Philadelphia's skies are rarely empty. Tonight, they're crowded.

As I move through the narrowing streets, I catch glimpses of familiar figures cutting through the air or prowling the sidewalks. Above, Moonshot soars low, her dark hoodie flapping against her back as she glides between rooftops. She keeps close to the ground, her trajectory purposeful but erratic, scanning for anything out of place. Moonshot doesn't fly like Captain Plasma--there's no flashy trail of light, no confident arcs through the sky.

I stick to the ground, keeping my pace steady and unassuming. No sudden movements. No eye contact.

Further ahead, I spot one of Multiplex's duplicates near a police cruiser, taking notes as a cop talks animatedly with him. The cop gestures toward a hand-drawn map spread across the hood of the car, his flashlight illuminating patches of red and yellow scribbled across it. Multiplex doesn't react, just nods and writes something down, his face impassive. Another duplicate stands nearby, talking into a radio. Watching him is like looking at a chessboard mid-game--every piece precisely placed, every move calculated.

Even knowing how many versions of him there are, I can't help but wonder: does he ever sleep?

The streets of Mayfair are different from Tacony. The rowhouses here feel tighter, their brick walls lined up like teeth. The glow of the city feels dimmer, more comfortable. Home. It's less chaotic, more accustomed to people, not businesses. It's quiet in the way that makes you listen harder, waiting for a sound - any sound.

And then my phone buzzes.

The sound makes me jump. It's faint - buried under my hoodie - but in the stillness of the street, it feels as loud as a siren. I fumble it out of my pocket, glancing at the screen. Dad. My stomach twists.

"Hey," I say, trying to keep my voice steady as I answer. The wind carries my words away as soon as they leave my mouth, but I know he's heard them.

"Hey?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the weak signal. "Sam, the hospital just called. What the hell are you doing? Where are you?"

I wince, pulling the phone closer to my ear. "Dad, calm down-"

"Calm down?" he snaps. "You're supposed to be in a hospital bed, recovering, and instead I get a call saying you've vanished? What were you thinking?"

"I'm fine," I say quickly, forcing as much conviction into the words as I can muster. "I'm fine, Dad. Really. I just... I needed to get out of there."

"You needed-" He cuts himself off, and I hear him take a deep, shaky breath. When he speaks again, his voice is tighter, quieter. "Sam, this isn't a joke. You were lit on fire. You're hurt. You need to be somewhere safe."

"I am somewhere safe," I lie. "I'm with a friend. A superhero friend. You know, one of the good ones."

"Which one?" he demands, and for a second, I'm thrown. He never asks for details like this. He never digs. But tonight, he's not playing along.

"Um," I stall, my brain scrambling for a name. "S-Sputnik."

He exhales sharply. "Sam, I don't care if you're with Sputnik or Superman himself. I need to know where you are."

I hesitate, my breath catching. "I'm in West Philly," I say finally. "Far away from Mayfair. Far away from him."

There's a beat of silence, filled only by the faint crackle of static. "You're lying," he says, audibly clenched. "I can hear it in your voice. You're lying to me, Sam."

"I'm not-"

"Don't," he interrupts, his voice breaking slightly. "Don't lie to me. I can't - I can't do this. Not tonight."

The crack in his voice makes my chest ache. I can picture him now, pacing the living room, one hand gripping his phone and the other clenched into a fist. He's scared. Scared in a way I don't know how to fix.

"Dad," I say softly, my steps slowing as I round another corner. "I'm okay. I promise. I'm not doing anything reckless. I just... I needed to get out of the hospital. There are so many people coming in. I didn't want to take up a bed when someone else might need it more."

"That's not your call to make!" he says, his voice rising again. "You're sixteen! You don't have to be a hero, Sam. You don't have to do this."

I stop walking, my hand tightening around the phone. "I'm not trying to be a hero," I say, the words coming out softer than I intended. "I just need to handle this my way."

"What does that mean?" he asks, his tone equal parts frustration and desperation. "What way, Sam? Running away? Putting yourself in danger again?"

Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.

"No," I say firmly. "It means being smart. Being careful. It means making sure I'm okay and that I'm hidden."

He doesn't respond right away, but I can hear him breathing--shallow, uneven, like he's trying not to cry. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone," he says finally, his voice barely above a whisper. "You're enough, Sam. You've always been enough. I don't care what Pop-Pop has been telling you about powers and responsibility and saving people. You don't have to carry that."

The lump in my throat makes it hard to speak, but I force the words out anyway. "I know," I say. "And I love you. Both of you."

There's a pause, then a quiet, broken laugh. "You're lucky your mother's not on the phone right now," he says, and the faintest hint of a smile creeps into his voice. "She'd have my head for letting you talk your way out of this. And Moe--he'd probably tell me to let you do whatever you want. Says it's your 'duty.' I'm just stuck in the middle here."

"She'd let you off the hook," I say, smiling despite myself. "Eventually."

"Maybe," he concedes. "But Sam, you need to promise me something. Call the hospital back. Tell them you're safe. Let them know you're not just... missing. For G-d's sake, they probably think you were abducted by a supervillain!"

