I'm sitting in a room that feels too stiff and sterile, waiting for Dr. Desai to come in. The chair's uncomfortable, and I keep shifting, trying to find a position that doesn't make me feel like a specimen under a microscope. The room is small, just a desk, two chairs, and a bunch of books that I guess are supposed to make me feel like this is a place of healing or something.

Dr. Desai walks in, and he's got this calm, collected vibe about him. He doesn't look like what I expected a therapist to look like. He's wearing a sweater that's got a weird pattern on it, and his hair is kind of messy. He smiles, and it's a nice smile, but I'm already building up walls. I'm here because they think I need to be, not because I want to spill my guts to a stranger.

"Good morning, Samantha," he says as he sits down across from me. "How are you feeling today?"

I shrug, not meeting his eyes. "Okay, I guess. Considering."

He nods, jotting something down on his notepad. "I understand this might feel a bit uncomfortable for you. It's okay to be hesitant about sharing."

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly an open book," I admit. It's true. I'm good at keeping things locked up tight. It's safer that way.

"We'll take it at your pace," he says. "Let's start with something simple. Can you tell me how your days have been going?"

I fiddle with the hem of my shirt, thinking. "It's been weird. Like, I wake up, and for a second, I forget where I am. Then it all comes crashing back. The hospital, the pain, the… everything."

"And how does that make you feel?" he asks, his voice gentle.

"Trapped, I guess. Like I'm stuck behind this pane of glass, watching the world go on without me." I say it without thinking, and then immediately wish I hadn't. It sounds so pathetic when I say it out loud. Silly. Dramatic.

"That sounds quite isolating," he observes. "It's not uncommon to feel disconnected after a traumatic experience. Have you been experiencing this feeling often?"

I nod, still playing with my shirt. "Yeah. It's like, sometimes I'm just going through the motions. And the only time I feel… I don't know, real, is when I'm Bloodhound. When I'm out there, doing something that matters. Beating up bad guys."

Dr. Desai leans forward, interested. "It sounds like being Bloodhound gives you a sense of purpose, a sense of being alive."

"Yeah, exactly," I agree, a little surprised that he gets it. "When I'm her, I feel like I'm making a difference. Like I'm more than just some kid. And there's nothing quite like getting punched in the face to wake you up in the morning."

I don't know why I said that.

He nods, making another note silently to himself. "And when you're not Bloodhound, when you're just Samantha?"

I hesitate, unsure how to put it into words. "It's like I'm just… waiting. Waiting to be her again. Everything else just feels… dull. Pointless."

"That's a heavy burden for someone your age," he says softly. "To feel alive only in moments of danger, of significance. It sounds like it's a lot to carry with you."

I shrug, uncomfortable with the turn the conversation's taking. "I guess."

Dr. Desai changes tack. "Let's talk about your recent encounter with Mr. Federov. That was a significant event, I think we can both agree - how are you processing it?"

I stiffen, the memory hitting me like a punch to the gut.

How am I processing it?

Well, I'm currently in a hospital for the sort of radiation sickness that generally is reserved for people caught in nuclear blasts. My muscles don't work anymore, I have burns on the inside of my body but not the outside, I lost ten pounds of skin and another, like, fifteen pounds of muscle and fat, and I'm bald. When I go to sleep, sometimes I just see white light and I wake up with pins and needles everywhere, totally stuck, locked in. And all I can think about is how sorry I feel for this sad sack who's going to end up in jail forever because of me. Because I made him turn himself in.

That's what I want to say. Instead, it comes out like this;

"Well, it's fine. It's what I do. Nobody else could've done it."

Great answer, Sam.

"And do you often find yourself in these kinds of situations? Feeling like you have to be the one to step in?"

"All the time," I admit. "It's like, if I don't do it, who will? I can't just stand by and watch bad things happen."

Dr. Desai nods, understanding. "That's a lot of responsibility to take on. It's commendable, but it can also be overwhelming. Do you ever feel like it's too much?"

I think about it for a moment. "Sometimes, yeah. But I can't just stop. I can't be… useless."

He frowns slightly at that. "Feeling like you only matter when you're in danger, that's a concerning mindset. It can lead to taking unnecessary risks. Have you ever thought about why you feel this way?"

