The smoke pours from between my fingers like liquid shadow, pooling in the air around me as I sprint down the cracked asphalt of Linden Avenue. My lungs burn, not from the chemical-laced vapors I'm releasing, but from the exertion, squeezing and stamping shut like bellows, over and over again. Two blocks behind me, the shouts and pounding footsteps of my pursuers echo between warehouses, cars, and trees. Three of them. All in matching costumes with that ridiculous "wash" theme, like some twisted Saturday morning cartoon villains.

  I duck into an alley, pressing my back against cold brick as I try to steady my breathing. The mask's filter hisses with each inhale, the sound amplified in the narrow space. My hands clench reflexively, another wave of smoke billowing out from beneath my sleeves.

  Think, Kate. Use your surroundings.

  No, not Kate. I'm Soot. Right now, I am Soot.

  Jonah in the belly of the whale. Three days and three nights in darkness before being vomited onto dry land. Swallowed whole only to be reborn. That's what this feels like, like I'm being consumed by someone else's identity, waiting for deliverance.

  The sound of a trash can toppling over snaps me back to the present. They're getting closer. I push off from the wall and keep moving, my boots splashing through puddles that reflect the orange glow of distant streetlights. The waterfront is ahead - I can smell the river, that distinctive blend of industrial waste and brackish water that defines the Delaware, and the latest blooming plants in the nearby parks and trails.

  "I see her!" a voice calls out—female, young, with a theatrical lilt that screams amateur hour. "Heading toward the docks!"

  That would be "Mouthwash"—dressed in an electric blue bodysuit with white hexagonal patterns crawling up her arms and legs like frost. Her mask is simple but effective, metallic blue with exhaust vents that release visible puffs of cold vapor when she speaks. I don't know what power, exactly, she's using, but it's leaving a trail of frost on the ground and on the walls where she touches, icy clouds billowing out of her like dry ice. Mouthwash. What a ridiculous name.

  I release more smoke, thickening the air behind me into an impenetrable wall of gray. It buys me seconds at best. These three have been coordinating too well, cutting off my escape routes with practiced efficiency. Almost like they know where I'm going before I do.

  "Brainwash, she's trying to circle back!" This voice is deeper, the words clipped and precise. "Powerwash, flank right and cut her off at the expressway!"

  That's the one who calls himself "Brainwash"—lanky figure in a purple and gray costume that looks like it was pieced together from thrift store finds and modified with too many unnecessary straps and buckles. Some sort of goth twit, with the world's most boring looking black and white spiral sitting painted on a white mask under another hood. I've been trying to avoid looking directly at it. I get the distinct impression it'd be bad for my health.

  My legs are starting to feel heavy, each step more labored than the last. I'm not used to running this hard for this long, especially not while also dumping this much smoke. The mask chafes against my face, the straps digging into my skin. The CPAP Frankenstein strapped to my back whirs loudly, struggling to keep up with my ragged breathing. This is part of the plan, but the plan didn't mention how much it would hurt. How the fear would feel so real.

  Bloodhound. Sam.

  I round the corner onto a street that leads directly to the river and immediately regret it. Standing in the middle of the road, arms crossed over her chest, is "Powerwash"—the muscle of their little operation. She's built like a linebacker, her costume a riot of industrial yellows and whites that make her look like she stepped out of a construction site, heavy football padding plumping up the shoulders. Her mask is simpler than the others', just a reinforced gas mask with yellow accents, but she doesn't need theatrics when she can punch through concrete.

  I skid to a halt, nearly losing my balance on the slick pavement. Powerwash uncrosses her arms, cracking her knuckles with deliberate slowness.

  "End of the line, smokestack," she says, her voice muffled but still carrying a hint of amusement. "Nowhere left to run."

  I turn, ready to double back, but Mouthwash and Brainwash have already closed in behind me. I'm boxed in, caught between the river to my right and three costumed criminals who look all too pleased with themselves. I'm trapped. I could go deeper into the park, but from this angle, they're all about to triangulate on me.

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  "You've been a real pain in the ass to track down," Mouthwash says, stepping forward. Her breath fogs in the night air, small crystals of ice forming at the corners of her mask. "All those dealers you've hit, all those operations you've burned to the ground, did you really think no one would notice? That you could just get away with it?"

  My hands clench again, more smoke pouring from my sleeves and pant legs, creating a roiling barrier between us. "Not looking for an audience," I say, my voice distorted by the mask. I try to make it rougher, more gravelly than my natural tone. "Just cleaning up the neighborhood."

  "Cleaning up?" Brainwash laughs, the sound hollow and eerily mechanical through his mask. "That's our job now. And you're in our territory."

