#009

I woke up in a hospital bed.

No time resets, so I guess that meant I didn't die. Small victories.

Every inch of me hurts though—from my forehead to my toes. Even my damn eyelashes hurt.

I was strapped up with enough tubes to look like a bad sci-fi prop. One was jammed down my throat—oxygen, hopefully, and not someone's sick idea of a party favor.

Tried to move. Big mistake. My body protested like I asked it to run a marathon on broken glass.

The only thing I could move without wanting to scream was my eyes—and even those felt like someone had rubbed them with sandpaper.

I looked around the room. White walls. Stale air. That sterile, over-clean smell hospitals love so much. Everything is exactly as depressing as you'd expect.

No one in sight. No family. No friends. No Peter.

No mom. No dad.

Did they even visit?

God, I hope not.

No one should have to see their kid looking like overcooked lasagna.

No button to call a nurse. Not within reach anyway—maybe it was there, maybe not. Either way, my arms weren't exactly in the mood for treasure hunts.

So I just… waited.

And let me tell you, it was torture. Every breath scraped. Every inch of my body throbbed like it had its own little heartbeat. My muscles screamed, my skin burned, and I swear even my bones were mad at me.

Time crawled. Seconds stretched into eternities.

And all I could do was stare at the ceiling tiles and try not to go insane.

Maybe an hour passed—though it felt like a goddamn week—before someone finally showed up.

A nurse. Tan skin, dark hair cascading in waves down her shoulders, sharp eyes that missed nothing. She was pretty—that much I could still register through the haze of pain and medication.

She looked like the kind of woman who'd seen every flavor of idiot stumble into a hospital and learned not to be surprised by any of them. Including me. Especially me.

Still, there was something soft in the way she moved. Her expression was tired, worn thin at the edges, but there was kindness under it. The type of quiet patience you don't earn from textbooks, only long nights and a hundred ungrateful patients.

She walked up to the bed, glanced at the machines with professional indifference, eyes flicking toward the machines, then to me. Her brows lifted slightly when she saw I was awake.

"Well, look who's back from the barbecue" she said, her voice low and even. "You're awake. That's a start. You gave the EMTs a hell of a scare, y'know?"

I tried to reply, but the tube in my throat made that impossible. Just a weak, gurgled breath.

She didn't flinch. Just reached over and adjusted something out of my view. "Don't try to talk. You've been intubated for smoke inhalation and a borderline collapse. It's there because you decided to walk through a goddamn inferno. We almost lost you on the way in."

She didn't say it to be mean. Just matter-of-fact. Like she'd seen worse, but also acted like she gave a damn whether I lived or not.

"You're stable now. Barely. But stable."

She sighed through her nose, like the weight of a dozen similar cases pressed down on her shoulders—but still, she lingered. Her tone softened, not much, but enough.

"You did something stupid. Brave, sure. But still stupid. You've got second-degree burns on your back, arms and legs, contusions on your ribs, and enough smoke in your lungs to make a chimney jealous." She eyed me for a second, then added, "But you pulled two people out of that fire. One of them a kid."

I blinked. Slowly. Best I could do for a reply.

She paused. Her tone shifted a little—less clinical, more human. "Two lives rescued. No ID, no name. Showed up out of nowhere. Ran back in when everyone else was running out. That's not something most people do. Hell, that's not something firefighters always manage" Another glance at the monitor. "They're calling you a hero, y'know?"

Hero. That word felt heavy. Too heavy. Like it didn't belong to me.

I blinked slowly, not sure how to respond. Gratitude? Shame? Pride? I wasn't sure what I felt, only that everything hurt.

She gave a small shrug. "I don't care what they call you. You're breathing. That's enough for now. And try not to rip out your tubes. I'd like one easy shift this week."

She leaned in slightly. "When you're up for it, someone will want to talk to you. Cops probably. But for now… just rest. You earned it, hero."

She finally stepped back, brushing a few loose strands of hair behind her ear. "You're gonna be here a while. So get comfortable. And next time you feel like playing hero... maybe wear actual fire gear."

And just like that, she was gone. Leaving behind the scent of antiseptic, the hum of machines… and the ache in my chest that had nothing to do with smoke.

