The night kept moving like it didn't care who bled.
Sol's lungs burned with cold air and panic, and the inside of his hoodie—Aaliyah's hoodie—was warm and damp where his bandage pressed against his ribs. Every step made the wound complain. Every breath reminded him that *stronger* didn't mean *invincible*.
Behind them, in the dark back lot, Mr. Crane's voice had been calm as a teacher calling roll.
"Bring him in."
Now that calm was everywhere—engine hums that weren't normal for this hour, tires rolling too slow, and the distant mechanical whir of something airborne searching like a hungry eye.
They ran anyway.
Not sprinting—the four of them couldn't sprint like that forever, not with Sol limping, not with Hana carrying a bag full of supplies like it weighed a hundred pounds. Instead they moved like thieves: quick, sharp bursts, then stops in shadow, listening, reading the city's breathing.
Aaliyah took point automatically, dancer balance keeping her silent over broken pavement. Judy stayed tight to Sol's side, eyes darting, phone clutched like a weapon she could actually use. Hana hovered close enough to keep a hand on Sol's elbow whenever his ankle wobbled.
And Sol—
Sol kept seeing his mother's silhouette in the doorway.
Kept hearing her voice cutting through men with guns like love was armor.
Kept imagining Nia's face pressed to Marcia's hip, wide-eyed, taking mental notes because Nia never forgot anything.
He tasted metal.
He couldn't tell if it was blood in his mouth or guilt.
They cut between two buildings, into a narrow service alley that smelled like fryer grease and rainwater. A metal gate blocked the far end.
Aaliyah slowed and looked back. "Okay. Options."
Judy gave a breathless laugh that sounded like she was one inconvenience away from screaming. "Option one: teleport."
Aaliyah shot her a look. "Option two: shut up."
Sol almost smiled, then hissed as his ribs flared. The bandage had held, but he could feel his skin pulling under it. Each movement made the taped gauze tug like a reminder: *You got cut. You are not okay.*
Hana leaned in quietly. "Sit for a second. Please."
Sol's instinct was to refuse—he'd refused pain his whole life because pain didn't pay rent and didn't help your little sister with homework. But Hana's voice had that steady thing, like she was giving an order with kindness wrapped around it.
He lowered himself onto an overturned milk crate near the dumpster and exhaled.
Judy's eyes flicked to his face, then to his side. "You're gonna pass out again."
"I'm not," Sol said automatically.
Aaliyah deadpanned, "That's what people say right before they do."
Sol let his head fall back against brick. The brick was cold. It felt good.
Hana crouched again, hands already checking the tape edges of the bandage. "Don't move."
Sol nodded, then froze when he realized what he'd noticed.
Hana was close—closer than any girl had ever been to him while he was semi-naked and bleeding. Her sleeves were pushed up, fingers careful and precise, lips slightly parted in concentration. The emergency light from a nearby exit sign caught in her eyes and made them look softer than the night had any right to allow.
And Aaliyah—
Aaliyah stood a few steps away, arms folded, posture hard, legs planted like she was ready to fight the city itself. The hoodie she'd given him meant she was in a sports bra and a thin tank under her jacket now, and even while she was focused on survival, Sol's brain—his dumb, nineteen-steps-behind brain—registered the shape of her, the strength in her legs, the way her body held tension like a weapon.
Judy, too—Judy's hair was half-tucked under her beanie, her cheeks flushed from running, her lips parted as she tried to breathe quietly, eyes bright with fear and fury. Her hand never stopped hovering near Sol, like she wanted to shield him with her own body and was mad at herself for not being able to.
Sol's stomach twisted.
Not from the wound.
From the fact that his brain had time to notice bodies at all.
*Bro,* he scolded himself. *This is not the time.*
The problem was: his body was running on adrenaline and new instincts, and everything felt sharper—smells, sounds, and apparently attraction. It was like someone turned the "human" dial up until it started clipping.
Hana glanced up at him. "You okay?"
Sol's honesty came out before his filter could catch it. "No."
Hana blinked, then her mouth softened. "Okay. Good. That means you're still you."
Sol stared at her. "That's… not what I meant."
Hana's cheeks warmed a little. "I know."
