Chapter 5 Loner Goner


    This was an utter disaster.


    The smell of smoke hit me first. Then came the shouts of “Fire!” from outside the Hamilton estate. I turned toward the source, and sure enough, the second floor was blazing, thick plumes of black smoke curling into the sky.


    Shit.


    It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened. Sunstrider, before catching up to me, must’ve set the place alight in an attempt to erase whatever damning evidence he had been hiding. Problem was, Sunstrider wasn’t exactly known for his control. His fire was as wild and reckless as the man himself.


    I glanced at his crumpled form sprawled across the floor, his blood pooling beneath him.


    My chest tightened.


    I walked over to his body, crouching down to check for a pulse. I pressed two fingers against his neck. Nothing. I examined the wound next, though I already knew what I’d find. The katana had gone clean through, and judging by the amount of blood soaking into the dirt, he wasn’t coming back.


    I sighed. Not out of regret—I wasn’t that sentimental—but out of sheer exhaustion. I could barely stand, my injured leg trembling under the strain. My body was screaming at me to stop, to rest, but I couldn’t.


    Not yet.


    I limped to the nearest wall, grimacing with each step. Phasing was supposed to be second nature by now. I’d trained myself to exhaustion for years to master it. But pain was a cruel teacher, and right now, it was winning. Concentrating while my leg was this battered, felt impossible.


    Still, I didn’t have a choice.


    I took a deep breath, gritted my teeth, and pushed through the higher walls that surrounded the estate. The sensation of passing through solid matter always felt strange, like being submerged in water but without the wetness. When I emerged on the other side, I was in the open air, the chaos of the fire growing louder behind me.


    I stumbled toward the forest, clutching my ribs. My leg was throbbing, every step a fresh jolt of agony, but I forced myself to keep moving. I reached the tree where I’d stashed my duffel bag and grabbed it, pulling out the retractable shovel.


    Digging wasn’t exactly fun on a good day, but with my body as wrecked as it was, it felt like torture. Still, I managed to dig a shallow hole a few feet deep.


    Into it went my recently acquired “criminal clothes” from the thrift shop: the new hoodie, jeans, and bonnet mask. And then I changed into the spare “civilian clothes” I’d packed from the duffel bag, a simple T-shirt and sweatpants that screamed average nobody. The duffel bag and shovel went into the hole too.


    Was it overkill? Probably. I didn’t even know if changing clothes actually helped hide my tracks, but I wasn’t taking chances. I patted the dirt down over the hole and smoothed it out as best as I could.


    Good enough.


    I didn’t head straight home. That would’ve been stupid. Instead, I took every precaution I could think of.


    First, I alternated buses, crisscrossing through different neighborhoods to scatter my scent. If some shifter with beast-related powers decided to track me down, I’d make sure they’d have a hell of a time doing it.


    It didn''t mean because I no longer sweat, certain clothes would no longer have any scent or leave any trace.


    Next, I took a light dip in the Madvent River. The water was freezing, but it was worth it to throw off any lingering scent. I hitched a ride on a boat heading upstream, getting off at the shanty town on the outskirts of the city.


    There, I bought a ratty jacket and some stained jeans off a homeless guy. Not the most stylish outfit, but it added another layer to my disguise. It was a bonus that the thing was obscuring my scent or whatever particular trace I had, too. Couldn''t be too careful.


    Finally, I walked the rest of the way home, keeping my head down and avoiding eye contact with anyone I passed.


    It was 5:27 p.m. when I finally dragged myself through the front door. My entire body felt like it had been through a meat grinder, but at least I was home. Safe, for now.


    I dropped onto the couch, my entire body aching.


    For a moment, I just sat there, staring at the ceiling, the weight of everything that had happened crashing down on me.


    Sunstrider was dead. The Hamilton estate was on fire. And I was officially a wanted criminal.


    Happy fucking Saturday.


    I  kicked off my shoes and leaned more comfortably on the couch. The remote was buried under a pile of junk on the coffee table, but after some halfhearted digging, I found it.


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    The TV flickered on, and I flipped through channels until I landed on the local news. Nothing yet. No reports of Sunstrider’s death. No whispers of a suspect. Just the usual drivel about the mayor’s upcoming campaign and a fluff piece about a cat stuck in a tree.


    I headed to the bathroom.


    The shower was scalding, but I welcomed the heat. I scrubbed myself raw, as if I could wash away the events of the day along with the grime. My fingers ached from gripping the katana, my leg throbbed where Sunstrider had pinned me, and my ribs still protested every breath.


    Worst of all, though?


    I didn’t feel guilty. Not even a little.


    Sure, this wasn’t my first kill. That dubious honor belonged to some low-life mugger I’d stumbled across during my first year of training. Back then, I’d told myself it was self-defense. And maybe it was. But today? This wasn’t self-defense. This was survival, sure, but it was also something else. Something darker.


    Sunstrider wasn’t just some asshole cape. He was a murderer. The teeth? The skull? Those trophies? They proved it to an extent. Hell, I’d probably done the world a favor taking him out.


    So why wasn’t I proud of it?


    "It wasn''t a misunderstanding... I..."


    I have no idea.


    Maybe I saw it all wrong...


