I'm running. My feet slap against the icy, snow-covered pavement, each step a jolt of pain shooting through my battered body. I can barely feel my legs; they move on instinct, fueled by pure adrenaline and fear. My breath comes out in ragged gasps, misting in the cold night air. My throat burns from screaming, my voice now just a hoarse whisper. I don't even know if I'm making any noise anymore.

The night is dark, the streetlights casting long, ominous shadows on the snow. It's like running through a nightmare. Every shadow looks like Aaron, every sound makes me jump. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see him there, with that crowbar, that insane look in his eyes. But there's nothing. Just the empty streets and the sound of my own frantic breath.

My t-shirt is in tatters, barely clinging to my body, soaked in blood. My boxers are the same, and I can feel the cold seeping into my bones. I'm shivering uncontrollably, but I can't stop. I have to keep moving, have to get away, have to find help.

Every step is agony. My body is a map of pain – the stab wounds, the broken bones, the raw, bloody stumps where my nails used to be. I try not to think about it, try not to remember the feel of the claw hammer tearing them out, one by one. But it's all I can think about. The pain, the fear, the helplessness. The ecstasy of victory. The misery of agony. All of it blending together, vacillating back and forth like a jackhammer until it starts to ache somewhere deep in my consciousness.

I can see my breath in front of me, a white cloud in the darkness. It's getting harder to breathe. My lungs feel like they're on fire, my ribs screaming with every inhale. I'm dizzy, lightheaded. I know I'm losing blood, too much blood. But I can't stop. I can't let him catch me.

I pass by houses, windows dark and lifeless. No one's awake, no one's around to help. I'm alone in this, just like I've always been. Alone and running and scared.

But then, up ahead, I see lights. Movement. People. My heart leaps in my chest. Salvation. I push myself harder, ignoring the pain, ignoring the weakness that's creeping into my limbs. I'm so close, so close to safety.

I reach the edge of the neighborhood, houses lining the street, cars parked along the curb. There's a couple walking their dog, a man taking out the trash. They stop and stare as I stumble into the light, a bloody, broken mess. I try to call out, try to ask for help, but my voice is gone. All I can do is reach out, my hand shaking, my vision blurring.

And then, just as the couple starts to move towards me, just as I see the concern on their faces, everything goes black. I feel myself falling, the ground rushing up to meet me. And then nothing. Just darkness and silence and the end.

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The world swims back into focus slowly, painfully. I'm lying on a couch I don't recognize, my body aches at every movement. My head is pounding, and there's a dull throb in my hands that I can't ignore. I'm bandaged up, crudely, with strips of gauze and band-aids that look like they've been scavenged from a dozen different first aid kits. I'm wearing someone else's clothes—a shirt that's too big, fresh boxers, and sweatpants. The thought that someone undressed me while I was out cold makes my stomach churn.

There are people around me, a small crowd all sticking their necks out on the line for no reward. Faces I don't recognize, all wearing expressions of concern and confusion. They're talking, their voices a low murmur, but I can't make out the words. It's like I'm underwater, everything distant and muffled.

One of them, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and dark skin, wearing a sweater covered in cat hair, notices I'm awake. 'Oh, thank God,' she breathes. "Sweetheart, can you hear me? Do you know where you are?"

My throat feels like it’s lined with sandpaper when I try to speak. "No," I manage, my voice nothing more than a hoarse whisper. "Where…?"

"You're in our living room," a man adds. He's tall, with a gentle face and a baseball cap turned backward. "We found you outside, you just… collapsed. We've called an ambulance, they should be here soon, but with the blizzard…"

Blizzard? I try to sit up, but a wave of dizziness forces me back down. That's when I see them — the teeth protruding from the back of my hands. I try to push them back in, to hide them, or push them out, but my muscles refuse to cooperate either way. They're just… there, a grotesque reminder of everything that's happened. Everyone else seems to have made their peace with it. They don't comment. I think assuming a girl covered in puncture wounds probably just developed superpowers is a good assumption to carry with you.

The woman gives him a look, kind of a mix of exasperation and amusement. "'Our living room', like that helps," she chides gently. "Honey, you're in Philadelphia, Tenth and Porter. We heard someone screaming for help and then found you in the snow. You were… well, you were just soaked in blood."

