31

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I sit in the corner of the living room, fidgeting with a tiny rip in the sofa cushion beneath me. There’s a low hum to the air, just the faint, muffled echo of the outside world. In here, it’s a different realm — a domain that’s all Lily’s and everything that makes her, her. I run my fingertips over the fabric of the sofa, its fibers past the point of worn roughness and smoothed back down over time. It’s weird how a room can feel like someone even when they’re not there.

I think the sofa is older than I am.

My gaze floats to the family portrait on the wall, just Lily and her parents smiling back at me. There’s a warmth there, an intimacy that feels so different from the professional family portraits at my house. The rest of the random assortment doesn’t catch my eye. I can’t even place any of the locales pictured, except Graffiti Pier.

Lily’s home is different from mine in so many ways. My eyes catch the blotchy stains on the futon’s sheet, bleached but still faintly visible. How did that happen? A spill? A fun night with friends? Everything here feels like it has a backstory, a life I haven’t been involved in, haven’t been invited to. Like the feeling of seeing a teacher at the grocery store.

Opposite me, the old TV stands tall. It’s one of those ancient models, all boxy and cumbersome. There’s a nostalgic charm to it, reminding me of times when things were simpler, slower. The table in front of me, a makeshift one, stands as a testament to innovation. The dim light from the corner lamp casts subtle shadows around the room, painting everything in soft shades of orange-yellow. The bulb is either weak or maybe just conserving energy, but the soft glow it emits creates a cocoon-like feel to the room, like everything is wrapped in orange silk.

It’s late afternoon. I can tell even without looking at a clock. The room’s filled with that particular blend of light and dark that comes right around when the school’s last bell rings. It’s weird being in someone else’s house right now: I should be in school, in the flurry of finishing up classes, saying bye to the few friends I have, maybe sneaking in some last-minute gossip before heading home. Instead, I’m here, waiting, thinking, trying to make sense of things. Ignoring my injuries.

The air is filled with a sense of uncomfortable anticipation. It’s too quiet, save for the faint sounds filtering in from the street outside—the chatter of kids, the distant hum of cars. It makes me restless. Today, just like yesterday and the day before, I’m not part of that bustling world outside. Instead, I’m here, nursing my injured foot, missing out on the daily grind and chaos of teenage life. It’s both peaceful and agonizingly boring.

The low hum of the refrigerator is the only thing punctuating the silence in the living room of Lily’s home. The low-hanging sunlight filtering in from the window illuminates the dust particles that dance lazily in the air. A few sparrows chirp outside, marking the slow passage of a lazy afternoon.

Slouched on the couch, my be-booted foot awkwardly propped up on a cushion in front of me, I felt the stillness pressing down, a weight in the room. My fingers play with the fringes of the couch’s throw pillow, my gaze drifting down to the phone on the coffee table. It sits there, the screen lit up with notifications – so many of them I hadn’t checked in the bustle of the past days.

Picking up the phone, I swipe through the notifications, skimming the influx of messages:

Kate: “Hope you’re doing okay, Sam. We’re all thinking of you! ❤️”

Jenna: “Heard about the incident. Stay strong. 💪 Also, did I leave my blue jacket at your place?”

Lilly: “Can’t believe what happened! If you need anything or wanna chat, I’m here.”

Marcus: “Man, that’s crazy. You’re a legend though. Hope the foot heals fast.”

Tasha: “Sending lots of love your way. And I’ve saved some of my mom’s apple pie for you. 🥧”

Alex: “Holy crap, Sam! Just heard. You’re okay, right? Keep me updated!”

My mom’s familiar tone echoed through her messages, reminders mixed with her ever-present worry:

Mom: “Sammy, don’t forget about your math homework. I know things are tough, but you can’t fall behind. 💖”

Pop-Pop Moe: “SAMANTHA. SAW THE NEWS. GLAD YOU’RE OKAY. CALL ME WHEN YOU’RE UP. LOVE YOU. XOXO POPPOP.”

Kate’s messages continued with updates on mundane happenings:

Kate: “Oh my god, you won’t believe what happened in school today. Attachment: IMG_0921.jpg.”

Kate: “LOL, Mrs. Jensen tried to dance in the class party. You should’ve seen it! It was both hilarious and tragic. Attachment: IMG_0922.jpg.”

Jenna’s mundane concerns made me smile a little:

Jenna: “Hey, do you remember if I left my pen at your place? The purple one? It writes so smooth! Let me know. And hope you’re doing well! 😘”

Marcus had his usual sense of humor intact:

Marcus: “Dude, remember that cat you said looked like an alien? Saw it again today, and you’re right. Thing’s definitely from Mars. Attachment: IMG_1018.jpg.”

