The ground never came.
Instead, I slammed into something solid-arms wrapping around me like a vice, the scent of smoke and something faintly metallic flooding my senses. Dreck. His grip was tighter than I expected, his breath ragged against my ear. For a heartbeat, I let myself freeze, too stunned to fight.
Then his hands caught me, the tattoos flared again. and the universe split.
A sound like shattering glass exploded between my temples. Suddenly, I wasn't in his arms. Wasn't even me.
I stood in a hallway of mirrors, each reflection a different version of myself-one with hollow eyes and bloodied hands, another with skin peeled back to reveal glowing tattoos pulsing like a second heartbeat. At the end, the door I saw at the changing room or dreamed of, or whatever. But wait is that... a girl!
"Taty!" Dreck's voice yanked me back, his fingers digging into my shoulders. Reality slammed into place: the smell of burned wood, the ache in my ribs from the fall, his eyes-normal now, no purple, no flicker-wide with panic.
My tattoos stopped burning.
I gasped, clawing at my own arms. "What the hell was that?"
"I don't know, but... I don't hear his voice anymore." His thumb brushed my wrist-then he started laughing hysterically.
"Are you back?" A sob cracked my voice.
"I never left." He reached to hug me, but I shoved him away.
"I'm not ready for this bullshit, Dreck. I've got other bullshit to deal with-like understanding what the fuck is happening!" My rage boiled over, raw and shaking.
"Easy now," he smirked. "We don't want you on fire again."
I scrambled to my feet.
I didn't know what had just happened, but somehow, my powers reacted with Dreck. When his eyes were purple, my tattoos burned like a warning. This time, though, I'd done something. His eyes were normal again. Did I... heal him? Kill the infection? Oh god, I don't even have words for this. But the moment his eyes cleared, my tattoos stopped burning. That had to mean something. Safety. A ceasefire.
"I need to check on Mom," I said, pushing past him.
"You really think that's a good idea?" he argued.
"What do you mean? My mom is hurt. I hu-" I choked on the word. I hurt her. "I have to see her."
I stormed into the house.
Mom sat on the sofa, Dad crouched beside her, carefully applying ointment to her hands. Her blistered hands. I couldn't look. Couldn't breathe. The guilt was a living thing, gnawing through my ribs. She'd been crying-tear tracks glistened on her cheeks.
Please don't be scared of me. The prayer looped in my skull. Please don't hate me. Please still be my mom.
"Mama," I whispered.
Dad kept murmuring, blocking her from view.
"Mama," I tried again, louder.
She looked up.
Time slowed. My heart pounded so hard I felt it in my knees. I was ready to run-ready to disappear if I saw even a flicker of fear in her eyes.
"Tat," she said softly. "Come here, daughter."
That shattered me.
"Mama!" I ran to her, sobbing like a four-year-old who still needed her mother's arms. "I'm sorry," I choked out, collapsing at her feet. I didn't dare touch her. I didn't trust myself to touch anything.
Mom started to say, "Honey-"
But Dad cut in, his voice ice. "I don't know what the hell is happening, but I need you to go to your room. I don't want to see your face right now." He didn't even glance up from bandaging Mom's hands.
His words were a knife to the heart-if I even still had one.
I stood there, silent. For the first time, I didn't argue.
Because he was right to fear me.
To push me away.
I was a monster.