The hospital corridors smell like antiseptic and copper. Blood, sweat, and whatever they use to mop the floors. My blood sense is going crazy - there's blood literally everywhere. On the walls, on the floor, on the scrubs of every nurse that passes by. Not a lot, not pools of it, but traces, droplets, smears.

  I'm still in my Bloodhound gear, helmet and all. A security guard keeps glancing over at me, torn between professional disinterest and obvious curiosity. Dad's in worse shape, so they take him first, wheeling him through a set of double doors while I'm left sitting on a plastic chair that digs into my bruised back.

  "Bloodhound?" A nurse with tired eyes appears in front of me, clipboard in hand. "We have a curtained area for you to change. Your... friend brought clothes?" She gestures to a small duffle bag.

  My brain takes a second to process this. Mike, the Eagles hat guy who drove us. He must have had it, or grabbed it from Dad's car, or something.

  "Thanks," I manage, wincing as I stand. Every movement sends jolts of pain through my ribcage. The nurse notices.

  "You need help walking?"

  "I'm good." I'm not, but I've had worse.

  She leads me to a curtained-off area and hands me the bag. "Change into these. Doctor will be with you as soon as possible."

  Once I'm alone, I peel off the Bloodhound suit, which is basically ruined - torn in multiple places, stained with blood (mine and Rush Order's), and missing pieces I don't even remember losing. The duffle contains an old Franklin Institute t-shirt and sweatpants. Smells like trunk.

  Getting dressed is a slow-motion nightmare. Every time I raise my arms, my ribs scream in protest. I have to stop and breathe through clenched teeth, which just makes my bruised jaw hurt more. When I finally pull the shirt over my head, I catch a glimpse of myself in a small mirror on the wall.

  Holy shit.

  My face looks like modern art. My left eye is swollen, a palette of purple and yellow spreading across my cheekbone. There's dried blood crusted around my nostrils and at the corner of my mouth. My lower lip is split in two places.

  The rest of me isn't much better. My torso is a tapestry of bruises in various stages of development - some are already that sickly yellow-green that means they're healing, others are fresh and angry red. I count at least four distinct shoe-shaped bruises where Rush Order kicked me.

  I stuff the Bloodhound suit into the duffle bag, tucking it under the examination table. A knock on the curtain startles me.

  "You decent?" A different nurse, younger, with close-cropped hair and Spider-Man scrubs.

  "Yeah."

  He pulls back the curtain, eyes widening slightly at the sight of my face before his professional mask slips back into place. "I'm Luis. I need to check your vitals before the doctor sees you."

  He goes through the motions - blood pressure, temperature, oxygen levels. Makes notes on a tablet. Asks me to rate my pain on a scale of one to ten.

  "Four," I lie.

  Luis gives me a look that says he's not buying it. "Maybe we try again with honesty?"

  "Fine. Seven."

  He nods. "That's more like it. Any trouble breathing? Dizziness? Nausea?"

  "Just hurts to breathe deeply."

  "Ribs?"

  I nod.

  "The doctor will order X-rays to check for fractures." He types something else into the tablet. "What about your head? Any loss of consciousness during the fight?"

  "No. I stayed awake the whole time."

  "Small victories." He offers a sympathetic smile. "The civilian you brought with us getting prepped for surgery."

  My stomach drops. "Surgery? Is it that bad?"

  "It's a precautionary measure. The bullet went clean through, but they need to check for vascular damage and clean the wound thoroughly to prevent infection." He pats my shoulder, then winces when I flinch. "Sorry. He's in good hands."

  After Luis leaves, I'm alone with the antiseptic smell and the distant sounds of a hospital in crisis mode. Shouting, hurried footsteps, occasional alarms. I pull out my phone again, staring at the screen. Mom's text messages range from concerned to frantic:

  Where are you?

  Sam, call me now

  Your father isn't answering either

  I'm calling the police if I don't hear from you in 5 minutes

  And then, after my call:

  On my way. Stay put.

  I put the phone back in my pocket and close my eyes, leaning my head against the wall. My whole body throbs in time with my heartbeat.

  The curtain rustles. A doctor this time - middle-aged woman with silver-streaked hair pulled back in a tight bun. "Bloodhound, I presume? I'm Dr. Gross."

  "Just Sam is fine," I mumble.

