I've played soccer before. I used to play it a lot. Now I don't so much.

I'm mad about that.

I'm upset about it.

I've been hit in the head before. By soccer balls. Really hard.

Soccer balls aren't made of metal. I know what a concussion is.

I know immediately. I have a concussion.

The side of my head hurts. Hurts bad. My body is tense. I taste blood. I'm barely awake. My body stumbles sideways. I hit the building wall. I skid over ice and snow. My blood sense is fuzzy. Like through television static. I can see my own body. I'm not inside of it. For a moment. Then I am. Back into pain. I feel like swallowing my tongue.

Everything spins. Colors blur. Sounds echo. Aaron's there. Somewhere. A shape. A shadow. Moving fast. I lean against the wall. Hard concrete. Cold. The world tilts. My head pounds. Throbs.

I try to focus. Can't. It's like looking through water. Wavy. Distorted. I see Aaron. I think. He's swinging again. The crowbar? It's a silver streak in my vision. I duck. Or I try. Slow. Too slow. It grazes me. Cuts my face with the edge.

I push off the wall. Unsteady. My legs are noodles. Weak. I stumble forward. Towards him? Away? I don't know. I swing. A punch. Air? Him? It doesn't connect. Nothing does.

I'm falling. The ground rushes up. Snow. It's cold. Wet. My face presses against it. I can't get up. I have to. I try.

My body's heavy. So heavy. Like it's filled with lead. My head's a mess. A buzzing hive. Thoughts. Scattered. Incomplete. My blood sense. It's there. But it's wrong. It's all wrong.

I hear footsteps. Crunching snow. Coming closer. Aaron? Has to be. I roll over. Push myself up. Halfway. Everything's a blur. A snowy, spinning blur.

I can feel my body fighting. Healing. But it's not fast enough. It needs to be faster. I need it to be faster.

I squint. Try to make out shapes. Movements. Anything. My head's clearing. A little. Not enough. Not yet.

There's a figure. Coming at me. I brace myself. It's all I can do. Wait for the next hit. It's coming. I know it is.

I can't go down. Not yet. Not like this. I have to fight. But how? Everything's so fuzzy. So unclear.

I suck in air. I scream. Loud enough that he stumbles back.

That's better.

I'm on my feet. Barely. The world's still spinning, but less now. Less blur. More shapes. I can see him. Aaron. He's got the crowbar. Raised high. I need to move. I try.

My arm swings out. A punch. Heavy. Clumsy. It's all I can do. It misses. Air. Nothing but air. He's quick. Too quick for me. Not fair.

I see it. The crowbar. Coming down. Fast. Too fast. I can't move fast enough. I try. I really do.

It hits. My side. A burst of pain. Sharp. Deep. But not crippling. I'm still standing. Don't know how. I should be down. But I'm not.

I stagger back. Pain's a flare in my side. Bright and hot. But it's fading faster than it should be.

He's coming at me again. I can see it in his eyes. He's not stopping. Not until one of us is down. I can't let it be me.

I take a step. Another. Trying to put distance between us. My side screams with each step, less than before.

There's no time to think. I have to keep moving. Keep fighting. I can't let him get another hit in.

I try another punch. Better this time. Still misses. But closer. Much closer. He's wary now. Good. He should be.

He swings the crowbar again. I see it coming. I move. Not much. But enough. It grazes me again. Pain. Sharp. But I'm still up. Still fighting.

I feel it now. The rush. Adrenaline. It's filling me. Making me stronger. Faster. I can do this. I have to.

I lunge forward. A strike. Another. He's dodging. But I'm hitting more. Getting closer each time. I can see it in his eyes. He's worried.

He didn't expect me to fight back.

To be honest, neither did I.

Good.

I keep up the assault. Punches. Kicks. Anything. Everything. I'm not holding back. Not anymore. I can't afford to.

He's on the defensive now. Trying to keep up.

I see an opening. I take it. A solid hit. Finally. It connects. His face. I can feel the impact. It's satisfying. But I can't stop. Won't stop.

He stumbles back. I press forward. I can win this. I know I can. Just have to keep going. Keep hitting.

