Chicago didn't breathe today; it just sat there, a heavy, gray weight of humidity and exhaust trapped between the skyscrapers. Outside the apartment, the 'L' train shrieked around the curve of the Loop, a sound like metal grinding against metal that seemed to vibrate through the very marrow of the Trio's bones. The skyline was a jagged set of teeth biting into a bruised sky, and the street-level haze made the pedestrians below look like ghosts haunting their own lives.
Inside, the silence was worse than the screeching train.
Elena wasn't painting. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by a jagged graveyard of old frames, her fingers methodically stripping the gold leaf off a Victorian border with a pair of tweezers. Click. Peel. Snap. The sound was small, but in the dead air of the room, it sounded like teeth breaking.
The Fighter, known only as "himself" within these four walls, was slumped on the mismatched velvet sofa. His long brown hair was a tangled mess, and he was staring at his hands as if he didn't recognize the calluses forming on his knuckles.
Raul sat on the floor, leaning against the radiator, meticulously fixing a broken strap on one of Elena's old bags. He looked up, sensing the gloom.
"You're doing that thing again."
He gestured with a pair of pliers.
"The staring-at-nothing thing. It makes the room feel like a funeral."
The Fighter sighed, shifting his weight.
"I was just thinking about the parents. I talked to them this morning. They think I'm still working that night-shift security gig at the warehouse. My dad told me to 'keep my head down and stay out of trouble.'"
He let out a dry, hollow laugh.
"If they saw the posters for the next match, they'd think I'd been possessed."
Elena stopped her brushing, her shoulders tense.
"They can't know. Not yet. They're happy in that little bubble where the world still makes sense."
Raul set the pliers down.
"Hey, remember the first time we all actually sat in a room together? Not the hallway or the lobby. The hospital room. You remember how we officially 'met'?"
The Fighter looked at Raul, a faint, tired smile finally breaking through.
"I remember waking up and seeing a guy I didn't know sitting in the visitor's chair eating a bag of chips like he lived there."
"They were good chips."
The hospital room was suffocatingly quiet. The Fighter lay in the bed, chest wrapped in heavy bandages, his breath shallow. He had tried to perform his own top surgery; a desperate, dangerous act born of having no money and even less hope. He had ended up in the ER, bleeding and terrified of the bill that would surely follow.
Elena was pacing by the window, her eyes red from crying.
"We're ruined. The bill… and the parents are coming up the elevator. What do we tell them? How do we explain why you're here without telling them everything?"
The door had creaked open. Raul, a kid they'd seen around the neighborhood but never spoken to, walked in. He looked tired, his clothes dusty from his flight from France just days prior.
"I heard the nurse talking."
His accent was thick and unpolished. He held up a receipt.
"The bill is sorted. It's done."
Elena froze.
"What do you mean? Who are you?"
"I'm Raul. I live in the building."
He tapped his pocket, which was now empty of the life savings he'd brought to America.
"I had the cash. You looked like you needed it more than I needed a car."
"Why would you do that?"
Raul looked at the two of them—two siblings holding onto each other like they were the only things left in the world.
"Because no one should have to fix themselves alone in a bathroom. It's a bad way to start a life."
The elevator dinged down the hall. Their parents' voices drifted through the door, thick with worry.
"They're here. They're going to ask why a stranger is paying for your surgery."
Raul didn't hesitate. He grabbed a chair, sat down, and leaned back with a grin that looked like it had been there for a decade.
"Don't worry. I'm a good liar."
The parents burst in, frantic.
"What happened? The lady at the desk said the money is gone! Who is this boy?"
Raul stood up and shook the father's hand firmly.
"Sir! It's been too long! You remember me? Well, maybe not… it's been years since the neighborhood. Your son here, he's a saint. When I moved here, I had these terrible teeth—just a mess, really. He paid for my whole dental surgery out of his own pocket. I've been looking for him for months just to return the favor. A debt of the tooth, right?"
The parents blinked, looking at Raul's perfectly normal teeth. They looked at their son, then back at Raul. The logic was thin, but the kindness was real.
"A debt of the tooth? You did this for him, son?"
The Fighter looked at Raul, then at his parents. For the first time in weeks, the crushing weight in his chest eased.
"Yeah, Dad. I did."
In the apartment, Elena finally put her brush down.
"That was the day we invited you to move in. We couldn't let the guy who 'fixed his teeth' sleep in a hostel."
Raul stood up, stretching.
"It was a solid investment. I traded a car for a family. I'd say I won that deal."
The Fighter sat up, but the gloom didn't lift. Instead, it sharpened. He looked at the window, his eyes tracing the Chicago skyline toward the suburbs where the air was quieter and the houses were smaller.
"They think the fire was an accident. The investigators said it was faulty wiring in the garage. My dad still blames himself for not checking the fuses that winter."
The room went cold.
Raul and Elena shared a look. The fire at their parents' house years ago was the reason the Trio had become so insular, so paranoid. It was the moment they realized the world didn't just want to watch the Fighter—it wanted to consume him.
"She was there, wasn't she? Delaney. She was the first reporter on the scene. She had the 'exclusive' before the fire trucks had even hooked up the hoses."
Elena's hand trembled as she gripped her palette knife.
"She didn't just report it. She knew the layout of that house. She knew where the parents slept. If she's the one who tipped the domino... if she's the reason they lost everything once already..."
The Fighter stood up, crossing the room to the small, analog photo taped to the fridge. It was a picture of his parents standing in front of their new, modest porch—the one they'd bought with the money he'd secretly funneled to them through "bonuses" from his fake security job.
The parents. The only fire that hasn't burned them yet.
"They suspect it. Deep down, my dad knows wiring doesn't just spark like that. He's seen the way the Dispatch vans linger at the end of the block. He thinks they're just looking for a celebrity, but he doesn't realize he's the bait."
He turned back to Raul and Elena, his eyes hard.
"She knows where they live. She's probably sitting in her office right now, looking at their address, deciding if she wants to finish what she started with that first match. She's not just looking for a story anymore, Raul. She's looking for a funeral."
The Fighter's face went pale as he said that.
"Then we can't just hide. If she has the address, the 'Glitter Mask' won't protect them. We have to get to them before she decides to play with matches again."
The arsonist has always known where to strike. Now they know her name.
> Chapter complete. Continue to next chapter? [Y/N] █