The moment Bloodhound steps into my makeshift sanctuary I feel my chest tighten. Not because I'm scared. That's not it. It's... something else. A mix of annoyance and an uncomfortable tug at the edges of my memories. There's no mistaking her.

She's got that same presence she's always had. Reckless. Loud. Not loud in the way she talks (though she's got a knack for that too), but in the way she takes up space, like she's daring the universe to challenge her right to be here. She moves like she's got something to prove--fast, headstrong, the kind of energy that could bowl you over if you're not careful.

And, of course, she's smiling. Not the friendly kind, though. This smile's sharp, full of teeth. The kind of smile a predator gives when it's cornered something it's been stalking for a while.

"You're hard to pin down, Soot," she says, hands on her hips. Her tone's casual, like we're two old friends bumping into each other at a coffee shop. But her eyes? They're not casual. They're digging into me, trying to pull me apart and figure out what makes me tick.

I don't respond right away. I snap my mask into place instead, letting the filter muffle any hint of emotion that might've slipped into my voice. "That's on purpose, Bloodhound."

She tilts her head, like she's trying to decide if I just complimented her or insulted her. "Yeah, maybe. But you're still a special case. You're leaving care packages for people in Mayfair--cash, sweepstakes letters, all these weird little ways to drop money into their hands without them knowing where it came from. But then you turn around and rob convenience stores? Pick fights with dealers? You're all over the place. What's your angle?"

I shrug, leaning against the cracked concrete wall behind me. The rough surface digs into my shoulder, but I don't care. "Maybe I just like keeping people guessing."

"Bullshit," she snaps, stepping closer. "Nobody does all that without a reason. I've been following your little trail for weeks now, and you don't make sense. You act like you're Robin Hood one second and the boogeyman the next. So what is it? Some kind of warped sense of justice? Or are you just bored?"

Her words land with more weight than I want them to. I don't let it show. I cross my arms over my chest, keeping my voice even. "Why do you care? You've got bigger fish to fry, don't you? Or are you that desperate for a mystery?"

That gets a reaction. Her jaw tightens, just for a split second, but it's enough to tell me I hit a nerve. Good.

"This isn't about me," she says, her tone dropping into something harder. "It's about you running around my neighborhood, leaving chaos in your wake. If you're trying to help people, you're doing a shitty job of it."

"Your neighborhood?" I snort, the sound muffled by my mask. "Last I checked, Philadelphia didn't belong to anyone. Not even you, princess."

Her eyes narrow, and for a second, I think she's going to lose it. But then she does that thing she always does--pushes the anger down, channels it into something sharp and biting instead. "Funny. You don't strike me as the type who cares about titles, so why keep calling yourself 'Soot'? What, did you run out of edgy names?"

"That's rich," I fire back. "Coming from someone who named themselves after a dog."

She grins, sharp and humorless. "I'd rather be a dog than a pile of cinder."

"That's the point," I say, pushing off the wall and taking a step closer to her. We're almost the same height now--I didn't used to be, but I've been having a growth spurt recently. We're both probably 5'8" now. But I'll probably keep growing, knowing what my mom and dad look like. Even with my mask on, I feel small under her gaze.

She doesn't back down. Of course she doesn't. Bloodhound's never been the type to let things go. "You can't keep dodging the question. What's your endgame, Soot? You're playing both sides--helping people and hurting them. Which is it?"

My heart's hammering in my chest, and I hate that she's getting to me. I hate that her words are digging under my skin, making me question things I've already decided are non-negotiable.

I glance at the faint orange glow of the embers still smoldering in the can I used earlier. The fire's almost out, the smoke fading, but I can still taste the remnants of it in the back of my throat. That sharp, acrid taste that reminds me of who I am now. What I've become.

"You ever think the world doesn't work in black and white?" I ask, my voice low. "That maybe some people don't get the luxury of picking a side? Not everyone gets to be the hero, Bloodhound."

She crosses her arms, leaning slightly to the side as if to block my escape. "That sounds like a cop-out. You're doing all this--whatever it is--for a reason. And I'm not leaving until I figure out what it is. You're not with Rogue Wave. You're not with the Kingdom. You're making enemies on every side it's possible to make enemies with. Do you have a death wish?"

The determination in her voice makes me want to laugh. It's almost endearing, how she can't seem to let this go. How she has to know the answer, like it's a puzzle she's been handed and can't walk away from.

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"Fine," I say, stepping closer. "You want answers? Let's start with you. What gives you the right to play judge, jury, and executioner, huh? You think just because you've got a name and a mask, you get to decide who's good and who's bad?"

Her expression hardens. "I don't 'decide' anything. I follow the facts. I find the truth and protect people."

"Truth? Protection?" I laugh, and it's a bitter, ugly sound. "High-minded ideals for people who have something to lose. Were you protecting people when you broke Aaron McKinley's arm? Were you protecting people when you tried to stop me from reclaiming money from a loan shark? I kept people fed for weeks with that. You just want an adrenaline high."

Her face flickers, just for a moment. It's there and gone so fast I almost miss it. But I know her well enough to recognize it for what it is: guilt. Doubt. Maybe even regret.

"I know the system's broken," she says finally, her voice softer now. "But breaking more shit doesn't fix it, Soot. And robbing convenience stores sure as hell isn't justice."