Lost in thought, my fingers begin to drum on the sofa’s arm, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoing in the quiet room. Everyone’s voice rings through me like I’m hearing it. Their text messages read aloud in my mind’s ear. I hear it. I scroll through my texts, my contacts.

My thumb scrolls through, each message taking me to a different moment or emotion, before I stop at Jordan’s name. I pause.

It’s been a while since I last talked to Jordan. Maybe it’s time.

The muffled noises of the world outside seemed louder in the stillness of Lily’s living room. The noise, though, that’s what yanked my attention away from the odd stillness in the house. Even if it’s quiet inside, Bridesburg never really sleeps, and kids are always kids no matter the neighborhood.

For a split second, I envy the kids outside. Not because they are having fun or because they are out of school, but because they exist outside of this bubble I feel trapped in. To them, the faraway wailing of a police siren is just background noise; to me, it was a stark reminder of how quickly life can spin out of control. A part of me wonders if that’s how it’d always be now – each siren, each distant shout, pulling me out of the present.

The silence in Lily’s living room feels thick, and in its depths, I find my hand drifting to my phone. It’s heavy with so many numbers, so many messages, and Jordan, who has said nothing. My thumb hovers above their name, the tiny profile picture of them with that mischievous glint in their eyes staring back at me from the screen. They’re right there, I think, just a call away. But what if they’re busy with… something important? Or worse, what if they don’t want to talk? My brain conjures excuses like a magician conjures cards of just the right specification.

After what feels like a tiny eternity, I muster up the strength and tap the screen, initiating the call. There’s that familiar trill, the one that signifies a connection, a bridge being made. But with each ring, I’m counting the many, myriad ways this could go wrong. The Myriad Fears of a Phone Call. Traditionally, there are seven. Sometimes there’s eight or nine. Rarely, six. None, if their phone is dead.

The first ring is the heaviest, the overture to the opera of ‘This Was a Mistake.’

By the second, a small bead of sweat is forming on my forehead, the anxiety peaking with thoughts of, Why did I call? What am I even going to say?

The third is tinged with hope, that maybe they’ll pick up. Maybe it won’t be so bad.

The fourth, however, is the longest. Each beat drawing out into the next with torturous length, making me wonder if I should just hang up before I embarass myself.

With the fifth, I’ve already crafted an elaborate storyline in my head, where Jordan’s in some intense mission and the timing of my call could mess everything up.

The sixth brings the remembrance of our last opportunity to talk. How I told them to just run. Run and not look back. Abandon me to my fate.

But the seventh… oh, the seventh. That’s the one that always gets me. It’s the finality before the voicemail chime, a reminder of how long it’s been. It’s that feeling of someone slipping through your fingers and the desperate hope that the next ring, the next one, will be the one where they pick up.

But there’s that tiny space after the seventh, the quiet just before the expected eighth, where I’m almost sure they won’t answer. That it’ll go to voicemail, and I’ll have to leave some awkward message. Or worse, hang up and let the quiet speak for me.

Then the unexpected happens. The ringing stops.

The screen flashes with their name. And suddenly, they’re there, and the myriad of fears that the rings carried just disappear. They’re replaced with a newer, meaner, hungrier fear. The fear of failing a conversation.

Then a tired voice drifts over. A voice I would recognize anywhere. “Hello?”

Relief washes over me, cooling the anxious fire that had been kindling in my chest. “Hey, Jordan.” It’s just two words, but there’s so much more loaded in them. Two words holding onto… a lot. Like a trapeze holding onto a clown.

Their voice perks up, if only just a smidge. Like they’re genuinely trying to put a positive spin on everything, for my sake maybe. Or maybe for their own. “Sam! How’s it hanging? You dead yet?”

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment, trying to pull my thoughts into something coherent. “I’m alright, all things considered.” That’s a loaded phrase if I’ve ever heard one. “How are you holding up?”

A pause fills the air between us. The kind of pause that’s heavy and loaded with thoughts and feelings that neither of us has managed to put words to yet. It’s like when you’re about to dive into a pool and you’re waiting for that first shock of cold water. Both of us on the edge of the diving board, hesitating before falling into deeper, more treacherous waters of our conversation.

I can almost imagine Jordan, leaning against something in the hideout, eyes maybe distant, taking in that brief silence, letting it sit. I clutch the phone tighter, waiting for them to break the stillness.

“Jordan,” I interrupt, though the words come out more of a sigh. There’s a tone to their voice, hidden in their cheer – maybe they’ve been crying? Or maybe I’m hallucinating, filling in the gaps I want there to be. Maybe they’re just fine. “Where are you right now?”

“At the music hall,” Jordan says, matter-of-factly.

“Really? How can you even stand it there alone, much less for… however long you’ve been there.” I remember the first time I saw the place, the dilapidated exterior, the eerie feel of its ancient structure. It’s our home away from home, sure, but I’ve never been there by myself. I forget, as the words emerge, that Jordan has been, that Jordan had a whole situation set up before I arrived in their life.