I try to sit up a bit more, panic starting to well up inside me. "Did you see who…?"

"No, dear," she says quickly, putting a hand on my shoulder to gently push me back down. "We didn’t see anyone else. Just you."

I breathe a sigh of relief. I don't know if they chased me and gave up, or never bothered, but the last thing I need is to drag some civilians into my bullshit.

Lying there, I let my gaze wander around the room, taking in the details of the house I've found sanctuary in. The walls are painted a soothing shade of pale blue, dotted with framed photographs of smiling people, places I don't recognize. A large, well-worn couch, the one I'm lying on, faces a modest TV, surrounded by shelves crammed with books and knick-knacks. It feels lived-in, cozy.

A small, cluttered coffee table is right in front of me, stacked with magazines, remote controls, and a couple of half-finished puzzles. Beyond that, I can see into the kitchen, where a round wooden table is covered with a cheerful, flower-patterned tablecloth, surrounded by mismatched chairs. Pots of herbs sit on the windowsill, their leaves brushing against the frosted glass.

It gives the distinct impression of a house lived in by retirees. The room is spinning slightly, and I can feel cold sweat on my forehead. "How long… how long was I out?"

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"About fifteen minutes," the man says, checking his watch. "The ambulance should be here any minute now. You just hang in there."

I nod, or at least I try to. Everything hurts. The woman, who I overhear someone call 'Marge,' moves closer, her brow furrowed in worry. "You're safe here, dear. Just rest. What's your name?"

"Sam," I reply, my gaze fixed on my hands. The teeth feel foreign, like they don't belong to me.

"Sam," she repeats softly. "Well, Sam, I'm Marge, and this is Bill," she gestures to the man with the cap. "You gave us quite a scare."

A younger woman, maybe in her twenties, with a streak of purple in her hair, hands me a glass of water. "You lost a lot of blood," she says. "You need to stay hydrated."

I take the glass with shaky hands, grateful for the kindness of these strangers, these neighbors who didn't hesitate to help a bleeding girl on their doorstep.

Bill kneels down beside the couch, his expression serious. "Do you remember what happened to you, Sam? Who did this?"

I shake my head, not wanting to drag them into my nightmare. "I… can't remember."

"We'll make sure you're taken care of," Marge assures me, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder. "The paramedics will be here soon."

I nod, feeling the tears well up in my eyes. Not from pain, but from the overwhelming sense of gratitude. These people, they don't know me, but they're here, taking care of me in the middle of a blizzard. It's more than I could have asked for.

I untense my hands, looking at my brutalized fingertips. Every one has been gently bandaged with bandaids, double-wrapped to avoid exposing the raw nailbed to the open air. I shift around a bit and feel the sloshing of antibiotic gel, the rough sensation of gauze on skin.

I try to take stock of my injuries. My skin is still pink and blistered in some places, which I think the group of saviors missed. I am definitely, without a doubt, concussed, and my left hand feels like all the bones have been turned into jelly. My left hand, the hand that I stabbed through to get Aaron's knife away, and the one that Daisy went crazy with a hammer on, has already completely closed up. It left behind only an angry red line right through the middle on both sides, front and back, with the skin heavily inflamed. I feel scabs everywhere, itching and ready to fall off.

Most of my bandages are soaked in red and already starting to turn brown, but the stray blood has been wiped off, and I can still detect the faint after-stings of hydrogen peroxide, which my Mom informed me recently is actually not great for a cut. But the thought is still nice. It's good to have a clean face, at least, even if I can smell every heartbeat I have. I can't even count how many broken bones I probably have. Probably most of them.

A lot of my skin that isn't angry infected red is angry broken bone purple, and the bits that aren't are bruised and turning gross yellow. I'm a patchwork of angry colors and what I can already tell are extra teeth forming inside of my skin.

Outside, the wind howls, the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes. I'm safe, for now, surrounded by the warmth of strangers who've become my temporary guardians. The chatter of concerned neighbors turns into a soft mush, and I close my eyes again as the last dregs of adrenaline dump out of me, vanishing into exhaustion.

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The world is a blur, a muffled cacophony of sounds and sensations that barely register in my foggy brain. I'm vaguely aware of being moved, hands gently but firmly guiding me onto a stretcher, the cold bite of the winter air replaced by the sterile warmth of an ambulance. I drift in and out, catching snippets of conversation that sound distant, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel.