Judy muttered, "Are you two having a moment right now?"
Sol's face went hot. "No."
Aaliyah's mouth twitched. "You're all having moments. It's a whole season."
Judy threw her hands up silently like the universe was insulting her personally.
Sol rubbed his wrists without thinking.
The pressure was back.
Not as bad as the first time, but building—tight, fizzy, like his forearms were filling with something that wanted out.
Hana noticed immediately. "Your wrists hurt again."
Sol nodded once, jaw tight. "Feels like… soda in my bones."
Judy whispered, "Gross."
Aaliyah leaned in a little, eyes narrowed at his hands. "Can you control it yet?"
Sol flexed his fingers. Thin strands clung between them, shimmering faintly in the alley light.
"I can control it," he said, then corrected himself because honesty was annoying like that. "I can aim it. I can… do it on purpose sometimes."
Judy snorted softly. "That's not control. That's 'the gun sometimes fires when you ask nicely.'"
Sol sighed. "Yeah."
Aaliyah looked down the alley again. "Okay. We can't stay here. We need somewhere they won't check."
Judy's eyes flicked toward the street beyond the buildings. "They might be sweeping blocks."
Hana taped the edge of the bandage down with one last firm press. "I don't think you should swing again," she said, voice low. "Your shoulder—your ribs—"
Sol exhaled through his teeth. "I don't *want* to."
Aaliyah glanced at him, and the bravado slipped for a second. "You're thinking about your mom."
Sol's throat tightened.
He nodded.
Judy's voice went harsh and small. "We left them."
Sol looked up fast. "We didn't leave them. We—"
"We ran," Judy cut in, eyes wet, angry at herself more than anyone. "We ran, and they were in there with those guys, and—"
Sol's spider-sense buzzed, faint but sharp, like a finger pressing the back of his neck.
"Quiet," he whispered.
All three girls froze.
Sol listened.
At the mouth of the alley, a shadow shifted.
A phone screen glow.
Then a voice—low, male, professional—murmured into a radio.
"…negative visual. Continue grid."
Aaliyah mouthed a curse.
Judy's hand grabbed Sol's wrist. "Move."
Sol didn't argue.
He stood, ankle protesting.
Hana slipped under his arm again, supporting without making it a big deal.
This time Sol noticed the contact anyway—the warmth of her shoulder against his side, the way her fingers pressed lightly into his hoodie to steady him.
His brain tried to say something stupid.
He swallowed it down and made himself focus on survival.
Aaliyah stepped to the gate, tested it.
Locked with a chain.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed again—closer.
Aaliyah looked at him. "Can you—?"
Sol nodded. He didn't even bother pretending this was normal.
He grabbed the chain.
His grip stuck to the metal automatically. He pulled—not yanking like he'd done with the apartment door, but steady pressure, controlled.
The chain groaned, links stretching.
Then popped.
The gate swung inward with a squeal.
Judy stared at him. "Okay. That's… that's insane."
Sol muttered, "Yeah."
They slipped through, pulled the gate partly closed behind them, and moved into the next block's back passages—delivery ramps, dumpsters, fire escapes.
Chicago's underbelly.
The city behind the city.
The kind of places Sol had walked his whole life without realizing they were pathways until tonight.
As they moved, Sol's phone buzzed again in his pocket.
He flinched like the vibration was a shock.
He didn't need to look to know who it was.
Mom.
His hand shook as he pulled it out.
**MOM:** *Where are you. Nia is crying. I told her you're safe but Solomon answer me.*
His throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Judy saw the name on the screen and went pale. "She's still texting."
Sol nodded, swallowing. "She's alive."
Aaliyah's jaw clenched. "Good."
Hana's eyes softened. "Text her back."
Judy snapped, "No. If Helix is scanning—"
Aaliyah cut in, practical. "Phones ping towers. They can trace."
Sol stared at the screen.
His mother's words blurred.
He felt like a coward.
He also felt like a target carrying three other targets.
His blunt honesty tried to claw out again.
"I can't leave her thinking—" he started.
Hana's voice was gentle but firm. "Write something short. No location. Just… that you're alive."
Judy grimaced. "Make it vague."
Sol's fingers hovered.
