Car door opens. Slams shut. In the high beams, I see his silhouette - above-average height, below-average build, familiar reading glasses reflecting the light. He steps forward, right hand hovering near his hip with practiced casualness.

  "Step away from her," Dad calls out, voice steady in a way I've never heard before. "Now."

  Rush Order turns toward the newcomer, squinting against the headlights. Blood drips down his chin from the constellation of tiny cuts I've inflicted, staining his beret-and-track-jacket ensemble with rust-orange splotches. "Well, well. What have we here? Concerned citizen?"

  "Something like that." Dad takes another step forward, positioning himself between Rush Order and the car. Between the headlights, the blood loss, and the pain radiating through my body, everything has a dreamlike quality. This isn't happening. I've been knocked out, right?

  "Go home, man," Rush Order says, voice friendly but edged with steel. "This is cape business. Nothing personal."

  "Looks personal to me." Dad's right hand moves to his waistband, pulling back his jacket to reveal what's unmistakably a handgun. A black rectangle against the night.

  Right. His gun.

  The crowd, which had begun to disperse at the car's arrival, freezes again. Someone whispers "oh shit" loud enough to echo across the suddenly silent street. Drones buzz overhead, their mechanical eyes capturing everything.

  Rush Order's posture shifts. The bounce disappears from his stance, replaced by a coiled stillness that's somehow more threatening. "Are you serious right now? What are you, an NRA member? Guns went out of fashion decades ago, grandpa."

  "I'm serious enough." Dad keeps the gun low, not quite pointed at Rush Order but ready to raise it. "Bloodhound is leaving with me. Whatever point you were making is made."

  My vision swims, pain and confusion making it hard to focus. This isn't happening.

  Rush Order laughs, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Hey, I get it. Protective instinct and all that. Very admirable. But you're making a mistake, friend." His hand moves to his own waistband, pulling out a revolver that gleams dully in the headlights. "See, mine's bigger."

  The silver-plated revolver with its wooden grip looks nothing like Dad's practical black pistol. Rush Order twirls it once around his finger like a cowboy in an old Western, coming to rest with the barrel pointing vaguely in Dad's direction. "So why don't you put that BB gun away before someone gets hurt?"

  Dad doesn't move. Doesn't flinch. Just keeps his eyes on Rush Order, hand steady on his gun. Perfect trigger discipline. "Last chance. Walk away."

  "Do you feel lucky?" Rush Order grins, blood staining his teeth orange. "Do you, p--"

  The shots come so close together they sound like a single thunderclap, echoing off buildings and car windows. The crowd scatters, screaming. Drones scatter upward like startled birds.

  Rush Order staggers backward, left shoulder blooming orange beneath his jacket, expression frozen in genuine shock, a spray of yellow exiting behind him. Dad grunts, stumbling as his right leg buckles beneath him, blood already spreading across his khakis.

  "BEN!" The name tears from my throat before I can stop it.

  Rush Order's eyes narrow at my outburst, flickering between me and my father with sudden understanding. But there's no time for him to process the realization. He clutches his shoulder, gun hanging loose in his other hand. "Son of a bitch," he hisses through clenched teeth. "You actually shot me."

  Dad has dropped to one knee, gun still raised despite the blood seeping between the fingers of his left hand pressed against his thigh. "Go," he manages, voice tight with pain. "Before I put the next one somewhere vital."

  Two men from the crowd move forward, perhaps thinking to restrain the injured speedster. Rush Order sees them coming and snarls, "Back off!" His movements are jerky now, the fluid acceleration compromised by pain and blood loss.

  He turns back to us, face pale beneath the blood and sweat. "This isn't over," he says, backing away, gun still pointed vaguely in our direction. "Not by a long shot, hoss."

  Then he's gone, not with an instantaneous flicker, but in stages - first across the street, then around the corner, leaving a trail of orange droplets that my blood sense tracks until they're too distant to register. I don't know why Dad doesn't fire a second time. Maybe he's nicer than I would be.

