Sol woke up like his body had been in a fight with itself all night—and won.
Not *won* like "everything is fine." Won like: the bleeding stopped, the swelling backed off, the sharp edges of pain sanded down into something tolerable. His ribs still ached when he breathed deep, but the ache was duller than it had any right to be. His ankle still throbbed, but it didn't feel like it was about to snap apart if he stood. His face still felt bruised, but when he touched his cheekbone it didn't light up like a fuse anymore.
And the cut on his side—the one that had soaked through bandages twice and made Hana's eyes go wide—felt… tight. Not open. Not leaking. Tight the way a healing scab feels when you move wrong.
He blinked up at the ceiling of the small bedroom, listening.
No screaming spider-sense.
Just a faint, constant hum under his skin—like his nerves were idling instead of redlining.
On the floor beside the bed, Aaliyah was asleep with a pillow under her head, one arm flung over her face like the sun had personally offended her. Her hair was a mess now, not the controlled ponytail from practice, and it made her look younger—less "captain," more "girl who refused to leave."
On the far side of the bed, Hana had fallen asleep sitting upright at some point, back against the wall, legs folded awkwardly, medical bag beside her like she'd been on-call. Her head was tilted forward, dark hair falling across her cheek.
Sol stared at her for a second too long.
His brain tried to do what it had been doing since the lab—notice details it didn't need to notice. The soft curve of her mouth when she breathed, the way her sweater rode up slightly at her waist, the quiet vulnerability of someone who'd stayed awake for him.
He shut that thought down, hard.
Not because attraction was wrong.
Because his body was already too loud about everything, and the last thing he needed was to be the guy thinking about *that* while Helix was out there touching his mother's arm like she was a handle.
He slid carefully out of bed.
No dramatic collapse. No white-out dizziness.
Just stiffness, like he'd been run over and then built back half-right with cheap parts.
He lifted Aaliyah's hoodie and checked the dressing.
The gauze was still there. The tape was still holding.
But the dark stain that had been spreading last night had… stopped.
Not "slowed."
Stopped.
He pressed lightly near the stitches—pain flickered, but it wasn't the screaming pain of torn tissue. It was the tender pain of a wound that was closing.
Sol's throat went dry.
He'd known he was stronger. Faster. Stickier.
He hadn't fully accepted the other part.
That whatever was inside him… was fixing him.
Fast.
He stepped into the living room.
Judy was curled on the couch, still in her beanie, still in yesterday's clothes, phone tucked under her arm like a teddy bear she didn't trust. One eye cracked open as Sol moved.
She sat up instantly, alert like she'd been pretending to sleep.
"Are you alive?" she whispered.
Sol nodded. "Yeah."
Judy's eyes flicked to his bandage. "You look… less dead."
Sol's blunt honesty came out without permission. "I think I heal fast."
Judy stared at him. "Like… fast-fast?"
Sol pulled the hoodie up slightly and peeled one edge of tape back enough to show the line of stitches.
The skin around it looked angry, but not catastrophic. No fresh seep. Less swelling than it should have.
Judy's mouth fell open.
Then she whispered, reverent and terrified, "Oh my God."
Sol swallowed. "Yeah."
Judy rubbed her face hard, like she could wipe the night away. "Okay. That's… good. That's really good."
Sol's jaw clenched. "It's also really bad, because it means Helix is right about me being an asset."
Judy's expression hardened. "Don't talk like that."
Sol looked at her. "It's true."
Judy leaned forward, voice fierce and shaking. "You are not a thing. You're Sol."
Sol didn't have a clean comeback. He just nodded once, because fighting Judy on this felt like stepping on the only warm part of the world.
Aaliyah shuffled out of the bedroom, eyes half-closed, hair wrecked, hoodie-less now, wrapped in a blanket like she was wearing grudges.
She saw Sol standing and blinked.
"You're up," she said, voice rough. "How's the blood situation."
Sol lifted his hoodie slightly again. "Not bleeding."
Aaliyah froze like someone had hit pause. "No way."
Judy said, "Fast healing."
Aaliyah's eyebrows climbed. "Okay. That's officially unfair."
Hana appeared behind her, yawning quietly, then immediately clocked Sol standing and the peeled tape and the exposed stitches.
Her face went from sleepy to focused in one second.
"Sol," she said softly, "sit down."
Sol tried to protest on instinct.
