The video plays again, looping for what must be the twentieth time on my phone. I shouldn't be watching it. I shouldn't be doing this to myself. But I can't stop.

  In the grainy drone footage, a red blur resolves into a man - Rush Order, according to the captions - as he delivers another vicious punch to the masked figure in black. Bloodhound staggers, somehow stays upright, blood spattering from beneath her helmet. Her movements are sluggish now, desperate. She's clearly outmatched, has been from the start, but she won't stay down.

  Typical Sam.

  I turn the volume up slightly, making sure my earbuds are secure. My cousin Nadia is asleep in the next room of our shared apartment, and I don't need her asking questions about why I'm obsessively watching superhero fight videos at 2 AM.

  "Had... enough... yet?" Rush Order's voice is barely audible over the drone's whine, but I can make out the mockery in it.

  Sam's response is muffled by her helmet, but I don't need to hear it clearly to know she's being defiant. Probably something profane. Definitely something stubborn.

  The comments beneath the video scroll by:

  holy shit is bloodhound ok???

  this is straight up murder wtf where were the defenders

  rush order is such a psycho

  GUN DAD GOAT

  I close the comment section before I can fall down that rabbit hole again. The "Gun Dad" stuff is its own separate horror show - hundreds of forum threads analyzing his identity, his motivation, the exact make and model of his handgun. The hero worship is as nauseating as the footage itself.

  When the shot rings out in the video, I flinch even though I've seen it a dozen times now. The tall man emerging from the car, confronting Rush Order. The standoff. The exchange of gunfire. Sam's scream - "BEN!" - that confirmed what I already knew.

  I close the video and set my phone on the nightstand, rubbing my eyes. Outside my window, Chicago's skyline glitters against the night sky, so different from Philadelphia's more modest profile. Three months here, and it still doesn't feel like home.

  My phone buzzes with a notification. Another message from Nour, my liaison at the Chicago Powered Youth Initiative.

  Meeting tomorrow moved to 3 PM. Zephyr needed for river cleanup after storm damage. Can you make it?

  I type back: I'll be there

  Zephyr. My new identity here in Chicago. No costume, no mask, no dramatic fights - just using my abilities for community service under the CPYI's supervision. Clearing debris after storms, helping with construction projects, providing cooling breezes during heat waves. Safe. Structured. Sanctioned.

  My gaze drifts to the framed photo on my desk. We look so young. So happy.

  I should have called when I saw the news. Should have reached out, made sure she was okay. But what would I even say? Hey, saw you getting beaten half to death on social media, how's that going?

  Besides, calling would undo everything I've tried to accomplish with my clean break. It would give her hope. It would give me hope, and hope is dangerous when you're trying to move on.

  I check the time - 2:17 AM. Too late to call now anyway, even if I wanted to.

  The buzz of a text interrupts my spiral of regret. It's from Sana, another participant in the CPYI program.

  You see the philly thing? That was your old stomping ground right?

  I debate ignoring it until morning, but Sana's one of the few friends I've made here. She deserves better than that.

  Yeah. Crazy stuff.

  The typing indicator appears immediately. That bloodhound looks like she got wrecked. you know her?

  My fingers hover over the keyboard. Delete, retype, delete again.

  Not really. Different circles.

  Sana sends back: chicago supers would never

  She doesn't say it out loud but I get what she's saying.

  That's part of what makes Chicago different. The superhero scene here is stratified, professional. The major players - Whiteout, Crucible, Mach, Eclipse - they're adults with government backing, substantial resources, and strict hierarchies. They don't let teenagers join their ranks. The CPYI exists specifically to provide an alternative path for powered youth - community service, training, mentorship - all carefully regulated to keep us out of combat situations. Any crime fighting that happens, it happens off the books, where I'm perfectly happy to let it sit. Stay there. Down, boy.

  In Philadelphia, things were messier. Are messier? Were? I've been keeping up enough to know about the new anti-superhero ordinance. Does that mean Sam is just doing this on her own?

  Of course it does. Of course she would.

  My phone buzzes again. Sana: hey you ok?

  Just tired. Talk tomorrow?

  sure thing windgirl. get some sleep

  I set the phone down again and move to the window, pulling back the curtain. Three floors below, Chicago's streets are still active despite the hour - taxis, late-night revelers, the occasional patrol car. In the distance, a familiar silhouette cuts across the sky.