"…severe trauma… multiple contusions… to stabilize her first…" The voices are calm, professional, but there's an undercurrent of urgency that even my muddled mind can pick up.

I feel the ambulance moving, the sirens a faint wail in the background. My body is a map of pain, every jolt of the vehicle amplifying the agony. I want to scream, to tell them to stop, to be gentle, but I can't find my voice. It's lost, just like I am, in this sea of hurt and confusion.

In the haze, I catch glimpses of faces leaning over me, their features blurred. Someone is pressing something against my skin, bandages, maybe. There's the sharp sting of a needle, sharp pressure against the back of my hand, and then a cool wave of relief as whatever they've given me starts to work.

At the hospital, I'm a passive observer in my own rescue. I hear snippets of conversation as they wheel me through the corridors.

"…never seen anything like it… teeth in her knuckles…"

"…radiologist… teeth… immediate surgery…" The conversations continue, a litany of my injuries cataloged with clinical detachment. Broken bones, stab wounds, concussions… It's a list of traumas, a testament to my recent hell. But there's a sense of wonder, too, disbelief.

I try to process their words, but they slip away from me, elusive and fragmented. It's all too much, too overwhelming. I'm drowning in a sea of pain and incomprehension.

Then there's a new sensation, a drowsy heaviness that pulls me down into darkness. I welcome it, eager to escape from the nightmare my life has become. The voices fade, the pain recedes, and I surrender to the oblivion, praying for a respite from the hellish reality waiting for me when I wake up.

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I'm standing in the bathroom of Lily's house, staring at my reflection in the mirror. It's New Year's Eve, and I'm supposed to be getting ready for the party. But all I can do is look at myself, at the marks and scars that map out the past few days on my body. I'm still muscular, yeah, but now I'm also pockmarked with stab wounds, stitches where they had to remove teeth from my bones, slashes, cuts, and bruises that are turning yellow. It's like looking at a stranger, again, and again, and again.

I gingerly touch the gauze wrapped around my left hand, protecting the tender stab wound. It's weird, feeling the bandages instead of my skin. And then there's my right hand, gloved to cover the missing nails. The doctors were confused about the whole teeth thing, but I managed to explain it away. My powers make healing faster, but they don't do anything for growing back nails. That's a slow and strangely painful process.

I turn my hand over, looking at the splints, braces, and bandages that cover my arms. There's also a soft neck brace, something I'll have to hide under a turtleneck because of the concussion and the severe neck injuries I was told I sustained. Now, there's just patchworks, stitches and stitches all over my body where they had to cut teeth out before they caused more inflammation, more trauma.

It's New Year's Eve, and there's a party with the Young Defenders. I should be excited, but it's hard to feel anything other than a dull ache, both physically and emotionally.

I reach for the clothes I've laid out. Something nice, but not too fancy. It's a party, but I'm not really in a party mood. I slip into the clothes, a soft shirt that's gentle against my bruised skin, and pants that are comfortable but still look good. The turtleneck is next, carefully pulled over my head to hide the neck brace. It's a bit of a struggle, but I manage it.

Looking in the mirror again, I see a version of myself that's ready to face the world, or at least a New Year's Eve party. The bruises and cuts are hidden, the bandages and splints barely noticeable. But they're still there, underneath. Just like the fear, the pain, and the uncertainty.

I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself. It's just a party. I'm just going to be with my friends, my team. People who care about me, who've been there for me. I shouldn't be afraid, but I am. Afraid of breaking down, of showing just how not okay I am.

I take one last look in the mirror, trying to find the strength that I know is in there somewhere. The strength that got me through the last few days, that's kept me going through everything. It's there, under the surface, waiting for me to tap into it.

I turn off the bathroom light and step out into the hallway. Lily is there, waiting for me. She looks at me, a mix of concern and something else in her eyes. Maybe pride, maybe just friendship.

"You ready to go?" she asks, her voice gentle.

I nod, even though a part of me wants to just crawl into bed and forget the world exists. "Yeah, I'm ready. Let's order a taxi."

Lily smiles and pulls out her phone, tapping away to get us a ride. I stand there, in the hallway, feeling like I'm on the edge of a cliff.