Monday morning dawns grey and cold, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. It suits my mood perfectly as I limp my way up the steps of Tacony Academy Charter High, every bone and muscle in my body screaming in protest.

I'm a mess. A patchwork quilt of bruises and bandages, held together with surgical tape and sheer stubborn will. The doctors at the hospital did their best, setting my broken nose, wrapping my cracked ribs, stitching up the worst of the cuts and gashes. But even with my healing factor working overtime, I'm still far from 100%.

I spent the weekend in a haze of painkillers and checkups, drifting in and out of consciousness as the worst of the damage slowly knit itself back together. Mom and Dad were there the whole time, their faces drawn and haggard as they sat by my bedside, holding my hand and murmuring soft reassurances. They saw the news, of course. Everyone ever did.

It hurts to breathe. It hurts to move. It hurts to fucking think, my head pounding with the dull throb of a concussion that refuses to fully fade.

They kept me in the hospital for observation, pumping me full of fluids and antibiotics as they monitored my slow, steady progress. The nurses were kind, their hands gentle as they changed my dressings and checked my vitals.

But I could see the pity in their eyes. The unspoken question hanging in the air between us.

What kind of world do we live in, where a fifteen-year-old girl can end up in the ICU just for going to a school dance? What kind of monsters would do something like that, and then walk away without facing any consequences?

I didn't have any answers for them. I still don't.

All I know is that I'm here. I'm alive. And I'm not going to let this break me.

Even if it feels like it already has.

The security presence around the school has changed, I notice as I make my slow, limping way through the front doors. The metal detectors and bag checks are still there, but the guards themselves seem… different. Warier. More on edge.

Some of them can't even look me in the eye as I pass, their gazes skittering away like they're ashamed to be seen in the same headspace as Patriot.

Good. They should be ashamed. They should all be fucking ashamed, for standing by and doing nothing while a so-called "hero" beat a kid half to death in front of the whole school.

The halls are quieter than usual, the normal chatter of gossip and laughter replaced by a tense, uneasy silence. Everyone's watching me as I make my way to my locker, their eyes wide and wary like I'm a bomb that might go off at any second.

Some of them look sympathetic, their faces soft with concern as they take in my battered appearance. Others just seem… scared. Like they're waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the next explosion of violence to rock our little world off its axis.

I can't blame them. I'm scared too.

But I can't show it. Can't let the cracks in my armor show, not when there are so many eyes on me, watching and judging and waiting for me to fall apart.

So I square my shoulders and lift my chin, ignoring the stab of pain that shoots through my jaw at the movement. I've got a reputation to uphold, after all. Can't let a little thing like a near-death experience ruin my image as Tacony Charter's resident badass.

Even if I'm all bark and no bite. I wonder how much that image will change now that two dozen students saw a grown man absolutely wreck my shit on the floor of a gymnasium. I can't help but think of what I heard Principal Heckerman say during one of those hazy, half-remembered moments in the hospital, when he thought I was still asleep.

"We'll have to increase security," he said, his voice low and serious. "Bring in more guards, maybe even some cops. We can't let something like this happen again."

But my parents shut that down quick. "Are you kidding me?" My mom said, her voice sharp with disbelief. "That's the last thing this school needs. More men with guns and badges, just waiting for an excuse to crack some skulls? No way. If anything, you need to scale back on the security theater and start actually listening to your students."

Heckerman sputtered and blustered, but in the end, he backed down. And now, as I look around at the guards who remain, I can't help but feel a flicker of satisfaction.

Maybe we haven't won yet. Maybe Patriot and his goons are still out there, licking their wounds and plotting their revenge.

But we've made them blink. We've shown them that we're not just going to roll over and take their bullshit lying down.

And that's a start.

So here I am, limping up the front steps of Tacony Charter Academy like a wounded dog, my head held high and my eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring the stares and the whispers and the not-so-subtle pointing from my fellow students.

Whatever. Let them gawk. Let them gossip and speculate and spread their bullshit rumors. I know the truth. I know what really happened in that gym.

And I know that I'd do it all again in a heartbeat.

I make it to my locker without incident, fumbling with the combination lock with fingers that don't quite want to cooperate. It's getting harder and harder to ignore the way people are looking at me, the mix of pity and curiosity and fear in their eyes.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

Some of them even have the nerve to come up to me, to offer condolences or congratulations or whatever the fuck they think I need to hear right now.

"Dude, that was hardcore," Chad Bro-ington III says, clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to make me see stars. "You're like, a total badass."

I grit my teeth, biting back a gasp of pain as his hand sends fresh agony lancing through my still-healing collarbone. "Thanks," I mutter, shrugging him off as gently as I can. "Just doing what needed to be done."

He nods sagely, like he has any fucking clue what I'm talking about. "Respect," he says, holding up a fist for me to bump.

I don't leave him hanging, but I do wince in the process.

Others are more wary, eyeing me like I'm a rabid animal that might bite their faces off at any moment. Which, to be fair, is not entirely outside the realm of possibility, if I could move too fast.

"I can't believe you did that," Melissa hisses as we pass in the hall, her eyes wide and awed, but with a strange, worried, accusatory edge - a weird mixture of emotions. "Do you have a fucking death wish or something?"

I just shrug, wincing as the motion pulls at my stitches. Honestly? I'm not sure. There's some part of me that's always been reckless, maybe, but this all feels like a tipping point. Like something broke in me, sitting cross-legged in my own vomit on that basketball court.