He typed:
**SOL:** *I'm alive. I'm sorry. I can't explain yet. Please keep Nia inside and lock everything. I love you.*
He stared at it for half a second.
Then hit send.
It felt like throwing a lifeline into the dark.
It also felt like painting a bullseye on his family all over again.
He shoved the phone back in his pocket like it was burning him.
Aaliyah whispered, "Okay. Next: we need a plan bigger than 'run until we drop.'"
Judy's voice was tight. "My mom."
Sol's head snapped up. "Dr. Ward."
Judy nodded. "She knows what Helix is doing. She knows containment. She told us not to go to hospitals."
Aaliyah frowned. "Can we trust her?"
Judy's face twisted. "I don't know."
Hana said quietly, "She sounded terrified. That didn't sound like a villain."
Sol exhaled. "We need an adult."
Aaliyah stared at him. "Your mom counts as an adult."
Sol's jaw clenched. "And that's exactly why she can't be the one. They'll go through her to get to me."
Silence hit.
Judy swallowed. "We need somewhere to go where Helix doesn't have cameras."
Aaliyah scoffed. "That's not a thing anymore."
Hana looked down, thinking. "A church basement. Or a community center. Older buildings."
Judy's eyes flicked to Sol. "Or… my mom's lab. She has access."
Aaliyah snapped, "That's literally Helix."
Judy shot back, "Not all of it. She has places they don't watch."
Sol's spider-sense buzzed again—warning. Not immediate danger. More like a forecast: *storm approaching.*
He looked up.
Above the rooftops, a drone slid across the night sky, tiny blinking light.
Searching.
Aaliyah saw it too. "Move."
They moved.
Three blocks became five.
Five became eight.
They crossed an empty street where the streetlights flickered like tired eyes.
They cut through a narrow parkette and ducked under a broken fence, feet crunching on gravel.
Sol's ankle grew numb.
Then pain returned sharper, like it was angry he'd ignored it.
His web-pressure built again, slow, constant.
Each time it rose, his spider-sense seemed to sharpen, like the same system ran both.
Hana noticed him rubbing his wrists again. "You're doing it."
Sol glanced down. "What."
"The rubbing," Hana said softly. "Like you're trying to smooth the pressure away."
Sol's mouth twisted. "It doesn't work."
Hana's voice stayed calm. "Still. It's something you do when you're stressed."
Sol blinked.
He hadn't realized anyone watched him like that.
Judy muttered, "Hana, you're doing the nurse-psych thing again."
Hana flushed. "I'm not."
Aaliyah smirked. "She totally is."
Sol almost smiled. Almost.
Then his spider-sense flared hard enough to make him stop dead.
Aaliyah froze a half-second later, reading his body language like she was trained too—trained in dance, trained in timing, trained in noticing.
Judy whispered, "What."
Sol's eyes locked on the street ahead.
A black SUV rolled slowly at the corner—too slow for a normal driver, too steady for someone lost. Headlights off. Just a dark shape moving like it owned the night.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
"Back," he whispered.
They retreated into shadow behind a brick wall.
The SUV paused at the corner.
A silhouette inside leaned forward, scanning.
Sol held his breath.
He heard his own heartbeat.
He also heard something else—a faint clicking.
Another drone.
This one closer.
Hana's fingers tightened on her bag strap. "Sol…"
Sol's mind raced.
They were being boxed in.
SUV on the street, drone overhead, and likely a foot team somewhere behind them sweeping.
Crane wasn't just chasing.
He was *hunting.*
Sol's blunt honesty surfaced again, unhelpful but true.
"They're good," he whispered. "Like… really good."
Aaliyah's jaw tightened. "Okay. Then we get mean."
Judy stared at her. "What."
Aaliyah looked at Sol. "Can you make webs without firing them? Like… can you lay them down."
Sol flexed his fingers. Sticky strands formed, thin as thread.
"Yeah," he said slowly. "I think so."
Aaliyah nodded once. "Then we set a trap. Not to win. To buy time."
Hana whispered, "A trap in the street?"
Aaliyah's eyes were hard. "We're not doing it in the street. We're doing it in the dark. Right here."
She pointed to the narrow passage between two buildings—an old service corridor with one entrance and a broken light halfway down.