He's trying to swing the crowbar again. But I'm ready. I dodge. Barely. But it's enough. I counter. A punch. A hit. Another.

I'm in control now. He's reeling. I can see it. He's not ready for someone who can fight back.

He swings like a baseball batter. It strikes me in the jaw, and I feel teeth dislodge. I spit them out.

I can't help it -- I start laughing. It's not even funny, but I can't stop. The absurdity of it all, the crowbar, my teeth flying out and then just growing back. It's like a cartoon. But it hurts, a deep, throbbing pain in my jaw. Still, I keep laughing.

Aaron looks confused, maybe a bit scared. Here's a fourteen year old girl he just tried to beat to death with a crowbar and she just spits out teeth and starts laughing at you. I see his eyes flicker with uncertainty. That's good. I like that.

I keep laughing as I watch him, unable to control myself. He's trying to focus. I know what he's trying to do. His fire trick. Not this time, buddy.

I duck low, fast. He's trying to lock eyes with me, to set me ablaze, but I won't let him. I charge, head down, aiming for his midsection.

He sidesteps, but not fast enough. I clip him with my arm like I'm doing a messed-up clothesline. He grunts, stumbles. I crash into the wall. Pain explodes in my shoulder, but I just laugh it off. I'm feeling bit crazy right now. The pain, the adrenaline, it's all mixing up inside me like gasoline.

I push off the wall, still laughing. I can feel the blood rushing in my ears, the exhilaration of the fight. It's like I'm on fire, but not the kind Aaron likes. My kind. The good kind.

Aaron's backing away now. He knows he's losing control of this fight. He swings the crowbar wildly, but I'm too quick for him now. I dodge, weave, dance around his strikes.

Every dodge, every move I make, I can feel my body responding. The regeneration, the strength, it's all there. I'm like a superhero in a comic book. No, better. I'm real. This is real. I'm so giddy I could vomit.

I vomit a little.

Aaron's desperate now, I can tell. He reaches down, scooping up a handful of snow, and throws it right in my face. It's cold, shocking, and for a second, I'm blinded. But it's not enough to stop me. I'm still laughing, the sound echoing off the buildings around us.

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I swing my elbow out, wild and uncontrolled, aiming for his jaw. He ducks just in time, but I can tell I've scared him. He's stepping back, trying to get some space between us. But I'm not letting him. I'm on him like a shark, relentless.

Then, he pulls out something new - a switchblade, hooking his crowbar onto his pants. Good for him, he brought a belt. The knife glints in the dim streetlight, and I know this is serious. But I'm not scared. I'm excited. He lunges at me, blade first. I try to move, but I'm not fast enough. The blade slices through my jacket, cutting into my skin. But it's not deep. It should be, but it's not.

My body's doing something weird, something amazing. It's tensing up, right where he's trying to stab me, making the cut shallower than it should be. I barely feel it. It's like I'm made of something stronger than flesh. I'm more than human. I'm like an angel of street fighting. The pain from the cut is nothing compared to the rush I'm feeling. I feel invincible. I can see Aaron's getting scared. He's never seen anything like me before. And he doesn't know what to do.

I lunge at him, not caring about the knife anymore. I want to hit him, hurt him, make him feel the pain he's trying to inflict on me. My fist connects with his chest, and I hear the air whoosh out of him. It's satisfying, but I'm not done yet.

I charge forward, head down, aiming for Aaron's face with my forehead. The impact is solid, a satisfying crunch echoing in my ears. He stumbles backward, eyes wide in disbelief. I'm not just a kid anymore; I'm his nightmare. Blood trickles from my forehead, but I don't feel it. The pain is there, somewhere, but it's drowned out by the exhilaration pumping through my veins. Blood trickles from his nose, and that feels even better.

We're back in the dance, Aaron and I. It's a brutal ballet in the snow-covered street. He's bigger, stronger, but I'm wild, uncontrolled. He grabs for me, trying to use his weight to pin me against the wall. I can feel the cold, wet snow seeping through my shoes as we grapple, but it's just another sensation lost in the torrent of adrenaline.