I shake my head, not wanting to go down that road. "Not really. I just… do what I have to do."

Dr. Desai keeps poking, his questions probing gently at the edges of my life, peeling back all the plastic wrap. It's like he's trying to peek behind the curtain without pulling it back too far, without alerting security. But I can't help being alert. I still feel like this is all a dream, and in a second I'm going to wake up in an abandoned subway station, burning to death while my skin is all sloughing off. Or that some gangster is going to bust the door down and shoot Dr. Desai, and then me.

But I don't say that either. I just listen.

"So, Sam, tell me about your family. How do they fit into your life as Bloodhound?" Dr. Desai asks, his pen poised above his notepad.

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I shift uncomfortably. "Well, they don't really… fit. I mean, I had to get them to leave Philly because things got too dangerous. It's my fault they're in danger, so I had to fix it. I mean, they're fine. Food, shelter, love, attention. Clothes. My Dad is kind of stern. My Mom really cares about my grades. You know how it is, I'm a fourteen year old."

I stop, and then correct myself. "Fourteen and three quarters."

Dr. Desai nods, his expression thoughtful. "You said you had to get them to leave Philly, for their own safety. That sounds like a lot of pressure for someone your age. How does that make you feel, having to take on such responsibility?"

I shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. "It's just what I have to do. I mean, I can regenerate, they can't. It's better this way."

"But do you ever feel overwhelmed by it?" he probes.

"Sometimes," I admit. "But I can handle it. I have to."

Dr. Desai changes the subject slightly. "You mentioned feeling like you're watching the world from behind glass. Can you tell me more about that?"

I think for a moment. "It's like, sometimes I'm not really there. I'm just going through the motions, but I don't feel… connected. Everything feels dull unless I'm in danger. Like, my physical senses. My skin doesn't feel as… feel-y. Everything tastes kind of bland. And, like, I can force it away if I do something stupid, but normally this lasts for a couple of weeks and then something bad will happen and I feel great for another couple of weeks."

"That's quite significant," he says, writing something down. "Have you been having any nightmares or flashbacks, particularly about your experiences as Bloodhound?"

I hesitate, then nod. "Yeah, I guess. I keep seeing Liberty Belle. And this one guy who got… his head… Psshshhtt, you know? Right in front of me. Wasn't fun."

Dr. Desai's expression softens. "That's a traumatic experience, Sam. It's natural to be affected by it."

"And how about your relationships with friends? How do they fit into your life?" he asks.

I laugh, but there's no humor in it. "Barely. My friends are my superhero buddies. My friend friends all went to different high schools, and, like… you know… It's different when it's your colleagues. And I have a girlfriend but I always feel like a letdown to her. Actually, I decided I don't want to talk about her. Sorry. But yeah, like I said before. Panes of glass."

Dr. Desai nods again, making another note. "It's common to feel isolated when you're dealing with so much on your own. You've taken on a heavy burden, Sam. It's okay to feel overwhelmed by it."

I don't respond, just pick at a loose thread on the arm of the chair. We're getting into the stuff I don't like to think about. We talk more about my nightmares, about the constant feeling of being on edge. I tell him about the panic that grips me sometimes when I'm just sitting in class or walking down the street. How I'm always scanning for danger, even when there's none.

Dr. Desai's voice breaks through my thoughts. "Sam, it's important to recognize that what you're experiencing – the depersonalization, the nightmares, the need to constantly be in danger – these are signs of trauma. It's important to address them, to talk about them."

I look up, meeting his eyes directly for what feels like the first time since we started. "I know, but it's hard. I don't want to seem weak. I'm Bloodhound. I can't be weak."

As our session nears its end, the room feels less clinical, a little softer at the edges. Less adversarial, but at the same time, a little less interested. Dr. Desai sets his notepad aside, his gaze meeting mine. "Sam, you've been through a lot, more than most people your age, or any age for that matter."

I fidget, uncomfortable under his steady gaze. "So, what do you think is wrong with me? Am I… broken?"

Dr. Desai shakes his head. "Not broken, Sam. You're coping with extraordinary circumstances. But based on what you've shared, I see signs of PTSD – Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. The nightmares, the hyper-vigilance, the sense of detachment, these are all common symptoms."