“It’s quiet. It’s nice,” Jordan responds, a touch of amusement in their tone. “You hear everything, you know. Every creak, every little sound, even your own breath echoing back to you. It’s great.”

I blink, trying to wrap my mind around that. They find that comforting? “Sounds like a scene out of a horror movie to me. You’re sure some old-timey ghost musician isn’t about to start playing a phantom piano in the background?”

Jordan chuckles, “If there was, I’d ask them to play Free Bird. But, nah, they cleared all the pianos out years ag– wait, you knew that already. Pissant,” they continue, their low chuckles permeating the airwaves. “It’s quiet here,” they repeat, after the laughter fades.

I think about it for a moment, trying to picture Jordan, all gothed up, basking in the ambiance of an old, desolate music hall. Their black clothes contrasting the faded wallpaper, their eyes closed, just taking it all in. It’s poetic, in a very Jordan kind of way. No other place in Philly would fit them, I think. “Well, as long as it’s not driving you more insane than you already are,” I jest, trying to lighten the mood a bit.

Jordan’s laugh sounds more genuine this time, “No promises.”

There’s another silence. The gentle crackle of the phone line.

“You know, staying in the music hall all this time,” Jordan starts, their voice trailing into a pensive pause, “it’s weird. Like, every now and then, I get this creeping sensation, as if I’m being watched. Either by pervert ghosts or another fucking crow.”

I wince at the idea, hearing the unspoken weight behind the words. The Kingdom. Even thinking about them makes my blood run cold, thick and sludgey in my veins, heart suddenly hammering. The shadow of their threat looms over everything, like a dark cloud. An image of a shrieking crow with the head of a dog, slamming against the door, embeds itself in my skull.

“I don’t get it, Jordan,” I say, unable to keep the worry from lacing my voice. “Why stay there? Why put yourself in isolation like that? You’ve got your mom. Shouldn’t you be there with her? I mean, I know she’s kind of shit–“

Jordan exhales loudly, a shaky and exasperated sigh. “Sam, it’s not that simple. My mom… we don’t get along, okay? But it’s not even about that. It’s about keeping her safe. The Kingdom, if they found out, I don’t want her caught in the crossfire. Just because I don’t like her doesn’t mean I want her hurt.”

I tap my fingers against the couch, absorbing the information. There’s so much they’re holding back, a complexity to the relationship they’re not ready to dive into, and honestly, I don’t blame them. Relationships, especially familial ones, can be a maze of emotions. It’s easy to get lost. I count my blessings that I have two parents that love each other, even if they fight about taxes or chess sometimes. I’m not stupid. I know that sort of thing can be a rarity.

There’s an almost palpable tension in the air, like the lack of noise is wrapping around both of us, squeezing ever so slightly. It continues for a little bit too long.

“Sam,” Jordan begins, their voice distant, as if they’re lost in thought or struggling to find the right words. “My mom… probably hasn’t even noticed I’m gone. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“That’s…” I start, struggling to find words. “That’s tough.” I almost hate how inadequate my response sounds, but there’s an undercurrent in Jordan’s voice, a rawness I haven’t heard before. The urge to fill the space with words is almost overwhelming, but I don’t want to push them away.

Jordan chuckles, but it’s devoid of humor. A laugh that’s not quite a laugh. Like bones rattling. It’s a laugh the way a feral animal smiles, baring teeth. “You’ve no idea. She just sees right through me. Or worse, maybe she sees me but just doesn’t care.”

I can’t help but feel a pang in my chest. Despite our differences, Jordan has been more than steadfast. I take knife blows for them. They keep me safe from gunfire, from throat slashes. We beat up criminals together. And yet, I can’t save them from… this. No amount of heroing can.

“I don’t get it,” I admit, my voice softening, “With everything we deal with on the daily, I can’t imagine going home to… that.” I mentally kick myself for not choosing my words better. Sometimes, I feel like English is my second language, not Hebrew (and even that’s a stretch).

There’s a heavy pause before Jordan speaks again, and their voice is almost stern. “There’s a lot you don’t know, Sam.” They let the sentence hang, not finishing the thought. But it feels loaded, heavy. Like a gun.

I take a deep breath, finding courage from somewhere deep down. “Hey,” I begin gently, “if you ever want to talk about it… I’m here, okay?” I promise.

Jordan sighs quietly. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”

There’s the distant noise of shuffling in the background, but I don’t push Jordan to speak. I just wait, feeling the soft thrum of the phone’s vibration in the palm of my hand every time a notification slides across the screen. Finally, I hear their soft exhale, and I clutch the phone tighter. “Hey, Jordan?” I begin, voice hesitant. “When do you think you’ll feel safe enough to come out?”