A choke point.
Sol stared at it.
His spider-sense didn't scream at that idea.
It buzzed—tense, but not "death" tense.
That was the closest thing he had to approval.
Sol nodded. "Okay."
They moved into the corridor quickly.
Aaliyah took position near the far end where they could escape into a back lot.
Judy crouched behind a dumpster, phone in hand, breathing fast.
Hana stayed close to Sol, eyes wide but steady.
Sol lifted his wrists.
The pressure surged.
He breathed through it and let it flow into action.
He didn't fire a thick strand.
He *pulled* it out, like drawing thread from inside himself—gross and surreal and somehow natural now.
He stretched web lines across the corridor at ankle height, then knee height, then waist height.
A crude net.
Sticky.
Strong.
He anchored it to brick and metal, fingers pressing, skin adhering.
Each line made his wrists ache.
Each anchor made his forearms cramp like overworked muscles.
Hana watched, whispering, "Does it hurt?"
Sol's voice was tight. "Yeah."
Hana's hand brushed his shoulder—light, grounding. "Tell me if you need to stop."
Sol almost laughed. "If I stop, we get caught."
Hana's lips pressed together, eyes fierce. "Then we don't get caught."
Something in Sol's chest warmed, painful and good at the same time.
He hated that he noticed the shape of her mouth when she said it.
He hated that he wanted to lean into her hand.
He forced himself to focus on the corridor.
Aaliyah whispered, "Footsteps."
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
A moment later, he heard them too—boots on pavement, controlled and unhurried.
A man's voice murmured into a radio somewhere outside.
The corridor mouth darkened as a shadow filled it.
Then a figure stepped in.
Black tactical gear.
Flashlight in hand.
Not Crane.
One of the operatives.
He moved like a professional: weapon low, flashlight sweeping, shoulders relaxed but ready.
The beam swept across the corridor and hit the web lines.
He froze.
"—What the—" he whispered, and for the first time Sol heard fear.
The operative lifted his radio. "Control, visual on—some kind of—"
Sol didn't let him finish.
He fired a web straight at the flashlight.
*THWP.*
The web slapped the lens, sealing it.
The operative cursed, yanking back.
His boot hit the ankle-height web line.
It stuck.
He stumbled, tried to correct—
His knee caught the second line.
He went down hard.
His chin slammed the concrete with a wet crack.
Blood splattered dark across the ground.
The sound was sickening—too human, too final.
Hana gasped softly.
Judy whispered, horrified, "Oh my God."
Sol's stomach lurched.
This wasn't a comic book.
This was a man's teeth breaking on concrete because Sol had set a trap like a cornered animal.
The operative groaned—alive, but hurt. He clawed at the webbing, stuck.
Sol's spider-sense screamed again.
More footsteps.
More shadows at the corridor mouth.
A second operative stepped in, saw his teammate on the ground, and immediately raised his weapon.
Not a rifle shot.
A canister launcher.
The kind that didn't kill fast but could still ruin you.
Sol's spider-sense detonated.
He yanked Hana back, moved before thought, and flung a web line to the side wall, pulling hard.
The web net snapped sideways like a curtain being ripped.
The operative's weapon hissed—
A canister fired, clanking off the brick where Sol's head had been.
It burst.
White mist boiled outward, crawling low.
Sol's eyes burned instantly.
His throat tightened.
Hana coughed.
Judy made a choking sound.
Aaliyah shouted, "MOVE! NOW!"
Sol grabbed Hana's wrist and Judy's sleeve, yanking them toward the escape end of the corridor.
Aaliyah sprinted ahead, leading them into the back lot.
They burst out into open air just as the gas rolled behind them like a living thing.
Sol's lungs screamed, but the fresh air helped.
He kept pulling, dragging all of them along.
Behind them, an operative shouted, furious and muffled through a mask.
"CONTACT MOVING—!"
Aaliyah turned a corner hard and shoved open a back door into a building without hesitation.
They spilled into a dim hallway that smelled like old carpet and bleach.
A sign on the wall read:
**ST. BRIGID COMMUNITY OUTREACH CENTER**
Sol blinked. "A church?"
