I ran. It might not have been the smartest thing to do—hell, I'm pretty sure there was nothing worse I could've done at that moment. But what else could I have done?

  I didn't call 911. I didn't contact the PRT emergency hotline. I didn't check on the woman, or the numerous bodies scattered on the floor. Even though I was sure some of them had already lost their heartbeats, their lives taken in an instant—pulled away by something darker than the night itself.

  My heart dropped, and my stomach twisted, its contents threatening to surge up and spill out. 'I— I— K—illed them.' The thought sliced through me like a malevolent force, whispering its awful certainty. 'I killed them.' My mind splintered under the weight of it, urging me to run faster, as if I could outrun the reality of what I'd just done.

  How was it so easy? I should've struggled. I should've been able to summon the power of friendship, like the heroes in stories, to win against impossible odds. But it made sense— I was a parahuman, and they were… well, humans. What had I expected?

  I ran, my feet barely touching the concrete beneath me. It didn't matter, the ground nothing more than a formality as I moved. I wanted to move and so I did.

  Soon, I reached my home. What was supposed to be a safe haven. But it didn't feel so safe anymore.

  In the distance, I could hear sirens—bodies being carried, emergency responders shouting orders, people wailing in grief as they searched for family members. I could barely hear them over the pounding in my head. The soft glow from my room illuminated me as I stepped inside, the reflection in the mirror catching my eye.

  My features were twisted in poorly concealed fear and panic. My visor was cracked on one side, its usual absurdity now anything but harmless.

  'So that's where the bullet went,' I thought, staring at the eye that should've been hit.

  It wasn't even red.

  In fact, it glowed. An unsettling white light that seemed to brighten the whole room. I stood there as the blood dried on my costume, the weight of the night pressing down on me.

  ****

  Bodies being broken. Flesh being torn. People were begging for their lives 'but I didn't stop.' I should have stopped. But I didn't. Over and over. And over. And over again…

  I paused, my eyes darting around the room. The metallic scent of blood had almost completely faded, but then… I looked down.

  How was I looking at my bed?

  It took a moment for my brain to catch up. Like a marathon runner whose legs just couldn't keep pace with the rest of the pack. My body was frozen in mid-air, almost as if I had been suspended in time. My eyes widened a bit at the absurdity of what was happening.

  Then, almost as if it were all a dream, I heard faint footsteps tapping toward my room. "Jack! Wake up, it's time for school!" My mother's voice cut through the fog. This was apparently enough of an incentive for me to promptly fall on my ass, the bed creaking in barely restrained effort to hold my weight. I groaned, not even capable of feeling happy at the moment.

  'Can I just skip school?'

  I knew my mom wouldn't be pleased if I said that out loud. Not that I had any intention of saying it anyway.

  "Can I skip school?" Oh, oh crap. The door burst open as brown eyes snapped towards even lighter brown eyes. Her amusement was almost contagious as her eyes sparkled with mirth. "The only thing you're skipping is breakfast if you're not careful," she said with a teasing smile, oblivious to how much I just wanted to disappear. "Now hurry up and go shower. I'm driving you to school today, remember?"

  I groaned again—not because I felt tired, but because I couldn't even remember what tiredness felt like anymore.

  I paused for a second before pushing the covers off of me, not quite ready to start the day, but doing so anyway. At least I felt slightly better.

  ***

  'Winslow High. Oh, how I missed this miserable hellhole,' I thought, the words almost mechanical. They felt empty. Like everything was a bad joke now. The thing about bad jokes is… they stop being funny after a while.

  The hallways were quieter than usual. It felt like the air itself was holding its breath, like something terrible was waiting to happen. Maybe it was just me.

  I walked towards a group of familiar faces, my mind replaying last night like a broken record. 'Focus. Just focus on something else.'

  "Yo, Jack! What's up, brah?" A fist bump, quick and casual. Too casual.

  "Shaking like it's flaking," I said, but it came out wrong—too stiff, too forced. They didn't notice. Or maybe they did, but nobody said anything.

  "You guys can't stop yourselves from doing that weird greeting shit every time you see each other," Charlotte chimed in from the group, rolling her eyes but not without a hint of amusement. Her browns hair shaking slightly from the motion. "Seriously. It's like a ritual or something."

  "What can I say?" Mack shot back with a grin. "Soulmates gotta stick together."

  Charlotte smirked but then softened, the usual edge to her expression fading just a little. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, I guess."

  The sound of a locker slamming shut nearby broke our little moment. My eyes drifted towards the noise. Black hair, glasses, quiet but clearly the target of something awful. The group of girls surrounded her, beside a locker, one of those disgusting, rusted old lockers that reeked of stale sweat and mold.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  Her glasses slipped down her nose as she hit the locker, and she barely reacted, like she was used to it. Like this was just another day in the endless cycle of humiliation. The words they screamed at her were nothing new. But what stung the most was her face. Flat. Empty. Like she didn't even care anymore.