Hana didn't raise her voice. She just gave him a look that made his spine straighten like he was in trouble with a teacher he respected.
He sat.
Hana crouched, inspected the wound with careful fingers, and exhaled.
"It's… closing," she said, amazed. "It's not normal."
Judy muttered, "Nothing is normal."
Hana glanced up at Sol, eyes full of worry and wonder. "Do you feel different?"
Sol's honesty came out low. "I feel like my body's on caffeine all the time."
Aaliyah snorted. "So, like me."
Sol's mouth twitched.
Hana pressed new tape down anyway, like she couldn't let herself trust it completely. "No more ripping stitches. Even if you heal fast."
Sol nodded. "Okay."
Judy crossed her arms. "So what now? We just… hide in this apartment forever?"
Aaliyah looked around. "I mean, it's cozy in a 'witness protection' kind of way."
Sol stared at the window blinds, still half-closed.
Outside was daylight now. People would be walking. Cars would be normal. The world would look like it hadn't tried to swallow him last night.
He didn't trust it.
His spider-sense buzzed faintly—like a reminder that daylight didn't make predators disappear. It just made them wear cleaner clothes.
Hana stood and went to the sink, washing her hands like she was trying to rinse the night off.
"We need a plan," Hana said quietly. "A real one."
Judy nodded. "And we need to decide about school."
Aaliyah's mouth twisted. "School."
Sol felt the word like a punch.
School meant cameras. Attendance logs. Hallway choke points. Teachers who would notice bruises and ask questions. Students with phones who would film anything weird. Resource officers who would "help." Helix operatives who could blend into a crowd and herd him into a stairwell again.
School was a cage.
Sol's blunt honesty came out immediately. "We shouldn't go."
Judy looked torn, like she hated agreeing but couldn't deny it. "If we don't go, people notice."
Aaliyah shrugged. "People always notice. It's high school. The entire ecosystem is built on noticing."
Hana frowned. "But skipping… it creates a pattern. And if Helix is watching—"
Sol cut in, voice firm. "If Helix is watching, going to school gives them a perfect place to grab me without anyone believing it's real."
Aaliyah nodded slowly. "He's right."
Judy stared. "I can't just not go. My mom will—"
She stopped herself. Her mom had bigger problems than attendance.
Hana spoke softly. "We call in. For one day."
Judy blinked. "Call in how?"
Hana nodded toward the beige landline on the wall. "Like it's 2004. Like we used it yesterday..."
Aaliyah grinned. "True that."
Sol didn't smile. He looked down at his hands.
His fingers were clean now, but he could feel the web pressure sitting behind his wrists like a loaded spring.
He needed control.
Not just for fighting.
For living.
He swallowed and said the thought out loud. "Before anything else… I need to learn how to turn it off."
Judy's eyes flicked to his wrists. "The webs?"
Sol nodded. "The stickiness. The… everything."
Aaliyah leaned on the table. "Okay, Spider—Sol. Training arc."
Hana's mouth twitched. "Please don't call it that."
Aaliyah said, dead serious, "It is. We have a hideout, injuries, emotional bonding, and now we do skill progression."
Judy muttered, "She's not wrong."
Sol exhaled and looked around the apartment.
Bare furniture. Cheap table. Old chairs. A couple of thrift-store lamps. A roll of paper towels on the counter. A stack of cardboard boxes in the corner.
A controlled environment.
No crowds.
No guns.
This was as safe as he'd get.
Sol stood slowly and held his hands out in front of him like he was about to do surgery on the air.
"Okay," he said, voice quiet. "Rules. Nobody stands in front of me."
Judy scoffed. "You say that like we don't trust you."
Sol looked at her, blunt. "I don't trust me."
That shut everyone up.
Hana moved first, gently pulling Judy and Aaliyah a few steps back. "We can observe from here."
Aaliyah lifted her hands. "I'm a respectful spectator."
Sol swallowed and focused inward.
He tried to remember what webbing felt like before it fired.
Pressure.
Heat.
A tightening in the forearm like flexing a muscle you didn't know you had.
He flexed his wrist carefully.
A thin strand formed between his index finger and thumb without him meaning to.
His skin stuck to itself for a second like static cling on steroids.
Sol grimaced. "Okay. That's… annoying."
Judy whispered, "Can you stop it by relaxing?"
Sol tried.