Aaliyah panted, "Community center. Same difference. Shut up and keep moving."
They ran down the hall and ducked into a storage room, crammed with folding chairs and boxes of canned food.
Aaliyah locked the door.
The four of them stood in the dark, breathing like they'd just been born.
Sol leaned against a shelf.
His ankle finally gave a full complaint.
He slid down to the floor.
Hana knelt immediately, hands hovering over him like she didn't know where to help first.
Judy crouched too, eyes scanning him like she was checking for damage and also checking him for lies.
Aaliyah stood by the door, ear pressed to it, jaw clenched.
Sol's wrists throbbed.
His forearms cramped.
His ribs burned under the bandage.
And he felt something worse than pain crawling up his throat.
Guilt.
Because that operative's chin hitting concrete replayed in his mind on loop.
He whispered, "I hurt him."
Hana's eyes softened. "You stopped them."
Sol swallowed hard. "I… I didn't mean—"
Judy's voice cracked. "Sol, they were going to take you."
Sol's blunt honesty came out again, raw. "Yeah. And I still hurt him."
Aaliyah didn't turn from the door. "Welcome to real life."
Sol flinched at her tone.
Then Aaliyah added, quieter, like it cost her something, "You can feel bad later. Right now you stay alive."
Silence settled again.
Outside the room, distant footsteps echoed in the building—maybe staff, maybe someone sheltering, maybe nobody.
Sol's spider-sense buzzed faintly, not screaming.
For a second, they were safe.
Hana whispered, "Your bleeding."
Sol glanced down.
The bandage had a dark spot again, slowly spreading.
Hana's face tightened. "We need to change it."
Sol nodded.
And as Hana leaned in, pulling tape carefully, her hand brushed his abdomen under the hoodie—gentle, precise.
Sol's brain, traitor that it was, registered the closeness, the warmth, the shape of her body as she leaned over him.
He fought the reaction like it was another enemy.
He forced his eyes up to the ceiling instead of anywhere inappropriate.
Hana noticed anyway—because Hana noticed everything.
A faint pink touched her cheeks.
Sol's voice came out hoarse, too honest. "I'm trying really hard not to be weird right now."
Hana blinked. "What?"
Sol swallowed. "You're—close. And I can't tell if my body is… broken or just—" He stopped, jaw tight with embarrassment. "I'm sorry. Ignore me."
Judy made a choking sound, half laugh, half outrage. "Sol!"
Aaliyah turned from the door with a look like she'd just seen the funniest thing in the world. "Oh my God. He said it out loud."
Sol's face burned. "I didn't mean—"
Hana's voice was soft, steady. "It's okay."
Sol stared at her.
Hana held his gaze and said, quietly, "Thank you for trying to be respectful. Even right now."
It hit Sol in the chest harder than the baton had.
Because nobody thanked him for trying to be good.
They just expected it.
Sol nodded once, throat tight.
Then, because his honesty had already ruined his dignity, he added, blunt: "I'm still going to mess up."
Hana's mouth softened into the smallest smile. "Then apologize when you do."
Judy muttered, "This is insane."
Aaliyah smirked. "This is character development."
Sol groaned softly, then hissed as Hana cleaned the wound again.
The antiseptic burned like fire.
He clenched his jaw, breathed through it.
Hana's hands stayed steady.
Judy watched Hana's hands on Sol's side, eyes narrowed like she was trying not to be jealous and failing.
Aaliyah watched Judy watching, amused.
Sol wanted the earth to swallow him.
Outside the storage room, a voice echoed down the hall—male, calm, too polite.
"Hello? Community outreach? We're looking for a young man. Potentially injured. He may have entered this building."
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
Aaliyah's smile vanished. She moved to the door silently, listening.
Judy whispered, terrified, "They found us."
Sol's wrists pulsed with pressure again.
His webbing tingled between his fingers.
He whispered, "No."
Hana's eyes locked onto his. "Sol. Look at me."
Sol looked.
Hana spoke fast, calm, like she was giving him a job. "You can't fight them head-on. You buy seconds. We leave through another exit. We don't panic."
Sol swallowed. "How do you know there's another exit?"
Aaliyah whispered, "Because these places always have a back door. Fire code."