  The moment he's gone, I lurch toward Dad, nearly falling as my injuries scream in protest. "Dad," I gasp, reaching his side. "Oh my God, Dad."

  He holsters the gun with a grimace, both hands now pressing against the wound in his thigh. "It's okay. Just a graze." Blood seeps between his fingers, belying his words. "We need to go. Now."

  "No, no, don't move him!" A woman pushes through what remains of the crowd, kneeling beside us. She's wearing scrubs under an open jacket - coming from or going to work, I guess. "I'm a nurse. Let me look at that."

  Dad tries to protest, but she's already gently moving his hands away from the wound, examining it with professional efficiency. "Through and through, but it missed the femoral artery. You're lucky," she tells him, already pulling supplies from her purse. "Pressure bandage, then hospital. Now."

  Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

  Another man appears at my side, middle-aged with kind eyes and a Philadelphia Eagles cap. "You okay, Bloodhound?" he asks, his voice gentle despite the chaos around us. "That was one hell of a beating you took."

  "I'm fine," I lie automatically, trying to focus on Dad rather than the way my ribs scream with every breath. "Just need to..."

  The world tilts sideways without warning, everything going fuzzy at the edges.

  "Whoa, easy there." Strong hands catch me before I hit the pavement. "She needs medical attention too," the Eagles cap guy calls to the nurse.

  "I'm calling 911," someone else says, phone already at their ear.

  "Good luck with that," another voice responds. "Lines are jammed city-wide. Been trying this whole time."

  The nurse finishes securing a pressure bandage to Dad's leg, made from what looks like a scarf and the contents of a small first aid kit. "This will hold for now, but he needs proper medical attention. So does she."

  "I'll drive them," Eagles cap offers, already fishing keys from his pocket. "My car's right around the corner. Jefferson's what, ten minutes from here?"

  "Eight if you hit the lights right," someone else adds.

  "I can walk," Dad insists, trying to stand. His face goes ashen as soon as he puts weight on his injured leg.

  "Yeah, no." Eagles cap moves to support him, wrapping Dad's arm around his shoulders. "Let's go, buddy. Nice and easy."

  The nurse turns her attention to me, her hands already checking for broken ribs with practiced movements. "Multiple contusions, possible concussion, two, maybe three broken ribs..." She glances at my exposed wrist where the costume has torn, revealing skin already turning a mottled purple. "And what looks like the start of some impressive bruising."

  "I heal fast," I tell her, which isn't a lie. But even with regeneration, this is going to hurt for days.

  "Still need to get checked out," she insists, helping me to my feet. "Head injuries are nothing to mess with, even for capes."

  Around us, the crowd is dispersing, some people still filming on their phones, others huddled in small groups discussing what they just witnessed. The drones have mostly scattered, though one still hovers nearby, its camera focused on us. Great. The last thing we need is footage of Bloodhound being helped into a civilian's car with her injured father.

  But there's no time to worry about secret identities now. Eagles cap returns from moving his car closer, and with the nurse's help, gets Dad situated in the backseat.

  "You too, cape," Eagles cap tells me, holding the door. "Backseat VIP service."

  I slide in next to Dad, who immediately reaches for my hand. His is slick with blood despite the nurse's bandage. I squeeze gently, trying to communicate. I'm sorry. This is all my fault. I love you.

  "I've got some emergency blankets in my trunk," the nurse says, reaching through the open window to hand them to me. "Keep him warm. Shock is a concern with gunshot wounds."

  "Thank you," I say, voice cracking. "Both of you. I don't know how to..."

  "Just doing what anyone would," Eagles cap says, sliding into the driver's seat. "Or should, anyway. Name's Mike, by the way."

  "Thank you, Mike," Dad says weakly from beside me. "We owe you."

  Mike meets my eyes in the rearview mirror as he pulls away from the curb. "No, you don't. That's what community's for." He navigates smoothly through streets still chaotic from the night's events. "Besides, way I see it, you both just saved a lot of people from that psycho."

