Hospital visits are already uncomfortable as they are.
There's always those distant, wet coughs echoing down the halls. That sterile stench of antiseptic that claws at your nose. Even the machines are beeping like they have somewhere else better to be.
But trying to explain why I, a sixteen-year-old, look like I just went twelve rounds with prime Mike Tyson?
That's a whole new flavor of awkwardness.
Honestly, it's humbling to say that the only reason I'm even here is; Peter, he would NOT stop pestering about a health check.
I would've toughed it out, let my body do the heavy lifting with the healing.
But it's hard to ignore him, especially when he's one of the few who genuinely cares for me... No homo tho.
So yeah… here I am.
Sitting on the edge of the exam table, hoodie zipped up, sleeves tugged low.
Trying to pretend the bruises and scars weren't there.
The door creaks open, and the doctor walks in—clipboard in hand and wearing that expression I bet they teach in medical school; polite concern, like everything's fine, even if you're missing a leg.
He's older—gray at the temples, tired around the eyes. Clearly not new to this.
Probably already seen his fair share of beat-up kids and bullshit excuses.
So I beat him to it. "Skateboarding accident."
He raises a single brow without missing a beat. "S'that right? Must've been one hell of a skateboard. Did it fight back?"
I smirk. "Funny."
Then I snorted.
Bad idea.
Snorting hurts. A lot.
There's a pause while he snaps on his gloves, flipping through the chart. "You know..." he says, scanning the notes. "Legally, if I suspect abuse, I'm obliged to file a report."
"Yeah? I didn't know. But it's not that, for real."
He gives me a long look, like he's deciding whether to push or not. Then just sighed and set the chart down.
"Let me take a look."
I hesitantly unzip the hoodie, pulling up the sleeves. The AC air hits the bruises, not helping with the discomfort.
"Both pinkies—recent dislocation, poorly self-reduced. You did this? Without guidance?"
"Watched a video tutorial." I shrug.
He didn't find that amusing.
"Left fifth rib—possible non-displaced fracture. That's why it hurts when you breathe deeply or snort, by the way."
I nodded. "...Good to know."
"Multiple contusions across the thoracic region… surface lacerations, inconsistent in angle and depth. Some stitched. I'll guess—another video tutorial?"
I shrugged and nodded.
He exhales sharply through his nose. "Jesus. And the nose?"
"It's been broken before. Thought maybe I could crack it back into place."
His eyes are narrowing—Holding back a scolding. "You might've actually straightened the bridge, just a little. And that's the only thing you did right, and it was by pure luck. Anything else I should know about?"
"Splinters. But I plucked them out myself too." I hold up my hands—opening and closing.
He steps closer, inspecting my palms.
"Seems like dozens of them were there. Looks like you punched through a wooden fence."
He paused and looked up at me—inquisitively.
"DID YOU punch through a wooden fence?"
"Something like that."
He pulls back, peels off the gloves, and tosses them in the bin.
He squints. "And you're... Okay with all this? My nieces would be screaming in pain with just the splinters."
"...Yeh."
He doesn't smile. Not even a twitch.
"You should be in a lot more pain than you're letting on. Either your tolerance is alarmingly high, or you're too used to this kind of damage."
"Huh... I'd say it's the former, Doc."
He writes something down—Doesn't show me what.
"I don't know what you're mixed up in, Kid. But this? This isn't normal. These aren't just bruises. These looks like fight-for-your-life kind of injuries."
I shift my gaze to the floor.
He doesn't press. Just says. "I'll patch what I can. But if this is something 'constant'? I hope... for your sake. That you stay away from it. Okay?"
"Yeah, I'll try... Thanks Doc."
He doesn't ask any more questions after that. Just mutters something under his breath about how this generation's getting bolder—or dumber—and sets a tray of tools beside me with a tired clatter.
Eventually—after getting scolded for my stellar DIY medical career, being re-stitched, having my nose rearranged, and being obligated to use crutches to keep my pinkies from collapsing on themselves—I was cleared up to go.
Not before one last lecture from the doctor, of course.
But he did give me a lollipop on the way out, so… That's a silver lining.
The hospital bill? Covered by my parents.
They're not that awful, just distant.
But fuck them anyway, that'll remind them that they have a kid.
---
Anyway, do you know what a bad habit really is?
It's a slow and insidious killer—that you keep going back to, because... some deep, shameful part of you likes it.
For me? Apparently, it's playing Hero. That—and not telling Peter that I'm out again.
And I just keep chasing it out of guilt, or I don't know...
Whatever stupid reason my brain thinks it's okay to do it.