  Morning brings grey skies and a steady drizzle, matching my mood perfectly. I drag myself through summer classes like a zombie. The professors are engaging, the material interesting, but my mind keeps drifting back to that video, to Sam's battered form, to the gunshots.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  By lunchtime, I can't take it anymore. I find a quiet corner of the library and pull out my phone, opening a private browser window. Search: "Philadelphia Bloodhound Rush Order update."

  The results flood in - news articles, forum threads, video analyses. I click on the most recent headline from the Philadelphia Inquirer: "Teen Vigilante Bloodhound Released from Hospital; 'Gun Dad' Remains Under Care."

  Released. She's okay, then. Healing. The article mentions "multiple broken ribs and contusions" but notes that Bloodhound has "demonstrated enhanced recovery abilities in past incidents."

  Understatement of the year.

  I close the browser and check my messages. Nothing from my brothers, which is unusual. Maybe they're trying to be sensitive, knowing my history with Sam. Or maybe they just haven't connected Bloodhound to my ex-girlfriend. Good, I guess.

  As I'm putting my phone away, it buzzes with a notification from the CPYI app: ALERT: Change in assignment. Zephyr requested for lakefront storm barrier support at Navy Pier, 4 PM.

  I text back confirmation and pack up my books. The Chicago Powered Youth Initiative might not be as exciting as leaping from rooftops with the Young Defenders, but it's structured, purposeful work that doesn't involve getting beaten bloody by supervillains or shot at by criminals.

  When I arrive at Navy Pier, Nour is already there, clipboard in hand, her hijab fluttering slightly in the lakefront breeze. She gives me a quick professional smile and points toward the eastern edge of the pier where a team is setting up temporary barriers against the rising waves predicted for tonight's storm.

  "We need controlled air pressure to hold the barriers steady while the anchors are secured," she explains, walking me toward the site. "Think you can maintain consistent force for about thirty minutes?"

  "No problem," I assure her, already feeling the air currents responding to my presence, gathering around me like eager pets. "I've been practicing precision control."

  Nour nods approvingly. "Good. Whiteout will be stopping by later to reinforce with ice barriers, but we need everything secure before she arrives."

  "I'll be ready," I promise, rolling up my sleeves.

  For the next hour, I lose myself in the work, carefully directing air pressure against the barriers while workers secure them to the pier. It's delicate, focused use of my abilities - nothing flashy, nothing combative, but genuinely helpful. This is what I came to Chicago for: using my powers constructively instead of fighting an endless, escalating war against criminals who just keep coming back stronger.

  I'm adjusting the airflow around a particularly stubborn section when a hush falls over the workers. I look up to see a figure descending from the sky, wrapped in swirling patterns of frost and mist.

  Whiteout lands gracefully on the pier, her white bodysuit almost luminous against the darkening sky. Her outfit is clearly professional-grade, with articulated armor panels and a cowl that frames rather than hides her face. Everything about her screams "official" and "sanctioned."

  "Good afternoon," she greets the team, her voice carrying a slight Midwestern accent. "How are we looking?"

  Nour steps forward with her clipboard. "On schedule. Zephyr has been maintaining the barriers while we secure the anchors."

  Whiteout turns to me, and I feel suddenly self-conscious in my CPYI uniform - just a simple navy windbreaker with a logo, nothing like her sleek, camera-ready ensemble.

  "Nice work," she says, with the polite acknowledgment of a senior colleague. "Good control."

  "Thank you," I manage, trying not to sound starstruck. "I've been practicing."

  She nods, professional but not unfriendly. "It shows. You're with the youth initiative, right? How long have you been in the program?"

  "About three months," I tell her. "I moved here from Philadelphia."

  Something flickers across her expression. "Philadelphia? Were you active there?"

  I hesitate, unsure how much to reveal. "Briefly. With the Young Defenders."

  "Ah. Well. Well, you've chosen a more structured environment here. That's commendable."

  Before I can respond, her comm unit chimes. She listens briefly, then gives a curt nod. "I have to go. Security situation downtown. I'll return to complete the ice reinforcement within the hour."