The strand didn't disappear. It just sagged.
Aaliyah deadpanned, "Congrats. You made spider drool."
Sol shot her a look. "Shut up."
Aaliyah grinned. "No."
Hana's voice was calm. "Maybe it's like breathing. You can't force it to stop by panicking."
Sol closed his eyes.
Breathed in.
Breathed out.
He tried to imagine the pressure in his wrists as a valve instead of a bomb.
He tried to think of it like his grip on a door handle—he could stick, but he could also *release.*
He opened his eyes and deliberately peeled his fingers apart.
The thin strand snapped with a soft stringy pop.
Sol blinked.
"That worked," he said, surprised.
Judy leaned forward. "Do it again."
Sol did.
He formed another thin strand, then snapped it cleanly by peeling his fingers apart.
Aaliyah nodded. "Okay. So you can break it. But can you… choose not to make it?"
Sol looked at his hands like they were strangers.
"I don't know."
He tried a different approach.
He flexed his wrist like he was about to fire, then deliberately *didn't*—like holding back a sneeze.
Pressure built instantly.
His forearms tensed.
His spider-sense buzzed faintly—not danger, but strain. Like his body didn't like being denied.
Sol hissed through his teeth, sweating. "It doesn't like that."
Hana stepped closer, careful. "Then don't deny it completely. Redirect it."
Sol frowned. "How."
Hana pointed at the paper towel roll. "Aim small. Make it thin. Control the amount."
Sol stared at the paper towels.
He lifted his wrist and flicked, but not hard.
*Thwp.*
A thin strand shot out—short, controlled—and stuck to the paper towel roll.
The roll jerked slightly.
Sol didn't yank it.
He just held the line, feeling the tension like fishing line.
He slowly reeled it back in by walking his hand toward the roll, then gently peeled it off.
The web stuck to the towel and stretched like taffy.
Sol watched, fascinated and disgusted.
"That's… gross," Judy whispered.
Aaliyah nodded. "I hate it. Continue."
Sol tried again, this time aiming for a chair leg.
*Thwp.*
He anchored a strand, then another, crisscrossing like a small harness.
He pulled gently.
The chair slid toward him with a scrape.
Sol blinked. "Okay. So I can… pull objects."
Judy's eyes lit. "Like Spider-Man."
Sol glanced at her. "Don't say his name like that. It's weird."
Judy blinked. "You literally have webs."
Sol muttered, "Still weird."
Hana's eyes were bright with curiosity now, the fear temporarily replaced by the part of her that liked understanding things.
"Try controlling your adhesion," Hana said. "Your palms—can you stick on purpose?"
Sol looked at the wall.
He stepped closer and put his palm against it.
Instant stick.
He tried to pull away.
It resisted.
Not impossible. Just clingy.
Sol exhaled. "How do I—"
He remembered the feeling from earlier—peeling, not yanking.
He slowly peeled the side of his palm away like removing tape.
It released smoothly.
Sol blinked again.
"That's… different," he said. "It's like… my skin has a setting."
Aaliyah leaned in. "Okay. Switch it off."
Sol tried to put his palm on the wall again without sticking.
His hand stuck anyway.
He grimaced. "Not off."
Judy smirked. "So you're sticky 24/7."
Sol shot her a look. "That's not—"
Aaliyah cut in, delighted. "No, it is. That's what she said."
Hana covered her face with one hand, mortified. "Aaliyah."
Judy laughed, then immediately sobered when Sol didn't.
Sol's face wasn't angry at the joke.
It was tired.
He looked at them, blunt honesty leaking out like blood had earlier. "I don't want to be a walking hazard."
Hana stepped closer. Her voice was soft. "You're not."
Sol's eyes met hers. "Last night a bullet almost hit you."
Hana flinched, but she didn't look away. "And you stopped it."
Sol's jaw clenched. "By hurting people."
Aaliyah's voice went quiet—unusually serious. "You didn't start this."
Sol didn't respond.
His spider-sense buzzed faintly, like it didn't care about guilt. Like it only cared about what came next.
He turned back to the wall and tried again.
This time, he concentrated on the sensation in his palm—like flexing a muscle in skin.
He imagined his sweat glands closing. Imagine the "stick" turning down.
He pressed his palm to the wall.
It still stuck—but less.
He peeled away easier.
Sol's eyes widened.
"I can… reduce it," he said slowly.
