The newsroom is abuzz with activity, the anchors' faces grave as they deliver the latest updates on the Chernobyl trial. I sit on the couch, my injured leg propped up on a pillow, watching the coverage with a mix of anticipation and dread. My mind races with thoughts of my own testimony, the weight of my words hanging heavy in the air.

"Breaking news," the anchor announces, her voice cutting through the chatter. "The jury has reached a verdict in the trial of Illya Fedorov, also known by the nom-de-crime of Chernobyl. After weeks of testimony and deliberation, Mr. Fedorov has been found guilty on multiple counts, including manslaughter, theft, property damage, and the illegal generation and release of hazardous materials."

I feel a jolt of surprise at the word "manslaughter." I knew Fedorov's lawyers were arguing self-defense, but I didn't think the jury would actually buy it. The anchors seem just as shocked, their normally polished facades slipping for a moment.

"It's important to note," the legal analyst chimes in, "that while Mr. Fedorov was initially charged with two counts of second-degree murder in relation to the deaths of Professor Franklin and Liberty Belle, the jury ultimately found him guilty of the lesser charge of manslaughter. This suggests that they believed he acted in self-defense, at least to some degree."

I can't help but wonder if my own testimony played a role in that decision. I think back to the video footage I provided, the raw, unfiltered look at the confrontation between Fedorov and Liberty Belle. Did my perspective, my words, sway the jury towards leniency? That certainly wasn't the intention, but I can't help feel a certain weird amount of peace at the idea.

The anchor nods, shuffling her papers. "The sentencing hearing is scheduled for September 28th, and legal experts are already speculating about the potential outcome. Given Mr. Fedorov's apparent cooperation throughout the trial and the jury's decision to convict on manslaughter rather than murder, many believe he may receive a relatively lenient sentence, possibly in the range of 20 to 50 years in prison."

"That's outrageous!" a guest commentator interjects, his face flushed with indignation. "This man is a menace, a terrorist. He should be locked up for life, not given a slap on the wrist!"

"And what about the victims?" another adds, her voice trembling with emotion. "What about Professor Franklin and Liberty Belle? Don't they deserve justice?"

I feel a wave of conflicting emotions wash over me. On one hand, I understand the anger, the desire for retribution. Fedorov's actions have caused so much pain, so much destruction. But on the other hand, I can't shake the feeling that he's a victim too, in his own way.

I think about the desperation in his eyes when he talked about his family, the way his voice cracked with emotion. He's not some heartless monster, not really. He's just a man who got caught up in something bigger than himself, a pawn in a game he never asked to play.

The coverage switches to scenes of protests outside the courthouse, crowds of people waving signs and chanting slogans. "Justice for Franklin!" "Lock him up!" "No more secrets!" The anger and frustration are palpable, even through the screen.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

But as the cameras pan over the sea of faces, I notice something else: signs demanding accountability from the NSRA, calling for transparency and reform. "NSRA LIES!" they read, and, "WHO WATCHES THE WATCHERS?" It's clear that the revelations about the agency's involvement with Fedorov have struck a nerve, and people are hungry for answers.

The anchor returns, her expression somber. "The Chernobyl trial may be coming to a close, but it seems to have opened a Pandora's box of questions about the NSRA and its role in the superhuman community. In the wake of Agent Shaw's testimony, more and more whistleblowers are coming forward with allegations of corruption, cover-ups, and abuse of power within the agency."

I think back to my own interactions with the NSRA, the way they seemed more interested in controlling and manipulating superhumans - controlling and manipulating me - than actually protecting the public. I think about the fear and mistrust I've seen in the eyes of my fellow heroes, the way we've all been looking over our shoulders, wondering who we can trust.

The legal analyst nods, his brow furrowed. "This is just the tip of the iceberg, I'm afraid. The NSRA has operated with impunity for far too long, and now the cracks are starting to show. I wouldn't be surprised if we see a full-scale investigation in the near future, possibly even congressional hearings."

"In a surprising turn of events," the anchor continues, "Mr. Fedorov's defense team is arguing for him to serve his sentence at the Aurora Springs Residential Facility, rather than a traditional prison like Daedalus or Ixion."

The guest commentator scoffs, rolling his eyes. "Aurora Springs? Isn't that basically a luxury resort for supervillains? What's next, a day spa and a five-star restaurant?"

"To be fair," the legal analyst interjects, "Aurora Springs is designed to contain individuals with powers that make them a threat to public safety. It's not exactly Club Med."

But I can see the calculation in their eyes, the way they're spinning the story to fit their narrative. They want people to be angry, to demand blood. They don't care about the truth, about the shades of gray that make up this whole mess.

I think about Fedorov's family, waiting for him back in Ukraine. I think about the desperation that must have driven him to make the choices he did, the impossible position he was put in. And I can't help but feel a pang of sympathy, even as I know I shouldn't.

As the news coverage continues, I find myself drifting in and out of focus, my mind spinning with the implications of it all. I absently rub my injured leg, wincing at the dull ache that still lingers beneath the surface. The doctors say I'm healing well, that my regeneration is doing its job, but the constant infections and setbacks are starting to take their toll. It's just hard to pack a wound that deep and that big and keep it uninfected. It's almost closed now, but it's weeping and weird and, I don't know… juicy? Gross. Sorry.

I think about the first day of sophomore year, looming just a few short weeks away. It feels strange to be worrying about something as mundane as school supplies and class schedules when the whole world seems to be falling apart around me. But as Mom keeps reminding me, life goes on, even in the midst of chaos.

I sigh, reaching for the remote to turn off the TV. I've had enough doom and gloom for one day. As the screen goes dark, I catch a glimpse of my reflection - tired eyes, messy hair, a face that looks older than my fifteen years. I try to smile and my teeth don't read like a shark's or a human's or a dog's. If anything, it reads like a grimace.

Whatever happens with the NSRA, with the Chernobyl trial, with the city's descent into paranoia and fear, I know one thing for sure. I'm a hero, and I'll keep fighting for what's right, no matter the cost. Because that's what heroes do.

With a groan, I haul myself up from the couch, grabbing my crutches and hobbling towards the kitchen. Mom's making lasagna for dinner, and the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce is enough to make my stomach rumble. For now, at least, the world can wait. I've got a date with some comfort food and a much-needed break from the madness outside.

But tomorrow? Tomorrow, it's back to the grind.