Silence fills the space between us, and I can almost visualize Jordan, with that jet-black hair of theirs, contemplating the question. My fingers drum a soft rhythm on the back of the phone, the texture of the protective case familiar and soothing under my fingertips. It’s silly, but that small repetitive motion brings me a shred of comfort. I don’t like how every passing moment simply emphasizes their inability to answer.

The seconds seem to stretch and twist. “You could… you know, come stay with Lily and me,” I finally venture, my words breaking through the quiet. “Just for a while, till things cool down. It’s a big futon,” I offer, not even knowing if her parents would let us. I mean, I have to imagine they would, but, you know… two more mouths to feed is a lot.

I hear a soft sigh on the other end. “Sam,” Jordan begins, their voice softer than is typical. It’s touched with a warmth that makes my chest tighten, a genuine gratitude that doesn’t sit well on their usually detached demeanor. “That means a lot, but I can’t.”

My brows furrow, heart skipping a beat. “What? Why not?”

“It’s not about me,” Jordan explains, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s about you. I don’t… I can’t bear the thought of something happening to you because of me. It was extremely, extremely, extremely hard to just keep moving, run away with this bag of money and a laptop, and not stop to turn back to help you.”

Their words hang heavy in the air, and I can almost feel the weight of them pressing down on my chest. “Jordan,” I begin, trying to push past the sudden tightness in my throat. “You almost sound like a superhero.”

Jordan snorts derisively through the phone line. “Bullshit.” There’s a pause, and I can hear Jordan take a deep breath. “It’s different this time,” they admit quietly. “I have to be careful, for everyone’s sake. I have to lay low.”

I swallow hard, trying to keep the frustration from my voice. “Are you even going to school?”

I brace myself for the worst. But then Jordan chuckles, a soft, genuine sound that brings a smile to my lips. “Of course. You think I’m going to let a dinosaur stop me from finishing high school? I’ve put in too much work for a t-rex to stop that. Sure, they might attack you at your home, but there’s just too much risk of collateral at school. I’m–“

“Absolutely do not finish that sentence or you will summon the foreshadowing demons,” I interrupt them. “Just promise you’re not going to turn your life off for this.”

“I promise,” Jordan replies. “This is all just a day as usual for me.”

The weight of the conversation feels like a growing pit in my stomach, and I instinctively want to change the topic, anything to steer the chat away from the dangers Jordan is facing. It’s too much to think about sometimes. “Oh, by the way,” I begin, shuffling my feet a little, “I’m visiting Puppeteer today.”

There’s a pause on the line, one of those elongated pauses where you can practically hear the gears turning in someone’s head. “Puppeteer? Really?” Jordan’s voice, always so cool and collected, now contains an edge of disbelief. “Isn’t she the one who, you know… almost strangled you?”

Ugh.

“She didn’t actually try to choke me out. I mean, yeah, she did lash out, but I wasn’t hurt. Just my pride, I guess.” My voice trails off, but I collect myself. “Anyway, she’s getting out of inpatient tomorrow. Figured it’s the right thing to do, you know? Make amends.”

Jordan’s skepticism is palpable, even through the phone. “Sam, I get that you’re all about second chances, but that’s…” Their concern is genuine, and it warms me a bit amidst my own trepidation.

But I’m stubborn. Always have been. “Look, Jordan, she was dealing with a lot, alright? College, Liberty Belle’s absence, her own… junk I mean, I’m not excusing her actions, but I think I understand them. And if she’s getting out, then a professional believes she’s okay now. Or at least better. You know, if she didn’t have problems they wouldn’t have kept her for like a month.”

Jordan sighs, the kind of heavy, drawn-out exhale that’s more an expression of emotion than a simple breath. “Alright, I trust your judgement, Sam. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“I make no promises.” I reply. We share a moment of uncomfortable silence.

“We’ll talk soon, alright? And hey, anytime you want to chat or just…I don’t know, rant about life, you know where to find me,” Jordan says, their usual cool demeanor slipping back into place, like a mask sliding over their face.

I smile, even though they can’t see it. “I’ll hold you to that. Take care, Jordan.”

“You too, Sam. Stay safe.” And with that, the call ends, leaving behind a sensation of both hope and melancholy in its wake.

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The entrance to Elysium Behavioral Health & Wellness Center is much as one might expect for a place that promises serenity and rest. When the taxi pulls up, the stone façade seems imposing, almost monolithic, if not for the soft-tinged windows that promise a warmth within. I pay the driver, get out, and take a second to let my surroundings sink in.

The clinical whiteness inside, though, is almost blinding. There’s a harsh sterility to the surroundings; from the untouched white walls that seem to stretch on endlessly to the hum of the overhead fluorescent lights that seem to echo just a bit too loudly. If I close my eyes, I can almost believe the distant, muffled sounds that echo through the halls are whispers, voices from another world, or maybe just the reverberations of some nearby machinery. The check-in process is quick and painless. The destination is the end of the halls. Back of the building.