And It just keeps kicking me in the balls—Cletus. Stick. Who's next? GALACTUS?
I'm saying this, because here I am—almost midnight.
In a piss-reeking alley behind some run-down bar, watching two guys, splash gallons of gasoline against the bar wall like they're painting it.
They're methodical about it too, moving with a sort of casual efficiency, as if this is just another boring Monday night for them. No rush. No panic.
One drags a trail down to the door like he's leaving a fuse, while the other makes sure to cover as much of it in gas.
The air reeks of it. You could probably light a match three blocks from here, and this whole place would still go up like fireworks.
And I'm just here, watching.
I mean, what are the odds I run into a pair of arsonists right after Cletus?
Bad, that's what the odds are. BAD.
So I step out from behind the dumpster I'd been crouched behind—hands low, voice steady.
Or at least, I hope so.
"Hey."
They freeze mid-pour.
The tall one looks over his shoulder, startled. The shorter one straightens up, slowly, holding the gas can like a briefcase.
They're both wearing these creepy full-face gas masks—the bug-eyed kind, with black-tinted lenses.
Although creepy doesn't quite describe them. It's more like something straight out of a nightmare.
But I already fought Stick AND survived... Although, I think he was still holding back.
Anyway, their clothes are plain, almost boring—like they're trying too hard to be under the radar.
It's one hell of a hasty deduction, but watching how they move?
These guys aren't weighed down at all.
Their clothes are light enough to run if needed, and thick enough to not burn if they don't.
The kind of clothes that won't fuse with your skin when put to the test—unlike my suit.
"I mean, I GOTTA ask." I say, stepping in with a forced-friendly smile, pointing with the chin towards the spreading puddle at their feet. "Is this, like, an insurance scam? Because—hey—I get it."
Neither of them reacted. Not that I expected a full-blown laugh, but... Damn.
They didn't even speak either, which makes it worse. A painful reminder that using humor to deal with my nerves still isn't a skill I have.
It just made the silence louder. Which made me even more nervous.
The short one shifted his grip on the gas can and took a step forward too.
Not quite threatening—but not friendly either.
I raise both hands, palms out. still casual.
"Easy there. Just making conversation. It's just that..." I tilt my head. "You don't look like the type of guys to own a bar, y'know?"
No words. Nothing.
Just the sound of breath rasping through filters and the quiet splash of gasoline dripping from a tilted can. Then they share look at each other.
Quick. Measured.
I shifted my stance—Not aggressive yet.
Just looser—Prepared.
To let them know I'm not backing off.
"Look…" I say, voice low now. "I didn't call the cops, alright?"
That's a lie, obviously.
"You'd heard sirens by now. I'm not here to screw with your little... Art project."
I gesture lazily towards the zigzagging trail of gasoline leading towards the Bar's back door.
"I just want to know why." I looked at the rundown bar, then back at them with a quivering half-smile. "Why this place? I mean—It already looks like a shithole, doesn't it? No need to make it worse."
Still nothing. Not a damn word.
"Okay, not to sound insensitive... but are you guys mute? Or just wearing mime makeup under the masks?"
The taller one tilts his head. Curious, maybe. Or confused. I don't know, it's hard to read through a gas mask.
Finally, one of the two talks—the short one.
His voice—raspy, low—makes my skin crawl.
Not Inhumane, but off. Like he doesn't use it much. Like talking is optional for him.
"...None of your business..."
I nodded, and pointed at him. "Yeah... see, you're not wrong." I take a half-step forward with a 'friendly' attitude, testing them. "But here's the thing—my bad habit is making things my business."
I need to descalate the situation and make time.
Which means... keep yapping.
"C'mon... You dump this place in flames and some poor bastard inside gets caught, that's on you. It stops being vandalism and starts being murder. You don't want that smoke. Just ditch the cans, and call it off. No one's seen your faces, I know I didn't. You can still ghost out of this, CLEAN, alright?"
They don't move. Don't utter a sound.
Just the slow creak of their gloves tightening against the plastic handles. Gaso still drips steadily, making thick blotches in the dirt.
The short one turns to face me fully, head tilted forward just enough to feel threatening.
"...You shouldn't be here..."
"Yeah, well..." I say, with a shrug. "I could say the same to you."
I take another step forward, just outside the trail of gasoline. Close enough to see their eyes behind the filters now—not really.
But I can feel them sizing me up.
Not threatened in the slightest.
I mean, who would be? Look at me.
But still, fighting now is a dumb idea—specially when you're trying to do something quick and clean.
Like burn a building to the ground and dip before anyone can link the match to the face.
