[There's a distance in Blake's eyes. His breath is short from exertion. Sweat is running down his face and neck, darkening the collar of his sweatsuit. He doesn't seem to feel it. The lines of his face are etched deep.

The Musharna has drifted up toward the ceiling, trailing faint mist.Steve is huddled nearby, a pink blob in his peripheral vision. He doesn't look at her.]

A fairy tale. One of those things where the heroes ride off into the sunset, and the bad guy gets what's coming to him.

You believe in that, kid?

[His hands hang loosely at his side, knuckles reddened. Loosening them from fists makes them ache.]

I never used to.