The phone feels heavier in my hand than it has any right to. I swipe to dial Mom's number, my thumb hesitating for a fraction of a second before pressing the button. The dial tone rings loud in my ear, and for a moment, I hope it'll go to voicemail, that I won't have to face whatever mixture of concern and anger she's brewing.

But of course, that's not how this works. She picks up after two rings.

"Sam!" Her voice is sharp, teetering between relief and panic. "Oh my G-d, are you alright? The doctors called--they said you were attacked? At school?"

I wince, pulling the phone slightly away from my ear. "Yeah, uh, I'm fine. It's not as bad as they made it sound."

"Not as bad?" she echoes, her voice rising. "Your arm is burned, Sam! They said second-degree!"

"It's just a little crispy," I say, forcing a chuckle that falls flat. "They've got me wrapped up like a mummy. I'll be good as new in no time. You already know how fast I heal."

There's a pause on the other end, filled with the faint clatter of dishes and the low hum of Pop-Pop Moe's voice in the background. He's singing, something Hebrew I don't quite catch, the cadence warm and familiar.

"Sam," Mom says, her tone softening but no less insistent. "This is serious. Your father and I are terrified. We were talking about driving up--"

"You don't have to do that," I cut in quickly. "Seriously. The hospital's got me covered, and, uh, some of the local heroes are keeping an eye on things. I'm perfectly safe here. And I need you to be perfectly safe in Ventnor, or I'll make myself sick just worrying about you guys."

"Heroes?" she asks, her voice tinged with skepticism. "Like who?"

"Multiplex," I say, hoping the name will carry enough weight to ease her worry. "Captain Plasma. Crossroads was here, too. They're on it."

There's a faint rustle as she shifts the phone, probably turning to relay the information to Dad. His voice murmurs something in the background, low and steady. I hear - faintly - a joke - "who's protecting who here?". Pop-Pop's singing continues, accompanied by the rhythmic chop of a knife against a cutting board.

"Okay," Mom says finally, though her tone suggests she's far from convinced. "If the Defenders are involved, that's something. But I still don't like the idea of you being there alone."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I'm not alone," I say, leaning back against the stiff hospital pillows. "There are nurses, security guards, a whole SWAT team of superheroes combing Mayfair. I'm basically in Fort Knox."

"Fort Knox," she repeats, her voice flat. "And you're okay? Really okay?"

"I promise," I say, my voice softening. "I'm okay, Mom. And I'm staying put. They won't let me leave even if I wanted to."

"That's not exactly reassuring," she mutters, but the tension in her voice eases slightly. "Alright. But if anything changes--anything--you call us. Do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear," I say, forcing a smile she can't see. "How's Pop-Pop? Is he... chopping onions?"

"Onions, parsley, potatoes. He's making latkes," she says, the faintest hint of a smile creeping into her voice. "He says you're missing out."

"I'll make it up to him," I say, swallowing the lump in my throat. "Tell him I'll be there next week to eat him out of house and home."

"Better keep that promise," she says, her voice soft but firm. "We love you, Sam."

"I love you, too," I say, the words catching slightly as I force them out.

We hang up, and the room feels unbearably quiet in the absence of her voice. I stare at the phone for a moment before setting it on the bedside table, my hand lingering over the screen.

The TV flickers in the corner, the sound low and tinny as a cartoon character screeches something incomprehensible. I've left it on for appearances, a distraction in case anyone walks in, but the bright colors and rapid movement only make my head ache.

Outside the window, the city is painted in streaks of orange and pink as the sun dips below the horizon. I can see the faint silhouettes of heroes patrolling in the distance, their movements purposeful but relaxed. They're not expecting anything to happen tonight. Not with the hospital locked down tighter than a drum.

I shift in the bed, my bandaged arm brushing against the blanket. The dull throb of pain is a constant reminder of what's waiting for me out there. Aaron's not going to stop. Not until someone makes him.

I glance toward the door, listening for the faint hum of voices or footsteps in the hallway. The protection detail is thorough, but they're human. They'll get distracted, pulled away by something more urgent than a bandaged teenager in a hospital bed.

I slide my feet over the edge of the bed, wincing as the motion pulls at my shoulder. My clothes are folded neatly on the chair by the door, and I reach for them, moving as quietly as I can. Every rustle of fabric feels deafening in the stillness.

The hospital gown slips to the floor, replaced by the familiar weight of my hoodie and jeans. The movement tugs at the bandages, but I grit my teeth and keep going, my focus sharp and unwavering. I lace up my sneakers, the knot trembling slightly under my fingers.

The bathroom excuse is ready in my head, rehearsed and simple. If anyone stops me, I'll play the part of the tired, slightly disoriented patient looking for the restroom. Most people won't question it.

I watch. I listen. I wait. At some point near midnight, or maybe 1 AM, there's a perfect moment, a car accident or something like that, that has people rushing out and focusing on anything other than me. Squeaky hospital bed wheels scraping along the linoleum floor. Rushed voices barking orders. All eyes off me.

I step toward the door, my heart hammering in my chest. The faint glow of the hallway light spills through the gap at the bottom, shadows shifting as someone passes by. I wait, my breath caught in my throat, until the shadows move on. Then, with a deep, steadying breath, I slip out into the night.