I’ve been in hospitals before, but this is different. Less cold, I guess, but also not exactly warm either. It’s somewhere in between – it has a weird sort of muted energy to it.

As Lily and I walk side by side, I can’t help but notice the others in the corridor. There are families – some visibly upset, others wearing tight-lipped smiles of determination, and a few who seem just… numb. And then there are the medical personnel, weaving between the visitors with their crisp uniforms and business-like expressions. They carry folders, tablets, and sometimes just a warm beverage to keep them going.

I catch snippets of their conversations, always too quick to grasp the entirety of what’s being said but just enough to pique my interest. Words like “progress”, “medication”, “therapist”, and “family session” seem to stand out more than others.

Every so often, we pass by a closed door. From behind some, there are muffled sobs, or soft, comforting voices. From others, the soothing melody of calming music. And from a few, utter, unsettling nothingness, behind frosted glass. I wonder about the stories those doors hide. What brings these people here? What stories lay behind them? The white noise spits out at an even pace from weird little disks situated about a meter apart on the floor, coating everything in a fine layer of fuzz like a padded cell.

It’s weird – you never really think about what goes on inside places like these until you’re here. Are they getting the help they need? Not just Puppeteer, but everyone here?

The thought makes me shiver despite the ambient warmth.

Lily must catch the uneasy look on my face. “First time inside a place like this?” she asks, her voice gentle.

I nod.

Lily’s gaze flits around, darting from corner to corner as if she’s trying to take in everything all at once. The place has this cold, sterile feel about it that would make anyone uneasy, let alone someone like Lily, who usually thrives in the bustling city outside or the fast-paced world of superhumans. But here, in this suffocating white corridor, there’s no room for moving quickly. Everything is measured and dispensed in precise quantities.

“I, uh, never liked places like these, you know?” she admits, her fingers nervously twining together, nails leaving red marks on her skin.

I notice she avoids the eyes of any nurse or therapist that we pass. She keeps adjusting her posture, like she’s trying to fit in, but the tension in her shoulders and the constant shifting of her weight betray her unease. I wonder idly to myself if she has history in this place. Or maybe just places like it.

I don’t blame her, either way. It feels like these places have a way of making you feel like you’re on display – my few trips to the hospital have given me the same sort of impression.

I take a breath, searching for the right words. “It’s different here. It’s very different from the rest of the world.”

She mulls it over. “The people here, the way they look at you… it’s just strange,” she concludes, satisfied with her own course of thoughtwork.

“They’re trying to help, in their own way,” I reassure her. I can see how out of place she feels, how she’s shrinking within herself. And I feel a pang of guilt, but the other part of me is glad she’s not doing this visit alone.

“You’re brave, you know?” I suddenly say.

She chuckles. “Coming from the superhero.”

I give her a look. “We’re literally both on the– you know what, we shouldn’t say this in public.”

Her smile widens, cheeks reddening.

It’s so cold in here, it’s making me regret not bringing a hoodie. I try to fill the echoing corridors with my own thoughts, but the sterile environment, the hushed whispers, and the soft hum of overhead lights just amplifies the tension. That tension is a living, breathing thing, pressing in on me and Lily as we walk side by side. I’m so tired of tension. Tension tension tension. It stops feeling like a word inside my head.

After an agonizing minute of trying not to think about what’s coming, I hear Lily clearing her throat beside me. It’s hesitant, almost unsure, and I know she’s trying to find the right words to fill the empty space. “Hey, Sam,” she begins, a wobbly smile in her voice, “remember that… snake graffiti I found a while back? Like, when you first joined?”

Okay, that’s not what I expected, but I nod, dredging up the old memory. “The weird snake we were concerned might’ve been a gang sign. I recall,” I reply.

I can hear her giggle before I see the rosy tint of embarrassment lighting up her cheeks. “So, um, I got around to showing it to Playback. And, uh…” She struggles, another chuckle breaking through. “Turns out, it’s not a snake.”

Okay, this should be good. I raise my eyebrows, my curiosity piqued. “Not a snake? What is–“

She’s practically laughing now, her cheeks flushed. “Nope!” The words tumble out of her in a rush, almost as if she’s trying to distance herself from her blunder as quickly as possible. “Not a snake. Snakes don’t… have balls.” I can almost see the little cartoonish light bulb appearing above her head when Playback had told her, that comical ‘oh’ moment.

A bubble of laughter forms in my throat. Seriously? A smirk finds its way onto my lips, a soft chuckle escaping me, my teeth locking together. It’s such a typically Lily thing to miss. I imagine Playback’s amused face when he informed her, and the thought makes me laugh a little harder. “Well, that was sure a mystery that we were all hoping would get solved one day.”