It's inefficient. Noisy. Bloody. And worst of all—memorable.
The taller one flicks his fingers. Something metal—small, silver. A lighter.
My pulse jumps. "Wowowowow! Hey hey, let's all take a chill pill, and talk this out like... reasonable human beings, okay? And mainly, let's not go full 'Michael Bay' alright? Alright."
He doesn't open it, not yet. Just lets it dangle between his gloved fingers.
Warning me not to make any sudden moves.
But I've already messed it up for them.
Just me being here—talking to them—that was enough to mess this up.
I'm a problem now. A variable they didn't plan for.
"Look." I say again, slower this time. Less bravado. "I'm not here for a fight. But if you light that up... I'm CAN'T let you walk away from this."
Another look between them.
Another conversation I'm not invited to.
I hate it.
My hands twitch at my sides. I flex them once.
"Last chance, dude." I offer, voice low now.
"You put the lighter back in your pocket, walk away, and I forget I saw you."
He took a single step back.
For a split second, hope flared in my chest.
Then—click. He sparks the lighter.
And just like that, the hope got extinguished before it even had a chance to breathe.
There's no flame—yet—but the sound of it blasted through the silence like a gunshot.
He holds the lighter up, eyes locked on mine behind that fucking mask.
Like a daring me to try anything stupid.
That's when the short one shifts his footing—just a step, subtle—I see it.
A big iron on his hip. A Crowbar, actually.
Great.
This was going to get ugly.
---
I lunged at the tall one—Fist first.
He flinched—pulled back—but not fast enough.
My fist connected with his wrist—with a dull crack—making the lighter yeet itself from his hand.
The lighter clattered against the ground—skidding out of view.
"Shit!" He screeched, stumbling back—clutching his arm.
For a second, I just stood there, fists trembling—Not out of anger, but from the part of me that hated violence.
But before I could steady myself, the short one used his turn to attack.
He yanked the crowbar from his belt, and started swinging.
I twisted fast, barely managing to catch the blow on my forearm instead of my ribs, deflecting it—sideways.
The impact rattled through my arm—white-hot pain flaring up and down through my arm, numbing my fingers—and for a second, I staggered, but I bit it down.
No time for that.
He swung again—overhead.
I caught it—barely. Both hands managed to wrap around the metal just in time—the impact jolted down my arms, rattling my bones, again—My grip almost gave out, but I held on.
He's stronger than he looks, or, well... stronger than I thought he would be for someone his size.
I shifted my weight and yanked him towards me, throwing him off-balance. He stumbled, and my knee buried itself into his crotch—on accident.
He collapsed with a sharp wheeze, curling in on himself.
I winced on empathy. "Shit. Sorry dude, I didn't mean to—what? No! Fuck you."
It was a cheap shot, Sure.
But I don't fw Arsonists, besides he hit me with a crowbar. We're even.
Now, it's the tall one's turn.
He's pissed—probably from busting his partner's balls.
He comes at me, throwing a messy barrage of wild wide arcs.
All rage, no control.
I slipped in between them—weaving.
Then I tackled my shoulder into his gut, slamming him into a nearby dumpster—denting the metal on impact, making a loud clang echo across the alley.
He crumbles to the ground—like a ragdoll, wheezing hard—arms wrapped around his stomach.
I exhale, half a breath of relief.
Although, even through the bug-eyed mask, I can feel the look he's giving me.
Pain. Disbelief. Maybe even disgust.
Pretty sure he just puked in there. Gross...
"Dude, I warned you—that's on you."
I ducked—on instinct—just in time.
The crowbar slicing through the air where my head was a moment ago.
That was close. Way too close.
The short one is back on his feet already—eyes wild behind the mask.
And now he doesn't seem to mind to leave a dent in my skull.
Great.
I ducked under another one of his crowbar swings and drive my elbow straight into the mask—between the eyes.
It connects with a dull crack—dazing him.
As he stumbles back, I wrestle the crowbar out of his hands.
He groans and throws a desperate punch.
I intercept with the crowbar—his knuckles answer back with a worrying crunch.
He shrieks, and I swing low, the crowbar hooking behind his knee—He goes down hard, gasping for air afterwards.
I take a breather—Hands on my knees.
It isn't exhaustion—It's to steady myself.
My heart's racing like crazy, and that desire for violence, is crawling and itching under my skin.
Inhale, exhale. Rinse and repeat—Trying to get rid of it.
I toss the crowbar, far down the alley—letting it disappear into the dark.
It's moronic to throw away the only weapon, I know, but I don't wanna risk overdoing.
Then—BAM—A blur crashes into me from the side.