  I remembered it now, the shame still fresh. 'I had watched it all happen.' I didn't step in. I didn't say anything. I just... watched. 'Coward.' I saw it all. I was right there. And I did nothing.

  "That's so messed up, man," Sparky's voice broke through my spiraling thoughts. I glanced at him, his eyes a little too glazed from the usual haze of weed. I nodded, too distracted to care about what he was saying. Winslow was a shithole, sure. But I had friends. I wasn't alone. She was.

  Charlotte noticed my face, the disgust crawling across it, and gave a shrug. "Oh, you remember 'locker girl'? Apparently, she snapped a while back." She paused, hesitant. "Something about what Sophia and Emma did."

  My blood went cold. I could vaguely remember the rumors, but now they felt like a solid weight pressing down on my chest. 'Sophia. Emma.' Those two girls had made her life a living hell—and now they were doing it again.

  I was there. 'I was there. Why didn't I do anything? Why didn't anyone?'

  Charlotte grimaced, the words unspoken but clear. She knew what I was thinking. "Sometimes people do messed-up stuff, and they get away with it. Don't ask me how."

  No more words were needed. We were just students, playing our roles in this messed-up game. We nodded, resigned to the reality of it all, then fell silent. All of us trapped in our own versions of the same story.

  That thought hit me like a stone in the chest. It felt wrong. I have powers now. How could I just ignore this? How could I act like nothing was happening?

  My breath caught in my throat. The memories rushed back—Taylor shoved into the locker, the insults, the humiliation. Flesh against rust, voices begging to be heard. I pushed the thoughts away, trying to ignore them. I couldn't let myself get lost in that guilt.

  I didn't need it for what I was about to do next.

  One step. Two. I started walking. Autopilot. It felt like I was moving without thinking, but my mind was screaming. I wasn't brave. I wasn't a hero. I was still a coward. Having powers didn't make me fearless. It just meant I could do more damage if I actually did something.

  Before I could second-guess myself, I was already a few feet away from the group. 'Why was I doing this?' Maybe it was guilt, maybe anger, maybe the urge to fix something I'd broken. But I couldn't stop now.

  Sophia turned first. Her eyes locked onto mine, and in that instant, I knew—she had seen more violence than any person her age should have. Her glare was enough to promise that she would return it, tenfold, if I dared get too close. But I didn't flinch. I wasn't backing down.

  "Leave Talia alone, Sophia," I said, my voice low, steady. I hoped I had her name right, but palm met forehead when I realized I probably didn't.

  Charlotte sighed loudly behind me. I didn't even need my supersense to tell 'Okay, definitely not her name. Noted.'

  Sophia's friend, who I now realized wasn't Emma but someone else entirely, burst out laughing. Her eyes went wide, her body shaking with amusement. "You hear that, Taylor?" she said, still gasping for air between bursts of laughter. "He doesn't even know your name!" The group joined in, their laughter spilling over, echoing in the hall. It was like they'd rehearsed it—like it was a performance they were all part of.

  I let them have their fun, didn't move. Didn't shake. I didn't need to, I came here so that they would leave her alone. That was all that mattered.

  Sophia didn't even glance back at me. With a flick of her hair and a wave of her hand, she turned, leading her group away without a word. It was like I was invisible to them. Fine. I'd been expecting that. I wasn't worth their time, and that was exactly what I wanted.

  Maybe it was over. Maybe I could just pretend that everything—everything I'd done and hadn't done—was a bad dream.

  But then, Taylor—the girl I'd watched get shoved into that locker—turned around. Her movements were slow, deliberate. Her eyes locked on mine, narrowing with growing disgust, and her lips twisted into a sneer that could cut through steel.

  I didn't expect that. Not after everything that had just happened.

  "You're a coward," she spat, her voice sharp as a blade. "What made you think you could do anything?"

  I froze. The weight of her words hit me harder than anything Sophia or any of her friends could have said. "What made you think getting involved now of all times is what I wanted?" she continued, her voice laced with anger, raw and real.

  I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. What could I say? 'She was right.' I had watched. I hadn't stepped in. 'I was no better than them.'

  "Hey, I was just trying to help!" The words came out, but they felt pathetic. I wasn't sure I even believed them. I hadn't helped. I'd done nothing. I had watched.

  Taylor stopped, and for a moment, everything seemed to hold its breath. Then she spoke again, her voice cutting through the silence like a whip. "Well," she paused one more time, like a guillotine ready to strike, to deliver finality. "Maybe you can help by shutting up and leaving me alone." With that, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing there, the sting of her words hanging in the air.

  I stood there, frozen. Her words—cutting and sharp—bounced around in my skull, replaying over and over like a broken record. 'Was I really that much of a coward?' I hadn't lifted a finger. I'd watched, silent, paralyzed by my own fear. Not wanting to be the next victim.

  And in the end, maybe that was the worst part.

  I should've done something. Anything. I should've been better than this. But I hadn't. And now, I couldn't shake the taste of my own failure.