"Somebody had to," I say instead, my voice raspy and hoarse. My throat still hurts - I've got weird white pads on the outside of my neck, I think they put them there to keep my regeneration from overgrowing the wounds on my inside. Badass neck beard.

She just shakes her head, her lips pressed into a thin, meager line. But there's something like grudging respect in her eyes, buried deep beneath the fear and the judgment.

I'll take it. Beggars can't be choosers, and all that.

First period with Mr. Weston is a special kind of awkward, like seeing your friend naked by accident or something. Nobody wants to be first to talk about the elephant in the room, but it's all anyone can think about.

He does his best to act normal, bless him. Like it's just another day, just another lesson on the themes of Romeo and Juliet or whatever we're supposed to be learning about this month.

But I can see the strain in his smile, the tension in his shoulders. He's worried about me, about all of us. And he's not the only one.

The classroom is quieter than usual, the usual buzz of chatter and laughter replaced by a heavy, clotted silence - that means thick, like a blood clot. It's the same everywhere I go, like the whole school has gone on mute, each of us not wanting to offend, and not knowing what to say. What can you say?

Even the teachers seem subdued, their voices pitched low and their eyes darting nervously to the doors every few minutes, like they're expecting Patriot and his goons to come bursting in at any moment and start waving guns around again.

Which, to be fair, is a valid concern. I certainly wouldn't put it past them.

Mr. Weston pauses in his lecture on iambic pentameter, his eyes lingering on me for a long moment. There's a question there, a silent "are you okay?" that makes my throat tighten and my eyes sting.

I give him a small nod, my lips twitching in what I hope is a reassuring smile. He returns it, but there's a sadness there, a weight that wasn't present before.

Lunch is its own affair, our niche little crowd of japanophiles huddled in the corner trying to pretend that everything is normal, with a layer of hush over the whole cafeteria when Jordan sits down right next to me. They lean their head a little too close and speaking a little too loudly, pushing a pudding cup and a spork in my direction.

Everyone else - they're dissecting the latest episode of some anime I've never heard of, debating the finer points of character development and plot twists with the kind of passion usually reserved for religious zealots or football fans.

"So get this," they say through a mouth full of weird flavored KitKats, leaning over my shoulder to look at my phone. "So after the warrant - and beating, obviously - got aired on the NBC-10 Philadelphia news, I thought that motherfucker Patriot and his cronies would get crucified in the media. But get this - half of the comments on our articles are just fighting about who to believe!"

I stare at my phone, scrolling the news sites with my good hand, trying to ignore how much it hurts to flex my tendons. The stitches itch and my skin feels like a rubber band pulled taut.

"'Pattinson's Pals have done so much for this city, who is this Jordan Westwood person anyway?'" Jordan reads, sarcasm dripping from their tone. "'First Federov, now this Westwood. When will people stop resisting and just listen to law enforcement?'"

I close my eyes and take a bite of pre-made egg sandwich, feeling the rubbery eggs slide down my throat, like I'm about to vomit it right back up. Jordan's right. The only people supporting Jordan are the people who already knew who Jordan was. Everyone else seems pretty split, a huge mess where nobody knows who is to blame. And while nobody is like "yeah, Patriot should've beat that teenage girl more" it's not like anybody is coming to my defense, really.

"I can't believe it," I mutter. "But I guess I shouldn't be surprised. People always want to believe the best about their heroes, even when they're… you know. Beating up kids."

Jordan snorts. "Yeah, well. At least the school seems to have taken the right lesson from all this. Did you notice the security presence is actually lighter today? I think Heckerman finally realized that more goons with guns isn't going to make anyone feel safer."

I think of my overheard conversation at the hospital, of how many fights I've had to break up over the past month and a half "I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing," I say, shaking my head. "Feels like the school's a powder keg right now, just waiting for a spark to set it off. Feels like life is like a powder keg."

"Life is like a hurricane," Alex sings, sadly, before letting his voice peter out.

"And get this," Jordan says, clearly not listening to me. They hold up their own phone, the screen showing a glaring "account suspended" message. "Those fascist fucks went and complained to our registrar, got the site taken down with an injunction. For "cyberterrorism". Can you believe that shit? They couldn't handle the truth, so they just straight up censored us."

My stomach drops. "But… but all that evidence! All those files, all those videos, all of it is just… gone?"

"Oh no, we've got backups on backups. But who knows how long it'll take to get the site back up, or if we even can. They've got us tied up in legal bullshit now, saying we violated some obscure point in the Terms of Service. We're going to have to lawyer up to fight this."

I look at Jordan in disbelief. "Shouldn't you be more worried about, you know, the active warrant out for your arrest? They literally just suspended your website and you were dodging bullets. What's next?"

Jordan just laughs, but for once it doesn't put me at ease. "Oh please. They wouldn't dare try to arrest me now, not after they got caught red-handed wailing on a teenage girl on national TV. I'm basically untouchable as long as I stick close to you. You're the best meat shield a superhuman could ask for, Sam. Although I gotta admit, your face looks like a busted watermelon, so the feds might just think they're looking at the wrong person."

If I had the strength, I would kick them under the table. Instead I just glare, feeling my split lip throb with the effort.

"Asshole," I mutter. But I know they're right.

As messed up as it sounds, my public beating has made me a sympathetic figure. A martyr for a cause, whether I wanted to be one or not.

And as long as Jordan stays in my shadow, they're safe. Protected by the court of public opinion, if not the actual courts.