I've had this keycard for almost two years now, and yet every time I tap it against the sensor pad outside the Delaware Valley Defenders' headquarters, I expect it not to work. Like maybe this is the day they finally figured out I shouldn't have access to a professional superhero facility, or the day the universe decides I'm an impostor who doesn't belong. But the light flashes green, same as always, and the heavy metal door unlocks with a satisfying click.

  Apparently Councilman Davis's override works. Good to know.

  The headquarters always smells the same – a mixture of industrial cleaner, the faint ozone scent of high-tech equipment, and stale coffee. The corridor leading from the side entrance is dimly lit and empty this early on a Sunday morning, which is exactly what I was hoping for. The less people who see me hobbling around like I went twelve rounds with a sledgehammer, the better.

  My ankle isn't technically worse than last night, but it's definitely not better either. I woke up this morning to find it swollen to the size of a softball, mottled with impressive purple and yellow bruises. Walking on it feels like stepping on broken glass, which is why I'm gripping the wall like it's the only thing keeping me from falling into the void as I make my way toward the medical office.

  "Temporary" crutches fashioned from a broomstick and some duct tape only get you so far. And by "so far," I mean "down the stairs and into the taxi before mom notices and insists on taking me to an actual hospital."

  The medical office is at the end of the corridor, past the gym and the computer room. As I approach, I hear voices – one calm and measured, the other deep and irritated. Great. Company.

  I push the door open with my shoulder, careful to keep my weight on my good leg, and find myself face-to-face with Multiplex. Well, face-to-chest is more accurate. The man is built like a refrigerator with arms.

  He cuts off mid-sentence and turns to stare at me, his expression shifting from annoyed to suspicious in the span of a heartbeat. Behind him, Nurse Sylvia is organizing supplies on a metal tray, her silver hair pulled back in its usual immaculate bun. She looks up and smiles when she sees me, seemingly unsurprised by my unannounced arrival.

  "Bloodhound," Multiplex says, crossing his arms. "What are you doing here?"

  It's more of a statement than a question. Something I seem to be getting a lot of recently.

  I straighten up as much as I can while still keeping weight off my bad ankle. "Morning to you too, Multiplex."

  "That doesn't answer my question," he says, about as warm and fuzzy as a cactus.

  "I'm here to see Nurse Sylvia," I say, gesturing to my ankle, which is visibly swollen even through my sweatpants. "Medical issue."

  His eyes narrow. "The Young Defenders program was officially dissolved. Your keycard shouldn't even work anymore."

  "And yet, here I am," I say, trying for a smile that probably looks more like a grimace given how much my ankle is throbbing. "Councilman Davis cleared it. You can call him if you want."

  Multiplex's jaw tightens. He and Davis have some kind of ongoing professional tension that I've never fully understood but have definitely exploited on multiple occasions.

  "Elijah," Nurse Sylvia says, her voice gentle but firm as she steps around him. "The girl is injured. Why don't you finish filling out that incident report and let me do my job?"

  For a moment, I think he's going to argue, but he just exhales sharply through his nose. "Fine. But this doesn't mean the headquarters is open to every former junior member who scrapes their knee. There are protocols for a reason."

  "Of course," Sylvia says soothingly. "Sam is a special case."

  That seems to irritate him even more, but he doesn't contradict her. He just gives me one last measuring look before brushing past, careful not to actually touch me. The door closes behind him with a little more force than necessary. "Man, what's his beef?" I find myself mumbling.

  "Don't mind him," Sylvia says, leading me back into the office proper and patting the examination table. "He's been dealing with budget negotiations all week. Makes him even more of a stickler than usual."

  I hop over to the table and boost myself up, wincing as my ankle protests the movement. "Thanks for seeing me without an appointment."

  "Well, when Jamal calls me at six in the morning and says one of his kids needs help, I make room in my schedule." She kneels down to get a better look at my ankle. "What happened here? And don't give me the sanitized version."

  I hesitate for a second, but there's not much point in lying. "Patriot grabbed it. Crushed it, actually."

  She looks up sharply, her kind face suddenly serious. "Richard Johnson did this to you? When?"

  "Last night. At a warehouse in North Philly."

  She sighs, gently probing around my ankle with fingers that radiate a subtle warmth – her power, taking the edge off the pain just enough to make her examination bearable. "The same warehouse that's all over the morning news with chemical fires and a multi-agency response?"

  I wince, and not just from the physical discomfort. "Maybe?"

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  "Mmhmm." She continues her examination without further comment, which is somehow worse than a lecture. Nurse Sylvia has perfected the art of the disappointed silence. "I'll assume this was a coincidental warehouse right next door."

  After a thorough assessment via palpation, she stands up. "Well, it's not great, but it could be worse. Looks like you had multiple fractures and some ligament damage. I say 'had' because your regeneration has already started knitting things back together, but it's still a mess in there. I could get more thorough imaging with an x-ray, but I don't have an x-ray, and by the time we're done it'd be inaccurate anyway."

  That tracks with how it feels. "So what's the prognosis, doc?"

  "First, I'm not a doctor, I'm a nurse practitioner, as I've reminded you approximately thirty-six times." She retrieves an compression bandage from a cabinet. "Second, you need to stay off this foot as much as possible for at least a week. Your regeneration is dealing with the broken bones first, but the soft tissue damage will take longer."

  She starts wrapping my ankle with practiced efficiency. "I'm going to give you a walking boot and some crutches. Use them. And ice it three times a day, twenty minutes each time."

  "Will do," I promise, knowing full well I'll probably ditch the crutches as soon as the boot makes walking somewhat manageable. Sylvia seems to read this thought directly from my brain, because she fixes me with a stern look.

