The curtain rustles, and three figures step into the tiny hospital room. Even before my eyes adjust to the movement, I know who it is. Multiplex, Crossroads, and Captain Plasma. The Delaware Valley Defenders, walking into my life like they own it.

Multiplex is in the lead, his suit crisp and spotless despite the chaos I know he's been dealing with all day. He's got that same unflinching, focused expression he always wears, like he's already analyzed every possible move I could make in this conversation and decided which one he wants me to take.

Crossroads follows close behind, his eyes scanning the room with that sharp, detached intensity that always makes me feel like I'm being dissected under a microscope. He doesn't say anything, or look like he's about to. He just looks at me - through me - calculating possibilities in the air.

And then there's Captain Plasma, towering over the others, still as blonde-haired and blue-eyed as ever. He gives me a small wave, like we're old friends catching up, not heroes about to grill a sixteen-year-old in a hospital bed.

"Miss Small," Multiplex says, his tone clipped and professional. He doesn't sit, just stands at the foot of the bed with his arms crossed. "How are you feeling?"

"Peachy," I mutter, shifting slightly to make room for my heavily bandaged arm. "Nothing like a surprise barbecue to brighten up a school day."

Captain Plasma chuckles softly, though the concern in his eyes doesn't waver. "Glad to see you're keeping your sense of humor."

I force a tight smile, but it doesn't reach my eyes. "Yeah, well, what's the alternative?"

Multiplex's gaze sharpens, and I immediately regret the quip. He doesn't respond, instead pulling out a slim tablet from the inside of his jacket. The screen glows faintly as he flips through what I assume are notes from the scene.

"We're here because the situation at the school escalated beyond local jurisdiction," he says, not looking up from the tablet, pretending like we don't know each other already in case there's doctors or nurses eavesdropping. "This attack fits the pattern of a known superhuman arsonist operating in Tacony. Based on your proximity to the incident and previous encounters, we need to ask a few questions."

"Of course you do," I say, trying to keep my tone light.

Captain Plasma winces slightly. Crossroads, unsurprisingly, says nothing. Multiplex just keeps scrolling, his expression unreadable.

"You've encountered this individual before," Multiplex continues, his tone not so much accusatory as it is definitive. "Crossroads briefed us on your... altercation with him last year."

My stomach twists, but I keep my face carefully neutral. "Yeah," I say slowly. "When he pulled my fingernails off and smacked me in the head with a crowbar. Among other things."

"And now it's escalated," Captain Plasma says, stepping forward slightly. His voice is warm, almost gentle, but there's an edge of urgency beneath it. "This is no longer a one-off incident. He's repeatedly attacking public spaces, endangering lives. Today's attack could have been catastrophic. Six other students were injured."

"I know," I say quietly, my fingers curling into the scratchy hospital blanket. "I was there."

Crossroads finally speaks, his voice low and measured. "We're not here to assign blame, Sam. But if there's anything you can tell us about where he's hiding or where he attacked you from, we need to know. We're dealing with someone who's clearly escalating, and we need to stop him before this happens again."

I meet his gaze, and for a moment, I see the faintest flicker of sympathy in his expression. It doesn't last long, but it's enough to make me hesitate.

They're right. He's dangerous. He's hurt people--kids, even--and he'll keep doing it unless someone stops him. But handing him over to them, letting them sweep him up into their system and lock him away in some super-prison? That's not enough. Not after everything he's done to me. Done to everyone else.

"I wish I could point him out for you," I say finally, forcing the words out. "But I didn't see him today. I didn't even know he was there until... you know."

Multiplex narrows his eyes slightly, his fingers tapping against the tablet. "You're certain?"

"Positive," I say, meeting his gaze with what I hope is enough conviction to sell it. "If I had seen him, I would've said something. I don't exactly have a soft spot for guys who torture me."

Captain Plasma nods, his expression thoughtful. "Fair enough. But if you do know anything, you need to tell us. We're coordinating with the police and other teams to track him down, but every detail helps."

"Of course," I say, nodding earnestly. "I'll let you know if he comes to finish the job. Can I talk to Crossroads privately?"

Multiplex studies me for a moment longer, then nods curtly. "Sure. We'll be in touch."

He and Captain Plasma both turn around and leave. Crossroads stays. He flips a coin in his hand, only checking it every so often, fidgeting.

"Are you scoping out the rest of the conversation you're about to have?" I ask, raising an eyebrow. "Cheating to get information from the future?"

He smiles, tight-lipped. "We need to know about Aaron if we're going to stop him. So I need you to tell me everything he's capable of,"

Ping! Thwp. Ping! Thwp. Crossroads and I stare at each other. A small trickle of blood leaks out his nose, and suddenly his vascular system lights up. He's using his powers overtime, that's the only reason he gets nosebleeds like that.

The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

"Here, let's save my oxygen. Heads, I'll tell you. Tails, I won't. Does that polarize it enough?" I say, pre-committing to the course of action. Thinking about what I'd tell him. The different fires, how he used to only be able to do the smelly yellow fire, but now he's got a whole rainbow - red, blue, yellow, white, and that blinding, noxious smoke. How I beat him up, stole his drugs, broke his shoulder, and ruined his life, and now he needs to get back to me. His crazy sociopath lecture on how getting beat by his dad taught him the value of pain.

His smile widens a little bit - it's a weird expression to see on him - and he flips his coin again. It smacks into his palm, and he turns it over onto the back of his hand. "Tails. But that's okay. You've told me as much as we need to know. "

"Your power is such a fucking cheat, dude," I crack, smiling with him, hoping that the alternate-future-me he's interrogated doesn't reveal anything about getting out on the streets and beating Aaron bloody.

