The rest of the meeting passes in a blur, everyone hashing out plans and contingencies and worst-case scenarios until my head is spinning with all the possibilities. But through it all, one thought remains crystal clear in my mind.

I have to do this. I have to testify, have to tell the truth, no matter how hard or scary or dangerous it might be.

Because if I don't, who will?

The sun is setting by the time I finally make it home, the sky streaked with orange and pink as I limp up the front steps and let myself in the door.

Mom and Dad are waiting for me in the living room, their faces tight with worry as they watch me struggle out of my coat and shoes. They know about the testimony, of course. It's not like I could hide something like that from them even if I wanted to.

And I don't want to. Not anymore.

"How are you feeling, sweetie?" Mom asks, her voice soft and tentative as she helps me lower myself onto the sofa. "Do you need anything? I can make you some tea, or get you another ice pack…"

I shake my head, wincing as the motion sends a fresh wave of pain lancing through my bruised and battered skull. "I'm okay," I lie, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. "Just tired. It's been a long day."

Dad nods, his jaw clenched tight as he watches me settle back against the cushions. "I can't believe they're making you do this," he says, his voice low and angry. "After everything you've been through, everything you've done for this city… It's not right."

"Understatement," my mom mutters. Then she sighs, reaching over to take my hand in hers. "Are you sure about this, baby? Really sure? Because once you go down this road…"

But beneath the anger in my Dad's face I see a glimmer of pride, a fierce, protective glint that makes my chest feel warm and tight all at once.

Because the truth is, part of me wants this. Part of me craves it like a junkie chasing their next fix. The chance to get up on a stage and tell the world, look at me. Look at what they did to me, look at what they are. Look at what happens when we let monsters like Patriot run unchecked.

So I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle on my shoulders like a heavy, familiar cloak.

"I know," I say, my voice soft but steady. "But I have to do it anyway. I have to try."

She searches my face for a long moment, her eyes shining with a mix of pride and terror that makes my heart ache. Then she nods, slow and resolute. "Okay. Okay, then we're with you. All the way."

My dad wraps an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug that makes my bruised ribs protest but which I lean into anyway. "We're so proud of you, Sam," he murmurs into my hair. "So proud, and so goddamn scared. But we trust you. We believe in you."

I squeeze my eyes shut against the sudden rush of tears, my throat choked up and it's all I can do to whisper a shaky "thank you".

We stay like that for a long minute, just holding each other in the quiet of the kitchen, the rest of the world fading away until there's nothing but the three of us and the love that binds us together. That holds us up and keeps us strong, no matter what comes.

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But eventually, we have to pull away. Eventually the real world comes crashing back in, and there's work to be done.

I bury myself in research, pouring over transcripts of past hearings and articles about congressional procedure. I hate studying, more than almost anything, but this isn't for a test that affects my grade. This is for a test that determines the fate of my people, of my friends, of the world as I know it.

Mom quizzes me on protocols and lines of questioning, her eyes sharp and her voice brooking no argument. This is her wheelhouse, the place where her librarian superpowers shine brightest - sifting through information, parsing out the salient details, arming me with the knowledge I'll need to navigate the labyrinthine halls of government bureaucracy. To walk into the lion's den and come out in one piece.

And piece by piece, I can feel myself coming back together.

I'm curled up on the couch, neck deep in a dense legal tome on the history of superhero regulation, when my phone rings. Mom looks at me from her own stack of papers, her eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Mrs. Gibson," I tell her after a glance at the caller ID. "The prosecutor from Chernobyl's case."

Her eyes widen. "Well? Answer it!"

I fumble to accept the call, my hands sweating on the case of the phone. "Hello?"

"Sam," Mrs. Gibson says, her voice warm but businesslike. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

"No, no, just… studying. Preparing."

"Good. That's actually why I'm calling. I heard about the congressional hearing."

I bite my lip. "Yeah. News travels fast, I guess."

"In certain circles, yes. And as someone with… let's say a vested interest in the outcome of that hearing, I wanted to reach out. To offer my support and my advice, for whatever it's worth."

I sit up straighter, my heart pounding in my chest. "I'm listening."

For the next half hour, she walks me through her own experiences testifying before Congress, both as a prosecutor and as a witness in various hearings on superhero oversight. She tells me about the tricks and traps, the loaded questions and rhetorical landmines that politicians love to lay for unwary witnesses.

"They'll try to trip you up," she warns. "Try to get you to say something that they can twist to fit their own agendas. Something that'll make for a good soundbite on the evening news."

I swallow hard. "So what do I do?"

"You stick to the truth," she says simply. "You tell your story, in your own words, and you don't let them put words in your mouth or back you into a corner. You stand your ground and you make them listen, even when they don't want to hear it."

"Easier said than done," I mutter.

She laughs, soft and rueful. "Trust me, I know. But if anyone can walk into that room and give those stuffed shirts a piece of your mind, it's you."

I find myself smiling even though she can't see it. "I… thank you. That means a lot, coming from you."

"I mean every word. Now get some rest. You've got a big day ahead of you."

We say our goodbyes and I hang up, feeling like I've just been given a benediction and a battle plan all in one.

Mom looks at me over the rims of her glasses, her expression softening as she takes in my shell-shocked face. "You okay, baby?"

"Yeah," I say, and for once it doesn't feel like a lie. "Yeah, I… I think I am. Or at least, I think I will be."

She smiles, reaching over to squeeze my hand. "That's my girl. Now come on, it's late and you need your beauty sleep. Big day tomorrow."

I let her shepherd me off to bed, even though we both know I won't be getting much in the way of actual rest. But just the act of going through the motions, of brushing my teeth and changing into my softest pajamas and crawling under the covers, is soothing in its own way.

And as I lie there in the darkness, staring up at the plastic stars glued to my ceiling, I can feel the weight of everything that's happened settling over me like a shroud. Like armor.

I think about Jordan, out there somewhere in the shadows, carrying on the fight even as the walls close in around us. I think about my team, suspended but unbroken, ready to rise up at a moment's notice. I think about my parents, my beautiful, brave, unshakeable parents, who have always been my port in every storm. And I think about the kids like me, the ones with powers and fears and dreams of a better world. The ones who are counting on me to be their voice, their champion. I think about Maggie.

I close my eyes, feeling the first stirrings of sleep tugging at the edges of my mind. And as I drift off, I hear Mrs. Gibson's voice echoing in my head, a call to arms and a lullaby all in one.

"You stand your ground," she whispers. "And you make them listen."

I will, I think as the darkness closes in. I will.