As Maggie and I rummage through the pantry, pretending to be deeply invested in the age-old debate of whether Doritos or Cheetos reign supreme in the realm of cheese-adjacent snack foods, I can feel the weight of everything we've just witnessed pressing down on us like a weighted blanket made of pure anxiety.

"So," Maggie says, her voice low enough that my parents won't overhear from the living room, "what does all this mean for... you know, people like us?"

I pause, a bag of pretzels halfway to the counter. "People like us?" I repeat, playing dumb even though I know exactly what she means.

Maggie rolls her eyes. "You know, metahumans. Superheroes. The whole 'more-than-human' crowd. Does this Fedorov thing change how people are gonna look at us?"

I let out a long breath, setting the pretzels down and leaning against the counter. "Honestly? I'm not sure. It's... complicated."

"Wow, thanks for that incredibly insightful answer, oh wise mentor," Maggie snarks, but there's no real bite to it. She's scared, I realize. Just like I am.

"Look," I say, trying to channel some of that mentor energy I'm supposedly supposed to have, "the thing about being a superhero – or just having powers in general – is that it's never simple. There's always gonna be people who love us, people who hate us, and a whole lot of people in between who just don't know what to think."

Maggie nods slowly, absently fiddling with a package of Oreos. "Yeah, but... this feels different, doesn't it? Like, people are really angry. And scared."

She's not wrong. I think back to the chaos we just saw on TV, the rage in people's voices, the fear in their eyes. "It's... yeah, it's pretty bad right now," I admit. "But it's not the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won't be the last. We just have to weather the storm, you know?"

"Easy for you to say," Maggie mutters. "You're already established. People know you, trust you. I'm just... some nobody who can barely float three inches off the ground without face-planting."

I can't help but snort at that. "Trust me, I'm not as established as you think. And besides, everyone starts somewhere. Even Liberty Belle probably tripped over her own cape a few times when she was starting out. Besides, I mean... I had to testify against this guy. I'm not exactly sitting pretty."

That gets a small smile out of her, but it fades quickly. "Sam," she says, her voice suddenly serious, "be real with me for a sec. Is this Aurora Springs place really the right call? What do you think?"

I hesitate, weighing my words carefully.

"It's... okay, so you remember that fight I was in? The one where you got your powers?" I ask.

Maggie nods. "Kind of hard to forget. You were fighting that lady in the hoodie, right? She was covered in spikes."

"Right, Deathgirl," I confirm. "Her real name's Daisy. And here's the thing – she's currently locked up in Daedalus, one of those super-prisons everyone's talking about. And her power is copying other people's powers, so when she went spike mode, it was because she was copying me. But worse."

Maggie's brow furrows. "Gross, but...?"

"And if Daisy and Fedorov ever came into contact with each other, even for a second, it would be... bad. Like, 'goodbye entire prison and probably a good chunk of the surrounding area' bad. She'd copy his powers, but without any of the protective equipment he uses to keep them in check."

Maggie's eyes widen as the implications sink in. "Oh. Oh shit."

"Exactly," I nod. "And for all we know, there could be other power copiers in the other prisons too. Aurora Springs might not be perfect, but it gives Fedorov the space he needs to not accidentally nuke half the state if something goes wrong."

"Huh," Maggie says, looking thoughtful. "I guess that makes sense. Still sucks, though."

I can't argue with that. "Yeah, it does. But sometimes the right answer isn't always the one that feels the best, you know?"

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Before Maggie can respond, we're interrupted by a shout from the living room.

"Sam! Maggie! You might want to come see this!"

We exchange a quick glance before hurrying back to the TV, snacks forgotten. The scene that greets us is even worse than before. The anchor, looking frazzled and a little bit terrified, is talking rapidly over footage of what looks like a full-scale riot.

"We're getting reports of protests spreading to other parts of the city," she's saying, her voice tight with tension. "There have been clashes between protesters and police in at least three different neighborhoods, with more expected as the night goes on."

Maggie and I exchange worried glances before hurrying back to the living room. The scene on the TV has shifted from the courthouse to various spots around Philly, each one looking more chaotic than the last.

