"What the..." she mutters, her voice trailing off. She shifts in her seat, her smirk fading as her eyelids droop.

The guy with the gun doesn't notice right away. He's too focused on me, his finger twitching on the trigger. But then his arm wavers, just slightly, and his brow furrows in confusion.

"What the fuck is..." He blinks hard, like he's trying to shake off a fog. His aim falters, the barrel of the gun dipping as his grip grows unsteady.

The others are worse off now. The guy by the door stumbles, catching himself on the wall, while another slumps forward in his chair, his head lolling. The girl on the couch tries to stand but ends up collapsing back into the cushions, her movements sluggish and uncoordinated.

"Hey!" the guy with the gun snaps, his voice cracking as he struggles to stay upright. He tries to raise the weapon again, but his hand shakes violently, and when he finally pulls the trigger, the shot goes wide, burying itself in the wall behind me with a dull thud. I try not to flinch - I'm still getting used to gunfire. He tries to pull the trigger again, but his fingers cramp up, or slip up off the trigger, or something - it doesn't take.

"Shit!" he hisses, his knees buckling. The gun slips from his fingers, clattering to the floor.

One by one, they drop. Some slide out of their chairs, others slump where they sit, their bodies going limp as the gas takes hold. The girl on the couch tries to say something, her lips moving soundlessly before her head lolls to the side. The guy by the door crumples, his back against the wall, his eyes rolling back.

The last to go is the one with the Jump. He stares at me, his expression a mix of anger and confusion, before his legs give out and he collapses to the floor, the gun lying useless beside him.

I wait a moment, standing perfectly still as the room falls silent. My mask hisses softly, the sound almost soothing now. Then I step forward, crouching down to pick up the gun. I unload it, slipping the bullets into my pocket before tossing the empty weapon onto the couch.

I love carbon monoxide. Not the easiest to get, but easy to recycle.

"Shame," I mutter, more to myself than to them. My voice sounds hollow, almost bored, as I survey the scene. "Could've been easy."

I reach down, placing my hands on the floor, and start pulling the gas back into my body. The process is smooth, practiced, the faint hiss of the gas flowing back through my skin the only sound in the room. Within seconds, the air is clear again, the faint haze dissipating as if it were never there.

Once it's done, I straighten up, dusting off my hands. Then I go to work.

The bag of Jump pills goes into my backpack first. Then the money--crumpled bills and loose change scattered across the table. Finally, the drugs they'd been guarding so carefully, now mine to do with as I please.

When I'm done, I take one last look at the room. The guy with the Jump is still breathing, his chest rising and falling faintly. They'll wake up in a couple of hours, groggy and confused, but alive.

"Thanks for the donation," I say quietly, slinging my backpack over one shoulder. "Mayfair appreciates your charity."

Then I slip out the door, disappearing into the night like a spider in a corner.

----------------------------------------

The air is heavy with the smell of bleach and ammonia, a sharp, acrid tang that stings my nose even through the mask. I crouch in the corner of a crumbling warehouse near the waterfront—one of the many skeletons of Northeast Philly’s past industrial glory. It’s a place nobody visits unless they’re desperate or hiding something, which makes it perfect for me.

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The little aluminum pan in front of me crackles as the mix of cleaning chemicals bubbles and releases thin tendrils of smoke. I’ve done this enough times to get the proportions right by instinct, even with my hands shaking from exhaustion. The fire beneath the pan is weak, fed by scavenged scraps of cardboard and broken wood, but it’s enough. The faint wisps of vapor rise lazily into the air, and I breathe deep through my hands, my skin tingling as the chemical cocktail seeps into me.

There's no high involved. This isn't a drug - it's a weapon. The smoke fills my chest with a dull warmth, a small reprieve from the constant ache of everything else. The cuts on my arms and legs throb in rhythm with my heartbeat, reminding me that they need attention. The warehouse is dark except for the small fire and the faint glow of a distant streetlamp filtering through a broken window. It’s quiet, too, the kind of silence that feels almost sacred.