“And now it’s solved!” Lily finishes, and the air falls back into alkaline silence.

The dimly lit hallway seems to stretch longer as Lily and I walk toward Puppeteer’s room. It’s been more than a month, but the gravity of that confrontation still hangs between us. As we get closer, my heart beats a bit faster, my anxiety manifesting in tiny beads of sweat on my forehead. Before the door stands a little whiteboard with “Akilah Washington” written neatly in marker. So that’s her name, I think. I’ve always known her as Puppeteer, the leader, the one with orders to give.

It’s a little unnerving to have that distance suddenly slashed. Cut down to size with a marker’s blade. Now she’s Akilah.

With a deep breath, I gently push open the door. Soft, ambient light greets us, casting the room in a warm glow. It feels almost peaceful in contrast to the clinical nature of the rest of the facility. The atmosphere is soothing, but something about it feels just a little bit off, like a tune slightly out of key. It’s the blend of personal touches and the stark, sterile hospital ambiance.

And then there’s Akilah.

She sits by the window, the golden hues of the setting sun illuminating her profile. Gone is the tense, commanding posture I remember from our time together on the team. Instead, she looks relaxed, I suppose. But it’s not just her posture that’s changed. A month of inpatient care has altered her physique, softening her muscular frame. The cuts and curves of a gymnast are less defined now. Even her hair is different, cropped short in a boyish style that frames her face, a marked contrast from the large, almost bountiful coils I remembered. It’s as if the weight of leadership, the weight of always having to be in control, has lifted off her, if only for a moment. Her feet tap rhythmically on the floor.

Her bedroom is spartan. Some personal affects. No phone. I can’t tell if Akilah or an orderly has been keeping it clean, but even the bed is made.

Lily is the first to speak, cutting down the space in the air. “Hey, Akilah. The light looks good on you.”

Akilah turns to face us, and her eyes, usually so sharp and calculating, now appear soft. She’s gone from an eagle to a pigeon… no, that’s mean. Maybe a stork? I don’t know, I’m not good at animal analogies. She gives a small smile, and I catch a hint of weariness. “Thanks, Lily. You always know how to brighten a room.”

Lily grins, missing the wordplay entirely. “It’s the windows here! They’re big. Let a lot of light in.”

I chime in, “It’s good to see you, um… Akilah. You look… different, but in a good way. Rested, maybe?”

She chuckles lightly, “Rested? That’s a new one. But yeah, I guess you could say that. Therapy, medication, and a whole lot of self-reflection can do that to a person.”

There’s an awkward pause, a million unsaid words hovering between us. I know I need to address the elephant in the room, but where to begin? It’s a dance of words, a balancing act of emotions. But for now, just seeing her, knowing she’s okay, eases a weight off my shoulders.

Akilah seems at peace as I glance at her, but it’s not the kind of peace you wear when everything’s right with the world. It’s the kind of peace you wear like armor, when you’re trying to convince everyone – including yourself – that you’re okay. I notice the tiniest movements, like the way she tightly balls up her hands into fists, as if she’s trying to grab onto something that keeps slipping away, and how her eyes rapidly scan the room, darting from one corner to another before finally settling on me. It’s a look I’ve seen before on other people, but never expected to see on her. Like a prey animal.

Is this from her time here? Or is this just from seeing me? I can’t tell.

And then my eyes drift down to the nightstand. The two pill bottles catch my attention immediately. I can’t help it. The bottles with their stark white labels and clinical font grab my eyes before I can look away, and I absorb the words as I typically do. The words “Quetiapine” and “Fluoxetine” are written prominently on them. A knot forms in my stomach, even though I have no idea what either of them do.

As I try to process all this, my wandering thoughts are interrupted by a small sound. Lily, in her usual straightforward manner, has pulled up a chair and is talking, breaking the ice. “I like your socks,” she says, pointing at Akilah’s feet. Those grippy socks they give you in places like this, with the little rubber dots on the bottom. Akilah’s are a bright blue, standing out against the sterile white of the sheets.

Akilah chuckles, looking down at her feet. “Thanks. They’re not exactly high fashion, but they do the job.” She pauses, a thoughtful look on her face. “They keep me grounded, in more ways than one.”

Lily nods, though I’m not sure she catches the deeper meaning behind Akilah’s words, the defiance of her typical high-flying acrobatics. “Why do they have the grippy parts anyway?”

“It’s so I don’t fall and injure myself. Not that it’s usually much of a problem for me,” Akilah explains, keeping her gaze notably off of me.

The room goes quiet again for a moment. Somewhere between discomfort and settling snow turning into compressed ice.

Akilah finally speaks, to me, sort of, her voice soft but steady. “I appreciate you both coming. It means a lot.” There’s sincerity in her rounded gaze. She glances at me, and we make eye contact, and then the moment ends.

