The fluorescent lights flicker above, a sterile buzz that's already setting my teeth on edge. I'm lying on a table covered with what looks like butcher paper, and the stink of antiseptic is heavy in the air, mixing with the smell of wet dog and fear. The vet's face is all hard lines and impatience, his eyes flicking over me like I'm some kind of disappointing homework assignment he's got to grade.

"I swear, it was like she pulled a new power out of her ass just for me," I grumble, trying to sound like I'm not just making excuses. "Knives for arms, can you believe that crap?"

The vet doesn't even look up from the tray of tools he's arranging. "Sure, Aaron," he says, his voice dry as the desert. "And I suppose she turned into a dragon and flew away too, right?" He’s not buying my story, and I can’t blame him. I wouldn’t buy it either if I wasn’t there.

He comes over, a rolled-up dish rag in his hand, and shoves it toward my mouth. "Bite down on this. It's gonna hurt like hell, and I don't need you screaming." There's no sympathy in his tone, just a blunt practicality that says he's done this too many times.

I bite down on the rag, tasting laundry detergent and something metallic. I'm ready for the pain, the sharp jolt of reality as he sets my knee back in place. My hands grip the edges of the table, knuckles white, the rest of the world narrowing to the point of contact where his hands meet my leg.

"You're not cut out for this, Aaron," he tells me, not unkindly, but with a blunt honesty that's hard to swallow. "Stick to the streets, stick to what you know. You’re lucky to be walking. Whatever hit your knee could've broken it an inch down, and you should be extremely thankful that her knife hands didn't nick your carotid or your jugular."

He doesn't give me any warning, just grips my leg and pushes. There's a moment, a split second of pressure, and then pain explodes in my head, white-hot and blinding. The rag in my mouth is the only thing keeping the scream trapped inside, muffled grunts escaping instead. I can feel sweat beading on my forehead, my heart hammering against my chest like it's trying to break out. My entire body goes cold and hot at the same time. It's the worst pain I've ever felt in my life.

The vet works quickly, efficiently, his hands steady even as mine shake. The crunch of bone and cartilage is sickeningly loud in the quiet room. "There," he says, almost gently. "That's the worst of it over."

I'm panting, ragged breaths that reek of spit and fear, the rag falling from my mouth wet and stained. I can feel my knee throbbing with a dull, persistent ache that tells me it's back where it should be, even if it doesn't feel like it.

"You're going to have to take it easy," the vet says, wrapping my knee with a bandage that's too white against the rest of me, dirtied with blood and bruises. "No heroics. Rest, ice, compression, elevation. You know the drill."

Heroics. The word tastes like ash in my mouth, a bitter reminder of what I've been trying to be. What I'm not. I look away from the vet's knowing eyes, away from the judgment I see there. I don't need his pity. I don't need anyone's. I'm Aaron fucking McKinley. I've been down before, I've been beaten, but I'm not out. Not by a long shot. I'll rest, I'll heal, and then I'll be back on the streets where I belong. Where I reign.

"Don't compare me to those chumps," I rasp.

"You know what I mean, runt. Hold still," he says, shoving his hands in my face. He fiddles with my broken nose, and for a moment, I see white again, before he pulls away, and I feel tape. Or something tape-like, whatever. "I'm not a plastic surgeon, so you'll have to get that fixed better later. Chin up, I hear girls love scars."

"Shut it," I almost spit. "I'm paying you too much for snark."

"You're paying me too much for medical care and that's why I'm bothering to stitch up those little cat scratches of yours. Otherwise I'd be giving you some peroxide and telling you to go pound sand. You are not paying me too much for snark," he lectures me, making my blood boil as he starts cleaning and bandaging the cuts on my face. "You got tetanus shots, kid?"

"What?"

He knocks his knuckles against my forehead. "I said 'you got tetanus shots, kid?'. You said she grew knives. Believe me, the last thing you want with… all this," he says, gesturing to my face, the compression wraps covering me, the bandages, "is lockjaw."

"No, I don't have my fuckin' tetanus shot. You think I walk into CVS asking for my tetanus shot? The fuck you mean? I got them as a kid." I bark back.

"Well, you're a lucky boy, I'm giving you a tetanus shot," the vet responds, rummaging around in his fridge.

"Not too fond of needles, doc."

He stops to turn to me, slowly, scowling. "What?"

"I said I'm not--" I start.

He cuts me off. "What sort of a pussy are you? Shut the fuck up. I'm giving you a tetanus shot."

"Why do you even fuckin' have tetanus shots? Aren't you a fuckin' vet?" I ask, trying not to move my knee too much.