I lean back against the wall, pulling my mask off for the first time in hours. The air stings my face, cool and sharp against my skin. I run a hand over my short, damp hair, my fingers brushing against the edges of a shallow cut near my temple. The blood’s dried by now, but it’s still sticky, and I grimace as I reach for the small first aid kit in my backpack.

The kit is a joke—a collection of dollar store bandages, antiseptic wipes, and gauze that barely holds together. But it’s all I’ve got, and it’s better than nothing. I rip open a wipe with my teeth and press it to the cut, hissing as the antiseptic burns. The rest of my injuries get the same treatment: a jagged scrape on my forearm, a bruise blooming across my ribs, a gash on my knee that probably needed stitches an hour ago. I'll tell my dad that I got scraped up doing some urban exploration. That'll get the questions out of the way.

Most of these came from earlier in the week—getting thrown into a pile of broken pallets during a fight with a couple of drunk dealers who thought they could take me. One of them had a knife, but they didn’t know how to use it. The others are older, faint lines and patches of scar tissue that map out the last couple of months of my life. Battle scars, I guess, if you want to call them that.

I slap a bandage over the worst of the cuts, then pull my hoodie back on, wincing as the fabric brushes against my sore ribs. My body feels like a patchwork quilt, barely held together with tape and stubbornness, but that’s nothing new. Pain is a constant, like hunger or the sound of sirens in the distance.

The fire in front of me gutters, and I reach over to add more wood. It doesn’t take much—just enough to keep the smoke coming. I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees, and let the smoke pour over me like a blanket. It’s comforting, in a way, even though I know it shouldn’t be. Most people would choke on the fumes, their eyes burning and lungs screaming for air, but for me, it’s like breathing in relief.

The chemicals swirl inside me, replenishing the reserves I’ve burned through this week. Smoke and smog and other things. Cleaning supplies. Stuff that shouldn't be mixed.

I glance at the pile of stuff I’ve dumped from my backpack: cash, drugs, and Jump. A lot of Jump. The pills gleam faintly in the dim light, their green coating almost iridescent. I stare at them for a moment, my mind wandering to the last time I took one. The rush of power, the way the world seemed to sharpen and slow down at the same time. The feeling of invulnerability. But I know that it's not for me - I know enough to know that stacking powers is a bad idea. I can't go that route anymore, and I can't guarantee the powers of any of these pills.

I'm going to have to figure out something to do with them.

I shove the thought away, burying it deep. This isn’t for me. None of it is. The money’s for Mr. Smith—to keep the rent paid and the lights on. The drugs will get traded for more supplies, more money, or dumped if I can’t find a safe way to offload them. The Jump… I don’t know yet. Maybe I’ll destroy it. Maybe I’ll save it for when I really need it. Or maybe I’ll find someone who can actually do something with it.

The sound of footsteps outside pulls me from my thoughts. My head snaps up, and I reach for the knife tucked into my boot, my heart pounding. The warehouse is supposed to be empty—nobody comes here unless they’re looking for trouble. I press myself against the wall, holding my breath as the footsteps draw closer.

They stop just outside the door, and for a moment, everything is silent again. Then, the door creaks open, the rusty hinges groaning loud enough to make my teeth clench. A figure steps inside, silhouetted against the faint light from outside. My grip tightens on the knife, and I stay perfectly still, waiting.

As they step closer, I catch a glimpse of their face—or rather, their mask. The sharp lines of her red mask, the faint gleam of its edges in the dim light, the familiar shape that’s haunted the edges of my thoughts for weeks now.

Bloodhound.

I don’t move. Don’t breathe. But I can feel my pulse pounding in my ears, a mix of anticipation and dread. I expected her to show up eventually—I’m not stupid—but I didn’t think it would be this fast.

Her head tilts slightly, her stance relaxed but deliberate. She’s not rushing in, not attacking, but there’s an energy to her presence that sets my nerves on edge.

Of course she found me. She always does.