Dr. Kaplan's office has the kind of calculated warmth that screams "I have a doctorate in making you feel comfortable while you talk about uncomfortable things." Muted earth tones, strategically placed plants, soft lighting that somehow never casts harsh shadows - the whole therapeutic enchilada. The couch my parents and I share is just firm enough to prevent you from sinking into oblivion but soft enough that you don't feel like you're sitting on a park bench.

  This is our fourth session. We waited until I could sit upright for more than an hour without my intestines screaming in protest. Even now, a month after Shrike, my stomach is a patchwork of healing tissue. The external fixator came off my leg two weeks ago, but walking still feels like I'm navigating on a borrowed limb. I'm glad they don't make me lift anything really heavy at the EMT internship. I mean, I'd do it anyway, but I'm glad.

  "So," Dr. Kaplan says, crossing one leg over the other, "I'd like to start by checking in about the article." She's referring to the Cape Watch Philly post about the "new" Bloodhound that went viral in certain circles yesterday. Mom found it during her morning doom-scroll and had it forwarded to her by three different people by breakfast.

  "It was bound to happen," I say with a shrug that pulls uncomfortably at the scar tissue on my back. "People notice things."

  "It felt invasive," Mom says, her hands clasped too tightly in her lap. "All those strangers speculating about Sam's injuries, her recovery time."

  "They don't know it's me," I remind her. "They just know someone different is wearing the costume."

  "That's not the point, Sam." She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous habit I've inherited. "It's the... voyeuristic quality of it. Like your pain is entertainment."

  "Rachel," Dr. Kaplan prompts gently, "you mentioned last session that you've been working with other parents of powered youth. How has that community responded to the article?"

  Mom shifts, unclenching her hands. "Mixed. Some are worried it will increase scrutiny on all powered teens. Others think it's good that the public sees there are consequences." She glances at me. "No one's mentioned Sam specifically, of course. They don't know."

  "But you think they suspect," Dad says. It's not a question.

  "Some might," Mom acknowledges. "The timeline fits. And I've been... more involved since the Shrike incident."

  Dr. Kaplan nods, making a brief note. "And Ben, how are you feeling about the article?"

  Dad leans forward, elbows on knees. "Concerned about Derek, honestly. He's not exactly maintaining a low profile."

  "He answered the reporter's questions," I say, feeling defensive of Derek despite myself. "He wasn't looking for publicity."

  "No, but he got it anyway." Dad's voice is calm but firm. "That's the reality of the costume, Sam. It attracts attention, wanted or not."

  Dr. Kaplan lets that hang in the air for a moment. "I'm noticing a theme here about exposure - being seen, being known. The costume makes someone visible, yet it's meant to conceal identity. There's a paradox there."

  I shift uncomfortably, feeling a twinge in my abdomen. The scaffold inside of me is gone, but sometimes it feels like my body still remembers the foreign material, a phantom sensation like an amputee's missing limb. Like I'm clenching against nothing, right where I got shot in the stomach pretending to be my ex-best friend. Boy, I sure do get injured in the stomach a lot, huh? It makes me wonder what that might be symbolic for if I was in some sort of shitty teen novel, and not real life.

  "Sam, how do you feel seeing someone else as Bloodhound?" Dr. Kaplan asks.

  "I don't know." I trace the seam of the couch cushion with my thumbnail. "It's weird. Like seeing someone else wear your clothes."

  "Just clothes?" she probes.

  I consider this. "No. More like... seeing someone else raise your kid. You know it's the right thing, but it still feels strange."

  Mom makes a small, surprised sound beside me. I glance over to see her blinking rapidly.

  "That's an interesting metaphor," Dr. Kaplan notes. "Bloodhound as something you created and nurtured."

  "And then abandoned," I add, trying not to sound too relieved.

  "Is that how you see it? As abandonment?"

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I shrug again, wincing at the pull. "That's what it was, wasn't it? I couldn't handle it anymore, so I handed it off to someone else."

  "I wouldn't call surviving a near-fatal encounter 'not handling it,'" Dad interjects, his voice tight. "You made a rational decision based on changed circumstances."

  "Did I? Or did I just get scared?"

  "Being afraid after what happened to you isn't weakness, Sam," Mom says softly. "It's human."

  Dr. Kaplan watches this exchange with calm attentiveness. "Sam, you say that you abandoned it, but I'm not sure if you are upset that you abandoned the persona, or relieved." Fuck! Just like Jordan's deadbeat mom, I guess. Or maybe their dad. If Mr. Westwood even exists and Mrs. Westwood didn't just reproduce like a lizard. I feel like a teen that got pregnant and dumped the baby at a firehouse. Do I want to get pregnant again? Like, genuinely, do I?

  I stare at the ficus plant in the corner, not trusting myself to speak without my voice cracking.

  "It's okay to feel relief," Dr. Kaplan says after a moment. "There's no right way to feel about this transition."