"You think you're the only two-bit thug I see? Given your ilk's propensity towards slumming around in abandoned factories, yeah, I like to keep a supply with me. Here, it's fridged, it'll feel refreshing. Hold still."

He grabs my arm, the needle cold against my skin. I clench my teeth, feeling the sharp prick as it goes in, a cold sensation flooding my arm. I hate needles, always have, but I'm not about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me squirm. He pulls it out, a small drop of blood beading at the injection site.

"There," he says, tossing the syringe in a bin. "That wasn't so bad, was it? It'll suck for a couple of days and then you'll be right as rain."

I just grunt in response, watching him as he starts wrapping my knee with a compression bandage. It's tight, each layer squeezing a bit more, a constant reminder of the fight, of the pain, of the fuck-up.

"You're going to need a brace for this," he mutters, rummaging through a cabinet. He pulls out a bulky knee brace, straps and all. "This should do. Keep it on, it'll help."

He straps it on, his hands efficient and impersonal. The brace is uncomfortable, constricting, but I can tell it's necessary. I can feel the support it gives, a false sense of stability.

The vet steps back, looking me over. "You're a mess, McKinley. A damn mess. I've patched you up best I can, but you're no good to anyone if you keep getting yourself into these situations without finishing the job."

I want to argue, to tell him he doesn't know shit, but the words die in my throat. I feel each pinprick her fucking brass knuckle knife fingers left in my neck.

"Here," he says, handing me a small bottle of pills. "Dog painkillers, for coyotes like you. Don't take more than one every six hours. And for fuck's sake, try not to get into any more fights. God gave us guns for a reason."

I take the bottle, rolling it in my hand. "I'll keep that in mind."

He snorts. "Sure you will. Listen, Aaron, stick to slinging weed and hustling pool halls. This gangster life, it's clearly not for you."

I stand up, testing my knee, without acknowledging his words. It holds, sort of. "Thanks, doc," I say, and there's a grudging respect in my voice. I keep my leg straight.

"Don't mention it. And don't come back here looking like this again. You're out of money, and I'm out of patience."

I nod, limping towards the door. The cold air hits me as I step outside, the city noises a dull roar in the background. I'm broke, beaten, and bruised, but I'm still here. Still breathing. Still Aaron McKinley.

----------------------------------------

The docks are dead at this hour, just the sound of water lapping against the wharf, and the distant hum of the city that never sleeps right. It's late, or maybe it's early; the kind of time where decent folks are nowhere to be seen. I'm standing here in the shadow of a rusted crane, the Delaware reeking like a cesspool, waiting for the Phreaks to show. They're late, and I hate late.

I can feel the tightness of the brace around my knee, a constant reminder of Sam's handiwork. My nose is a mangled mess under the splint, breathing's a bitch, and every inhale is a jagged reminder of my fuck-up. But I'll be damned if I show any of that to the Phreaks. I'm still Aaron McKinley. I'm still the guy you don't want to cross in this town. We're far away from Tacony but that's no problem. Fire burns everything, everywhere.

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I see 'em before I hear 'em, silhouettes against the city lights. Pumice is leading the pack, his stone skin a patchwork of grout and anger. He's trying to keep that cool, but I can see it. The first crack in his facade, courtesy of yours truly, by proxy. Chrysalis flutters behind, wings a dull sheen in the moonlight, and I can't help but sneer. Always thought she was too high and mighty, the way she dangles off her own feet. Can't even fly with those, only fall slow. And there's Deathgirl, a scrawny wraith of a girl, blindfolded and pissed, a chunk of her hair missing like a doll mauled by a dog. Looks like a zombie.

"Look at this," Pumice grunts as he steps into the light, pointing to his face. "This is on you, Aaron."

I don't flinch. "That right? Last I checked, you're the rock. Nothing hurts the rock."

He scoffs, "Yeah? Tell that to my face. Sam Small did a number on it, and it's your sadistic ass that put us in her path."

If you asked me, I'd say it looks badass. Yeah, he's so metal that he fixes up his scabs with concrete and mortar. But clearly, this little punk doesn't see things the same way.

Chrysalis sneers, "It's your methods, Aaron. They're ugly. You think with your fists and not your head. That's why we're here, cleaning up your mess, instead of popping bottles and celebrating."

I lock eyes with her, "My fists get results. You'd know if you weren't so busy polishing your claws."

Deathgirl's voice cuts through the banter, high-pitched and grating, "You're all idiots. If I had my way, Sam would be dead, not prancing around with a few more stories to tell." She sounds like a fucking cartoon character. I try not to set her on fire again. A time and a place for everything, Aaron.

