"Bloodhound," Multiplex calls again when I don't immediately stop. "A word."

  I sigh and pivot awkwardly on my good foot, the crutches squeaking against the polished floor. "Yes?"

  He approaches with measured steps, his posture military-straight. Up close, the lines around his eyes are more pronounced than I remember, tiny etchings of stress and responsibility. His expression is carefully neutral, which somehow makes it more intimidating than if he were scowling.

  "Your ankle," he says, glancing down at the boot. "Patriot did that?"

  I'm surprised he knows this detail. "Yeah. Last night."

  "Hmm." He crosses his arms, biceps straining against the fabric of his shirt. "And now a warehouse full of industrial chemicals is on fire. Interesting coincidence."

  "Very interesting," I agree, keeping my face as neutral as his. Two can play at this game.

  Multiplex stares at me for a long moment, like he's waiting for me to crack and confess. When I don't, he just exhales slowly. "You know, this isn't the first time a group of teenagers has decided they know better than everyone else."

  "Is that what you think we're doing?" I ask before I can stop myself. "That we just want to prove something?"

  "Isn't it?" His tone isn't accusatory, just matter-of-fact. "You're operating outside the system, taking on threats that trained professionals struggle with, and repeatedly putting yourselves in life-threatening situations. All while ignoring the legal framework specifically designed to prevent vigilante chaos."

  I feel my temper rising, a familiar heat crawling up my neck. "The 'legal framework' you're talking about was created by Maya Richardson – who, by the way, is running the Kingdom of Keys. Or did you miss that memo?"

  "I'm well aware of the allegations against Councilwoman Richardson," he says, his voice perfectly even.

  "They're not allegations. They're facts. Facts that we've been trying to prove for months while you and the DVDs sit around filing paperwork and following protocols."

  Something flickers in his eyes – annoyance, maybe even anger – but his voice remains steady. "And you believe that justifies ignoring the law? Setting fires? Causing millions in property damage?"

  "If it stops the Kingdom from pumping out whatever drugs they're making in that warehouse? Yeah, actually, I do. I didn't even set those fires, by the way. That was some bitch who was trying to kill us."

  Multiplex shakes his head, a gesture so small it's barely perceptible. "This is exactly why Belle and I disagreed about the Young Defenders program."

  That catches me off guard. I've never heard him talk about Belle directly before. "What do you mean?"

  He seems to deliberate for a moment, like he's deciding how much to say. "She believed in inspiration, in leading by example, in taking risks for the greater good. I believe in structure, in systems, in building something that lasts beyond any individual hero."

  "And you think those things are mutually exclusive?"

  "No." For the first time, there's a hint of something like regret in his voice. "But I think they require balance. Belle leaned too far in one direction, especially toward the end. She saw potential everywhere, even when the risks outweighed the rewards."

  I clench my jaw, fighting the urge to defend her. "She saw potential in me."

  "Yes," he says simply. "She did."

  The corridor feels suddenly too small, too confined for this conversation. Multiplex's presence fills the space in a way that has nothing to do with his physical size.

  "Can I ask you something?" I say, adjusting my grip on the crutches.

  He inclines his head slightly, an invitation to continue.

  "Why do you give us – me – so much shit all the time? What did we ever do to you?"

  For several seconds, he doesn't respond. Then, to my surprise, he motions toward a bench set against the wall. "You might want to sit for this. That boot looks uncomfortable."

  I hesitate, then hobble over and sink onto the bench. Multiplex doesn't join me; he remains standing, maintaining his slight height advantage.

  "Before I joined the DVDs," he begins, "I was a professional boxer. Cruiserweight division, top ten ranking, on track for a title shot."

  This is news to me. I try to picture Multiplex in boxing shorts and gloves, imagining him dancing around a ring. It's not as incongruous as I would have expected.

  "Then my powers manifested," he continues. "Truck accident on I-95. I was pinned under the wreckage, sure I was going to die. Next thing I know, there were three of me, pushing the debris away."

  "Activation event," I murmur. We all have one – that moment when death comes calling and our powers answer.

  He nods. "Two weeks later, the Boxing Commission found out. I was banned from competition immediately. No appeals, no exceptions. Doesn't matter that my power doesn't make me physically stronger or faster – just the fact that I have powers was enough."

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  "That's not fair," I say automatically, though I understand the reasoning. I can't exactly play soccer anymore - my powers are an unfair advantage too. I mean, I don't see it that way, but I've asked, and Tacony Charter politely encouraged me to not participate in school sports for the sake of fairness. Already, my empathy meter for him spikes up like fifteen ticks. I'd be pissed too.

  "Life rarely is," he says with a shrug that's too deliberate to be casual. "But that's not the point of this story. The point is what came after."

  He pauses, seeming to choose his words carefully. "I was angry. Resentful. I'd lost everything I'd worked for through no fault of my own. So when Liberty Belle approached me about joining the DVDs, I saw it as a chance to hit back at a world that had taken my dreams away."

  I can see where this is going. "You were reckless."

  "Extremely," he confirms. "I thought being a hero meant charging into every fight, taking down every bad guy, proving I was still worth something. And Belle – she encouraged it. Not the recklessness specifically, but the passion, the drive. She believed in letting heroes find their own path."

  His gaze shifts away from me, focusing on some invisible point in the distance. "Six months in, I led a raid on a weapons smuggling operation. Didn't wait for backup, didn't follow protocol. I was so sure I could handle it."

  There's a heaviness to his words that makes my stomach tighten. "What happened?"

