I pay the taxi driver, adding a decent tip because it's the middle of the night and he didn't try to make small talk, which I appreciate more than I can express right now. The porch light is on, which is normal, but the living room lights being on at 3:15 AM is definitely not. My parents are usually asleep by eleven, maybe midnight on weekends.

  Something in my gut tightens as I limp up the front walk. I've got a decision to make in the next ten seconds: try to sneak in and hope they're just... what, having a late-night tea party? Or bite the bullet and face whatever's waiting for me.

  The sneaking option is tempting, especially with my ankle screaming at me, but the odds of success are basically zero. If they're up at this hour, they're up because they're waiting for me.

  I take a deep breath, key ready in my hand, and open the front door as quietly as possible. The hinges don't squeak - my dad is religious about WD-40 - but the sound of the lock turning might as well be a gunshot in the quiet house.

  "In the kitchen," my mom calls, voice tight. Not angry-tight, but worried-tight. I recognize the difference by now.

  I hobble through the living room, past the stairs, and into the kitchen. Both my parents are sitting at the table. Mom has her hands wrapped around a mug of what smells like chamomile tea gone cold. Dad's just sitting there, his glasses pushed up on his forehead while he pinches the bridge of his nose. There's an empty wine bottle on the counter behind them that wasn't there when I left.

  They both look up when I enter. Mom's eyes immediately go to how I'm favoring my right leg, while Dad just looks... tired. Really tired.

  "I was out superhero-ing," I say before they can speak, deciding that honesty is the best approach here. "We found out the Kingdom was making their power-enhancing drugs at this warehouse in North Philly, and we went to investigate, and things got complicated, and there was a fight, and then the warehouse kind of... exploded?"

  The words tumble out of me in a rush. I pull out a chair - not too roughly, because Liam is asleep in the converted storage room behind the kitchen, and the last thing I need is to wake him up and have an audience for whatever's about to happen.

  "Are you hurt?" Mom asks, eyes still on my ankle.

  "It's not bad," I lie. "Patriot grabbed it, might have done some damage, but my regeneration should kick in. If not, I'll get it checked tomorrow."

  Her face scrunches up.

  "The warehouse that exploded on the news," Dad says flatly. Not a question. "That was you."

  Also not a question.

  I nod, surprising myself with how little guilt I feel about that particular detail. "That was mostly Soot, actually. She was the one who released the chlorine gas that set off the chain reaction. But yeah, we were there. Jordan got some data about what they were making, and we, uh, disrupted their operation."

  Mom sets her mug down with a sharp click, whispering harshly. "Sam, do you have any idea how dangerous that was? Industrial chemicals, supervillains, government-sponsored heroes - you could have been killed!"

  "But I wasn't," I point out, which is probably not the most tactful response. Mom's face blanches and my Dad's entire body goes rigid, all at once. "And we got valuable intel that might help us figure out what the Kingdom's doing with these drugs."

  "That's not your job," Dad says, his voice quiet but firm. "You're sixteen years old. You should be worrying about finals and summer plans, not taking down criminal organizations. You're not a police officer. If that's what you want to do, join the academy once you're done school."

  "But I can help," I say, leaning forward. "I have powers. I have training. I have a team. And the Kingdom needs to be stopped before they hurt more people. And- and- and nobody else seems to care to do this work and... and dig these obvious connections up. And I'm, we're probably going to give them to the DVDs and the cops. All the info we got. We..."

  My parents stare at me while I grab for words. When I finish the sentence, it's more choked than I really, really wanted it to, and it makes me sound kind of pathetic. At least to my own ears. "Had to get one last parting shot. Before Jordan. Goes."

  Mom runs a hand through her hair, which is already a mess - she's been doing that nervous gesture all night, I can tell. "We understand that you want to help, Sam. We do. But there has to be a line somewhere. You can't keep putting yourself in these situations."

  "What situations would you prefer?" I ask, and it comes out more bitter than I intended. "The ones where I sit at home and do nothing while people get hurt? The ones where I pretend I don't have these abilities and just... what, ignore everything that's happening around me?"