"Yeah? And how'd that work out for you, princess?" I shoot back. "All I see is a kid throwing a tantrum 'cause she didn't get to play with fire."

She snarls, "At least I don't pretend to be something I'm not. You talk big, Aaron, but you got your ass handed to you by a little girl. Just so we're clear, though, setting my hair on fire was cool. I don't care about that. You're just a stupid fuckin' idiot in other ways."

"Daisy," Pumice chides her.

"What! It was awesome."

I feel a vein throb in my temple, like they aren't even listening to me. Am I some sort of joke to them? I get ready to yell, "I had her! If it wasn't for—"

Pumice interrupts, "If it wasn't for what? Your need to show off? You had chances to end it. So many fucking chances, man. We had her passed out on a fire escape. Then, you wanted to drag her into a fucking building, okay, sure, don't alert the cops, even though the streets were empty. Tie her up? Okay, man, whatever. But no, you wanted to play with your food, and now look where we're at. This is on you."

Chrysalis nods, "He's right. We're not your goons. We're not here to watch you stroke your ego. We're in this to survive, and you're not making it easy."

I clench my fists, the pain from my wounds spiking with the rage, "Survive? I thrive. There's a difference. You want to run with the big dogs, you gotta keep up."

"Keep up?" Pumice laughs, a grinding, rocky sound, "No, Aaron. We're done 'keeping up' with your shit. You want Sam gone, you do it. Get a gun, do it clean, or don't do it at all. "

Chrysalis flies up, hovering, "Or better yet, skip town. The heat's on, and you're just fanning the flames."

Deathgirl's cackle fills the air, "Yeah, run away, Aaron. The Great Demon Lord has no need for weaklings."

Pumice stares at me. "You said hello and offered this sweet alignment of interests. Punch at the Young Defenders, and when you make it big with the Kingdom, you'll cut us in. But now we're all fucked up, you've got a broken leg, and she got away. The scale of your fuck-up is enormous, man."

I stare them down, one by one. They think they've got me cornered, that they can dictate terms. But they don't know Aaron McKinley. They don't know that I've always got an ace up my sleeve. "You think this is over?" I spit out the words, "You think you can just walk away from me?"

Pumice steps forward, his form imposing, "We're not walking away from you, Aaron. You're the one who's been left behind."

Then he turns on his heel, and the rest follow. But I'm not done yet. Not at all.

I lunge forward, the sharp pain in my knee nothing compared to the sting of their words. I feel my bones grinding. My boot skids against the ground. But Chrysalis… she's not done, not by a long shot.

She floats down, landing with the grace of a drunk wasp, her compound eyes reflecting the dim light, glowing red and fierce. I'd almost think it was sexy if I was into freaky ugly bug girls. Maybe some nerd on the internet will pay a hundred dollars to tap that when she gets washed up and ugly and has to whore herself out for money. "You chase after us like a dog after a car, Aaron. What would you even do if you caught us?"

I open my mouth to throw back a retort, but she cuts me off with a laugh that's more a hiss. "You're just a thug, Aaron. Un instrumento sin filo. A blunt instrument. You have this power, this miracle, and what do you do with it? The same thing you've always done. Inflict pain. Spread fear."

I clench my teeth, trying to keep the anger at bay. "Fear is respect in the streets."

She shakes her head, almost pitying. "No, Aaron. It's not. Fear is control, maybe, but it's the lowest form of it. Respect? That's earned. And you… you just take. You don't grow; you stagnate. You wallow in your own sadism, thinking it makes you strong. But it's made you weak. Vulnerable."

I step toward her, but she doesn't flinch. "You think you know me? I had a gang, and Bloodhound - Sam fucking Small ruined that. My boys respected me. Because they were afraid of me."

She nods, "I see right through you. Your powers could've been so much more. But you? You chose the path of least resistance. The easiest way to use your gifts. You never considered what more you could be. You're just… a man with a match, not even a flame. You've got no creativity. Ohhh, if you don't listen to me I'll set you on fire! Grow up."

"I'm feared," I insist, feeling even more certain of it. "Every civvie in this city is afraid of me. They should be afraid of me. I'll burn them alive. I'm feared."

Chrysalis laughs again, "By who? The street rats? The lowlifes? Particularly young cats? People are more afraid of Deathgirl than they are of you, and she's 12,"

"12 and three quarters!" Deathgirl protests.

"12 and three quarters. Maybe she's a little delusional, but she's not nearly as much of a delusional idiot as you are. Nobody's afraid of you."

The others chuckle, a chorus of mockery, and I feel the heat of a blush that has nothing to do with my powers. I feel my hair heating up in my scalp.