Aaron's hand, slick with sweat and snow, tightens around the switchblade's handle. He flips it, now underhand, the blade ominously pointing down towards my throat. I'm cornered, the cold alleyway wall digging into my back. His eyes, just inches from mine, are a storm of fear and fury. I feel his ragged breath, hot against my chilled skin.

Our struggle is a deadlock. My left hand, gripping his wrist with a strength I didn't know I had, is the only thing keeping that blade from my throat. His free hand, heavy and unyielding, pins my right arm, rendering me immobile. It's a Mexican Standoff in the truest sense - neither of us can move without risking it all.

The blade edges closer, the cold metal almost kissing my skin. I can feel the threat of it, a sharp promise of pain and end. I'm losing strength, my fingers slowly uncurling from his wrist. Panic flares up, but it's quickly drowned by a wave of adrenaline. Time seems to slow, each heartbeat a loud drum in my ears.

With a sudden explosion of the last energy I have in me, I shove Aaron away, buying me precious inches, and then let go. Aaron's eyes gleam with triumph, but it's short-lived. In one swift, desperate move, I slam my palm against the blade. The pain is immediate and searing, but it's a small price to pay, the knife's blade embedded through my palm, between the bones going up to my middle and ring finger. It hurts more than I think anything else has ever hurt, and the knife scraping against bone makes me want to scream.

I slam my palm up, the hilt of the blade cracking against Aaron's nose, breaking it. I rip the knife out of my hand and throw it into the snow, where it disappears, clattering into a storm drain.

Now unarmed, Aaron steps back, his confidence faltering. I'm bleeding, but I'm still standing. The wound in my palm is already closing, skin stitching itself together in a grotesque yet fascinating display of my regenerative abilities. Dr. Harris would be thrilled to get his hands on this data. My body is on fire, every nerve alight with pain and power.

We're both breathing hard, the cold air turning our breaths into mist. Aaron's teeth are clenched up, and I can tell he's biting back words. Blood spurts from my hand, spraying and leaking up and down my arm, ruining my clothes. It forms red splatters on the snow. Just another day in Philly.

Blood's everywhere, and it's mine, and a little bit of Aaron's, but I can't stop to think about it. Aaron's back with the crowbar, yanking it off his belt, swinging it like he wants to split my head open. I'm dancing, dodging, weaving - it's all instinct and adrenaline. Every time the metal whooshes past me, I feel like I've cheated death again.

The snow's slippery under my feet, making it hard to keep my balance. I'm sliding, stumbling, but I keep moving. My heart's pounding so hard it feels like it'll burst out of my chest. But I'm laughing, can't help it, the rush is intoxicating.

Aaron's face is a mask of frustration. He thought he'd have me down by now. But I'm still here, still fighting. He swings the crowbar again, aiming for my skull. I duck, feel the air move above me. Close, too close.

I swing back, a wild punch that catches him off guard. It connects with his cheek, and I feel something give under my fist. He stumbles, but he's not down. Not yet.

The cold's biting at my skin, but I barely feel it. My blood's painting the snow redder and redder. My hand, where the knife went through, is throbbing, but it's healing. I can feel the skin knitting back together, the bones realigning. Too slow. It needs to go faster. It needs to heal faster.

Aaron's coming at me again, crowbar raised. I'm ready, waiting. He swings, and I sidestep, barely avoiding a direct hit. My counter is a kick to his knee. I hear a satisfying crunch. He yells, pain and anger mixed in his voice.

The snow's getting trampled, turning to slush under our feet. We're both slipping, but we keep swinging, keep fighting. It's a messy display. My punches are getting sloppier, but so are his. We're both running on fumes.

Aaron's next swing with the crowbar is slower, and I see my chance. I grab it mid-swing, yanking it towards me. He resists, pulling back, but I hold on, not letting go. We're in a tug-of-war, both determined to win.

My hand's still bleeding, but I don't care. The pain's there, but it's distant, like it's happening to someone else. All I can focus on is Aaron, the crowbar, and surviving this fight.