    I stepped out of the shower and dried off, wincing as the towel brushed over my bruises. In the backyard, I gathered the filthy clothes I’d bought from the homeless guy and tossed them into the fire pit. A flick of the lighter, and they went up in flames, curling into ash within minutes.


    By the time I came back inside, the TV was blaring breaking news.


    I froze.


    On the screen was a brunette reporter with sharp oriental features, her hair tied back in a neat bun. Behind her was the charred skeleton of the Hamilton mansion, smoke still rising from the ruins.


    “This just in,” she announced, her voice grave. “A devastating fire has engulfed the Hamilton estate earlier this afternoon. Investigators are currently on the scene, but sources suggest that the blaze may not have been accidental.”


    The camera panned over the wreckage. Blackened beams jutted out like broken ribs, and firefighters milled about, dousing stubborn pockets of flame.


    I sat down slowly, my heart pounding.


    “The Hamilton family is currently unreachable for comment,” the reporter continued. “While no casualties have been officially confirmed, there is speculation that prominent businessman and mayoral candidate Charles Hamilton may have been inside the residence when the fire broke out.”


    Charles Hamilton.


    They weren’t calling him Sunstrider yet. Either they didn’t know, or they were covering it up.


    My stomach twisted as the reporter turned to a man in a suit, his face shadowed by the camera angle. “What can you tell us about the Hamilton estate’s security footage?”


    The man cleared his throat. “We’re still reviewing it, but initial reports indicate that the system was tampered with shortly before the fire began. We’ll have more information once the investigation is complete.”


    Shit.


    I leaned back against the couch, thinking how deep this must be. Tampered with? That wasn’t me. Sunstrider must’ve done it before or during the fire. Was that even possible? Did something happen that I have no idea about? Maybe Sunstrider was trying to erase his dirty laundry, or maybe he’d anticipated the fight going south. Perhaps… Sunstrider was still alive… No way… I knew I was imagining monsters under my bed at this point.


    Either way, it was only a matter of time before they pieced things together. And when they did, they’d come looking for me.


    I turned off the TV, staring at the blank screen.


    What the hell was I supposed to do now?


    I spent the next few days lying low, searching for a job, any job, that would accept a minor like me. It wasn’t easy. Word had gotten out about what happened at Beth’s Burgers, and the place was suffering. Bad reviews piled up, people called it a “dangerous establishment,” and it seemed like the place was on the brink of going bankrupt. I’d made a mess, and now everyone knew it.


    "Word sure travels fast..."


    Disappointed, I threw in the towel on the job search and decided to take care of some other things. First, I paid my bills in advance, such as electricity, water, etc. Anything that might give me some breathing room. After that, I hit the store for some basic groceries: canned goods, instant noodles, stuff that would last me for a while without needing much attention. I grabbed a few new shirts too. I had to keep up appearances, right?


    When I finished, I took a cab back to my place.


    I turned the TV on out of habit, letting the low hum fill the silence. I wasn’t expecting much, but I had to check. Maybe, just maybe, there’d be a break in the news that meant I was still in the clear. No mention of Sunstrider’s death, not yet. I allowed myself a small breath of relief. Maybe I could try my hand at another criminal opportunity soon, one where I wouldn’t leave such a bloody trail.


    I shelved the canned goods and instant noodles, a little more care in my movements than usual. I didn’t need to think about anything right now. It was just the mundane, the necessary. Finally, I folded the new shirts and placed them neatly in my wardrobe. Anything to keep my mind occupied. Anything to keep from thinking about what I had done.


    When I returned to the living room, the TV had switched to a breaking news segment. I paused. The screen was fuzzy at first, but it cleared just enough to show a grainy image of a man slumped against the floor. My blood ran cold when I realized what I was looking at.


    It was me. The blurry, distorted image showed me stabbing Charles Hamilton in the chest with the dull katana. The footage must have been taken from a camera, somewhere close, though the resolution was too poor to tell much. The newscaster’s voice crackled through the speaker.


    “…and authorities have confirmed that this masked individual is the primary suspect in the death of Charles Hamilton. The police are currently investigating the scene, and Vanguard’s cooperation has been guaranteed. Investigators are focusing on nearby footage and witness reports. The suspect has yet to be identified, but…”


    My heart was thudding in my ears, and my hands were shaking. I didn’t know if it was from adrenaline or fear, but either way, it didn’t feel good. The police would be on me now. They would find that katana. I’d left it there. I left it to be discovered, thinking I could just wipe my hands of it. But they wouldn’t trace it to me, right? I wore gloves. I’d taken precautions. There was no way they’d link me to it.


    Right?


    But the panic was already clawing at the edges of my mind. Could they trace my fingerprints on something else? My power... Was it enough to hide all the signs? It wasn’t like I had planned for this.


    I stood frozen in front of the TV, watching as the news anchor rambled on. Something about Vanguard being involved, something about the investigation ramping up. I couldn’t focus. All I could hear was my own breathing, louder and louder in my chest.


    And then, something clicked. They might not have my fingerprints on the katana, but they would definitely look for other evidence. Maybe I hadn’t thought this through as well as I should’ve.


    I needed to think of a way out. Fast.


    "I hope this was just my paranoia talking."