With great power comes great responsibility, huh?

Shit.

---

It's been a week. Maybe a little more.

Hard to tell with the constant buzz of fluorescent lights and the haze of painkillers blurring the edges of time.

I finally managed to rasp out my name—Warren Wade, in case they forgot—which got the ball rolling. They called my parents. Told them their son was in the hospital. Alive, but barely.

They came.

But only twice.

And not together.

First my mom, all perfume and tired eyes, sat stiff in the chair for ten minutes and checked her phone more times than she looked at me. Said she was glad I was okay. Asked if I needed anything, then left before I could answer.

Then my dad showed up the next day, like it was some chore he drew the short straw for. Brought me a bag of chips I couldn't eat and a folded newspaper with a headline about the fire. Said I was lucky. Didn't ask how I was feeling. Just said, "Don't be stupid again" and left.

Almost like they were forced to care for their son.

Like it was a line item on a to-do list they both forgot to check.

So yeah… maybe I did something reckless.

But I saved someone. Two someones.

I'm practically an Avenger, right?

Peter came to visit me a couple days after I gave the hospital my name.

I guess my parents at least told the school what happened, and did the bare minimum paperwork. Yadda yadda yadda.

He looked like he hadn't slept. Hoodie half-zipped, backpack slung over one shoulder, that usual anxious energy dialed up to eleven.

He was hysterical.

"Are you out of your mind?!" he snapped the second he walked in. "You ran into a burning building, Warren! You could've died!"

I just raised an eyebrow, tubes still taped to my face, bandages all over my arms.

He ranted for a while—called me stupid, reckless, irresponsible, even brave in a backhanded way.

It was almost funny.

A little hypocritical too, coming from the guy who's gonna end up swinging through the city in spandex, flinging himself off rooftops every other Tuesday.

But it was nice to know someone gave a damn. Even if it came wrapped in worry and that patented Parker snark.

Bad thing about it?

Homework.

Peter brought it to the hospital after school like some kind of nerdy courier of suffering.

"Just 'cause you almost died doesn't mean you get out of algebra," he said with a smirk.

God dammit...

---

Captain Stacy came to see me too.

Big guy, sharp eyes, voice like sandpaper over gravel. The kind of presence that makes even the heart monitors straighten up.

He didn't smile. Didn't sugarcoat a thing.

He lectured me. Told me what I did was stupid, dangerous, borderline suicidal. That I should've waited for the fire department. That I could've gotten myself and others killed.

Then he paused.

Took a breath.

And thanked me.

Said I saved a life. That the kid was safe, recovering, probably traumatized as hell—but alive.

Then he told me something else.

The fire had been set. On purpose.

Arson.

He didn't say much more. Just gave me that cop look, the one that says "there's more going on here than you know, kid." Then he walked out, stiff and silent.

I thought that'd be it. End of the story.

But then he told me.

The old man… he didn't make it.

Died on the way to the hospital.

I saved him. I dragged him out of that damn building, and burned half my body in the process.

So why?

Why did he die?

I just laid there, staring at the ceiling, my jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

What was the point of all of it, if I couldn't even keep one old man alive?

What kind of hero saves one and loses the other?

Is that just… how it goes?

Because if it is—

It sucks.

---

It's been two days in the hospital since then.

Couldn't sleep. Couldn't move. Couldn't stop thinking.

The ceiling tiles started looking like clouds. Or coffins. Or maybe both.

"Hey God" I whispered hoarsely. "Or… whatever higher being's up there. I'll just call you God if that's alright…"

I laughed. A sad, broken sound that shook more than it should have.

"I did right… right? I tried."

And that's when it hit me—warm trails down my cheeks. My eyes stung again, but not from the smoke this time.

God… I'm crying? Am I really that pathetic?

"The old man died" I whispered. "But I tried. That counts, no? It has to count…"

I clenched the hospital sheets in my fists, like gripping tighter could squeeze out answers.

"Please tell me it counts... Please tell me he went to heaven... Please tell me he didn't suffer…"

My voice cracked and fell apart.

"Please… please…"

I don't know if God heard me.

