The thing about living with your best friend who isn’t your best friend anymore is that it feels a lot like living with a ghost. Except ghosts don’t hog all the hot water or leave their stupid mugs all over the kitchen counter. I don’t know why Kate even has a favorite mug. It’s not like she drinks anything besides water these days.


    But at least she and her dad are moving out sooner than we thought. Turns out someone—a whole bunch of someones, according to the very polite but totally vague note they sent—chipped in and paid off their debts. Cash in the mail. Like, actual physical bills, wrapped up with little notes about community and kindness and hope or whatever. Dad called it “a miracle of neighborly goodwill,” and Mom cried about it in the pantry for twenty minutes. Me? I don’t know what to think. Maybe I’m just not built to believe in miracles. Or maybe I’m too busy wondering if one of those “concerned neighbors” smelled like smoke.


    Either way, it’s not my business. I mean, it is my business—I’m the one who dragged Kate out of that fire—but if I spend too much time trying to figure out who’s behind all the weird little coincidences in my life, I’ll end up like one of those conspiracy guys who thinks birds aren’t real. It’s better if I focus on what I can do.


    Like patrol.


    The Auditors, at least, are starting to feel like a real thing. We’re not exactly the Avengers or anything—more like a bunch of scrappy kids trying to duct-tape a team together—but it’s working. Kind of. Gossamer’s become our unofficial chauffeur since she’s the only one with a license. Her Vespa’s basically the backbone of our entire transportation strategy, even though it can only carry one other person at a time. It’s not glamorous, but it beats walking when we’re trying to move fast and stay out of sight.


    We’re running night ops now, waiting for the police to clear out before we make our moves. It’s not glamorous—mostly breaking up fights between junkies or chasing down Jump dealers—but it’s something. And Maggie’s ribs are finally healed, so she’s back in action, throwing up those repulsion fields like it’s second nature. It’s almost scary how fast she’s picking it up. I think I’ve only seen her faceplant, like, twice this week.


    That’s been the other big thing. The Jump problem’s getting worse. No matter how much of it we take off the streets, there’s always more. Less of it’s going to other cities now, which means whoever’s making it is clearly trying to flood Philadelphia with the stuff. A couple of the dealers we’ve run into actually seemed relieved when we confiscated their stashes, like they knew the heat was coming and wanted out before it got worse. It’s like watching a tidal wave roll in and knowing you’re only holding a bucket.If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.


    The cops are barely keeping up. Vigilantes like us are picking up the slack, even at risk of getting arrested. And then there are the “community defense groups,” which is a fancy way of saying “a bunch of pissed-off neighbors with baseball bats and nothing to lose.” I get it, but it makes me nervous. Nobody wants to see what happens when a bunch of regular people try to play hero and end up getting in over their heads.


    Meanwhile, the Kingdom of Keys? Silent. Not even a whisper. Mr. Nothing, Mr. Mudslide, even Mr. Tyrannosaur—gone. It’s creepy. They don’t seem like the kind of people who just... stop. It feels like the calm before the storm, and every instinct I have is screaming that it’s going to be a bad one.


    And then there’s Soot.


    I still don’t know what to do about them. I know their name now, which feels like progress, but everything else? Dead ends. We’ve crossed paths a couple of times—none of it productive. They’re frustrating, like trying to play chess with someone who keeps flipping the board. And no matter what I do, they’re always one step ahead, always disappearing into the smoke before I can figure them out. It’s driving me insane.


    Jordan thinks I’m obsessed. Which... okay, fair. But it’s not like I’m camping outside Kate’s door or anything. She’s out of the house a lot these days, and I’m trying to give her space. It’s just... hard, you know? She’s right there, but she’s not. And I keep thinking about what she said in the warehouse, about sin and survival and how some people don’t get to be heroes. It’s been stuck in my head like a splinter I can’t pull out.


    At least school’s back to normal. Sort of. Nobody asks about the bandages anymore, probably because they’re gone. My arm healed weeks ago, but I kept it wrapped longer than I needed to, just to keep the questions at bay. It’s funny—people will look at you like you’re a freak if you’ve got shark teeth, but slap a couple of bandages on, and suddenly you’re just another injured kid in the crowd.


    Oh, and I think I might have actually dented Maya Richardson’s approval rating. Nine points. That’s not nothing, right? Or maybe it was the anti-vigilante ordinance. Either way, I’ll take the win.


    Aaron’s trial, on the other hand, is going nowhere fast. Katherine Huang and her Tremont & Fairfax army of lawyers are dragging it out as much as possible. They’re like the legal equivalent of molasses—slow, sticky, and impossible to get rid of. Every time I think we’re getting somewhere, there’s another delay, another excuse. It’s infuriating, but what else is new?


    At least the fires are mostly over. The city’s still scarred, though. There are places that still smell like ash and places that never will again, no matter how much bleach they use. Sometimes I catch a whiff of it on my way to school or patrol, and it feels like it’s following me. Like it’s in my clothes, in my skin. But that’s just my imagination, right?