Judy whispered, "What if they're at all the exits?"
Aaliyah's eyes flashed. "Then we make a new one."
Sol's spider-sense screamed louder.
Footsteps were coming closer down the hall.
Slow. Confident.
Crane wasn't rushing.
Because he didn't have to.
Sol lifted his wrists, hands shaking.
He whispered, to himself more than anyone: "I'm not letting them take me."
Judy grabbed his hand. "Then don't."
Hana pressed fresh gauze to his side, quick and firm. "Stand."
Sol stood.
Pain flared.
He ignored it.
Aaliyah cracked the storage room door open a fraction and peeked.
Her eyes narrowed. "Two operatives. One with a canister rifle."
Judy whispered, "And Crane?"
Aaliyah's jaw tightened. "Not in sight. Which means he's close."
Sol's spider-sense screamed like confirmation.
Aaliyah looked at Sol. "Can you web the hallway? Like a curtain. Make them hesitate."
Sol nodded, throat dry. "Yeah."
He didn't wait.
He flicked his wrists toward the door crack.
*THWP—THWP—THWP.*
Thick strands shot out into the hallway, splattering across the floor and walls, building a sticky barrier like a spider throwing its whole body into survival.
His wrists cramped.
His forearms burned.
But the webbing held.
Outside, a voice cursed as someone stepped into it.
"What the—!"
Aaliyah shoved the door open and moved—fast—grabbing Hana by the wrist and dragging her into the hallway behind the web barrier, keeping low.
Judy pulled Sol with her.
They ran down the opposite direction, deeper into the building.
Sol's spider-sense screamed the entire time.
And somewhere behind them, through the chaos and muffled shouts, Crane's voice carried—still calm, still polite, still cruel.
"Solomon," he called, like he was speaking to a dog that wouldn't come when called. "You're making this harder than it needs to be."
Sol's blunt honesty came out under his breath, fierce and shaking.
"Good."
They hit a back stairwell.
Aaliyah threw it open.
They barreled down into a basement that smelled like old coffee and cardboard.
A row of doors. Storage. Offices. A big room with stacked mats.
And a metal exit door with a glowing red sign above it:
**EMERGENCY EXIT**
Aaliyah grabbed the handle.
Locked.
She swore.
Sol stepped forward, hands already on it.
His palm stuck.
He pulled.
Metal groaned.
The lock screamed—
Then snapped open.
The door swung outward into cold night air.
They spilled out into a fenced back lot behind the outreach center, gravel crunching underfoot.
For a second, there was nothing but wind.
Then headlights snapped on at the alley mouth.
A black SUV rolled into view.
The passenger door opened.
Mr. Crane stepped out like he'd always been there.
He wiped dried blood from the corner of his mouth, eyes locked on Sol.
He didn't look angry.
He looked patient.
Like a man watching a clock.
"End of the line," Crane said softly.
Sol's spider-sense screamed.
His wrists pulsed.
His webbing tingled.
His ribs burned.
And Sol noticed—through all of it—that Judy had stepped closer to him, shoulder-to-shoulder, jaw set.
That Hana had moved to his other side, hands clenched like she was ready to throw herself into danger.
That Aaliyah planted herself in front again, fearless as ever.
Sol's chest tightened.
He hated that he'd dragged them into this.
He also—
God help him—
felt something warm and fierce about not being alone.
He swallowed and forced himself to speak like he was unafraid even while his body shook.
"You three," he said, voice low, honest, "when this goes bad… don't do anything stupid for me."
Judy snapped, "Too late."
Aaliyah smirked, feral. "We're already stupid."
Hana met Sol's eyes, soft but unshaking. "We're here."
Crane watched the exchange like he was watching a play.
Then he tilted his head and said, almost kindly, "That's sweet."
His smile didn't reach his eyes.
"Now," Crane said, "give yourself up… or I start breaking the people you care about."
Sol's spider-sense exploded.
Sol's hands clenched.
Web strands stretched between his fingers like the first threads of a war.
And Sol Smith—bleeding, exhausted, terrified—did the only thing he could do.
He smiled back.
Not because it was funny.
Because it was defiance.
"No," Sol said, blunt and honest, voice shaking with rage. "Try."