But I said it anyway. Because in that moment, in that cold white room with the machines beeping around me and my body wrapped in pain like a second skin—I needed to believe someone was listening.

---

One morning, I felt something gently shift at the end of the bed—like fingers brushing against my foot through the blanket.

I opened my eyes.

Dim early morning light crept in through the slatted blinds, casting long shadows across the room. But I could still see him. Him.

The same creep from the fire.

Just standing there like a bad dream that crawled out of the smoke and decided to linger.

He had this smug grin glued to his face, wild orange hair like he'd stuck a fork in a socket, cheeks sunken like he hadn't eaten in weeks, stubble that looked more like grime, and the kind of crooked teeth you see in cartoons where the villain laughs before doing something terrible. And those eyes—green, sharp, and unblinking. Like a predator who knew exactly when you'd stopped running.

My breath caught in my throat. Couldn't move. Not because of the injuries this time—because something in my gut screamed danger.

He stepped closer, placing both hands on the cold metal bars at the foot of the bed, leaning back like he was admiring a painting that didn't quite impress him.

His hands—Jesus—his hands were covered in burn scars. Twisted, blistered remnants of whatever hell he'd crawled through. The skin was puckered and shiny in places, cracked and raw in others. Fingernails blackened. Knuckles gnarled like old roots.

He flexed them absently, like he'd forgotten they were even damaged. Like pain was just background noise to him.

"Ugly, huh?" he muttered, catching me staring. "You should see the rest of me. Or maybe not. Wouldn't want to ruin your appetite."

"Y'know, It took me forever to find you, hm—Wade" he said, letting my name roll off his tongue like a dirty word. "When I saw you back at the apartments, I thought you'd be older. More... I don't know, decrepit looking? No one sane would've done what you did. Especially not a kid."

He paused, like he expected me to thank him for the insight. I didn't.

"You're supposed to enjoy your youth" he went on, voice slipping into a weird singsong. "Not throw it into a goddamn furnace. Hehe..."

He slinked around the bed, like he had all the time in the world, and plopped himself down into the chair beside me. Legs crossed. Relaxed.

"Oh~ now this is a comfy chair," he said, grinning even wider. "Didn't know you heroes got such luxury. Must be nice... hehe."

I wanted to say something. Wanted to tell him to get the hell out, to scream for a nurse, anything—but my mouth was dry and my body still felt like burned paper.

All I could do was stare.

And he just kept smiling.

Like this was only the beginning.

"I started the fire" he said, casual as someone confessing they cheated on a pop quiz. Then he smiled—wide and wolfish. "But I guess you already suspected that, didn't you?"

He looked so damn proud of himself, like a kid showing off a science project that exploded the classroom. Like he was expecting applause.

My eyes locked on his, filled with all the venom my body couldn't currently spit. Daggers, rage, disbelief—if looks could kill, he'd be ash in that damn chair.

But he just laughed. A sharp, breathy little giggle like a kid who got away with something awful and couldn't wait to do it again.

"You wanna know why, Wade?" he whispered, dragging the chair closer with a high-pitched screech of metal on tile. "It wasn't random. It wasn't chaos. It was personal."

He leaned forward suddenly and slammed his hands down on the edge of the bed. The frame shuddered violently—he missed my chest by an inch, but the impact rattled through me. Pain bloomed fresh behind my ribs. I gritted my teeth.

My lungs stuttered, but I didn't flinch. I wouldn't give him that.

"That old man—the one who didn't make it?" His voice dropped into something low and bitter, like bile. "He was my therapist. My psychologist. Years ago. You know what he did?" He sneered. "He gave up on me. Wrote me off. Said I was beyond help. And thanks to him, I got the death penalty."

My blood went cold.

"Yeah. I was all set to meet my end—Strapped to a metal table, lethal injection, the whole thing. But life's funny. Something went wrong during the transfer. Boom. I'm free."

His grin widened, eyes glinting with madness.

"So I decided to pay my old friend a visit. Planned everything out. Got him nice and cozy in his apartment. Set it up real romantic, y'know? Firelight, smoke, screams."

And then he tilted his head, expression softening into something unnervingly close to awe.