He tries to kick me, but I dodge, still holding onto the crowbar. He's strong, but I'm stubborn. I won't let go, won't give him the satisfaction.

Our eyes meet, and there's a moment, just a split second, where everything else fades away. Then, the moment's gone. I twist the crowbar, using all my strength. It slips from his grip, clatters to the ground. I kick it away, out of reach. For a moment, we're both weaponless.

But I don't need a weapon. I have my fists, my teeth, my will to survive. I launch myself at him, limbs flying. He's caught off guard, tries to defend himself, but I'm relentless.

Aaron's slowing down, his movements getting more desperate. I can see it in his eyes, the realization that he's not going to win this. It gives me a surge of energy, a rush of power.

I keep swinging, keep hitting. Every punch, every kick, it's like I'm chipping away at him, breaking him down. He's still fighting back, but it's getting weaker, less coordinated.

We're both panting, exhausted. But I can't stop, won't stop. Not until he's down, not until I'm safe. I can take anyone one-on-one. Except maybe Patches, but Aaron's no Patches.

"What's taking so fucking long?" The voice is gruff, irritated. I barely have time to register it before something massive slams into me from the side. I stumble, catching myself just before I hit the ground. It's Pumice. His body, made of stone and soaked with the cold, wet snow, looks more menacing than ever. Like someone lifted up a piece of the street, gave it arms and legs, and covered it in snow.

I grit my teeth, feeling the sharp sting of scrapes on my arm where his abrasive hands grazed me. I push back against the cold, icy stone, trying to put some distance between us. My breaths come out in white puffs, quick and panicked.

Aaron takes advantage of my distraction, charging at me with renewed vigor. The two of them, a makeshift team of brute force and blind rage, start to corner me. I dodge, weave, but it's getting harder. The snow beneath my feet is a thick, slippery slurry. I catch a fist from Aaron, then a swipe from Pumice. I'm sandwiched between them, trying to keep my balance, trying to keep my head. I can feel the bruises forming, the skin on my arm raw from the scraping. But I can't let it slow me down.

Aaron throws a punch that I narrowly avoid, and I retaliate with a jab to his gut. It's not much, but it makes him falter. I use that moment to spin around, lashing out at Pumice with a kick. It's like kicking a wall, but I hear him grunt, so it must've done something. My ankle screams in protest, and I lash out with my shin, catching him in the side before I get my feet back on the ground and start backing away.

I can't keep this up forever. They're relentless, and I'm just one person. Every hit I take, every second I spend fighting them, I'm getting more and more worn out.

Pumice lunges again, and I sidestep, feeling the whoosh of air as his massive form passes by me. I counter with an elbow to his back, but it's like hitting a boulder. I barely make him flinch. I'm not going to hurt him at all. I can wail on him all day long but even with all my weeks punching sandbags there's no way I can crack rock, unless I bite him - and that's just not happening.

Aaron's back in the game, swinging with all he's got. I duck, weave, block, but he's getting closer. I can see it in his eyes, the determination, the need to take me down. It's personal for him, and that makes him dangerous.

I feel a sharp pain in my side as Pumice's hand connects. I stagger, biting back a cry. I can't give them that satisfaction. I straighten up, ignoring the pain, the cold, the exhaustion. I have to keep fighting. They're coming at me from both sides now, a relentless assault of fists and stone. I block what I can, dodge what I can't. Every hit I take is one step closer to going down, and I can't afford that. Not now.

I manage to land a solid punch on Aaron's cheek, and for a moment, I see the surprise in his eyes. But it's quickly replaced by rage. He's not going to let that slide. Pumice is a constant threat, his stone body a weapon in itself. I have to keep moving, keep dodging, but it's like he's everywhere at once. I feel another hit, this time to my shoulder, and I wince. It's starting to add up.

I need a plan, need to find a way out of this. But it's hard to think with fists and stone flying at me from all directions. My mind is racing, trying to find a way out, trying to find a way to survive. But I'm not out yet. I won't go down without a fight. I steel myself, ready for the next wave of attacks. I'll keep fighting, keep struggling, until I find a way out of this. Because that's what I do. I survive.