  I back up slowly, letting the smoke thicken around me. They fan out, splitting the fork in the middle of Lardner's point. If I had any chlorine left over, this wouldn't even be an issue. I could kill all of them and not break a sweat, I bet. Brainwash's boots crunch through bright green, freshly-rained-on grass. Powerwash rounds around the public bathroom. Mouthwash grabs a conveniently placed piece of metal - what is that, a rusted over cabinet rail? - and in an instant, it's turning white, coating in a thin layer of frost and condensation.

  She slams it twice against some signage, the metal-on-metal making a loud enough noise to startle some nearby birds, and hopefully dissuade anyone that's sticking around at near-midnight. I keep backing up, hoping that more smoke will get them out of my hair, but at this point, my number's as good as up. I'm not deluded. Just a little stupid.

  My heel hits the edge of the dock, and I know I've run out of room. My sneakers scrape concrete, and the Delaware River roars gently behind me, cold, polluted, and uninviting.

  "Stand. Still." Brainwash's voice, and my muscles go stiff. I try to struggle, but it's like I'm fighting invisible bands tied around my body, unable to move even if I want to. Fighting, fighting, struggling, struggling, that's all I can do, trying to build up enough chutzpah to at least spit in their eye or something. "Still!" Brainwash shouts, and then my neck goes tight too, and I can't even do that much.

  "That's better," Mouthwash says, stepping closer. Ice crystals form where her boots touch the ground, spreading outward in delicate fractal patterns. "Now we can have a proper conversation."

  "What do you want?" I manage to grit out, struggling like I'm being held in place. "I'm not looking for trouble."

  "Too late for that," Powerwash says, moving to flank me. "You've been picking off our potential customers, destroying product, making a mess of operations we had planned. Bad for business."

  My heart hammers against my ribs. I saw this coming - I knew every scrap of what was about to happen, and I know every scrap of what will happen next, but the certainty doesn't make it feel any better.

  "Your business is poison," I spit out, the words feeling strange on my tongue - too righteous, too certain. Would Kate say that? Or has she started getting poisoned by Sam's influence? "You're killing people with that Jump. Someone has to stop you."

  "And you appointed yourself judge, jury, and executioner?" Mouthwash asks, leaning in close enough that I can feel the cold radiating from her mask. "How very biblical of you. An eye for an eye, is that it?"

  Biblical. The word catches me off guard. Kate would like that framing, would embrace it even. That burning certainty, that sort of divine mission. But I'm not Kate right now. I'm someone else.

  "More like Sodom and Gomorrah," I reply, the words coming easier now. "Some places are beyond saving. They need to be cleansed with fire."

  Brainwash chuckles, the sound setting my teeth on edge. "Dramatic. But your little crusade ends tonight. We—"

  He stops abruptly, his head snapping toward the street behind him. Mouthwash and Powerwash tense, turning slightly to follow his gaze. I strain against my invisible bonds, trying to see what caught their attention.

  Four figures emerge from the shadows at the end of the street, their silhouettes backlit by a distant streetlamp. Even from this distance, I recognize them instantly, my heart starting to beat so much harder, because, frankly, I was expecting just two. Mr. Retribution's silhouette is unmistakable, even if I only heard of him through prior description. Almost wider than he's tall. He looks like - what's that guy, Wilson Wade? Kingpin? Just with actual hair and a darker fashion sense. And next to him, of course, Mrs. Quiet is spindly and visibly, even in silhouette, flashing a gun. Those two were expected.

  It's the other two that weren't.

  "Well, well," Mouthwash murmurs, her breath crystallizing in the air. "Looks like we've got company."

  "Unexpected company," Brainwash adds, his voice pitched low enough that only we can hear.

  I feel a tremor run through my body that has nothing to do with Brainwash's "hold". The Kingdom operatives advance with practiced coordination, spreading out to cover the width of the street. This is where the real fear begins—where the plan meets reality, and all my careful preparation is put to the test. Mr. Polygraph runs an exhausted hand through his salt-and-pepper hair, mustache freshly shorn off, carrying more of a chinstrap type arrangement instead. But I'd never forget the tension he carries in his cheekbones.

  And who could forget, freshly freed from the slammer, Mr. Nothing. Already got you back on the beat again, huh, buddy? He looms, looms about a head over Mr. Retribution, hands empty but a gun visibly holstered. He adjusts his sunglasses against the glaring light of the streetlamps, and then does a quick, almost compulsive visual sweep. "Boys have secured the area. I don't see any civvies from visual inspection. E's asleep. It's do or die time, ladies."

  Mr. Retribution steps forward, his massive frame seeming to absorb the ambient light like a black hole of a human being. Sorry, that feels a little uncharitable. "Evening, folks," he says, his voice carrying easily across the distance between us. "Hope we're not interrupting anything important."