Morning hits the Small household like a gentle reminder that life goes on, even after you stage your own fake death. Sunlight filters through the living room windows, catching dust motes and making them dance in the air. I'm propped up on the couch with enough pillows to build a small fort, a blanket tucked around my legs despite the fact that it's already pushing seventy degrees outside. Mom insisted; apparently nearly drowning gives you special blanket privileges.

  There's coffee. Lots of it. The good stuff too, not the generic brand Mom usually buys. Dad made it, which means it's strong enough to strip paint. Kate clutches her mug like it's a lifeline, her knuckles white against the ceramic. She's seated in the armchair across from me, her leg bouncing with nervous energy. She's changed clothes and washed her face, but the bruise on her cheek has darkened to an impressive purple, and her eyes are still red-rimmed from crying.

  Liam sits on the edge of the sofa, as far from me as he can get while still technically being on the same piece of furniture. He looks older than I remember, his face lined with worry and exhaustion. His coffee sits untouched on the table in front of him.

  My parents hover on the periphery—Dad leaning against the wall by the kitchen doorway, Mom sitting at the dining table with a clear view of the living room. Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to give us the illusion of privacy. They've been suspiciously unsurprised by this whole situation, which makes me think they've known, or at least suspected, more than they've let on.

  "So let me get this straight," Liam says, breaking the tense silence that's settled over us. His voice is controlled, but there's an undercurrent of frustration that makes me wince. "You've been running around as this... Soot character, stealing from criminals, blowing up warehouses, and generally making yourself a target for one of the most dangerous organizations in Philadelphia."

  "That's... a simplification, but yeah," Kate admits, staring into her coffee like it might contain the right words to make this okay.

  "And now you've faked your death by..." Liam trails off, looking to Kate to fill in the blank.

  "By making them think Soot got thrown off a roof," Kate supplies, carefully avoiding any mention of bullets or me getting shot. We agreed on that part beforehand. "We had some friends help stage the whole thing. Made it look convincing enough that they think I'm—I mean, Soot is—dead."

  I nod, trying to look casual despite the stabbing pain in my gut. "It was all fake. Movie magic. Controlled fall onto some hidden padding." The lie feels clumsy in my mouth, but Liam seems too distracted to notice.

  "Right." Liam rubs his hand over his face. "And because of this... performance, we now have to move. Again. After I just put down a deposit on that place in Mayfair."

  Kate flinches. "I'm sorry, Dad. I know it's hard, but—"

  "Hard?" Liam's voice rises, then immediately drops back down when he catches himself. "Katie, do you have any idea what you've done? We were finally getting back on our feet after the fire. I had a steady job. We had a place lined up. And now we have to start over. Again."

  "It's not starting over completely," I interject, trying to be helpful. "You'll still have your job. You'll just have a different commute."

  Liam gives me a look that makes me wish I'd kept my mouth shut. "Thank you, Samantha, but this isn't really about the commute."

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Kate sets her mug down with a sharp click. "I was trying to help, Dad. That's all I've ever been trying to do. Those payday loan guys were bleeding you dry. The landlord was charging us double what the apartment was worth. I was just trying to..."

  "To what? Play Robin Hood?" Liam shakes his head. "Katie, it's illegal. Even if I needed the help—which I didn't ask for, by the way—stealing is still illegal."

  "They were criminals!" Kate protests.

  "And that makes it okay?" Liam counters. "You break into their places, steal their money, and what? Think there won't be consequences? God forbid you actually killed someone—not that it would make any of my debts magically disappear if you did!"

  I glance at Kate, watching her shrink into herself a little. There's clearly more to her activities than she's told her dad, but now doesn't seem like the time to point that out. The bodega robberies, the vigilante beatdowns—those can stay buried for now.

  "I didn't kill anyone," Kate says quietly. "I was just trying to make things better."

  "By making yourself a target," Liam says, his voice softening slightly. "Katie, I'm your father. It's my job to take care of you, not the other way around."

  "I have powers now," Kate says, looking up to meet his eyes. "I can do things most people can't. I wanted to use them for something good."

  Liam sighs, the anger seeming to drain out of him, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. "I don't care that you have superpowers. I'm honestly overjoyed about that part, because if I understand how they work right, you would've died if you didn't get them." He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But we can't afford—literally, cannot afford—any fines or court dates. Or a lawyer. And you aren't going to steal any more money or make any more enemies."

  "I won't," Kate promises, and I can tell she means it. The events of the past few days have shaken her, maybe more than she's willing to admit. "Soot is dead. For good."

  "And we'll help with the moving costs," my dad suddenly offers from his spot by the wall. "Ben and I have been talking about it, and we think we can front you the security deposit for a new place. Center City, maybe. Far enough from Mayfair that no one will connect Kate to Soot."

  Liam stiffens, pride warring with practicality on his face. "That's very generous, but—"

  "It's not charity," Mom cuts in smoothly. "It's an investment in our children's safety. Both of them." She gives me a pointed look that says we'll be discussing my involvement in this mess later. "You can pay us back when you're able. No interest."

  Liam hesitates, then gives a tight nod. "We'll talk about the terms later."

  An uncomfortable silence falls over the room. Kate takes another sip of her coffee, grimaces, then sets the mug down. It must be cold by now.

  "I'm sorry, Dad," she says again, her voice small. "I really was just trying to help."

  Liam's expression softens further. "I know, Katie. I know." He reaches out and puts his hand over hers. "But next time you want to help, maybe try something that doesn't involve a secret identity and mortal danger, okay? Like taking out the trash or doing the dishes."

  Kate laughs, a fragile sound that threatens to crumble into tears at any moment. "Deal."

  "And as for you," Liam says, turning to me, "I appreciate you being there for Kate, but maybe next time try talking her out of the dangerous vigilante stuff instead of helping her stage an elaborate death scene?"

  I manage a weak smile. "No promises." Then, seeing his expression, I add, "But I'll try. Scout's honor."

  "You were never a scout," Kate mutters automatically.

  "Details," I reply, and Kate punches me in the shoulder.

  But normal doesn't last. It can't, not when we've just pulled off the riskiest plan of our superhero careers, not when Kate has to dye her hair and move across the city, not when I'm still leaking pus and a little bit of blood into my bandages from multiple gunshot wounds that nobody in this room except Kate knows about.

  Whatever comes next, I know one thing for certain: nothing's going to be the same after this.

  As we continue to talk through logistics—new apartments, hair dye colors, cover stories for Kate's sudden departure from the neighborhood—I find myself drifting, the pain medication finally kicking in enough to make my thoughts fuzzy around the edges.

  Soot is dead. Long live... whoever Kate becomes next.

  The thought follows me down into a comfortable morning nap. My belly hurts, my arms are still pockmarked with vanishing white scars, and G-d, I'm fucking tired.