"It's survival," I snap. "And sometimes survival means getting your hands dirty. But I wouldn't expect you to understand that, Bloodhound."

Bloodhound doesn't flinch when I step closer. She doesn't back down, either. Her jaw tightens, her hands flex at her sides. I can tell she's ready for a fight if it comes to that.

I'm not in the mood to fight her. Not tonight.

"You don't get it," I say, my voice low but sharp, like the edge of a broken bottle. "You think this is all just... action and reaction. You do good, and good things happen. You do bad, and the world slaps you on the wrist. That's not how it works."

Her head tilts slightly, her grin turning into a grimace. "Enlighten me, Soot. How does it work, then?"

I glance at the ember-filled can near the wall, the faint smoke curling up in lazy spirals. My hands itch to light another fire, but I don't. Instead, I look back at her, that smile of hers like a hook pulling at something raw in my chest.

"It's about sin," I say finally, trying, struggling to articulate how I feel.

Her grin falters, just a little. "Sin," she repeats, the word rolling off her tongue like it's something foreign. "You really believe in that? What, like heaven and hell, angels and demons?"

I shake my head, the motion making the mask straps creak faintly. "Not the cartoon version, no. But sin? That's real. It's not some invisible mark on your soul. It's what you carry with you. The weight of the shit you've done, the harm you've caused. It piles up, and if you're lucky, you pay it off before it crushes you."

"Sounds exhausting," she says, but her voice is softer now, less biting. "I don't buy into that. Never did."

"Figures." I cross my arms, leaning against the wall. "You wouldn't, would you? What did you grow up with? A neat little set of rules about right and wrong? A world where every bad thing gets weighed and measured, and if you're sorry enough, you get a gold star?"

She doesn't answer right away. Instead, she shifts her weight, watching me like she's waiting for me to slip up. Finally, she says, "I didn't grow up thinking about rewards or punishments. You do good because being a good person is its own reward. You do bad, and the punishment is that you did bad. There's nothing waiting for you after. Just what you leave behind."

The words hit me harder than I expect. Not because I agree with her--because I don't. But because I can hear the conviction in her voice, the way she actually believes it. She really thinks the world is that simple. That you can just... do good for its own sake and call it a day. It makes my chest ache.

"That's a nice thought," I say, trying honestly not to sound sarcastic. "Must be comforting, thinking you can just be 'good' and everything works out. But some of us don't get that luxury, Bloodhound. Some of us have to get our hands dirty just to keep breathing."

Her body tightens again, and I know I've struck a nerve. Good.

"And that's your excuse?" she asks, stepping closer. We're nearly nose-to-nose now, her breath hot against my mask, my lenses fogging up. It would be so easy to punch her from this close. Or kiss her. No, that's not allowed. "You steal. You hurt people. And you call it justice?"

"I call it paying my debt," I snap. "You wouldn't understand survival."

She scoffs, crossing her arms. "Try me."

I take a step back, just enough to get some breathing room. My chest feels tight, like the weight of this conversation is pressing down on me, but I push through it. I glance at the small pile of tools and gear scattered across the floor of my makeshift sanctuary. Headquarters.

"My dad," I say finally, the words coming out sharper than I mean them to. "He's a good man. Better than I'll ever be. He works hard, keeps his head down, tries to do right. And what does he get for it? Bills he can't pay, bosses who don't care if he lives or dies, a world that chews him up and spits him out. He doesn't deserve that."

Bloodhound's expression shifts, something softer flickering in her eyes. Pity. It makes me want to knock her teeth out.

"So you're what?" she asks. "Trying to make up for his suffering? Take it all on yourself so he doesn't have to?"

"Something like that," I mutter, my voice tight. "Someone has to. Someone has to make sure he's okay. Even if it means I burn for it afterwards. That's fine by me, as long as his hands stay clean."

Bloodhound doesn't move, doesn't speak, just watches me with that sharp, searching gaze of hers. I hate how much she sees. How much she seems to understand, even if she doesn't agree.

Finally, she says, "You don't have to burn, Soot. There's another--"

"Don't," I snap, my voice harsher than I intend. "Don't try to save me, Bloodhound. I don't need saving."

Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue. Instead, she steps back, giving me just enough space to breathe. "Fine. But don't expect me to just stand by while you burn everything down around you."

I laugh, the sound bitter and hollow. "I don't need your permission."

"I'll stop you if it comes to that. There's only so many tricks you can pull out before I figure you out," she replies, more of a promise than a threat. That's how she's always been, though. The tension between us is thick enough to choke on, but then I reach into my backpack and pull out a small, crumpled brown paper bag. It's heavier than it looks, stuffed to the gills with little green pills.

I hold it out to her, my hand steady despite the tremor in my chest. "Here. Do what you want with it. Dispose of it, turn it in, snort it, I don't care. Just leave me alone to handle my own business, okay, doggy?"

She stares at the bag for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, slowly, she takes it, her fingers brushing against mine for just a second before she pulls back.

"I'm not your enemy, Soot," she says quietly. "You don't have to do this alone."

I don't respond. I just turn away, pulling my hood up and letting black smoke leak out from under my fingernails until it starts to swallow me. Bloodhound stands there for a moment longer, the weight of her gaze pressing against my back, before she finally leaves.

I've got work to do.