Lily, in her typical fashion, doesn’t miss a beat. “Of course! We’re a team, right? And teams stick together.”

Akilah laughs. I think it was supposed to be bitter, but it comes out too genuine for that. “That we do.”

The room feels too still, too quiet. But then, Akilah, or rather, Puppeteer, breaks the silence. Her voice starts out shaky, like she’s walking on a wire she’s not sure can support her. There’s a strain in it I’ve never really heard before.

“I—” She stops herself, clears her throat, and tries again. “Sam… I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Obviously.”

Lily, sitting next to me, tilts her head, a clear look of confusion spreading across her face. I can tell she’s trying to keep up with what’s happening, gears turning. I turn my full attention to Puppeteer, my heart rate picking up a bit. I’ve been waiting for this conversation, even if I hadn’t known it until this very moment.

“You okay, Pup?” I ask, deliberately using her hero name, trying to find some connection between the confident leader I remember and the vulnerable woman in front of me.

She gives a small smile. “It’s Akilah,” she says softly, emphasizing her real name, like she’s reclaiming a part of herself.

Lily squints, her brows furrowing. “Uh, yeah? That’s your name, isn’t it?” she asks, drawing a laugh out of Akilah.

Then, she takes a deep breath, and turns to me. “I’m sorry, Sam,” she says, her voice clear and even, something she’s clearly been practicing. Each word lands heavily between us, like a weight slowly lifting off her shoulders. There’s no evasion in her tone, no attempt to skirt the issue, just a raw and genuine regret. She takes a deep breath, steadying herself before continuing. “I took out my own problems on you and I hurt you. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

I was expecting this, a little. But words still don’t form in my throat. She cuts through the quiet.

“You know, the therapy room was kinda sterile. White walls, plain carpeting, a single potted plant in the corner. And Dr. Williams, she’s this kind, older lady with glasses that look a little too big for her face. But she’s good. Picked me right apart. Saw through everything,” she shares, offering a picture of a setting I’ve only seen on TV shows. I imagine her in that room, pouring her heart out to a stranger.

I see Lily, who’s sitting quietly beside me, shift uncomfortably in her seat.

Then, Akilah takes a deep, shaky breath, her fingers playing nervously with the hem of her clothes. She looks on the verge of tears. She swallows and looks up at the ceiling. “Narcissistic Personality Disorder. That’s what the shrink said.”

I try to swallow too, but my mouth is dry.

“I thought, you know, I wasn’t that kind of jawn. It hit me like a truck. All the worst people in my life are Cluster B. But I swallowed my pride, because I can either get better or I stop being a hero,” She says, no longer able to look at either of us. “That’s all I had left. All I have left. Either I fix myself or I don’t.”

Lily rolls the word over in her mouth. “Cluster… bee…” She says, and I can almost tell she’s thinking about insects. Or maybe about my abbreviation. She doesn’t say anything else.

“That’s a lot,” I reply. “You don’t seem like a narcissist to me.”

“It’s more complicated than that. It’s not about… loving myself, not like the myth. It’s about hating myself. Being afraid of myself,” Akilah replies, folding her feet up underneath her. “It’s kind of a bad name for the disorder. I just… can’t not make everything about me, somehow. And I’m always so afraid, so afraid that I’m going to stop being useful. So I lashed out at you, because I was afraid of Belle ditching me. Replacing me. And I’m sorry.”

“That’s a lot,” Lily says, mirroring me.

“Hey, it’s okay. I forgive you,” I say, speaking the magic words. A hush rolls through the three of us.

“Do y’all know how I got my powers?” Akilah asks. Lily shakes her head. I shake my head too, a little too stunned for speech. “Do you want to know?”

“I think you want to tell us,” Lily says, before I have an opportunity to say the same thing.

Akilah smiles. “I used to be a gymnast, obviously. I used to be a lot of things, my parents threw me at extracurriculars instead of parenting me. I was almost ready to join the Olympics. Yeah, seriously! Then I failed a trick and broke my ankles.”

I raise an eyebrow, leaning on the wall. “That’s… mundane,” I say, trying to pick my words carefully, walking on eggshells.

Akilah grins knowingly. “Well, the sport I did was one of the ones where you have a spotter. And all this time, for three years, I’d convinced myself that they sabotaged me. Failed to grab me when I fucked up the flip, because they were envious of me. I broke both ankles, and then before I could keep falling and snap my neck, my strings had tied me to the equipment like a cradle.”

“Heavy,” Lily breathlessly whispers.