  "Sam." She glances at the tablet Luis left. "You've had quite a night."

  "How's my dad?"

  "In surgery. The bullet missed major vessels but caused tissue damage that needs repair." She sets the tablet down and puts on gloves. "Mind if I take a look?"

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  I lift my shirt, wincing at the movement. Dr. Gross's face remains neutral as she examines the bruising.

  "Deep breath in for me?"

  I try, but stop halfway when the pain spikes. She nods.

  "I'm ordering chest X-rays to check those ribs. Any other injuries I should know about?"

  I shake my head, then remember. "My wrist. When he grabbed it."

  She examines my right wrist, which is starting to swell. "Possible sprain. We'll X-ray this too." She makes notes on the tablet. "Luis mentioned you have enhanced healing abilities?"

  "Yeah. Accelerated regeneration. Works better for serious stuff than minor injuries, weirdly enough."

  "How fast are we talking?"

  "Depends. Few days for broken bones, few hours for cuts. Gunshots take longer."

  She raises an eyebrow. "You've been shot before?"

  "Yes," I confirm. "Not my favorite experience."

  "I would hope not." She removes her gloves. "Given your healing factor, I'm not going to prescribe anything stronger than extra-strength ibuprofen. But those ribs need proper wrapping, and you need rest."

  "When can I see my dad?"

  "Your dad?" she asks, not expecting it. "He'll be in surgery for another hour, then recovery. You can see him once he's stable." She pauses. "Your mother arrived a few minutes ago. She's speaking with the surgical team now."

  My stomach does a weird flip. "Can I see her?"

  "Of course. I'll send her in after we get your X-rays."

  The X-rays confirm what I already suspected - three cracked ribs and a sprained wrist. Nothing life-threatening, nothing that won't heal. A nurse wraps my ribs tightly and gives me a wrist brace, along with ice packs for my face. I'm back in the curtained area, now reclassified as "stable, non-urgent," when I hear her voice.

  "Where is my daughter? Where is my husband?"

  Mom's voice carries down the hallway, that distinctive tone she gets when she's being deliberately calm and professional while internally freaking out. I recognize it from parent-teacher conferences and that time I got suspended for fighting. Pre-superpowers, believe it or not.

  The curtain pulls back, and there she is - still in her home clothes, a blue cardigan over a white blouse, her curly brown hair wild with frizz and panic. Her eyes widen at the sight of me, scanning my face, the wrist brace, the visible bruises.

  "Sam," she breathes.

  "Hey, Mom."

  She steps forward, hesitates, clearly wanting to hug me but afraid of hurting me.

  "It's okay," I tell her. "Just be gentle with the ribs."

  She wraps her arms around me, careful and light, and I feel her trembling. When she pulls back, her eyes are wet, but her voice is steady.

  "Tell me what happened. All of it."

  I give her the abbreviated version - the Rogue Wave emergency alert, tracking Elias, the confrontation with Rush Order. How it turned into a public spectacle. Dad showing up. The exchange of gunfire. Mike driving us to the hospital.

  Mom listens without interrupting, her face a blank mask that would make a poker champion proud. When I finish, she takes a deep breath.

  "Your father is still in surgery," she says, voice carefully neutral. "The bullet damaged muscle tissue but missed major blood vessels. He's lucky."

  "Is he going to be okay?"

  "Yes." No hesitation. "He'll need physical therapy, and he won't be walking normally for a while, but he'll recover."

  She sits on the edge of the examination table beside me, smoothing her skirt with precise movements. Her hands are steady now, but I can see the tension in her shoulders.

  "I spoke with the police," she continues. "They took a preliminary statement. They'll want to speak with you and your father when he's able."

  "Am I in trouble?"

  "For what? Being assaulted by a speedster?" She shakes her head. "No. There are questions about the gun, naturally, but your father has a permit."

  I blink. "He does?"

  "Of course he does. Your father doesn't break laws, Sam. He bends them occasionally, but he doesn't break them." She sighs, running a hand through her already disheveled hair. "The hospital is crawling with reporters. Someone leaked that Bloodhound was brought in with a gunshot victim."

  Great. Just what we need.

  "Have they connected Dad to me?"

  "Not yet. But it's only a matter of time." She takes my hand, the one without the brace. "The footage is already online. Your fight, your father's intervention, all of it."

  My stomach sinks. "How bad?"