"But then you showed up. Kicked the damn door in. You changed everything... Or at least tried to."

He slowly sat down again, drumming his fingers on the bed frame, staring at me like I was some kind of painting he couldn't stop admiring.

"I expected screams. Panic. People trampling over each other to get out. But you?" He chuckled, low and disbelieving. "You charged into hell like it was nothing. Threw yourself into the fire for people you didn't even know. Carried them out. You gave that old bastard a chance."

He shook his head, smiling like I'd just proposed marriage.

"It was beautiful. Insane, and beautiful. I couldn't stop watching you. I was going to vanish, disappear, let the place crumble. But… you caught my eye."

He leaned in again, closer than I liked, his voice dropping to a husky whisper.

"You made me feel something, Wade. Something I hadn't felt in a long time. Inspired. Moved. Obsessed, maybe? No..."

His voice was velvet laced with glass—gentle on the surface, but every word cut. I tried to pull away, even just an inch, but my body was still a prison of agony and tubes. So I settled for glaring harder, pouring all my hate into my eyes.

He just grinned wider, teeth crooked and glinting under the sterile hospital light

"You're real, Wade. Not like the rest of them. Pretenders, posers... they wear masks too, but not like yours. Yours means something. You're broken." He leaned in again, a fever behind his eyes. "Like me."

"You're perfect, Wade" he whispered, voice trembling with something sickly sweet. "Messy. Flawed. Honest. You didn't run away when everything burned—you walked straight into hell. You chose it."

For just a heartbeat, his smile faltered. His eyes shimmered with something twisted, something deeper than madness. Regret? Nostalgia? Something worse?

"You make me feel..." he breathed, barely above a whisper "alive."

And somehow, that terrified me more than anything else he'd said.

Then, just as fast, the manic cheer returned.

"Anyway" And then, just like that, he stood up and dusting imaginary dirt off his jacket like he hadn't just dropped a trauma bomb on me. "they'll be in soon with your food or drugs or whatever it is they give brave little boys like you. I'll be around. Try not to miss me too much, yeah?"

He bent low, lips almost brushing my ear.

"I'll be around. Count on it."

And then he winked. The bastard winked.

No. No. I refuse.

Something inside me snapped. A raw, searing fury that cuts through the fog of pain and the weight of the drugs. My arm moved on instinct—slow, trembling, every tendon screaming—but it moved.

Like a goddamn claw, I grabbed his jacket, my fingers curling into the filthy fabric like talons.

"Name..." My throat was sandpaper, the word cracked and gasped. "Your name..."

He paused mid-step. The air in the room shifted—he felt it too. Then, slowly, theatrically, he turned back to me.

And smiled.

Not the crooked smirk. Not the smug little curl of lip that said he knew more than everyone else in the room.

No, this one was… genuine. Soft. Almost proud.

"Oh… you really are something else," he murmured, like he'd just found a diamond in the rubble. "Still fighting. Even now. Barely breathing, your body is broken, but still throwing punches." His eyes shimmered, not with pity—never pity—but with twisted admiration. "I knew I liked you."

He leaned in close again, voice dropping to a whisper, his breath hot and rancid against my skin.

"Cletus. Cletus Kasady. But you…" he grinned, teeth flashing, "you can call me whatever you like, Wade."

My hand, trembling and weak, still refused to let go of his jacket.

"Cletus…" I hissed, blood in my mouth. "Cletus... I'll kill ya'… I swear... I'll fucking kill you…"

He didn't laugh. Didn't flinch. He just stared at me, the grin fading into something worse—something tender.

"I'm counting on it."

Then, as if he hadn't just shattered my whole world, he walked away. Sauntered, really. Opened the door like a gentleman, held it open for a nurse coming in with a clipboard, and gave her a little bow like some twisted court jester.

And then he disappeared.

I didn't say a word.

Not to the nurse. Not to anyone.

Why?

I don't know. Ego? Pride? Vengeance?

Or maybe… maybe he's right.

Maybe I am broken.

Maybe I don't want anyone else to steal the possibility of making him pay.

Not the cops. Not the law. Not even Peter.

That son of a bitch belongs to me now.

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Word count: 3.265