My heart races. PTSD. It sounds so serious, so… damaged. That's what soldiers have, not fourteen year old girls from Mayfair. "Is that all?"

He leans forward, "There might be more. Your need to constantly be in danger, the highs and lows you describe, they could be indicative of bipolar disorder. And if I didn't already know you had it, I would likely be suggesting you look into an ADHD diagnosis. It may be worth considering an Autism Spectrum Disorder assessment, as well - I think it's quite possible that some of the behaviors you describe are sensory-seeking behaviors designed to provide you adequate stimulation. These are just possibilities, of course. We'll need to explore more, talk more."

I swallow hard, trying to process his words. "You think I'm like, what, a walking bundle of disorders?"

"No, Sam," he says gently. "I see a resilient, strong young woman who's dealing with challenges most people can't even imagine. But understanding these aspects of yourself can help us find the best ways to support you."

I look back at his feet.

"So, what now?" I ask, feeling a mix of fear and relief. Relief at having a name for what I'm feeling, fear of what it means.

"Now, we keep talking. We explore these possibilities more deeply. And with your permission, I'd like to discuss these potential diagnoses with your care team and your parents. They're part of your support system."

I hesitate, the thought of my parents knowing all this making me uneasy. But then I nod. "Okay. Yeah, talk to them. They should know."

Dr. Desai smiles, a reassuring, warm smile. "You're taking a big step today, Sam. It's going to be a journey, but you're not on it alone. We can start trialing some medication soon and see if that can help even out some of the peaks and valleys in your symptoms."

I can't help but roll my eyes. "Oh boy. More pills."

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

It's late at night in my hospital room, the kind of night where everything feels still, like the world's holding its breath. I'm sitting up in bed, surrounded by piles of half-finished schoolwork. It's a mess, papers scattered everywhere, but I can't bring myself to care too much about it right now. Instead, my attention is on the TV, where they're talking about him - Illya - again. The news just can't get enough of him since he turned himself in.

I watch as the talking heads dissect every angle of his surrender and ongoing trial. They've got theories, speculations, but none of them know the real story. To them, it's just this big, bad villain who inexplicably gave up one day. I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but it just feels hollow. I stopped the man who killed my mentor and my mentor's mentor - my grandmentor? But it's not like I can go around bragging about it. And did I really avenge them if he's still walking around, alive?

I think about that last part a lot. I don't like it.

But, like, I mean, it's weird, right? I'm sitting here, the girl who actually faced him, talked him down, but to everyone else, I might as well not exist in that story. It's like I'm watching a movie about my own life, except I've been cut out of the script. Kinda ironic, I guess. Superhero works in the shadows, and the shadows swallow up her part. All I see is the NSRA committing autofellatio about their 'investigation' - that means sucking their own dick, Jordan taught me that one - and it just makes me kind of… I don't know. It's not even anger. It's something entirely different. An emotion I don't really know the name of yet.

The anchor moves on to the public's reaction - some people are relieved, some are angry he didn't face a more dramatic takedown. And then there are those who think he got off too easy. The piranhas braying for his blood. I take a breath and change the channel. Food Network.

I pick up a textbook, trying to focus on something else, but the words just blur together. It's like my brain's decided to go on strike. I toss it aside, letting out a sigh. School's important, I know that, but right now, it feels like trying to keep a sandcastle together during high tide. I change the channel back.

I glance back at the TV, where they're now showing clips of people laying flowers at a memorial for Chernobyl's victims. I could've been one of those. And I can't help but think about what he said - about how many people he saved. Was it worth the superheroes he killed? Just thinking about all the chains of cause and effect for too long makes me start to get dizzy.

A nurse pops her head in, asking if I need anything. I force a smile and tell her I'm fine, just tired. She doesn't look entirely convinced, but she leaves me be. I'm getting good at putting on that brave face, the one that says 'I'm okay'. I feel a little nauseous, and I turn off the TV, the room falling into darkness. The only light now is the faint glow of the moon streaming through the window. It's peaceful, in a way.

I lie back, staring at the ceiling, letting the silence wrap around me like a blanket.