For the first time in what seems like forever, Crossroads's face breaks out into a grin. He lingers for half a second as the others turn to leave, his eyes flicking over me like he's trying to pull the truth out of my head by sheer force of will. I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch, until he finally nods and follows the others out of the room.

The curtain swishes shut behind them, and I let out a long, shaky breath, my shoulders slumping against the pillows. My arm throbs dully under the bandages, but it's nothing compared to the knot of tension coiled in my chest.

----------------------------------------

The next person to walk through the curtain isn't a superhero or a cop, but a doctor in scrubs, clipboard in hand and a look of tired efficiency on her face. She doesn't bother with pleasantries, just nods briskly and pulls up a stool next to the bed.

"I'm Dr. Patel," she says, scanning the chart clipped to her board. "Samantha Small. Sixteen. Female. Second-degree burns on the right arm, shoulder, and hand." She pauses, glancing up at me. "How's the pain?"

"Manageable," I say, forcing my voice to stay steady. The pain is less sharp now, dulled by the gel and whatever they've been feeding into the IV, but it's still a constant, hot throb that makes it impossible to forget.

Dr. Patel raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "On a scale of one to ten?"

"Seven," I say after a moment's thought. Not so bad that I can't function, but bad enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin. "Maybe six if I don't move it."

She nods, making a note on the chart. "We'll get you a prescription for something stronger before you go home, but I'd like to avoid anything too heavy if we can. You'll need to stay on top of the pain management, though--burns like this can get worse if they're not treated properly."

"Right," I say, not bothering to correct her assumption that I'll be sticking around long enough for prescriptions and pain management to matter. My body heals on its own schedule, and it doesn't include month-long recoveries. By tomorrow, this'll be a dull ache. By Monday, it'll just be a bad memory.

She pulls on a pair of gloves and carefully unwraps the bandages covering my arm. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, willing myself not to flinch as the cool air hits the raw, exposed skin. The burns are angry and red, blistering in places where the fire lingered too long. It looks worse than it feels, and that's saying something.

"You're lucky," Dr. Patel says, her tone clinical. "The burns are deep, but they didn't penetrate the full thickness of the dermis. No permanent damage to the muscles or tendons, as far as we can tell."

"Great," I say, though the word tastes bitter in my mouth. I know she means it as reassurance, but it's hard to feel lucky when you've just been set on fire in front of your entire school.

She leans in closer, inspecting the burns with a critical eye. "The healing process will take time. You'll need to keep the area clean and covered, change the dressings daily, and apply the prescribed ointments. Physical therapy may be necessary to regain full mobility in the hand and shoulder. I'd estimate three to four months for full recovery, assuming there are no complications."

"Three to four months?" I echo, forcing a laugh that sounds hollow even to me. "Guess I'd better clear my schedule."

I run the calculations in my head. It usually takes me about 16 hours to recover from a moderate concussion, minutes for small cuts, baseline of - what, four times? That means about 3-4 weeks at worst. Best case, probably something closer to 4-5 days. That's fast, but I don't have time to lose and worry about it. I'll just have to push through.

Dr. Patel doesn't laugh. She just sets down the clipboard and starts applying a fresh layer of gel, her movements brisk but gentle. "Burns are serious injuries, Samantha. Even with proper treatment, the skin will take time to regenerate. And there's a high risk of infection if you're not careful."

"I'll be careful," I lie automatically, wincing. Careful doesn't exactly fit into the plan forming in the back of my mind. Not when Aaron's still out there, planning his next move.

She doesn't respond, just finishes wrapping the bandages and straightens up, peeling off her gloves. "We'll be keeping you overnight for observation just to make sure you don't acquire any immediate secondary infections by tomorrow. If everything looks good and not filled with pus, we'll have the nurses bring you the discharge papers. We've already gone ahead and let your parents know. In the meantime, do you have any questions?"

I shake my head, my gaze fixed on the floor, trying not to think about my parents. "No. Thanks."

She studies me for a moment, her expression softening just slightly. "If you're feeling overwhelmed, that's normal. A traumatic event like this can take a toll, both physically and emotionally. We have counselors available if you'd like to talk."

"I'm fine," I say, the words coming out sharper than I intended. "Really."

Dr. Patel doesn't push, just nods and leaves the room, the curtain swishing shut behind her.

The silence that follows is hungry, swallowing me. I stare at the neatly wrapped bandages on my arm, my thoughts spiraling in a dozen different directions. Three to four months. That's how long a normal person would take to heal from this. That's how long I'm supposed to be out of commission, stuck at home or in physical therapy, pretending like everything's fine while Aaron keeps lighting up the city.

But I'm not normal. I can feel it already, the faint buzz beneath the pain that tells me my body is working overtime to patch itself up. By tomorrow, the blisters will shrink. By the weekend, the skin will start knitting back together. By the time anyone realizes I'm not following the recovery timeline, I'll be gone--out there, hunting him.

I can't wait for the system to catch up. I can't wait for justice to crawl its way through red tape and bureaucracy. Aaron made this personal, and he's not going to stop until someone stops him.

My fingers curl into the blanket, the coarse fabric scratching against my skin. The throbbing pain in my arm is just background noise now, swallowed by the fire building in my chest. This isn't about revenge. It's about making sure he can't do this to anyone else. It's about protecting the people he's hurt, the people he'll hurt if I don't act.

The nurse comes in with some extra medication, her smile warm but distant. She goes over things with the same rehearsed script I've heard a dozen times before--rest, hydration, follow-up appointments, prescriptions. I nod and smile in all the right places, but my mind is already elsewhere, mapping out the next steps. How to slip away without raising suspicion. How to track Aaron before the Defenders or the police get to him.

They're hunting him. A full-scale manhunt, with the weight of the Defenders and the police behind it. He'll be caught. It's inevitable.

But not yet. Not before I finish what he started.