"You came to us because you thought you could mold us into your image. But we're not clay, Aaron. We're survivors. We do what we have to, to live another day, to find a piece of happiness in this fucked-up world. You? You don't want happiness. You just want to inflict misery because it's all you know. You want to be like us because you think it's cool, not because you have to. Look at you," she says, gesturing with a clawed finger. "White boy Aaron. From Tacony. Don't make me laugh. You think you have it rough? Go live with your parents. I bet you went to private school."

"Shut the fuck up, trash," I growl. I scowl. I snarl, trying to bare my fangs. Grimacing like a monkey does before it rips your face off.

Her voice is like acid, burning at my soul, eating it away. "You're not unique, Aaron. You're not special. You're just another boring thug on the street, and there are a million like you. But there's only one of each of us. We're leaving you behind because you've got nothing left to offer. Not fear, not respect. Nothing. You're not built for this life."

I'm seething now, muscles taut, a primal urge to lash out. But I don't. Because deep down, I know she's hit the mark. I'm just a thug. No kingpin. No supervillain. Just a man with a matchbook in his eyes. I feel deflated. Like a fucking clown balloon.

Chrysalis turns away, wings unfolding, preparing to take off. "Grow up, Aaron. Or don't. It's no longer our concern."

The words sting, venom from Chrysalis's lips sinking deep into my skin, festering. I can't stand it, the truth or the mockery, and something snaps inside me. The vice in my head tightens, squeezing every other thought out until there's only room for the burn.

I fix my gaze on her, the pressure mounting behind my eyes. I want to see her burn, to watch those smug wings shrivel up in flames. She thinks she can just fly away from this? No. Nobody makes a fool of Aaron McKinley and just flutters off like a fucking pixie. I'll make sure she knows that. She won't be so high and mighty without any of those fucking wings.

But Pumice is faster, always the fucking hero of his own little story. His fist connects with my face before the fire even sparks, and the world tilts. I'm skidding across the wet dock, pain splintering through my already broken nose. I can taste blood, copper and salt, and it mixes with the bitter tang of defeat. I can't tell if it's broken again, but it hurts like a motherfucker.

I struggle to my feet, glaring at them through the pain. "You should be afraid of me!" I spit out the words like bullets, but they're just blunted by the pity in their eyes. "Get scared, fuckers! I'll come for you next!"

Chrysalis is hovering again, standing on tip toes, and her tone makes me want to strangle her and then cut open her corpse. She sounds sad. Why does she sound sad? Why isn't she afraid? "Aaron, you're so stupid. You think we followed Patches because she was strong? No. She cared, Aaron. When we got hurt, she was there with bandages. When there was money, we all saw it, not just her. Daisy—" She nods at Deathgirl, ", when Daisy flipped out, Patches sang her lullabies and read her those Japanese comics."

Pumice is nodding, his stony face more human than I've ever seen. "She was teaching me Algebra, man. Algebra. Because she wanted better for us. I thought you understood that when we made this deal."

Chrysalis's gaze is steady, her voice a scalpel dissecting my pride. "We were tools, sure, but Patches knew you take care of your tools. You? You just make demands. You throw tantrums. You're not a leader, Aaron. You're just a wild dog lashing out because your parents didn't love you. I heard your little gloating speech to Sam. Oh no, boo hoo, daddy beat me with a belt. Well my daddy kicked me out of the house and shot me. Get over yourself."

I can feel their eyes on me, every one of them. Deathgirl, even with her blindfold, I know she's looking at me. And what she sees… what they all see… it's not fear. It's not respect. It's just… pity. Pity. Pity. I fucking hate their pity. I don't want their pity. I don't want an ounce of it, not a fucking molecule of it. I want their fear. Why don't they give it to me? "We're not some social club for wayward bullies, Aaron. The three of us stick together because we have to. You don't get that," Pumice lectures. I want to scorch that smug, pitying stare off his face.

"You're like a pug, Aaron," Chrysalis says softly. "All bark, no bite. You think you're a big dog, but you're just… sad. A sad little dog that nobody even wants to put down. Because you're not worth the bullet, and they bred you with an ugly nose, so nobody's willing to fix you. Not in this lifetime. Hope you reincarnate into something better when you bite it in an alleyway, alone and unloved - and unfeared."

The truth slams into me, a final blow that's worse than any punch. They're right. I've been living in a delusion, thinking I'm the big bad wolf, but I'm just a stray mutt, snapping at the heels of giants. I can't help but stumble down, dropping to my good knee, soaking it against the wet asphalt.

And as they turn their backs on me, leaving me alone on the docks with nothing but the cold and the stench of the river, I realize… I'm not even a stray worth following. I'm just a nobody, a nothing.