I've been pretending to doze off myself, counting Jordan's breaths, watching the way their head dips lower and lower, finally settling into that awkward slouch that only someone as sleep-deprived as Jordan could pull off. It's just me and the hum of synth music, some scene from the movie flashing on the screen, but I barely even register it. I'm too busy waiting for the right moment to slip away.

My fingers twitch with that leftover itch from earlier, the faint, irritating throb under my nails reminding me of the panic that had me bolting down the street. The red light feels seared into the back of my mind, some primal wrongness I can't scrub out. I flex my hand, trying to calm myself down. There's no way I'm getting any actual sleep tonight, so I figure I might as well do something with the restless energy humming through me.

I stand up slowly, watching to make sure Jordan doesn't stir. Then I step carefully around the creaky spots in the old wood flooring, making my way toward the corner where I keep my stuff. Getting into costume is second nature by now, but doing it in almost complete darkness has me fumbling a little, especially when my stupid right hand twinges again, like it's punishing me for trying to use it. My gloved fingers feel clumsy, my movements rougher than usual. I take a slow breath, trying to ignore it, focusing on the comforting feeling of my gear.

As I tug on my helmet, I look around to make sure everything's exactly where I left it. Jordan is out cold, the screen in front of them still flickering with the anime's surreal colors, their face slack and peaceful. I take a step back, my eyes adjusting to the shadows of the Music Hall, noting every corner and shift of light. It feels good to move, to focus on something so specific, even if it's just leaving without waking Jordan.

There's a brief moment of panic as I slip outside, right at the edge of the Music Hall's sidewalk, where a red traffic signal glows against the wet, gray night. For a second, I freeze, thinking it's that same wrong red from earlier. But it's just a light, steady and predictable, blinking at the intersection up the block. My heart slows a little, and I let myself relax.

The night is cold, the February chill creeping through the seams in my jacket. There's still some slush on the sidewalks from the last snowfall, gritty and gray from all the foot traffic and car exhaust, just melting into gross puddles. Every few steps, I feel it glunching around my boots, cold and squishy, reminding me I probably should've planned this better. But there's something grounding about the discomfort, something real that keeps me from drifting back into that spiral of fear.

I start walking a slow loop around Tacony, keeping an eye out for anything that might need my attention. There's not a lot going on -- just a couple of stray cats slinking between parked cars, the occasional muffled laugh or shout from a late-night straggler heading home. I push myself to keep going, making my circle wider each time, feeling like if I keep moving, maybe I can outrun that awful feeling that's still sticking in my chest.

When I don't find any actual trouble, I start kicking at random trash along the sidewalk, trying to make it feel purposeful, like I'm doing some kind of unofficial community service. A crumpled-up wrapper, an old newspaper soaked through with slush, some plastic cups that got stomped flat by a bootprint. I bend down, picking each piece up, stuffing them into a crinkled grocery bag I found wedged under a car tire. It's not much, but it's something, and for a minute, it almost feels like I'm in control of the night.

Three beer cans, seven wrappers, one soggy magazine cover. I sort each piece by type, keeping a little mental tally as I go, even though I'm pretty sure it's pointless. There's no one here to see, no one who's gonna be impressed by me cleaning up a couple of sidewalks in the dead of night. But it gives me something to focus on, something that's mine to control. My hands are freezing, and I feel the ache of cold against my knuckles, but my right hand is still throbbing with that weird, backward pain, like it's trying to tell me something I don't know how to understand.

My mind drifts back to the past couple of weeks, to all the little scrapes and brawls I've been in. A couple of low-level Jumpheads hanging around the park, some wannabe gang members tagging storefronts--nothing major, nothing that made me feel like I was actually doing anything. I've taken on the kinds of guys who barely even register as villains, mostly just dumbasses looking for trouble or trying to score a quick buck. And yet, nothing to my hand. Nothing that would last this long, even if my regeneration is breaking down, which is itself kind of a terrifying prospect.

Sure hope it isn't!

I try to shake the thought off, focusing instead on another piece of trash--an empty soda can, kicked halfway under a parked car. I crouch down to fish it out, tucking it into the bag with the rest. Three cans, eight wrappers, two cigarette packs. My fingers are getting numb through my gloves, but I keep going, bending down over and over until my knees start to ache. I try to make it feel like a mission, like I'm actually accomplishing something.

But the more I pick up, the more ridiculous it starts to feel, like I'm just shoving random garbage into a bag because I don't know what else to do. My right hand keeps throbbing, my fingers stiff and uncooperative, and I can't shake the feeling that I'm just grasping at straws, trying to fix something that's way beyond me.

By the time I've filled three grocery bags with trash, my hands are so cold that they've gone stiff, my knuckles aching from the damp and the cold. I look down at the bags, at the mess I've collected, and feel this weird mix of satisfaction and frustration. I've done something, technically, but it doesn't feel like it matters. It doesn't feel like I've actually changed anything.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

I kick at a puddle of slush, sending little icy droplets flying, and watch as they scatter across the pavement. The streetlights cast this weird, yellowish glow on the wet ground, making everything look sickly and washed-out. I glance down at my fingers again, flexing them slowly, watching the way my gloves stretch and pull. The pain is still there, sharp and insistent, and I feel like if I could just understand what it means, maybe I could figure out what's really going on.

I'm not stupid, just so that's clear. I know that a year ago, plus or minus some change, someone named Aaron McKinley pried my fingernails off with a claw hammer. But his fire wasn't red, so what the fuck?