I hit the ground hard—knocking the lungs out of my air.
Before I can even blink, he's on me.
The tall one—furious and clearly not done—He straddles my chest, wraps both hands around my neck, and starts squeezing.
Paralyzed—My brain short-circuited, trying to catch up.
When it finally did, it came with the panic.
My hands shoot up, clawing at his arms, trying to pry them off.
No use—His adrenaline is probably on overclock.
My lungs screamed, my head got lightheaded as my vision started to narrow—dark stars twinkling in it.
Damn... I'm going to die again.
---
Nah, fuck dying.
I slam both fists into the insides of his elbows—the joints fold, fast and sharply.
I shoot upward like a spring, my forehead crashing into the bridge of his mask with every ounce of strength I could muster.
Pain flared across my skull—like firecrackers—but I didn't care, I needed this to work.
And thankfully, It did.
The left lens of his mask shattered, shards sprinkling against the grimmy floor.
He stumbles back off-balance—dazed.
I shove him to the side, and rolled on the opposite side—more of a tumble than anything.
Coughing violently afterwards—lungs clawing for oxygen. Each inhale feels like a stab on the throat and a punch to the ribs—but I was breathing.
I managed to stagger upright to my feet—Eyes locked on him. Fists clenched. My jaw tightens so hard it feels like my teeth might crack.
The short one's still down—but I'm not betting on him staying that way for long.
I swallow, trying to ease the rawness in my throat. "...Fuck you." I rasp—not angry, just done with this shit.
He shakes his head, slowly—trying to realign the world around him.
I can't let him, so I rushed him.
He throws a punch—It clipped off my forearm, as buried mine into his gut, right below the ribs.
On to the liver—The shutdown switch.
He lets out a muffled, choked grunt. Doubles over.
I walk around him—catching his collar with one hand as I go—and drive my elbow into his back.
Once. Twice.
He struggles and I shove him forward.
He slams into the dumpster—face-first—bouncing off of it and falling to his hands and knees.
"Huff huff... Why couldn't you just leave? Fuck!" I groaned—more than a little pissed off at this guy.
Then I stomped on his side.
He finally goes down completely—face against the grimy concrete, cheek pressed to the asphalt, tasting the puddle of garbage water.
He won't be getting up again tonight.
And just as I was taking another breather, I hear movement.
The short one, pushing himself up—unsteady—using the alley wall like a crutch.
I rushed him too. Kicking him in the chest.
The impact sends him to the floor, flat on his back. Groaning and gasping.
"Stay there..." I snarl—more of a plea than a command.
Breathe in. Breathe out—It catched in my throat for a second.
I'm shaking. Adrenaline or exhaustion, maybe even both.
---
I tried to wipe the sweat away, but I'm probably just smearing shit water across my forehead.
Whatever, I don't care anymore.
I crouch down next to him—his breath ragged under the mask.
He can't fight anymore. Just lies there, still conscious.
"Let's see who these two arsonist really are." I mutter, more to myself than him.
My fingers hook under the edge of his gas mask—slick with sweat. And yank it off with one pull.
"...You're one ugly motherfucker." He looked to be in his... 40's? Nose clearly broken—probably from my elbow. He looked grimmy too—Long, wild and greasy hairs. Eyes sunken like he hasn't sleeped in weeks.
Like the type of guy you'd cross the street to avoid—I'm assuming the other guy looks the same. but that doesn't answer the question still buzzing in my skull.
Why is a couple of homeless man trying to burn a bar? And how is that not the start of a lame joke?
"Alright, Grizzly Adams." I snap my fingers in front of his face. "Start talking. Is this some kind of twisted love triangle? Bar owner dumped you and your buddy? Was he your sugar daddy?"
He glares up at me, blood leaking from his nose to his lips.
"You're just a kid." he croaks. "You have no idea who you're messing wi—"
Smack—A clean slap that shuts him up real quick.
"Yeah yeah, spooky voice, save it, will you? I don't need your lame ass vague threat. Tell me why."
A bitter frown curls across his face.
He looks over to his partner, still on the ground, then back at me. "You dumb fucking kid..." He barks. "Soon, everything you hold dear will burn. And from the ash—"
I roll my eyes and cut him off again. "And from the ashes you'll rise like a phoenix, blah blah blah. Save it for your cult. Look, man. You got your ass handed to you by someone not even half your age, your fancy words don't mean shit." I raised my eyebrows in mock surprise.
His face twists in offense, like I slapped him again. "It's not a cult."
I raise an eyebrow. "That's what your crayon-written commandments says?"