  Dad takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. When he puts them back on, his expression is softer, almost wistful. "You know, I used to feel the same way. Back in college, I was at every protest, every rally. Thought the whole system needed to be torn down and rebuilt from scratch." He gestures vaguely at a mental image of his younger self. "Had the Che t-shirts and everything."

  "You still have one in the back of your closet," Mom points out. "I've tried to throw it out three times."

  "It's vintage," Dad says defensively before turning back to me. "The point is, I get it, Sam. I really do. When you see injustice, when you see the system failing people, there's this... this burning need to do something about it."

  I nod, a little taken aback by this unexpected understanding.

  "But the thing I had to learn," he continues, "is that there are many ways to fight that fight. You don't have to be the one throwing yourself into danger every time. Some battles are better fought from different angles."

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

  "What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, genuinely confused. "I should, what, write an angry letter to the editor about the Kingdom of Keys? Start a hashtag campaign?"

  Mom reaches across the table and takes my hand. "It means that your desire to help is good, but the way you're going about it isn't sustainable. Not just because of the physical danger, but because of what it does to you, to your soul, to be constantly fighting."

  "Sometimes the most radical thing you can do," Dad adds, "is live well. Get an education. Build the skills and knowledge you need to change things systematically. Zoning Section 8 housing and homeless shelters as a city planner isn't sexy. But it's the work that works for the people who need it most. We need to use the levers that we have access to."

  I pull my hand away, frustration building again. "That's a luxury we don't have. People are dying now. The Kingdom is hurting people now. A guy in a monkey mask is doing... deal with the devil contracts now. I can't just... put a pin in it until I finish college."

  "No one's saying you have to ignore everything," Mom says. "But there are degrees of involvement, Sam. There's a difference between passing along information to the proper authorities and personally confronting supervillains in abandoned warehouses."

  "The 'proper authorities' are compromised," I counter, trying not to raise my voice. "Maya Richardson is on the city council and she's Mrs. Zenith! The cops have Argus Corps breathing down their necks! Who exactly should I be trusting with this?"

  Mom glances at Dad. I recognize that expression. It's the your daughter's kind of right, Benjamin expression. She usually wears it drunk - not today, I guess.

  Dad leans forward, his expression serious. "That's all the more reason to be strategic, not reckless. If the systems are failing, you need to be smart about how you fight back. Getting yourself killed or arrested doesn't help anyone."

  There's a logic to what he's saying that I can't entirely dismiss, as much as I want to. It's the same argument I've had with myself on sleepless nights - what's the endgame here? Am I going to be fighting the Kingdom forever? What happens when the next big bad shows up after them?

  "I don't have all the answers," I admit finally, my voice smaller than I'd like. "But I know I can't just do nothing when I have the ability to help. That feels... wrong. On a fundamental level."

  Mom and Dad exchange one of those looks again - the silent conversation that parents somehow master.

  "What if," Mom says carefully, "there was a middle path? A way for you to use your abilities and knowledge without constantly putting yourself in the line of fire?"

  "Like what?"

  "Like being the intelligence," Dad suggests. "The person who gathers information, connects the dots, and then passes it along to people who can act on it legally."

  "That's... basically what we did tonight," I point out. "We gathered intel. It's just that sometimes gathering intel means breaking into places you're not supposed to be."

  "And sometimes those places explode," Mom adds dryly.

  I can't help but let out a small, tired laugh at that. "Yeah, well, that wasn't exactly part of the plan."

  Dad shakes his head, but there's the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. "The point is, Sam, we're not asking you to stop caring or stop trying to make a difference. We're asking you to find ways to do it that don't involve you constantly risking your life."

  "Jordan's leaving," I say after a moment, circling back to what's really bothering me. "MIT. With them gone... I don't know what happens to the team. To our work. And everyone keeps calling me the 'leader'."

