"Hey, Josh… aren't you a surprise"
It's Haze.
I turn slowly, phone still at my ear.
Haze is standing there, grin wide, my mother's phone held up next to his face. Steve tenses beside me, eyes flicking between Haze and the handset.
How is he here? My fingers clench around Steve's phone. Where's my mother? Why does he have her phone?
"H‑how are you here?" I force out, my voice thin.
"Why wouldn't I be here?" he replies, still speaking into the receiver, that nasty grin never leaving. "I'm here to investigate a Covenant spy." The word lands like a stone; Steve flinches. Why did he react like that?
"Where's my mother?" I ask again, and this time my voice is firmer than I expected.
Haze sighs and shrugs theatrically. "Lucky for you, the Red Ember bitch insisted on tagging along and interrogating her personally. I was going to wait—proper revenge and all—for that little stunt you pulled last night." His grin sharpens; his teeth flash.
He brushes a finger across the bandage on his stomach. "But then something even better came along." His voice goes cold. "I hope you didn't forget about your little knife trick." He leans in like he's savoring the memory. "Because I promise you… I have not."
My mom's safe, I think, a small wave of relief washing over me. Red Ember might interrogate her, might push her—but she's safe. I guess a small part of her believed me when I asked her to protect my mother.
My eyes steady on Haze. The panic fades, replaced by a strange calm.
"She's going to tell the truth," I say, forcing confidence into my voice. "She'll explain to Ember that I'm innocent. You can't get away with this."
"Oh?" he replies, smug grin curling. "You sure about that? Especially after all the evidence I found in your room?"
"Evidence?" I echo, confusion flickering across my face. "What are you talking about?"
"It's some real dark stuff you've been into, Josh," Haze says, stepping closer. "Occult sacrifices. Ritual books. Dismembered animals hidden in your room."
My breath catches. He keeps talking.
"I wonder if your friend knows he's helping a Covenant sympathizer," Haze adds, glancing toward Steve. "The Hero Association doesn't take Covenant matters lightly. Even aiding one can get you in serious trouble."
"I don't even know what the Covenant is," I snap back, confusion boiling over. "Are you still trying to frame me?"
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Steve frozen—unsure, afraid. His eyes dart between us.
Trying to make sense of things. His jaw tightens confliction in his eyse
"Hey, Josh," he says hesitantly. "This is serious stuff. You're not really connected… are you?"
A sharp pang of sadness hits me. Steve's questioning me?
"No, dude—what are you on?" I shoot back, voice tight.
He jolts a little, hands raised. "Sorry, man. I'm not suspecting you. It's just… this isn't a small matter. Of course I know you're not connected."
His tone softens, trying to reassure me. But the damage is already there.
Haze's grin widens. "You know what the Covenant is, don't you, boy?" he says, his tone almost cheerful.
"Oh, this is getting even more interesting. Who told you about them, boy? One of your parents a hero? Civilians shouldn't even know they exist."
He shifts direction slightly, turning toward Steve. "They hide among us—waiting, collecting sacrifices, converting followers. They target the weak... the hopeless... the poor." He spreads his arms dramatically at that last word.
That part stings. We're not well-off, sure—but we're not that poor. I grit my teeth at the insult.
Steve's fists clench tight, his knuckles whitening.
"They can be anyone," Haze continues, voice dripping with mock concern. "Your gardener, your teacher... your best friend. That's their mission—to seem harmless, so that when your guard drops, they strike."
The second he says strike, Steve moves. He throws a wild punch—raw, untrained—but it connects, snapping Haze's head to the side.
Caught off guard and without space to dodge, Haze stumbles. Steve drops low and tackles him, both of them crashing to the floor.
For a split second, I just stare—my brain struggling to process what's happening.
Haze grunts in pain, his bandaged wound tearing open as they roll. In a blur, he shifts on top of Steve, driving an elbow into his face. Steve's grip slackens.
Before I can think, my body takes over. I launch forward, grabbing Haze around the neck and yanking him backward.
He snarls, reaches behind him, and grabs a fistful of my hair. In one brutal motion, he heaves me over his shoulder and slams me to the floor beside Steve. The air rips out of my lungs as the room tilts around me.I reach for the broken lamp beside me. My fist closes around jagged glass; it slices into my palm as I swing it into Haze's face.
He reels, blood spattering. "AAGHHH!" he yells, stumbling back.
I roll to my side, push up, and rush him. My shoulder drives into his injured side. Hot blood slicks my sleeve as I shove; he loses his balance and slams into the kitchen counter.
"YOU LITTLE BITCH!" he roars, his hand snapping back and catching me at the top of my skull.
I fly into the wall. The room spins, but I can't stop—if he finishes me, he'll come for Steve next.
The ringing floods back. I cling to the wall, gasping.
"You'LL PAY FOR THIS," Haze snarls, stumbling toward me. Before I can react, he grabs my hoodie and hurls me across the room. I crash against the TV stand; the corner digs into my back and the stand topples, pain exploding through me.
The ringing in my ears intensifies, drowning everything else out. My vision blurs, but I can still make out Haze closing in. The sound is unbearable—thoughts scatter, instincts take over.
