The days after my reevaluation passed like drifting ash—weightless on the surface, but suffocating underneath.
I knew one thing for certain: I couldn't just stumble into the mastermind's lair. This wasn't some neatly wrapped investigation. I didn't have the skills or the resources to track them down directly.
But fires—they were predictable.
Not in the way they burned, but in the way the mastermind set them. Patterns buried beneath chaos, like fingerprints left in soot.
The District Inferno had to have drained a lot of resources. It wasn't just about the scale; it was about the precision. Fires that big didn't start themselves, and they sure as hell didn't maintain themselves without meticulous planning. There was something methodical in how the fires never touched the same place twice—like the mastermind was crossing names off a list.
Which meant two things:
1. I had time. Time to prepare, to anticipate, to shift the board before the next move was made.
2. The next fires were limited. A pattern could be disrupted if I planted myself right in the middle of it.
So instead of heading back to Station 47, I followed the pattern that my Strategist skill told me.
The first location was an old office complex, busy but just rundown enough to be vulnerable. People stared when I arrived, the Fox mask catching the morning light like a beacon. I hated how it felt—like the mask walked into the room before I did.
But that's what they needed.
I approached the nearest employee. "Bring me your supervisor."
The man's eyes widened, his mouth slightly ajar as if trying to process the request. I didn't give him time. "Now."
Shock melted into urgency. Within minutes, the site's supervisor stood before me, his expression bouncing between awe and confusion.
"There's a chance," I said, keeping my voice firm but not alarming, "that this location is a target for an arson attack."
The words hit like a sudden gust of wind—startling, but not enough to cause panic. The supervisor blinked, his mind racing to catch up.
"I need you to stay vigilant," I continued. "Hire additional security if you can. Check every corner, every shadow. But keep it discreet. No press. No leaks."
He nodded, still processing. They always did. The presence of the mask made it easier—it carried authority without question. I also felt like Chief Ryan's Command Presence skill was making it easier for them to cooperate, even if there weren't necessarily team members.
But I wasn't worried about the public catching wind of this.
Because I was 99% sure the mastermind was a firefighter from my station.
I repeated the process.
Fifteen locations in total, each chosen for the same reasons: vulnerability, symbolism, and strategic disruption.
Every time I showed up, people reacted the same way—first with surprise, then with obedience. Mr. Fox wasn't just a name anymore. He was a force. A symbol.
And that terrified me more than the fires ever could.
In the days that followed, I forced myself to be patient.
I spent time with Sienna whenever she wasn't busy with work. Her presence was grounding, even when we didn't talk. Sometimes we'd just sit in silence, her head resting on my shoulder as if that simple contact could stitch the fractures inside me.
Other times, I'd walk the streets as Mr. Fox—not to patrol, but to exist. To let people see the mask and feel safe. Their smiles were like fleeting embers, small and warm but never enough to light the darkness in me.
At Station 47, I observed more than I engaged. My Strategist skill worked overtime, I was trying to analyze patterns in behavior, shifts in routines, subtle cracks that could hint at something more. But nothing stood out. Mainly because the skill isn't meant for investigation or psychological analysis. It was made to plan things out.
Logan seemed as steady as ever, though the fatigue around his eyes told a story even if his words didn't.
And through it all, something strange happened.
I started making money. A lot of money.
I never cared about that before. But seeing my account balance climb to $30,000 in just a month? It was jarring.
Between the firefighter salary—an absurd $300K a year after the A-Rank promotion—and the leftover pay from the construction job, I had more money than I knew what to do with.
It didn't take a genius to figure out why.
Sienna was likely clocking me in at the construction site, covering my absence with quiet efficiency. And since we always finished projects early, the evaluators never noticed a dip in productivity.
I should've felt guilty.
Money couldn't buy peace of mind. And right now, that was the only currency I cared about.
The pattern continued. Days blurred together—checking locations, maintaining the façade, waiting for the next spark.
The blaring sound of the fire alarm snapped me out of routine like a slap to the face.
At Station 47, firefighters scrambled, suiting up with practiced urgency. Logan barked orders, his voice cutting through the chaos like a blade.
Instead, I closed my eyes and activated Thermal Perception.
Heat signatures flared in my mind—buildings, vehicles, people. A kaleidoscope of warmth layered over the cityscape.
No abnormal hotspots. No rising flames.
I laughed. Just a little. A quiet, breathy thing that slipped past the edges of the mask.
"What's funny, Fox?" Logan snapped, clearly annoyed.
I turned toward him, the grin in my voice impossible to hide. "The mastermind's back."
The room froze for a heartbeat. The tension was palpable.
Logan's expression darkened, his jaw tightening. Others mirrored his frustration—anger, fear, exhaustion.
But I shook my head, stepping forward.
"He lost this time," I said quietly, but with enough edge to cut through the room. "We stopped the fire before it even started."
Silence settled in like ash after a blaze.
Because for the first time since this all began...