  "Three of my duplicates died. Gunfire, mostly. But one of them..." He pauses, his jaw working. "One of them was taken hostage, tortured for information, then executed. When he died, all his memories transferred back to me."

  I feel sick. "Jesus."

  "I experienced my own death," Multiplex says flatly. "I felt everything they did to him – to me. And because of my arrogance, three civilians who were in the wrong place at the wrong time also died. When it's gunfire, it's quick. I don't get a lot of the sensory feedback. Just sort of a sharp flash and then it's over, like an itch. But the other one..."

  He looks back at me, his eyes hard. "That's when I understood that heroism isn't about inspiration or individual glory. It's about systems. Protocols. Doing things the right way so that people – innocent people – don't get hurt because of your mistakes."

  I don't know what to say. This is more than I ever expected Multiplex to share, and it's making me uncomfortable. I don't like thinking about him as anything other than the resident hardass. Feels weird.

  "So when you ask why I give you a hard time," he continues, "it's because I see in you and your friends the same dangerous combination of good intentions and overconfidence that nearly destroyed me. And because I've spent the last decade trying to build a better approach, only to watch Belle undermine it by recruiting teenagers into a life they aren't prepared for."

  "That's not fair," I protest. "We've done good work. We've helped people."

  "You have," he acknowledges. "But at what cost? And for how long? How many warehouse explosions before someone doesn't make it out? How many confrontations with Patriot before he does worse than crush an ankle? We have to do something better, to train properly, to understand the threats, to coordinate with legitimate authorities, and to act decisively when the time is right. Not to rush headlong into every fight that presents itself."

  "And while you're busy building your perfect system," I counter, "people are getting hurt. Now. Today. Someone has to do something. God, I feel like I've had this conversation fifteen times in the past three days."

  Multiplex blinks, momentarily thrown by my interruption. "Excuse me?"

  "No, seriously." I shift my weight on the crutches, the frustration suddenly bubbling over. "My parents gave me this exact same speech last night. Nurse Sylvia gave me a version five minutes ago. Jordan's been hammering it for weeks. I get it. I really do."

  His expression hardens. "This isn't—"

  "A game? Another lecture point I've heard verbatim." I shake my head. "Look, I respect what you're saying about your experience. That sounds genuinely awful, and I'm sorry it happened to you. But I don't need another adult telling me to slow down and follow the rules while the bad guys keep operating with impunity."

  "That's not what I'm—"

  "It kind of is, though." I'm on a roll now, the words pouring out before I can filter them. "Everyone wants me to be more careful, more strategic, more patient. Everyone has a better way for me to be a hero. But nobody seems to have an actual plan for stopping people like Richardson now, today, while they're actively hurting people."

  Multiplex crosses his arms, his jaw tight. "You think the DVDs don't have plans in motion?"

  "I think if you did, we'd have seen results by now." I readjust my grip on the crutches. "And maybe you do. Maybe there's some grand strategy I know nothing about. But from where I'm standing – or, you know, hobbling – it looks a lot like bureaucratic paralysis."

  "You don't know what you're talking about," he says, his voice cooling several degrees.

  "Maybe not," I concede. "But I do know that while everyone's been telling me to be more careful, my team has disrupted Kingdom operations, gathered evidence against Richardson, and tracked Rogue Wave's distribution network. What we lack in protocols, we make up for in actual results."

  For a moment, Multiplex just stares at me, his expression unreadable. Then he does something I don't expect – he laughs. It's short, barely more than a huff of air, but definitely a laugh.

  "What?" I ask, confused by this response.

  "You sound exactly like Belle when she was arguing for starting the Young Defenders," he says, shaking his head. "Almost word for word."

  I'm not sure how to take that. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

  "Both. Neither." He shrugs, a surprisingly casual gesture from someone usually so rigid. "It's just an observation."

  An awkward silence stretches between us. I've clearly derailed whatever speech he was building to, and now neither of us seems to know where to go from here.

  "Look," I say finally, "I appreciate you sharing your story with me. I really do. And maybe there's a middle ground between your approach and mine. But right now, my ankle is killing me, and I need to get home before my parents realize I've been gone too long."

  Multiplex nods, his professional demeanor settling back into place. "Of course."

  I start to turn away, but he speaks again. "Bloodhound."

  I look back at him. "Yeah?"

  "When that ankle heals," he says, "come back here. The training room, not the medical office."

  I raise an eyebrow. "For more lectures?"

  The corner of his mouth twitches upward. "For sparring. If you're going to insist on doing things your way, you should at least know how to throw a proper punch."

  That catches me off guard. "Seriously?"

  "Completely serious." His expression is steady, evaluating. "Your technique is sloppy, your footwork is amateur, and you rely too much on your regeneration to absorb punishment you should be avoiding altogether."

  "Wow. Tell me how you really feel."

  "I just did." But there's no malice in his tone, just matter-of-fact assessment. "I can help with that, if you're willing to learn. No strings attached. Rampart and Playback and everyone else - they've been effective teachers, but they're all teaching you secondhand hand-me-downs from my lessons. Come to my gym and I'll whip you into proper shape. You think Crossroads knows how to dodge?" He chuckles a little bit. "I'll show you dodging."

  I study him for a moment, trying to figure out if there's some angle I'm missing. This version - this boisterous, almost proud version of Multiplex, feels like a very sudden and different person, but I like it a lot more. I'm not sure what to make of it. "Why would you do that?"

  "Because whatever our philosophical differences, we're on the same side," he says simply. "And because if you're determined to keep putting yourself in danger, I'd prefer you survive the experience."