Judy's eyebrows rose. "You're calibrating your hands."
Aaliyah smirked. "He's got hand settings."
Hana's eyes softened, proud and relieved. "That's control."
Sol swallowed.
It wasn't perfect, but it was something.
He moved to the kitchen counter and picked up a spoon.
He held it between his fingers and tried to stick only his fingertips, not his whole hand.
The spoon clung.
He relaxed and it released.
He did it again.
And again.
Small reps.
Small victories.
His body learned through repetition faster than his brain did.
After ten minutes, his wrists stopped aching as much. The pressure felt more like a reservoir he could sip from instead of a flood that burst out.
Judy watched him like she was watching a new planet form. "Okay, so webs and stickiness. What about—" She waved at his whole body. "The danger sense."
Sol exhaled. "That thing is… always on."
Aaliyah leaned on the table. "Can you tell the difference between 'danger' and 'Judy being dramatic'?"
Judy snapped, "Excuse you—"
Sol's spider-sense buzzed faintly at Judy's sudden movement, like it flagged her intensity as a "possible problem" even though she wasn't actually threatening him.
Sol blinked. "It just… buzzed when you moved fast."
Judy froze. "So it reacts to motion?"
Hana tilted her head. "Or intent."
Aaliyah's eyes sharpened. "Test it."
Judy looked offended. "Test it how?"
Aaliyah pointed at Judy's hand. "Throw the spoon at his head."
Judy's mouth fell open. "No!"
Aaliyah shrugged. "Gently."
Hana's voice was firm. "Absolutely not."
Sol couldn't help a small, tired smile. "We can do a safer test."
He took three steps back and faced them.
"Okay," Sol said. "One of you move toward me slowly like you're going to tap my shoulder."
Hana raised a hand. "I will."
She stepped forward slowly, eyes calm, no threat in her.
Sol's spider-sense barely buzzed.
It felt like noticing a breeze.
Hana tapped his shoulder.
Nothing dramatic.
Judy leaned forward, curious despite herself. "Okay."
Sol looked at Judy. "Now you. Same thing."
Judy stood and stepped forward, but Judy never did anything without energy. Even slow, she had momentum.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed louder—still not screaming, but definitely awake.
Judy tapped his shoulder.
Sol nodded. "It's stronger with you."
Judy glared. "Rude."
Sol's blunt honesty came out. "You're intense."
Aaliyah laughed. "He's right."
Judy snapped, "You're intense too!"
Aaliyah stepped forward next—slow, controlled, dancer smooth.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed… medium.
Not as calm as Hana. Not as sharp as Judy.
Sol stared. "You have… predator energy."
Aaliyah blinked, then smirked. "Thank you."
Hana frowned. "That's not a compliment."
Aaliyah shrugged. "It is to me."
Sol rubbed his wrists again—habit.
Hana noticed instantly. "Stop rubbing. You're not in danger."
Sol looked at her. "That's the problem. My body doesn't believe you."
Silence landed.
Then Judy exhaled. "Okay. We need to call in."
Aaliyah nodded. "Yes. Because if I show up with yesterday's makeup and a blank stare, somebody's going to call my mom, and my mom will call the CIA."
Hana blinked. "You wore makeup?"
Aaliyah looked offended. "Hana, I'm a dancer. The stage demands sacrifice."
Judy grabbed the landline receiver. "What's the plan? We each call our own parents or just call attendance?"
Sol's stomach tightened at the word "parents."
He'd just heard his mom's voice in his head again—fear under fury.
He didn't want to drag her into more phone calls.
He also didn't want her panicking all day.
He thought fast.
"Call the school attendance line," Sol said. "Use a generic story. Stomach bug. Family emergency. Don't mention me."
Judy frowned. "They'll ask for parent verification."
Aaliyah shrugged. "Not always."
Hana said quietly, "If they do, we can say our parents will call later."
Judy nodded slowly, then started dialing.
The ring sounded loud.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed faintly—not danger, but anxiety. Like the idea of a system tracking them made his skin crawl.
A recorded voice answered first: "Bishop Rowe High attendance. Leave a message with student name, ID, and reason for absence."
Judy looked relieved. "Bless technology."
She spoke in a controlled voice that didn't sound like the Judy who would throw herself into traffic before she let Sol get taken.