I hesitate, my fingers tightening on the phone. "Can you call them?" I ask, my voice soft. "Just so it's... official? If it's coming from me, they might not believe me."

For a moment, I think he's going to argue, but then he exhales sharply, the sound more tired than frustrated. "Fine. I'll call them. But you'd better answer your phone if they ask for a follow-up."

"I will," I say quickly, the weight in my chest lifting just enough to breathe again. "And I'll call you in a few hours. Promise."

"You'd better," he says. "Stay safe, Sam."

"You too, Dad," I say softly, and the call ends with a click.

I stand there for a moment, the phone still pressed to my ear, the streetlights casting long shadows across the pavement.

The street ahead is quieter than I expected. Even in Mayfair, where the houses huddle close, there's usually some sign of life this late--a dog barking, a window lit up with the glow of a TV, the faint bass of music from a party someone didn't invite me to. Tonight, though, there's none of that. Just the distant hum of the city, muffled by the rowhouses like they're trying to keep it out.

I tug my hood a little lower and glance up and down the street. I'm almost home. Just a few more steps, a few more houses. The temptation to run is real, but I keep my pace steady. Blending in means acting like I belong here, even though every part of me feels like it's buzzing with static.

"Bloodhound,"

The voice is low, familiar, and just behind me. I whirl around, fists up before I can think better of it. Sandman, raises both hands in mock surrender. For the first time I think in ever, his smile shows teeth.

"Whoa there, champ," he says, his tone amused but careful. "I come in peace. Mostly."

"Jesus, Sand," I hiss, lowering my fists but not my guard. "What the hell are you doing?"

He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, toward a spot on the sidewalk where a rumpled blanket and a battered backpack sit abandoned. "Keeping watch, as per royal decree. Until the Aaron situation gets resolved, the other Titans don't want me being burnt to death. So, I get to babysit your street, because we all know he's gunning after you."

"You've been sleeping on the sidewalk? I thought you were just going home or, I don't know, finding someplace more comfy than my street corner," I half-joke, rubbing the back of my head.

"Sleep is a strong word," he says, stretching exaggeratedly. "Mostly, I've been watching. Thinking. Freezing my ass off. Hurting my tailbone. Thanks for that, by the way. My PT bills are going to be astronomical."

"Get a better chair next time," I mutter, crossing my arms. The burn in my shoulder protests, but I ignore it. "Have you seen him?"

His smirk fades, replaced by something sharper and more focused. He steps closer, his eyes scanning my face like he's looking for something he doesn't like. "Aaron? No. But if I had, you'd be the first to know. You do know how bait works, right? You don't dangle it in front of the shark and then dive in after it."

"Not funny," I snap, though the irony isn't lost on me.

"Not meant to be," he says, his tone hardening. "What are you even doing out here, Sam? Shouldn't you be at the hospital, letting the professionals handle this?"

I laugh, short and sharp. "Yeah, because the 'professionals' have been doing such a bang-up job. Aaron's been tearing up Tacony for a week, and they haven't even come close to catching him. You think I'm gonna sit on my hands while he burns the neighborhood down, and his copycats get the rest of the city?"

"You're not exactly in fighting shape," he points out, nodding toward my arm. "And last I checked, you're not invincible."

"No," I say, my voice dropping. "But I'm not going to let him keep hurting people. He needs to be stopped."

"Stopped," Sandman echoes, his eyes narrowing. "Or punished?"

I don't flinch. "That's a strange question,"

He sighs, running a hand through his short dreadlocks. "The difference, Sam, is whether you're doing this for them or for you. If you're trying to protect people, that's one thing. But if this is just about payback--"

"It's not," I cut in, my voice sharp. "This isn't about revenge."

"Really?" he says, his tone skeptical. "Because the way I see it, you're not exactly thinking clearly right now. You're pissed off, and you're scared, and those are not the emotions you want driving you into a fight with someone like Aaron."

"I'm not scared," I lie, the words coming out too quickly. "I'm--"

"You're terrified," he interrupts. "And that's okay. Hell, it'd be weird if you weren't. But you can't let that fear make your decisions for you. Not when the stakes are this high."

I clench my fists, my nails digging into my palms. "I don't have a choice."

"There's always a choice," he says, stepping closer. His voice softens, just enough to take the edge off. "You don't have to do this alone, Sam. That's why we're here. The Titans, the Defenders, the cops--hell, even the wannabe vigilantes with their baseball bats. We're all trying to stop him. You don't have to carry this weight by yourself."

"It's not about the weight," I say, my voice breaking slightly despite my best efforts. "It's about making sure he can't come back. Can't do this to anyone else. Knowing what the consequences are for starting a fight he can't finish."

"And you think beating him to a pulp is the only way to do that?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

I look him in the eye, feeling my resolve harden. "He needs to know that he can't fuck with me."

"Sam," he says, his voice soft but insistent. "This isn't you."

"You don't know me," I snap, the words out before I can stop them. "Not really. You don't know what he's done. What he's capable of."

"Maybe not," he admits. "But I know what you're capable of. And I know you're better than this."

Instead of responding, I turn away, my eyes fixed on the darkened windows of my house just a few steps ahead.