I find Kate in the kitchen at two in the morning, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag like she's trying to murder them. Her movements are quick and mechanical, no wasted motion. She's always been efficient, but this is different. This is someone trying to erase themselves.

  "You're not even going to fold them?" I ask from the doorway, leaning against the frame.

  Kate jumps, spinning around with her hands raised in a defensive stance. When she sees it's me, she relaxes, but only slightly. Her eyes narrow. "Jesus, Sam. Make some noise when you walk, would you?"

  "Sorry." I'm not. "I thought you'd sense me coming or whatever."

  "That's not how it works and you know it." She turns back to her packing, shoving a black hoodie into the already overstuffed bag. "I can only sense what I've already absorbed. Can't exactly walk around with my lungs full of people-detection gas."

  I smirk at that. "Can't you just sense me coming with, I don't know, your ears?"

  "No." She doesn't look at me. "What do you want? It's late."

  I push off from the doorframe and step fully into the kitchen. The linoleum is cold against my bare feet, and the refrigerator hums in the background like it's trying to cover an awkward silence. "I want a rematch."

  That gets her attention. She turns, one eyebrow raised. "A what?"

  "A rematch. You and me. One last time before you disappear to Center City and become..." I wave my hand vaguely. "Whatever your new identity is going to be."

  Kate stares at me like I've grown a second head. Maybe I have. My regeneration's been acting weird since the Hypeman. But no, the look on her face is pure disbelief, not horror.

  "Are you out of your mind?" she hisses, glancing toward the hallway where my parents' room is. "After everything we just went through to fake my death? After the Kingdom literally shot you multiple times? You want to go out and what—spar?"

  I shrug. "Why not?"

  "Why not?" Kate repeats, incredulous. "Because we've probably got government agents watching the house. Because I'm supposed to be dead. Because your parents would murder us both if they found out."

  "Afraid I'll kick your ass again?" I grin, showing teeth—regular human teeth, not my sharky ones. This is friendly provocation, not a threat.

  Kate scoffs, turning back to her bag. "If I recall correctly, I'm the one who put you in the dirt last time."

  "Yeah, with metal skin. Cheater."

  "I didn't have metal skin the whole fight," she mutters, but I can see I've gotten under her skin. Her movements become slightly less precise, slightly more agitated. "Besides, we're not teenagers having a tiff anymore. This is serious. People are after us."

  "People are always after us," I counter. "And we are still teenagers, genius."

  She zips her bag with more force than necessary. "Speak for yourself. Some of us grew up."

  Ouch. "Is that what you call running away? Growing up?"

  Kate whirls around, eyes flashing. "I'm not running away. I'm making a strategic retreat so that the psychopaths who shot you don't come looking for me at your house. There's a difference."

  "Potato, po-tah-to." I lean against the counter, trying to look casual even though my heart is racing a little. I don't want her to leave like this—with everything unsaid, with a perfect fake corpse of a relationship. "Look, all I'm saying is, we've been through a lot. We never really finished what we started that night at the basketball court. And now you're leaving, and who knows when we'll see each other again."

  "That's the point, Sam," Kate says, her voice softer now. "No one is supposed to see me again. That's how death works."

  "Not Soot's death," I clarify. "Kate's move. Kate's... goodbye. They don't know what your face looks like. Otherwise they would've recognized you as Mouthwash."

  Something shifts in her expression, a crack in the armor. She looks away, fidgeting with the strap of her duffel bag. "We already said goodbye. With the whole plan, the fake death, all of it."

  "That wasn't a goodbye. That was a mission." I take a step closer, lowering my voice. "I'm talking about us. You and me. Kate and Sam. The real us."

  She meets my eyes again, and I see a flash of something there—vulnerability, maybe, or longing. But it's quickly replaced by caution. "What are you suggesting, exactly?"

  "The basketball court. One hour. We settle things like we used to—face to face, no bull. Just you and me and whatever we need to work out." I can see her wavering, so I press my advantage. "One last scuffle."

  Kate is quiet for a long moment, studying me like she's trying to figure out an angle. Finally, she sighs. "You do realize this is insane, right? What if someone sees us?"

  The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  "It'll be three in the morning on a weeknight in Philadelphia. The only people out will be too drunk or high to remember their own names, let alone ours."

  "And if we get caught on camera?"

  "We won't. The nearest traffic cam is two blocks away, and the school security cams don't point that direction."

  Her eyebrows rise. "You checked?"

  "I've learned a few things from hanging around a paranoiac." I grin. "So? What do you say? Or are you chicken?"

  Kate rolls her eyes at the childish taunt, but I can tell she's considering it. She's always been competitive, always hated backing down from a challenge. Some things never change, even when everything else does.

  "No powers," she says finally. "At least, nothing visible. Nothing that would draw attention."

  "I'd say no powers at all, but I can't exactly turn off my regeneration."

  A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You'll need the crutch. Don't worry about it."

  "Is that a yes?"

  Kate shoulders her duffel bag, shaking her head like she can't believe what she's agreeing to. "One hour. Don't be late."

  I grin as she brushes past me, heading for the door. "Wouldn't dream of it."

  The basketball court looks exactly the same as it did a year ago—same cracked concrete, same rusty hoops with chains instead of nets, same half-faded lines marking the boundaries, same dent in the pole where she powerslammed me into it. But everything else feels different. I'm different. Kate's different. The whole world is different.

