miasma. Joshua Pleasants. He got Belle's lockbox.

The woman nods, a bit too quickly. "Yes, from Laura Zhang. She's given us the green light."

"Oh, is that so?" Miasma leans in, his eyes narrowing. No, not quite - the skin around his eyes scrunches up, but his eyelids look… not right. Without a clear view, I can't tell if they're really there or not. "Well, then, why don't we just give her a call to confirm? Clear all this up. If all is as you say it is, then I'll get out of your hair and we can all be on our merry way."

The agents hesitate. "The office is closed," the woman says quickly. "It's Saturday, after hours."

Miasma's smile is all teeth, a predator amused by its prey. A chimpanzee grimacing. A look I've seen before. "That's alright. I have her personal number."

The air falls silent, the pressure thick in the air, enough that I can taste it. Or maybe that's just Miasma's… aroma. The agents look at each other, clearly not prepared for this turn of events. He pulls out a phone, its screen cracked but functional. He dials with deliberate slowness, each beep echoing in the suddenly quiet room. The agents stand frozen, their authority crumbling.

The ringing of the phone feels like a countdown, each tone a tick of a clock, leading to something inevitable. On the third ring, Laura Zhang's voice comes through the speaker, clear and authoritative. "Yes, Mr. Pleasants? Is there an emergency?"

Miasma doesn't miss a beat. "Ms. Zhang, it's about the contestment of Liberty Belle's will. There are a couple of agents here claiming they have your authorization to confiscate her notes and drives from Ms. Samantha Small."

There's a moment of stunned silence on the other end before Zhang responds, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Contestment? I only received the paperwork this morning. How could they possibly think it's been processed already?"

Miasma turns to the agents, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Well, Mr. Lawman, Mrs. Lawwoman? Did you think she had it done already?"

The agents are flustered, their previous authority crumbling under the weight of their exposed deceit. They stumble over their words, trying to formulate a response, but Zhang cuts them off sharply.

"This is unacceptable," she says, her voice cold. "I expect better from NSRA agents. You do not have my authorization, nor will you until the legal process is completed. I want this handled properly."

The female agent tries to interject, but Zhang is having none of it. "No, I don't want to hear it. You will leave Ms. Small and her property alone until further notice. Is that understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," the male agent says, holstering his gun.

"Good. Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Pleasants," Zhang replies from the other end of the line.

"It's my pleasure," Miasma says, ending the call with a flourish, clapping his flip-phone shut. He turns to me, the predatory grin still playing on his lips. "Well, looks like you're in the clear for now, Ms. Small."