  Understanding dawns in my parents' eyes. This isn't just about tonight; it's about what comes next. About finding my place in a changing landscape that I still don't really get. "That's a legitimate concern," Dad acknowledges. "But it's also an opportunity to reassess, to figure out what your role should be going forward."

  "But, Sam," he continues, and ah, there's the catch, "we need some ground rules. Real ones, not the kind you agree to and then immediately break when something shiny catches your attention."

  "I don't-" I start to protest, but Mom raises an eyebrow, and I deflate. "Okay, fair."

  "School comes first," Mom says. "That's non-negotiable. Your grades have been slipping, and if you want to have options after graduation, that needs to change. If you want to use that nose of yours as a surgeon instead of a superhero, you'll need to pass through med school. They don't make exceptions for teen superheroes."

  I nod. I can't argue with that either.

  "No more middle-of-the-night operations without telling us first," Dad adds. "We need to know where you are, who you're with, and what you're doing."

  "That's not always possible," I counter. "Sometimes things happen quickly, and there's no time to check in."

  "Then at minimum, a text," Mom says. "Just so we know you're alive and where to start looking if you don't come home."

  That seems reasonable. "Okay."

  "And for the immediate future," Dad says, his tone making it clear this is the big one, "you're grounded for the rest of the month."

  I want to argue, but I know that battle is lost before it begins. And honestly, part of me is relieved. With everything that's happened tonight, laying low for a few weeks sounds pretty appealing, even if I'd never admit that out loud.

  "Fine," I concede. "Grounded for the rest of the month. What does that mean exactly?"

  "No patrol, no superhero activities, no warehouse explosions," Dad lists off, counting on his fingers. "School, home, that's it. Not even rescuing cats from trees."

  "The cats will have to fend for themselves," Mom adds with a small smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes.

  I slump in my chair, feeling the weight of the night finally settling onto my shoulders. "What about my team? Jordan found some important information tonight."

  Mom and Dad exchange another look.

  "The team can come here," Mom says eventually. "If you really need it to, or they can meet without you. I have half a mind to call the O'Brians," my heart lurches and I'm about to start spontaneously shitting blood, "but... I don't really like them. So just... keep it here. Because at the bare minimum, Ben still has a gun."

  Dad glances at my Mom with a sort of puzzled expression. I'm not really sure what it means. "And definitely no operations for the rest of the month. If it were up to me, ever, but I know by now trying to stop you will just make you get sneakier," he adds, after a moment of awkward silence.

  It's more than I expected, honestly. "Okay. Deal."

  Dad stands up, stretching his back with a series of pops that make me wince. "Now get some sleep. Even superheroes need to maintain their circadian rhythm."

  "Ice that ankle first," Mom adds, maternal instinct kicking in. "And if it's not better by morning, we're going to the hospital."

  "It'll be fine," I say automatically, though I'm not actually sure that's true. It hurts a lot more than I'm letting on.

  Mom gets up and comes around the table, pulling me into a hug that catches me off guard. She smells like wine and chamomile and that fancy lotion she uses that costs way too much but Dad buys for her anyway. For a moment, I let myself just be a kid being hugged by her mom, not a superhero or a vigilante or whatever the hell I am these days.

  "We love you," she says quietly. "We just want you to live long enough to do all the amazing things you're capable of."

  "I know," I mumble into her shoulder. "I love you too."

  Dad joins the hug, his arms long enough to wrap around both of us. For a brief moment, we're just a normal family having a normal moment, if you ignore the context completely.

  When they release me, I see the worry lines around their eyes, the gray that's starting to appear in Mom's hair that wasn't there a year ago. I wonder how much of that is because of me, because of the life I've chosen. The guilt is a familiar weight now, just one more thing to carry.

  "Now go to bed," Dad says, gently pushing me toward the door. "And try not to wake Kate. Or Liam."

  Kate. Right. I have a whole other confrontation waiting for me upstairs.

  "Night," I say, turning toward the stairs, my ankle protesting with every step.