There's nothing. Just the sound of cars in the distance, the hum of streetlights, and the faint drip of melting snow from the rooftops. I clutch the bags of trash in both hands, letting out a long breath that fogs up the air in front of me.

I keep moving through the slushy streets for what feels like hours, the plastic bags cutting into my fingers as they fill up. I'm gathering litter on autopilot, shoving pieces into an old grocery bag, trying to organize them just to keep my brain focused. Three cans, two cigarette packs, one broken plastic spoon. By the time I've made it through a couple blocks surrounding the Music Hall, I've filled two bags. I'm grabbing stray bits almost automatically now, like my brain's gone half-offline.

The streetlights start dimming, the faintest gray light spreading from the east. It must be around 5 a.m. now, maybe later. I glance down at my hands--the ache under my nails now a dull, pulsing throb--and notice my gloves are soaked through from hours in the slush. My fingers feel stiff and unresponsive, and I flex them as best as I can, slowly making my way back to the Music Hall. The bags dangle from my hands, weighing me down.

When I get back to the Music Hall, it's mostly dark, but there's a faint glow coming from the second-story window. I enter quietly, my footsteps echoing in the empty space, my muscles exhausted but my mind still wired. As I step up the stairs, I hear the soft tapping of keys from the room where Jordan has their computer set up.

When I push open the door, I see Jordan, hunched over the keyboard, their face illuminated by the monitor's bluish light. They glance up as I walk in, eyebrows shooting up when they see me, soaked and carrying bags of trash.

"Did you at least find something worth punching?" they ask, voice low, like they're careful not to disturb the stillness of early morning.

I drop the bags with a thud, flexing my sore fingers. "No. Just trash."

Jordan lets out a long breath, rolling their eyes but not looking away. "Just trash. You didn't think to mention you were leaving? Maybe let me know what you're doing at 3 a.m.?"

There's a bite to their words, a frustration I can feel, but it's mixed with something else--concern, a little too obvious to be ignored. Guilt flickers through me, but I push it down. I'm too tired to fully deal with it.

"I didn't... I just needed to get out," I say, looking at the bags like they somehow justify my night. "And you were asleep."

Jordan snorts, swiveling their chair to face me. "I was asleep because we were supposed to be having a 'normal' night, remember? Look, if you needed to go out, fine. Just tell me next time. I could've at least monitored police scanners or something. Been ready to back you up if it got messy."

I cross my arms, feeling the chill finally settling in, mixing with this tightness in my chest. "It wasn't anything. Just... I don't know. I felt weird, okay?"

They're quiet for a second, looking at me like they're trying to figure me out. "You know, I'd get it if you really felt like you needed to go on patrol. But the way you just bolted? Like you had to handle something, and I wasn't supposed to know about it--come on, Sam."

"It wasn't like that," I say, even though I know how it must've looked. "It's just--I couldn't stop thinking about that fire. The way it... felt."

Jordan narrows their eyes, studying my face. "And you thought you'd get over it by running yourself ragged in the cold, cleaning up garbage?"

I shrug, too tired to argue or even really defend myself. "Maybe. Maybe I thought I'd actually run into something. Do something that mattered."

Jordan leans back in their chair, crossing their arms. "Is that what this is about? Things not 'mattering'? You're just gonna keep doing this forever, hoping it'll somehow feel different?"

The question hits harder than I expect, and I fall quiet, staring at the wall to avoid their eyes.

"Look," Jordan says, softer now. "I know you like... the superhero thing. But is this just... who you're gonna be now? Running around with no plan, hoping to punch a solution out of thin air?"

The words hang in the air, heavier than I want them to be. I shift, feeling defensive, not even sure why. "What, you think I should just quit?"

"That's not what I'm saying." They look away, and their expression softens. "But... do you even know what you want? After this year's over, are you just going to keep doing this? You're sixteen in a couple of months, Sam. You ever think about... something else?"

Something else. The words echo in my mind, hitting a part of me I haven't let myself think about in... months? Years, maybe. I let out a long breath, rubbing my fingers together, feeling the cold ache settling in.

"Something else," I repeat quietly, like it's in a foreign language. "Like what?"

"I don't know. Literally anything. What about that art class? You said you liked that, didn't you? Or... going back to soccer?" They lean forward, watching me for any sign of agreement. "Just... something that's actually for you."

I shake my head slowly. "Soccer's... a different life. Feels like it happened to someone else. And the art thing..." I trail off, looking down at my hands, the way they feel stiff and foreign after a night spent cleaning up other people's messes. "I don't know. None of that stuff feels like it fits anymore. And they don't let people like me play sports normally, anyway."

"So you're just gonna... do this?" Jordan gestures around the room, at the bags of trash, my costume, at the whole rundown mess of the Music Hall. "Forever?"

I don't answer them. I just get the trash bags in the actual garbage bin.

"Sam, what are you?" they ask, and I'm so jarred by the question that I blink at them like an owl.

"What?" comes out.

Jordan's face scrunches up in sympathy. "Outside of your mask. What are you? Take off the helmet,"

I do, setting it down on a countertop. I blink at them like an owl again. "Helmet off,"

"Right. Who are you now?" Jordan asks.

I don't have an answer. I slump down onto the couch, sigh, and fall over like a corpse, drained dry. Sleep comes easy after that.