Mom's hand is pressed to her mouth, her eyes wide with shock. Dad's pacing again, muttering under his breath about "powder kegs" and "tinderboxes."

"This is getting out of hand," Mom says, her voice tight with worry. "Maybe we should think about increasing our home security. You know, just in case..."

Dad nods grimly. "Might not be a bad idea. I'll call up that company tomorrow, see about getting some extra locks installed. Maybe look into one of those fancy alarm systems."

I want to tell them they're overreacting, that things aren't that bad. Not in Mayfair. But I can't really make that assurance - our house got torn down by a supervillain almost a year ago.

"--a local superhero group, is organizing a rally for tomorrow to demand accountability in the wake of the Fedorov sentencing."

The camera cuts to Patriot, looking like he's about two seconds away from exploding with self-righteous anger, bald head shiny with early Fall sweat. "It's time for the people of Philadelphia to stand up and be counted!" he booms into a microphone. "We need to send a message to the powers that be that we won't stand for this kind of injustice! And that if they're not willing to police these supervillains, we'll have to police our own! Who knows where the next Chernobyl will come from?"

I feel my stomach drop. This is bad. This is really, really bad.

"Oh, for crying out loud," Dad groans, sounding both irritated and scared at the same time. "That's the last thing we need right now. More fuel on the fire."

Mom nods in agreement. "It's irresponsible, is what it is. They're supposed to be heroes, not... not rabble-rousers."

As if things couldn't get any worse, the anchor continues: "In response to the growing unrest, the city council has announced an emergency meeting to address public concerns about metahuman containment and oversight."

Maggie and I exchange another worried look. This feels like the beginning of something big and scary, and I have no idea how to stop it.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of news updates and tense conversation. By the time Maggie's getting ready to head home, I feel like I've aged about ten years.

"So, uh, same time next week for training?" Maggie asks as she puts on her shoes, trying for a casual tone but not quite pulling it off.

I nod, forcing a smile. "Yeah, definitely. We'll work on your hover-landings. Maybe by next month you'll be able to float without looking like you're riding an invisible mechanical bull. I'll poke you after Rosh Hashanah - and try not to tip you over in the process."

That gets a laugh out of her, which feels like a small victory. As I watch her walk down the street, I can't help but wonder if I'm doing the right thing, training her to be a hero in a world that seems increasingly hostile.

Back inside, my parents are still glued to the TV, discussing how this might impact our daily lives. I hear snippets about "increased patrols" and "metahuman registration" that make my skin crawl.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out to find a flurry of texts from Jordan.

"Bee, you seeing this shit?" the first one reads. "Website traffic is going bonkers. Like, 'servers might actually catch fire' levels of bonkers. We're not even at school! It's just people uploading videos of cops beating the shit out of people."

I scroll through the rest, each one more frantic than the last. More than one video has cops batting a phone out of someone's hands, and I can't tell which side I should be paying attention to. Why are we attacking the protestors? And are these the ones following Patriot or the other side? Everything's too chaotic to tell.

Great. Just great. Another thing to worry about.

I mumble some excuse to my parents about being tired and head up to my room, collapsing onto my bed with a groan. As I lie there, staring at the ceiling, I can't shake the feeling that I'm just continually making things worse. The website, training Maggie, even my testimony at Fedorov's trial – it all feels like it's spiraling out of control, deeper down some sort of hole I can't see the bottom of.

I run my hand through my hair, feeling the familiar texture of my undercut, reminding myself to get it trimmed this weekend. It's a stupid, mundane thing to focus on, but right now it feels like the only normal thing left in my life.

My phone buzzes again – another text from Jordan, this time just a string of incomprehensible keyboard smashes followed by about fifty fire emojis. I'm not sure if they're referring to the website traffic or the general state of the world, but honestly, both seem pretty accurate right now.

I close my eyes, trying to shut out the noise of the TV downstairs, the constant buzz of my phone, the weight of everything that's happened today. But even in the darkness behind my eyelids, I can see the angry faces of the protesters, hear Patriot's inflammatory words, feel the tension building in the city like a rubber band stretched to its breaking point.

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispers: What have we done?