He grabs me by the hood, hauling me upright. The zipper bites into my throat, choking me. Pressure builds behind my eyes with every second that passes.
Without thinking, I jab my fingers at his eyes.
"ARRGHHH!" he screams, swinging wildly. His fist cracks across my face, splitting my lip open again. I taste blood—but I don't let go. I grit my teeth and dig harder, the ringing reaching a violent pitch, the pressure behind my eyes swelling until it feels like my skull will burst.
Then it happens.
A blinding surge erupts from inside me—like a rubber band snapping loose. Agony flashes through my head, sharp and splitting, as the invisible force explodes outward.
Haze is thrown backward, smashing into the kitchen counter. The wood buckles and collapses beneath him. The same force slams into me, flinging me into the wall with enough impact to leave a me-shaped dent.
I hit the floor hard. Pain radiates through my skull as I curl in on myself, barely conscious. The ringing still hasn't stopped.
I lay curled on the ground for a few minutes, the ringing finally easing. The pressure behind my eyes dulls from sharp pain to a deep, throbbing ache.
"Ugh." A groan slips out as I try to move. My vision's blurry, my head spinning, but I push myself up anyway. The last twelve hours hit me all at once, my body finally giving out. My arms shake, my knees buckle, and I collapse back to the floor.
To my left, I hear Steve groan—slowly coming to.
"Good morning, princess," I mumble with a weak chuckle. I've already given up trying to stand. If Haze is still moving, I'm done for. I've got nothing left.
"God, I think he broke my nose," Steve groans, his voice thick and nasal.
"I think he broke my back," I mutter back, then pause. "Not like that—that came out wrong."
"Hahaha, you got your back blown out," Steve laughs, sitting up shakily.
"Ugh," I groan again. I know he won't let that one go.
"Hey, man… what did you do? He's not moving," Steve says after a moment, his voice edged with concern.
I lift my head, vision swimming. Steve's holding onto the wall for balance, staring down at Haze.
"I–is he breathing?" I ask, my stomach dropping, a cold unease creeping up my spine.
"I don't know. Can't tell. There's blood… coming from his head," he says, fear cracking through his tone.
"Help me up," I whisper. "I can't move." The thought of what I might've done makes my stomach twist.
I hear Steve shuffle closer, stepping over the wreckage. "Your mom's gonna kill you," he jokes nervously, trying to distract himself from the blood pooling in my kitchen.
"Just help me up," I snap—quieter than I mean to, but firm. I need to see.
Steve steps into view—his lip split, nose crooked, blood dripping. He reaches out his hand.
For a split second, I freeze. Déjà vu. This is how it always is—Steve standing, offering a hand, and me on the ground, broken, needing help.
I swallow the sting of insecurity and take his hand. He pulls me up, letting me lean against him as I try to steady myself.
After a moment, I take a slow step forward, gripping Steve's sleeve for balance as we make our way to the kitchen.
And there he is—Haze—unmoving, blood pooling beneath him. The color drains from my face. Did I do this? No, he's fine. He has to be. There's no way he's dead. I tell myself that over and over. Yeah, he's just hurt. We'll call the cops, they'll bring an ambulance, they'll take him away. They'll say we did a good job—stopped a criminal, acted heroically. They'll take him to the hospital, then lock him up. Yeah… that's what's going to happen.
"I think he's dead," Steve whispers.
The words hit me like a sledgehammer. My thoughts shatter. My chest tightens as I start hyperventilating.
I just killed a man.
I just killed a hero.
My knees buckle, and I stumble forward. Steve tries to catch me, but he's too slow—I land beside Haze… or what's left of him.
My hands tremble. My head spins. I reach out, pressing my shaking fingers to his chest, desperate to feel a heartbeat, any sign of breath. Nothing. He's still.
I start shaking him—gently at first, then harder. Maybe if I just shake him enough, he'll wake up. Like restarting a machine, like CPR. Faster and faster I go, Steve's quiet behind me, just watching, frozen.
I give Haze—no, the body—one final shove, putting everything I have left into it. He rolls onto his back, and the motion sends a spray of blood across the tile. The wound on the back of his head comes into view—a deep, jagged dent where he hit the counter.
I fall back, eyes wide. Steve turns away, his face twisted with disgust.
I can't look at him. I don't want to see that same expression directed at me.
Leaning against the wall, I drag myself upright. My legs are weak, my breathing uneven.
It was him or me. Deep down, I knew this could happen. He wasn't going to let us live. It was self-defense. I didn't do anything wrong. I just wanted to survive. After everything he did—everything he threatened to do to my family—he got what he deserved.
"Good," I whisper.
The word barely leaves my lips, soft and broken. But what shocks me isn't the weakness in my voice—
It's that I mean it.
Steve's shocked face turns to me. "Good?" he repeats, hollow. "Josh—dude. You just killed someone. Not just anyone, a hero." Worry and panic spike in his voice. "We can't just pretend this didn't happen. There's a dead body—" He chokes on the words. "A dead person in your home, and all you can say is 'good'?" His breathing quickens; anger builds. "This is a human life. He had family. He was a person."