  I pace the three-point line, stretching my arms across my chest, trying to loosen up. The night air is cool against my skin, a light breeze ruffling my hair. I'm wearing workout clothes—gray sweatpants, a black tank top, my hair pulled back in a ponytail. Nothing flashy, nothing that would draw attention if someone happened to glance out their window at three in the morning.

  I check my watch: 3:02 AM. Kate's late. Maybe she changed her mind. Maybe she—

  "You're actually here."

  I turn to see Kate standing at the edge of the court, dressed in black leggings and a dark blue hoodie. Her hair is pulled back too, exposing the sharp angles of her face in the dim light from the distant street lamps.

  "You sound surprised," I say, rolling my shoulders.

  "I wasn't sure if this was some weird test." She steps onto the court, her movements cautious, eyes scanning our surroundings. "To see if I'd actually show up."

  "Why would I test you?"

  She shrugs. "To make sure I'm really leaving. To check if I'm still following the plan. I don't know, Sam. You've been... different lately."

  I frown at that. "Different how?"

  "More calculating. Less impulsive." Kate stops a few feet away from me, close enough that I can see the tension in her shoulders, the wariness in her eyes. "More like one of them."

  "I'm still me," I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds defensive.

  Kate doesn't argue, just starts doing her own stretches—rolling her neck, rotating her shoulders. "So how do you want to do this?"

  "Same as last time," I suggest. "No rules, no referee. Just us working things out."

  "You mean like last time when I nearly broke your ribs?"

  I tap my side, grinning. "All healed up. No hard feelings."

  Kate doesn't return the smile. "And that's really what this is about? Working things out?"

  "What else would it be about?"

  She studies me for a long moment, then shakes her head. "Nothing. Never mind."

  We fall into silence as we finish warming up, circling each other like wary predators. I can feel the tension building, a familiar electricity in the air. This is how it always was between us—competition and understanding, push and pull, neither of us willing to back down but neither of us willing to really hurt the other either. At least, that's how it used to be.

  "I meant to ask," I say, breaking the silence. "Where the hell did you learn to fight? Last time, you had some moves, but now..."

  Kate's lips quirk up in a small smile. "You noticed, huh?"

  "Kind of hard not to notice when you're throwing me around like a rag doll."

  "I've been training," she says simply, dropping into a loose fighting stance. "Everywhere I could. Every dojo in Northeast Philly that would take my money."

  I mirror her stance, feeling the familiar rush of adrenaline as my body prepares for combat. "That had to cost a fortune."

  "Every unused penny." Her expression darkens slightly. "Turns out being Soot was good for something after all."

  I feel something in my throat, but I'm not sure what.

  "Ready?" I ask.

  Kate nods, her eyes never leaving mine. "Ready."

  For a moment, we just stand there, tension crackling between us like static electricity. Then, as if by some unspoken signal, we both move at once.

  I close the distance with a quick step, leading with a jab that Kate slips past with practiced ease. She counters with a low kick aimed at my knee, but I pivot away, using the momentum to throw a hook toward her ribs. She blocks it with her forearm, the impact sending a dull thud through the quiet night.

  "Not bad," she says, a hint of approval in her voice. "Someone's been practicing."

  "You're not the only one who's been training," I reply, circling to the right.

  We exchange a few more exploratory strikes, testing each other's defenses, getting a feel for the new rhythms of our bodies. Kate's movements are more fluid than I remember, more precise. Each block, each counter seems calculated, measured. No wasted energy.

  I, on the other hand, am all controlled aggression—quick combinations, constant pressure, the boxing style Multiplex has been drilling into me for weeks. Jab, cross, hook. Slip, weave, counter. The fundamentals becoming instinct.

  Kate catches my wrist during an overextended cross, using my momentum to pull me off balance. I stumble forward as she steps to the side, but I manage to recover before she can capitalize on the advantage.

  "Multiplex teach you that?" she asks, a hint of mockery in her voice.

  "Still working on it," I admit, resetting my stance. "How'd you know?"

  "The form. Too textbook. Too..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Professional."

  I launch another combination, this time mixing in a feint that catches her off guard. My knuckles graze her cheek before she can fully dodge, not enough to hurt but enough to score a point in a real match.

  "Professional enough for you?" I taunt.

  Kate's eyes narrow, and something shifts in her demeanor. The caution fades, replaced by determination. "Alright. You want to go? Let's go."

  She closes the distance with surprising speed, ducking under my guard and driving her shoulder into my sternum. The air rushes from my lungs as I stagger backward, but I manage to stay upright, grabbing her shoulders to stabilize myself.

  We grapple for position, neither willing to give ground. Kate's technique is flawless—each move flowing into the next, each shift in weight perfectly memorized, like she's been practicing against me-sized mannequins. She attempts to sweep my leg, but I counter by widening my stance and lowering my center of gravity.

  "Where did you learn this?" I grunt, straining against her grip.

  "Told you," she replies, her breath warm against my neck as we struggle. "Everywhere I could."

  With a sudden twist, she breaks my hold and creates space between us. We're both breathing harder now, the initial exploratory phase giving way to something more serious.

  "You're holding back," she accuses, circling to the left.

  "So are you," I counter.

  A smile flickers across her face, there and gone in an instant. "Then let's stop playing around."