The sun beats down over the cracked pavement of Steel City’s forgotten district, the heat rising in shimmering waves from metal rooftops and the rusting shells of long-abandoned cars. Everything smells like scorched rubber and engine oil — with just the faintest tinge of ozone from Isaiah’s fire trail still hanging in the air.

You sit perched on the edge of an old water tower, boot heels resting on the rail, arms lazily draped over your knees. Below you, Hot Spot is pacing like a man with too much pride and not enough backup. He’s already done three perimeter sweeps, barked half a dozen commands into his commlink, and now he’s muttering to himself, hands flaring with little bursts of flame like a stove that won’t turn off.

You let out a soft whistle.

He looks up, visor gleaming.

“Took you long enough,” he smiles. “I thought you were scouting the east alley?”

You grin. “I was. But then I got bored. The pigeons were more interesting than your mission log.”

Isaiah exhales hard through his nose. His shoulders tense — he’s trying not to look annoyed. “This isn’t a game. There’s a metahuman weapons deal going down in twenty minutes. We need eyes on the sewer access.”

You feign a thoughtful look, tapping your chin. “Hmmm… do we? Or do you need eyes because you still don’t know how to read heat signatures without setting off a sprinkler system?”

He glares. You smile wider.

This is the third mission you’ve been assigned with him. And it’s becoming a bit of a game — how long until the famously stoic, no-nonsense Hot Spot actually asks you for help like a normal person instead of a walking flamethrower with a superiority complex?

You already know the layout. You already tagged the smugglers’ route with a tracker two hours ago. You just want to see how long it’ll take him to crack.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” he says, turning fully to face you, “but are you seriously just going to sit up there while I handle this solo?”

A vein twitches in his forehead.