  "Bad enough. Every major news outlet has it. Social media is... well." She waves a hand dismissively. "It's a circus."

  We sit in silence for a moment, the weight of the situation settling over us. The antiseptic smell seems stronger now, almost choking.

  "I'm sorry," I finally say, the words inadequate but necessary. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I didn't know Dad would come looking for me."

  Mom's expression softens, just a fraction. "Of course you didn't. And your father..." She trails off, shaking her head. "We'll discuss his cowboy heroics when he's conscious."

  There's no real heat in her voice, though. Just exhaustion and something else I can't quite identify.

  "Are you mad?" I ask, feeling about five years old.

  "Am I mad that my teenage daughter was nearly beaten to death on a public street? That my husband was shot while trying to protect her?" She presses her lips together. "Mad isn't the right word, Sam."

  "What is?"

  "Terrified." Her voice cracks on the word. "Furious. Heartbroken." She takes a shaky breath. "And determined."

  "Determined?"

  "Yes." Something shifts in her expression, a hardening around the eyes, a setting of the jaw. "I've been preparing to testify against Richardson's legislation in Harrisburg. Now I have firsthand evidence of why we need better protection for powered individuals, not more restrictions."

  I stare at her, trying to process this. "You're... going to use this?"

  "I'm going to tell the truth. That the system failed you. That it failed all of us." She squeezes my hand. "This wouldn't be happening without people like Monkey Business. People like Richardson. I'm not going to make it any easier for them to destroy the society we worked so hard for, even if this society isn't the best of all worlds."

  A nurse appears at the curtain. "Mrs. Small? Your husband is out of surgery. He's still sedated, but you can see him now."

  Mom stands, smoothing her skirt again in that nervous gesture I know so well. "Is he alright?"

  "The surgery went well. He'll need time to recover, but the prognosis is good."

  "And can my daughter come too?"

  The nurse looks between us, then nods. "Alright. But only for a few minutes."

  As we follow the nurse through the bustling corridor, Mom keeps a hand on my shoulder, light but present. The hospital is in chaos - every bed seems occupied, staff rushing between patients, many showing signs of Jump-related accidents or power malfunctions.

  We reach the recovery area - a large room divided by curtains, each section containing a bed with monitors and equipment. The nurse leads us to one in the far corner.

  Dad lies on the bed, pale against the white sheets, an IV in his arm and monitors beeping steadily beside him. His right leg is elevated and heavily bandaged. His glasses are folded neatly on the side table, making him look somehow smaller, more vulnerable.

  Mom stops at the foot of the bed, her hand tightening on my shoulder. I can feel her trembling again.

  "He looks terrible," she whispers.

  "He's just sleeping," the nurse assures her. "The color will come back once the anesthesia wears off."

  Mom moves to the side of the bed, taking Dad's hand in hers. I hang back, overwhelmed by a surge of guilt. If I hadn't gone after Elias, if I hadn't fought Rush Order, if I had just stayed home like I was supposed to...

  "Sam." Mom's voice pulls me from my thoughts. She gestures for me to join her. "Come here."

  I step forward, standing on the opposite side of the bed. Dad's breathing is slow and even, his face relaxed in artificial sleep. I can smell every vein in his body. Tiny little... clogs where the cheeseburgers are getting to him. Nothing scary. Just the normal amount for someone his age.

  "He's going to be okay," Mom says, as much to herself as to me. "We're all going to be okay."

  I'm not sure I believe her, but I want to. I reach out, hesitantly touching Dad's arm. His skin is warm, which is somehow reassuring.

  "The doctor says he'll be out for a few more hours," the nurse tells us. "You can stay if you like, but I'd recommend getting some rest yourselves. Especially you," she adds, looking at me. "Those ribs need time to heal."

  Mom nods. "We'll stay a bit longer."

  The nurse leaves us, closing the curtain behind her. The beeping of the monitors and the distant sounds of the hospital fade into white noise as we stand on either side of Dad's bed, a silent vigil in the harsh fluorescent light.

  "What happens now?" I ask quietly.

  Mom looks up at me, her face showing its age and weariness in a way I rarely see. "I don't--" She's interrupted by a commotion outside our curtain. Raised voices, the squeak of hurried footsteps.

  "Sir, you can't go in there!"

  "The hell I can't! That's my son and granddaughter!"