“So for the first year of being a hero, it was all swinging, all upper body strength. Couldn’t rest on them jawns,” Akilah continues, glancing at my foot for a split second. “Being a gymnast was the only thing I had. Then that switched out. Now, being a hero was the only thing I had. That’s where Belle found me, bitter and alone. And…”

She sucks in air between her teeth. I can tell from her face that the story has gotten a little away from her, away from how she planned it in her head. She’s been rehearsing this conversation. She changes gears. “Well, at least Crossroads is willing to accept me back. ‘Cuz it’s all I’ve got now. Can’t be an RSE anymore, which means I have to actually finish college so I can get a day job. Then, I’ll have something else I can be.”

I rewind in my head. “Wait, go back a sec. You can’t become a government cape anymore? Why not?”

Akilah sticks her tongue out playfully, then retracts it. “They don’t let you become a Registered Superhuman Entity if you have personality disorders, Bee. Same as in the army or whatever. All I was getting at is that maybe this is a blessing, forces me to be more than one kind of person.”

“Wait, what?” Lily interrupts. “That’s not fair! You’re the coolest and best hero of us! And your power is awesome! Can’t they make an exception?”

While Lily is busy protesting, my heart hammers in my chest. I mean, not that becoming a hero was my full-time life-time aspiration, but what if I’m broken just like her? What if they find out there’s something wrong with my brain, something that makes me go out and beat up thugs because I love the rush, and then it’s over forever.

“Can you still… be a normal hero and hang out with us and stuff?” Lily asks, adjusting her position in her chair.

Akilah nods. “I can still be a regular licensed vigilante, or work for a private company. They won’t deny my LUMA. I just can’t suckle that sweet, sweet taxpayer milk now. Or star in any after-school programs.”

“They should give you a second chance,” I say, my hands tightening. “I mean, I know we haven’t seen eye to eye, but I’ve gotten… to the core of people that I fought with way worse than you. And I think you’re a good person. I don’t know. Forever? That’s a while.”

Akilah laughs, her face lighting up. “I heard about Safeguard, too. I’m glad they’re a good egg, after all that. Really, it’s okay, Bee. Really. I’ve made my peace with it. Woman plans, God laughs, that’s how it goes.”

“If you say so,” I mumble, looking at her socks again. Akilah glances out the window, the conversation fading into an awkward, unfinished dispersal.

A minute passes, or so. Akilah breaks the air again. “Hey, any y’all know what time it is? The nurse is supposed to swing by with my discharge papers at, like, five.”

Lily raises a hand, checking on her phone. “Oh, it’s like four fifty five, do we need to leave?”

“Nah,” Puppeteer says, running a hand through her hair. “It’s cool. Y’all just might have to drive me home then. Wanna see my shrink notes?”

---

Psychiatric Evaluation Report – Summary

Patient Name: Akilah Washington
Date of Birth: September 30th, 2003
Date of Evaluation: October 10th, 2023
Admitted: September 12th, 2023
Psychiatrist: Dr. Jane Harris, M.D.
Institution: Elysium Behavioral Health & Wellness Center

Presenting Problem:

Akilah Washington presented with heightened levels of stress, impaired functioning in interpersonal relationships, a compulsion for control, and low-level delusional thinking focused primarily on perceived persecution. Symptoms were exacerbated by a complex, high-stress lifestyle that included academic responsibilities at Temple University and leadership roles in a local superhero team, the Young Defenders.

Diagnosis:

Narcissistic Personality Disorder, Fragile/Covert Type
General Anxiety Disorder

Symptoms:

• A compulsive need to prove worth and ability, often to the point of neglecting self-care.
• A need for control in situations, with an inability to delegate control to or trust others.
• Episodes of delusional thinking, particularly of being persecuted or targeted by her peers.
• Proneness to overworking and overstress, leading to physical and mental exhaustion.
• Reduced self-esteem and exaggerated self-criticism, leading to hypervigilance.

Treatment:

Ms. Washington has responded well to a combination of pharmacological and psychotherapeutic treatments.

Medication:

1. Haloperidol, 2mg twice daily: To manage delusional symptoms.
2. Fluoxetine, 20mg daily: To treat symptoms of generalized anxiety.

Psychotherapy:

• Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT): To identify and alter distorted patterns of thinking and behaving.
• Supportive therapy: To provide a safe emotional environment for Ms. Washington to explore issues of self-esteem, trust, and control.

Current Status:

Since the beginning of the treatment, Ms. Washington has shown significant improvement in emotional regulation, reduction in delusional thinking, and increased willingness to engage in cooperative and trusting relationships. Her academic performance has stabilized, and she has expressed interest in returning to a functional role within the Young Defenders, as well as permanently turning over leadership to her colleague ‘Crossroads’.

Recommendations:

Given the considerable improvement and stabilization of her condition, I recommend that Ms. Washington is ready for discharge and a gradual return to her regular activities, provided she continues outpatient psychotherapy and medication management.

Approved by
Dr. Jane Harris, M.D.
October 10, 2023

---

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