"It's NOT a cult." He spits out "The Blessed Flame cleanses. He will shows us this world's true beauty—with all it's sinners scorched. You just mock what you don't understand." He growls.
"No, I mock what's dumb." I snap back. "And this? This is dumb with a capital D. If you're gonna cosplay as Pyro, the least you can do is not sound like a lame villain from Scooby Doo."
I kneel closer, tilting my head. "Besides, this whole Cult thingy? I get it. You're old and lonely and ugly and probably got kicked out of a Reddit forum… but don't you think—maybe—that it's a little immature? Like you, Little."
"I'm not—It's not—I—" he stammers, until it boils over, and it shows in his face. "IT'S NOT A CULT! The blessed flame will show you! When the Crimson Hour comes, you'll see!"
He spits blood at the ground near my foot, real mad.
Rage-baiting really works on this guy for interrogation.
Nah, actually, Imma be honest—it's just mad funny watching him foam while I trash talk him.
I stare at him for a beat, then shrug with the driest voice I can muster while maintaining a straight face. "Yup. That's a cult, little man."
He snarls, jaw clenched, but all the fight's gone from his limbs.
All he's got left is spit and spite.
I stand and back off a bit, trying to piece it together while he tries to worm upright.
Blessed Flame? Crimson Hour?
Tch, If it is Him behind all this... It's BAD.
I have to make sure...
"So..." I say, squatting beside him again, eyes narrowed. "The Blessed Flame, eh? Who's he anyway? Is that your twisted version of Jesus or something?"
No answer. His jaw twitches, and the twitch behind his eye gives him away.
"Silent treatment, huh?" I snap my fingers in his face. "Real mature. Oh wait, you mad? Is that it? C'mon. Talk."
I shift my weight, elbows resting on my knees. Close enough to be uncomfortable for both.
"...Cletus Kassady." I say, voice almost a whisper.
His eyes flash wide—Surprise. Recognition.
And under that? Pride—Sick pride.
He opens his mouth—maybe to protest, maybe to bullshit, maybe to pledge eternal loyalty to that psycho.
"Got it, it's him, huh? Shit..." My stomach knots. I knew it. "I suppose you're not gonna tell me where you little cult meets, right?"
He sneers. Starts to suck in air—probably to spit blood at me again.
So I punch him once, fast and clean on the nose.
He slumps back with a wheeze.
"That's alright. I already got more info than I thought I could get. Thanks for that, little man"
---
But then—sirens.
Then growing louder. Fast.
Shit.
I freeze for half a second, head snapping towards where the blue and red lights splash against the wet brick as the cops rounds the corner.
"Aw, come on…"
There's shouting. Footsteps slapping pavement.
I don't think I got a "Get out of jail free" card this time.
I mean, I could probably try to explain—Show them the masks, the crowbar, the damn trail of gasoline.
But that's time I don't have, and I don't wanna risk it either.
I sprint—leaping over the tall one's limp body.
The end of the alley's rushing up fast.
And waiting for me?
A tall-ass chain-link fence.
Behind me, I hear the cops shouting.
"Hands where we can see 'em!"
"Get down—hey! HEY!"
Yeah, no thanks.
I run faster, legs burning. I plant my foot near the dumpster, ready to climb the rest of the fence like a sane person.
But instead—
I launch.
Way more than I meant to.
Way More than I should be able to.
I clear the fence. Almost.
My shin clips the top rail and it spins me midair
But instead of eating pavement, I twist—on instinct—landing a rough roll that cushions the fall.
I end up on one knee, staggering for a second, looking back at the fence—checking the height of it.
What the fuck was that?
My heart's racing, lungs burning—voices barking behind me.
No time to ask questions.
I'm already up and running again—ducking into narrow streets and swimming through the shadows.
Was it adrenaline? I don't know.
But whatever just kicked in?
It saved my ass.
As I run, the short guy's words echo again in my head—The Crimson Hour.
'And I'll be there to ruin it.' huh?
Shit.
_______________________________________
Word count: 4.245
Hey there, dear readers.
I wanna apologize for the inactivity.
This chapter was the bane of my existence, I was trying to make it more profound, by adding some introspection for Wade, but I just couldn't.
It was either too corny or it didn't make sense at all.
So I just simplified to two lines and rolled with it, because if I didn't uploaded anything by today, I was going to keep feeling awful for weeks.
With that, I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Please comment, I'll be reading you all.
Sincerely, the author.
[Kick-Ass Pack]
Combat Skill (Basic): This skill comes with some basic fighting necessities—like sharper reflexes. But it's mostly aimed toward fighting with weapons. It didn't level up in that scrap with Stick because, no batons, no boost.