  With that, she rises into the air, trailing frost behind her as she accelerates toward the city center. The workers watch her go with the casual interest of Chicagoans who've grown accustomed to superheroes as part of the urban landscape.

  "Always busy, that one," Nour comments, returning to her clipboard. "Let's continue."

  I return to my work, but my thoughts are elsewhere. Would Sam ever consider something like this? Would it be enough for her?

  I already know the answer. No, she wouldn't.

  I finish my shift and head home, the lakefront wind following me like a loyal companion. In my pocket, my phone buzzes with another news alert about Philadelphia. I ignore it. I've seen enough for one day.

  As I approach my apartment building, I spot a familiar figure waiting by the entrance - Sana, bundled in a too-large hoodie despite the mild temperature, her hands thrust deep in her pockets. When she sees me, she straightens up with a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

  "Hey, windgirl," she greets me, using her nickname for me. "Got a minute?"

  "Sure. Everything okay?"

  Sana glances around, then lowers her voice. "Did you see the news? About what happened downtown while you were at Navy Pier?"

  I shake my head.

  "Crucible and Whiteout took down a powered dealer selling something called 'Jump.' Some kind of temporary superpower drug." She pulls out her phone, showing me footage of Chicago's heroes cornering a figure in an alley.

  "That's... concerning," I say carefully.

  Sana's eyes narrow slightly. "You know something."

  "Just rumors from back east," I admit. "Nothing specific."

  She nods, accepting this. "Well, Crucible was pissed. Like, melting-concrete pissed."

  "Why are you telling me this?" I ask.

  Sana kicks at an imaginary pebble. "Because... I tried it. Jump. Before I joined CPYI."

  "What?" I stare at her, genuinely shocked. Sana has never mentioned having powers - her role in the initiative is administrative, not active.

  "Just once," she hurries to clarify. "I was curious. It gave me... I could see through walls for like two hours. It was intense." She looks up at me, eyes wide and earnest. "I never did it again. But if they're cracking down, if they're connecting users to dealers..."

  I understand her fear immediately. The CPYI has strict rules about illegal substances. Discovery would mean immediate expulsion from the program, possible legal consequences.

  "They don't know about you," I reassure her. "And they won't. It was one time, and it's over."

  She nods, relief softening her features. "Thanks. I just... I needed to tell someone. And you're from Philly, so I thought maybe..."

  "It stays between us," I promise.

  We head inside together, making small talk about classes and weekend plans. But my mind is racing.

  Icy fingers claw my back - here I come again. Feeling claustrophobic, like the walls are closing in. Anxieties attacking me. My air is getting thin.

  In my apartment, I find Nadia lounging on the couch, scrolling through her phone. She glances up as I enter. "Hey. Your brother called while you were out."

  "Which one?"

  "Ahmed. Said it was important."

  I frown, pulling out my phone. No missed calls, but there is a text from Ahmed sent about an hour ago:

  Call me when you can. It's about Sam.

  I'm exhausted just from the conversation. I feel like I'm talking to a brother-colored brick wall. How long has this been? An hour? Two? The bags around my eyes feel heavier, and I feel like I've been punched in the face. Like, physically, just from scrunching up hard enough. I don't like getting called delusional.

  "She's always in danger," I say, more bitterly than intended. "That's why I broke up with her."

  "You..." Silence stretches between us. Finally, Ahmed sighs. "Look, I get it. You needed a clean break. But if you ever cared about her at all--"

  "Of course I care about her," I snap. I sink onto my bed, suddenly exhausted. "It doesn't matter. I'm in Chicago now. I have to handle college. I have to keep the home ready for once our parents come home. It was supposed to be a clean cut so she wouldn't spend all her time pining for someone who can't move back. I have... I have new responsibilities, Ahmed. I'm not a child anymore."

  "Right," Ahmed says, not bothering to hide his disappointment. "Your new safe, sanctioned, adult life. No pining. Very responsible."

  The jab stings. More silence, like rotten taffy. "I'll think about it," I concede finally. "But I can't promise anything."

  After we hang up, I sit on my bed for a long time, staring at my phone.

  I should call her. It's the right thing to do. Her number is still there, though I haven't used it in ages.

  My thumb hovers over the call button.