"Hi, this is calling to report an absence for Judith Ward. Family emergency. She will return tomorrow."
Beep.
She hung up and exhaled.
Aaliyah took the receiver next. "Aaliyah Grant. Not feeling well. Fever."
She hung up, then glanced at Sol. "You're welcome."
Hana went next, voice soft and steady. "Hana Kim. Illness. Returning tomorrow."
She hung up and set the receiver down gently like it was fragile.
All three of them looked at Sol.
Sol stared at the phone.
Calling in for himself felt like a joke. Like pretending normal still applied.
But he did it anyway, because not going created less data than showing up bleeding.
He lifted the receiver.
Dialed.
The recorded voice again.
He cleared his throat.
"Solomon Smith. Illness. Returning tomorrow."
He hung up.
The room went quiet.
Aaliyah exhaled. "Okay. We officially committed truancy with paperwork."
Judy sat back down, rubbing her hands. "Now what?"
Sol looked at his wrists.
Then at the blinds.
Then at the three girls.
His blunt honesty came out, quieter. "Now I learn not to panic-fire webs in my sleep."
Hana's eyes widened. "Can you do that?"
Sol stared at his hands. "I don't know. That's why we learn."
Aaliyah smirked. "We need a safe room."
Judy pointed toward the bathroom. "Tile. Easy to clean."
Hana frowned. "Webs might stick forever."
Sol said, "They've been… breaking after a while. Some strands snap. Some peel. I think they degrade."
Judy blinked. "You think?"
Sol shrugged. "I'm new at being a spider."
Aaliyah clapped once. "Okay. Bathroom dojo."
They moved to the bathroom.
It was tiny—tub, toilet, sink, cracked mirror.
Sol stood in the tub so if he messed up, it would be contained.
He lifted his wrists and tried something new: not firing, not anchoring—just *forming*.
He pushed pressure out slowly, like squeezing toothpaste.
A thin sheet of webbing formed across his palm, almost like a glove.
He stared, fascinated.
It wasn't a rope. It was a mesh—soft but strong, semi-transparent, clinging lightly to his skin without fully bonding.
Hana leaned closer, eyes wide. "That's… incredible."
Judy whispered, "That's disgusting."
Aaliyah said, "It's both. Continue."
Sol flexed his fingers.
The web glove tightened slightly, then loosened as he relaxed.
He tried to retract it.
It didn't retract like it was on a spool.
But when he peeled it from his palm, it came away clean—leaving a faint sticky residue that faded quickly.
Sol blinked. "Okay. So it's not retractable. It's… disposable."
Hana nodded slowly. "Like keratin. Like hair. Your body produces it."
Judy's eyes narrowed. "So are you just… generating mass out of nowhere?"
Sol stared. "I—don't know."
Hana's brain was clearly sprinting now. "Your metabolism might be insane. You might need more calories."
Aaliyah snorted. "So he needs to eat like a linebacker."
Judy looked at the pantry again. "We have soup and peanut butter."
Sol muttered, "I'm going to starve."
Aaliyah pointed at him. "If you die from soup deficiency, I'm going to be mad."
Sol's mouth twitched.
He tried another thing.
He formed a web strand between both wrists—like a line.
Then he snapped it.
Then he formed it again, thinner.
Then thicker.
He started mapping "pressure" to "output" in his head, like learning the throttle on a car.
Slow pressure: thin strand.
Fast flick: thick rope.
Relax and peel: release.
Panic and jerk: uncontrolled spray.
That last one was the dangerous one.
He looked up at Hana. "If I get scared, it fires on its own."
Hana nodded. "Then we practice being scared in a safe place."
Judy blinked. "How do you practice being scared."
Aaliyah smirked. "I can help."
Hana frowned. "Aaliyah, don't—"
Aaliyah opened the bathroom door suddenly and shouted, "HELIX!"
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
His wrist snapped up on instinct—
*THWP!*
A thick web line blasted into the bathroom ceiling and splattered across the vent.
Everyone froze.
Silence.
Then Judy hissed, "ARE YOU INSANE?"
Aaliyah's eyes were wide, but she was smiling, impressed. "Okay. That reaction is immediate."
Hana looked like she was half a second from crying. "Please don't do that again."
Sol stood in the tub, breathing hard, staring at the web line stuck to the ceiling like a humiliating reminder.
His heart was pounding.
But he hadn't fired at them.