  I don't know how to respond to that, so I focus on wrapping the emergency blanket around Dad, trying to ignore the blood soaking through his jeans and the makeshift bandage. My phone buzzes in my pocket - Mom, probably, frantic with worry by now. Or Tasha, with updates.

  "They got you good, huh?" Dad murmurs, eyes on my battered face.

  "It'll heal," I say. "Always does."

  "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner."

  I shake my head, fighting back tears. "I'm sorry I lied to you."

  He squeezes my hand again. "We'll talk about it later." His voice is steady despite the pain I know he must be feeling. "Right now, just... stay with me. Okay?"

  "I'm not going anywhere," I promise.

  We ride in silence after that, Mike occasionally commenting on the chaos we pass - smashed windows, small groups hunting for Jump caches, police cordons blocking entire streets. South Philadelphia looks like a war zone.

  "Almost there," Mike announces as we turn onto a street I recognize as leading to Jefferson's emergency department. "Hang tight."

  Dad's eyes are closed now, his breathing shallow but steady. The blood has soaked through the bandage, staining the emergency blanket crimson. My own injuries throb in time with my heartbeat, a drumline of pain from head to toe.

  The hospital appears ahead, its emergency entrance blazing with light. Even from a distance, I can see it's chaos - ambulances lined up, medical staff running between them, patients on stretchers and others sitting on the curb waiting for attention.

  "Gonna have to drop you at the entrance," Mike says, navigating around an ambulance. "Can't stay - my wife and kids are waiting, and with everything going on..."

  "We understand," I tell him. "You've done more than enough."

  He pulls up to the emergency entrance, putting the car in park. "Need help getting him inside?"

  "I've got it," I say, already opening my door. "Thank you. For everything."

  Mike nods, his eyes serious. "Be careful out there, Bloodhound. World needs heroes like you. And him." He gestures to Dad. "Regular people standing up when it counts."

  I help Dad out of the car, supporting his weight as he balances on his good leg. Mike waits until we're clear before pulling away, joining the flow of traffic heading away from the hospital.

  The emergency department is a scene of controlled chaos - doctors and nurses moving with purpose despite the overwhelming number of patients. Many have obvious injuries from the night's riots - lacerations, broken bones, burns. Others show the telltale signs of Jump-induced powers gone wrong - glowing skin, twisted limbs, eyes that flicker with unnatural light.

  A security guard spots us immediately, moving to intercept. His eyes widen at my costume, then narrow at Dad's bloody leg. "Gunshot?" he asks, already gesturing for a nearby nurse.

  "Yes," I confirm. "Through and through, missed the femoral artery."

  The guard nods, surprisingly unfazed by a teenage superhero bringing in a gunshot victim. "Wait here." He's back in seconds with two ER nurses and a wheelchair.

  "GSW to right thigh, significant blood loss," one nurse reports as they ease Dad into the chair. "Sir, can you tell me your name?"

  Dad hesitates, glancing at me.

  "Ben," he says after a beat. He sounds on the verge of passing out. "Ben Small."

  "Alright, Ben. We're going to take care of you." She turns to me. "You're hurt too. Both of you need to come with us."

  The nurse guides us through the crowded waiting area to a curtained exam space. "Wait here," she instructs. "Doctor will be with you as soon as possible."

  Once she's gone, I pull out my phone. Seventeen missed calls from Mom. Three texts from Jordan asking what the hell is happening with all the emergency alerts. One from Tasha with updates on the Jump situation across the city.

  I ignore them all and dial Mom.

  "Sam?" Her voice is tight with barely controlled panic. "Where are you? Are you okay?"

  "I'm at Jefferson Hospital," I say, watching Dad as a medical tech cuts away his blood-soaked pant leg. "With Dad. He's been shot."

  The silence that follows is worse than any reaction I could have imagined. When she finally speaks, her voice is eerily calm. "I'm on my way."

  She hangs up before I can say anything else. Dad looks up at me, his face pale but his eyes clear. "She's going to kill us both, isn't she?"