  "I mean it, Sam. Your healing factor isn't a get-out-of-injury-free card. Push too hard, and you could end up with permanent damage." She secures the bandage with a clip. "Bodies aren't meant to heal this fast – even powered ones. The process isn't perfect."

  "I know, I know." I've heard this lecture before. Multiple times. I don't have permanent damage yet, if you don't count the scar tissue. Which I don't. Scar tissue isn't damage, it's scarring. Different thing.

  She disappears into a storage closet and returns with a walking boot and a set of adjustable crutches. "Your regeneration rate suggests you'll be mostly healed in about a week to ten days, which is impressive but not instantaneous. That's assuming you actually rest and don't immediately go back to kicking down doors or whatever it is you've been up to."

  "I don't kick doors. I jumped out a window, but that's unrelated to the injury,"

  Sylvia closes her eyes briefly, like she's praying for patience. "Of course you did." She helps me fit the boot, adjusting the straps until it's secure but not too tight. "How's that feel?"

  I flex my foot experimentally. The boot keeps it mostly immobilized, but there's enough support that the stabbing pain has dulled to a persistent ache. The warmth from her hands has helped too. "Better, thanks."

  "Good." She hands me the crutches. "Now, want to tell me what you were doing tangling with Argus Corps in a chemical warehouse? I thought you were grounded."

  I adjust the crutches to my height. "It's complicated."

  "It always is with you," she says, but there's no heat in it. She starts cleaning up the packaging from the boot. "Your parents know you're here?"

  "They know I was getting my ankle checked. They think I'm at urgent care." It's not technically a lie, but Sylvia's raised eyebrow makes it clear she's not impressed with the distinction.

  "Sam," she says, her voice softer now. "I've been patching up superheroes for almost twenty years. I've seen what happens when people – especially young people – try to carry too much on their shoulders."

  "I'm fine," I say automatically.

  "Are you? Because taking on Argus Corps single-handedly doesn't sound 'fine' to me. It sounds like someone with a death wish or something to prove. Maybe both."

  I look down at my hands, suddenly finding my cuticles absolutely fascinating. "I wasn't alone. My team was there."

  "Your team of other teenagers?" She sighs. "Listen, I'm not going to lecture you about responsibility or making better choices. That's not my job, and honestly, it probably wouldn't change anything."

  "But?" I prompt, because there's definitely a "but" coming.

  "But I want you to understand that Liberty Belle saw something special in you, Sam. She wouldn't want you to burn yourself out before you even turn eighteen." She sits down in her rolling chair, bringing herself to eye level with me. "Or get arrested."

  The mention of Belle makes my chest tighten. It's been months since she died, but sometimes it still feels like it just happened.

  "I'm not trying to burn myself out," I say quietly. "I'm trying to finish what she started."

  Sylvia's expression softens. "I know, honey. But Belle had years of experience, a whole support system, and government backing. And even with all that, this job still killed her in the end."

  "Cancer killed her," I correct.

  "Cancer that she got from radiation exposure during a mission," Sylvia counters. "This life takes its toll, one way or another. I've seen it happen over and over."

  "Is this the part where you tell me I should quit while I'm ahead?" I try to keep the defensiveness out of my voice, but I don't entirely succeed.

  To my surprise, she shakes her head. "No. If there's one thing I've learned from working with powered individuals, it's that telling someone not to use their abilities is like telling them not to breathe. It doesn't work, and it usually just makes things worse."

  She stands up and goes to a cabinet, returning with a small bottle of pills. "These are for pain, if you need them. I remember your liver makes things act weird. This shouldn't be an issue with that."

  I take the bottle, surprised by this unexpected shift. "Thanks."

  "What I will say," she continues, as if we haven't had an interruption, "is that you need to build a more sustainable approach."

  "Like you did?" The words are out before I can stop them.

  Instead of being offended, she smiles. "Yes, actually. I made the choice to use my abilities in a way that lets me help without destroying myself in the process. The Delaware Valley Defenders will always need good medics," she says, helping me down from the examination table. "But we also need people on the front lines. Just make sure you're still around for the long haul, okay? This isn't a sprint."

  "Yeah," I say, testing my weight on the crutches. "About that. Do you think... would it be okay if I came by more often? Not just when I'm injured, I mean. I've been thinking about cross-training, learning some more medical skills."

  I'm not sure if I mean it. Maybe I'm just making small talk. Or thinking too much about what my parents say.

  Sylvia looks surprised, but pleasantly so. "Of course. Though I'd have to clear it with Multiplex."

  "Councilman Davis can help with that," I say, flashing her a grin. "He and I have an understanding."

  She laughs. "I bet you do. That man has a soft spot for strays."

  "I prefer to think of myself as 'independently affiliated,'" I say, which makes her laugh again.

  "Sure you do." She opens the door for me. "Take care of that ankle, Sam. And maybe try staying out of warehouses full of volatile chemicals for a while? Or violating city ordinances."

  "No promises," I say, but I'm smiling as I maneuver myself and my new crutches through the doorway.

  The corridor outside is still empty, which is a relief. The last thing I need is to run into Fury Forge or Bulwark and have to explain why I'm limping around headquarters looking like I lost a fight with a trash compactor. Which, given Patriot's grip strength, isn't far from the truth.

  I'm almost to the exit when I hear footsteps behind me – heavy, deliberate footsteps that I recognize immediately. I briefly consider pretending I don't hear them, but with these crutches, I can't exactly make a quick getaway. Come on, Multiplex, give me a break.