  "I just--" I start and stop, searching for the words. "I created this thing, this identity, and now someone else is responsible for it. For keeping it safe. For keeping others safe with it. And I'm just... here. Sitting in therapy."

  Dr. Kaplan nods thoughtfully. "You've given up a responsibility, and now you're trying to understand who you are without it. Which brings me back to something we touched on last session." She turns slightly toward Dad. "Ben, you mentioned your approach to protection has always been proactive, even before Sam's activities as Bloodhound."

  Dad straightens slightly. "Yes. I've always believed in being prepared."

  "Including owning a firearm," Dr. Kaplan says, not as a judgment but as a statement of fact. We'd skirted around this topic in our previous session.

  "Yes," Dad answers simply.

  Dr. Kaplan turns to me. "Sam, you seemed surprised when this came up last time. I'm curious about your reaction."

  I pick at a loose thread on my jeans. "I guess I just never thought about it. The gun was always just... there. In the safe. But now I'm wondering why we had one in the first place." I look at Dad. "It's not exactly common these days. Especially not for a city planner who designs bike lanes and parks for a living."

  Dad's face does something complicated - a mix of defensiveness and consideration. "No, it's not common. But Philadelphia isn't exactly the safest city in America."

  "That's not really an answer," I press.

  He sighs, rubbing his palm over his knee. He's started to become able to walk with just a cane, and sometimes with no cane, but it's still a reminder that my Dad got shot in the leg because of me.

  "I grew up in New York in the 80s," he begins. "There weren't any real superheroes. The only people with powers were people just a little bit younger than me, and they didn't exactly have a firm grasp on their moral center all the time. That, and, well, the regular old criminals, those never stopped existing. It was... different then. More chaotic. My father - your grandfather - believed strongly in self-reliance."

  "Pop-pop?" I ask, surprised. The gentle, comic-book-loving grandfather who taught me how to play chess doesn't align with this image. Does Moe own a gun now too?

  "The same." Dad's smile is tinged with something nostalgic but complex. "He lived through things that shaped his worldview. The way he put it, 'Sometimes there won't be a superhero around, Benjy. Sometimes there's just you.'"

  "I didn't know that about him," I mumble.

  "He mellowed with age," Mom adds. "By the time you knew him, Sam, the world had changed. He had changed."

  "But his lessons stuck," Dad continues. "I was never athletic. Never going to be the guy who wins a fistfight. But I had good eyes, steady hands from drafting. When I turned twenty-one, Pop-pop took me to a range and taught me how to shoot."

  Dr. Kaplan leans forward slightly. "And you've maintained that skill since then?"

  "Yes. It's... meditative, in a way. The focus it requires." Dad's fingers drum lightly on his knee. "When your mom and I decided to have you, Sam, I had a conversation with myself about whether to keep the gun. Statistically, having a firearm in a home with children increases certain risks."

  "But you kept it," I say.

  "I kept it," he confirms. "In a biometric safe, unloaded, with ammunition stored separately. And I made sure to teach you about gun safety from an early age."

  I remember those conversations now - stern, serious talks that seemed out of character for my normally gentle father. Rules that were non-negotiable: never touch a gun, tell an adult immediately if you ever see a gun, treat every gun as if it's loaded. Things that sort of fell by the wayside once I started middle school and the lessons had become engraved in me. And things that didn't exactly scream to me that my Dad had a gun. Just to be safe around guns. I don't know. That felt like a reasonable thing to teach your child in Philadelphia?

  "So Pop-pop was basically telling you to be prepared to defend yourself," I say, trying to follow the thread. "Because superheroes can't be everywhere."

  Dad nods. "Essentially. Though it wasn't just about physical threats. It was about... self-reliance in general. Not assuming systems will protect you. You already know the story of his immigration, but your great-grandparents on Leah's side also narrowly escaped the Shoah. Frankly, I think my mom was the one that convinced him to teach me about guns in the first place. She saw firsthand how quickly Poland went from being safe to, well... You know. Not safe."

  "That sounds familiar," Dr. Kaplan observes, looking at me.

  "So I get it from you," I think out loud.

  Dad looks startled. "Huh?"

  "You grew up assuming that you can't be protected by institutions, so you have to protect yourself. Right?" I follow-up.

  "I mean," he sort of hedges with his hands.

  "But there's a difference," Mom interjects. "Ben's gun stays in a safe unless there's immediate danger in our home. Bloodhound - not... not quite you, Sam, but Bloodhound - she is... Proactive. It's like watching you be the bullet, Sam." My stomach goes cold. I watch my Mom's face tense with concentration as she tries to pick each word carefully. Getting as therapy talk as possible. "And it makes me... very... feel very anxious. That you feel the need to go out and try to handle 'threats' in the neighborhood. And I felt... very distraught that... you felt that the adults and the agencies wouldn't be able to handle a single Neo-Nazi. It's like she's actively seeking out trouble."

  "Does she?" Dr. Kaplan asks. "Or does she respond to systems that are already failing?"