He hadn't fired at a face.
His body had chosen an upward line.
That mattered.
Sol exhaled shakily. "Okay. So panic equals reflex. But it aims… away?"
Judy pointed at the ceiling. "Or you just got lucky."
Aaliyah shrugged. "Either way, we learned something."
Hana's voice was gentle. "Sol, look at me."
Sol did.
Hana spoke calmly. "You're safe. You're here. Nobody is in this bathroom except us."
Sol's heartbeat slowed a fraction.
The spider-sense hum softened.
Sol nodded. "Okay."
He raised his wrist again—deliberate this time—and fired a small strand at the ceiling web.
*Thwp.*
He used it like a handle and peeled the mess down carefully, folding it into itself so it didn't smear everywhere.
It came off with a sticky pull, leaving faint residue that faded as he watched.
Sol blinked. "It does degrade."
Hana nodded, relieved. "Good."
Judy muttered, "Still gross."
Aaliyah said, "We should name it."
Sol stared. "No."
Aaliyah grinned. "Yes."
Judy leaned in, mischievous. "We could call it 'Sol-goo.'"
Sol groaned. "I hate all of you."
Hana's mouth twitched. "It's kind of cute."
Sol's face warmed instantly—because of course it did.
He looked away fast, forcing himself to stay respectful, and mumbled, "Don't encourage them."
Hana's eyes softened. "Okay."
They left the bathroom and returned to the living room.
The sunlight through the blinds looked normal now, which made everything feel worse.
Sol sat at the table and let his head fall into his hands for a second.
His skin stuck lightly to his face.
He peeled away and sighed.
Judy sat across from him. "So. We called in. We train. We stay hidden. What about your mom."
Sol's throat tightened again.
"I called her last night," he said quietly. "She's alive."
Aaliyah leaned back. "But Helix is still pressing."
Sol nodded. "Yeah."
Hana spoke softly. "We need information. Not just running."
Judy's eyes sharpened. "We can't use phones."
Aaliyah pointed at the TV stand. "Is there internet here?"
Judy looked uncertain. "Maybe. But if we connect, Helix could trace—"
Sol cut in. "We assume they can."
Aaliyah nodded. "Then we do analog research."
Hana blinked. "Like… library?"
Judy's mouth twitched. "We are literally living in a comic book."
Sol's blunt honesty came out, tired. "I don't care what genre this is. I just want my family safe."
Hana reached across the table and touched his hand lightly—brief, grounding.
Sol's skin stuck for half a heartbeat, then released as he consciously relaxed it.
He noticed.
Hana noticed too.
Her eyes widened slightly.
Sol swallowed, embarrassed. "Sorry."
Hana shook her head gently. "You're learning."
Aaliyah watched the exchange with a knowing smirk.
Judy saw the smirk and glared. "Don't."
Aaliyah held up both hands. "I didn't say anything."
Judy snapped, "Your face said plenty."
Sol exhaled, then forced a weak grin because if he didn't laugh a little, he'd start breaking.
"Okay," Sol said. "Today: no school. Training. Rest. Figure out limits."
Judy nodded. "And food. If your metabolism is crazy, we need groceries."
Aaliyah smirked. "Great. We're fugitives and also on a meal prep arc."
Hana's voice was soft, but steady. "Sol, promise me something."
Sol looked at her. "What."
Hana met his eyes. "If you feel yourself… slipping into that cold place again, tell us."
Sol's jaw tightened.
He knew what she meant.
The moment in the alley. The clarity. The part of him that had decided killing could be necessary.
He didn't lie. He couldn't.
"I don't know if I can promise that," Sol said bluntly.
Hana's expression didn't harden. It softened, sad but determined. "Then promise you'll try."
Sol held her gaze for a long second.
Then nodded once. "I'll try."
Judy exhaled, tension easing a fraction. "Okay. Good."
Aaliyah leaned forward, elbows on table. "And Sol?"
Sol glanced at her.
Aaliyah's voice was quieter than usual. "You don't have to carry this alone."
Sol's throat tightened unexpectedly.
He nodded once, unable to make words behave.
Outside, the city kept moving.
Inside, four people who shouldn't have been a team began acting like one.
And Sol—still bruised, still healing too fast, still sticky and scared—kept practicing small control over the powers that had hijacked his life.
Because if he couldn't control them…
Somebody he loved would pay for it.