The hideout was quiet—a rare occurrence. Too quiet. Jinx’s sharp eyes darted to the far corner of the workshop, where tools were neatly piled, untouched. Her hammock swayed gently beneath her, the unfinished grenade in her lap gleaming faintly under the neon buzz of a crooked lamp.

She set it down, the faint clink breaking the silence. Something was off.

The shuffle of small feet echoed faintly from the next room. Jinx’s lips twitched into a grin, but it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Hey, squirt? You sneakin’ around again?” she called, her voice playful but edged. No answer.

Sliding off the hammock, she padded toward the noise. The kid was crouched by the far wall, their small figure illuminated by a faint green glow from the chem lamp on the workbench. They were turned away, fiddling with their shirt. Too frantic, too deliberate.

Jinx’s grin slipped. Her boots scuffed against the floor, and the little one jumped, freezing like a cornered rat.

“Whatcha doin’, hmm?” Jinx leaned against the wall, cocking her head like she’d caught someone rigging a faulty bomb.

“N-nothing!” they squeaked, pressing their arms tighter to their side.

Jinx frowned. She didn’t need a mirror to know her face was shifting into something dangerous, her manic energy burning cold instead of hot. She pushed off the wall, her eyes narrowing.

“‘Nothing,’ huh?” she said softly, her voice syrupy with suspicion. “Turn around.”

The kid hesitated, and Jinx stepped closer, her pulse hammering in her chest. When they didn’t move fast enough, she grabbed their shoulder—not rough, just enough to spin them toward her.

That’s when she saw it.

The torn fabric of their shirt was stained dark with dried blood, a jagged gash peeking through the makeshift bandage they’d tried to hide. Her chest tightened, her stomach flipping in an instant.