"He tried to kill us first, Steve!" I snap, irritation cutting through my shock. "He hurt me, he assaulted me, he threatened my mom. If we hadn't stopped him, it would be us on the floor right now. He wouldn't have held back. It was him or me." I jab a finger at the body. "It was him or you." I point at Steve to make it clear.
"I didn't want to kill him. I had no control. Why are you treating me like I wanted this?" I yell.
Steve slaps my hand away and crouches, hands going to his head. He rubs his hair like he's trying to pull the thought out of his skull. "I know, I know. It's just… we killed someone, dude. How do we explain this?"
I can hear the fear in him. He didn't ask for any of this—if I hadn't come to him this morning, he'd be at school, bored in class. This is my mess to carry.
"Don't worry. I'll tell them you had nothing to do with it. I'll defend you," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder to steady him. "Haze attacked. You were helping me—innocent."
He shrugs my hand off, irritated. He breathes in deep, voice shaky when he answers: "No. I had a part in this. I threw the first punch. You're not alone, Josh. Just—give me a minute to think."
"Okay," I say, empty. Too tired to argue. The ringing in my ears keeps everything foggy.
I walk toward the front door, glance back, and see Steve still crouched on the floor, breathing hard, trying to steady himself.
I walk away toward the front door, glancing back once. Steve's still crouched on the floor, breathing hard, trying to calm himself.
Outside, I slump against the wall and sit on the cold concrete.
It's over, I think in relief. It's finally over.
I close my eyes as exhaustion takes hold. The cuts, burns, and bruises from earlier all crash into me at once. My brain's too tired to register each one—the pain just settles somewhere deep, blending into me.
A sudden shove jolts me awake. Someone slams me to the ground, twisting my arms behind my back. My face scrapes against the cement.
"Ah—!" I grunt, dazed. Voices shout all around me, but everything's a blur. The weight on my back makes it hard to breathe, hard to think.
"YOU'RE… UNDER… ARREST… MURDER OF D-CLASS HERO!"
I catch fragments of the words through the noise. Cold metal snaps around my wrists, and I'm yanked up, shoved against the wall.
Slowly, things start to make sense—the flashing blue and white lights, officers flooding into my apartment. My body tenses as realization hits.
I'm being detained.
Through the chaos, I see officers leading Steve out in cuffs. We make brief eye contact. Fear flickers behind his eyes, but he forces it down.
"Don't resist. Just follow along," he says, trying to smile. "I called my mom. She'll take care of this."
An officer shoves him forward; he stumbles and disappears around the corner. Mine pushes me next, grabbing my hoodie and cuffs to keep me upright as I nearly lose my balance again.
We were escorted to the police vehicles in front of the building. Steve was shoved into the car first, his head banging against the top of the entrance.
A small part of me couldn't help but smirk. That's what you get for being so tall, I thought with a bit of amusement.
I was shoved in right after him, my face smashing into his bony shoulder.
"Mmghhh," I groaned.
Steve looked down at me with a smirk.
"Feeling comfortable there, princess?" he teased, annoyingly.
"Fuck you," I shot back, using my face to shove myself upright. Damn, who knew having your arms cuffed behind your back would wreck your balance so badly?
"Hey, man, listen," Steve whispered urgently, leaning closer. "I called my mom. She's going to get this handled. They found your mother—she's safe. She's with mine right now."
"Where was she?" I asked, still wobbling as the cop car accelerated.
"Red Ember was questioning her at the Hero Association building. Nothing's wrong. She's safe. I'm assuming she's confused and worried, but my mom will explain everything," he said.
"Look, don't say anything. Don't explain. Stay quiet. My mom's getting a lawyer for us. No matter what they say or show you… stay quiet," he continued, urgency creeping into his voice. "They found some stuff in your room… dark stuff. Don't defend yourself. Don't acknowledge it."
What did they find? My mind flashed back to Haze and his attempts to frame me. Shit—he must have planted fake evidence. My stomach twisted.
"You know it's not real, right?" I tried to explain. "He was trying to frame me—cover his own tracks—"
The cop car slammed around a sharp turn, throwing me sideways. I slid against the door. "Damn it. Who the hell decided to make these seats so slippery?" I finished with a frustrated groan.
"I know… I didn't doubt you. I was just caught off guard," Steve says, guilt threading his tone. "Don't worry. It'll be fine. That's what the law is for. They'll investigate, see the truth. Just have faith." His voice softens as he looks out the window. "They'll see it was self-defense. We didn't start it. We were just trying to survive—an accident."
"Yeah…" I murmur, turning away. But deep down, I know it wasn't just self-defense. It was always going to end this way—one of us dead. Me or Haze. It didn't matter how it started.
The rest of the ride passes in silence. My mind replays everything: getting mugged, chasing revenge, Red Ember, my powers awakening, and finally, the fight with Haze. Each memory crashes over me, trying to make sense of what's left.
Why did I leave my apartment? Why did I let pride drag me into this?
My fists clench behind my back, nails pressing into the open cut on my palm—the sting sharp, grounding me through the fog of dull pain. The only thing keeping me present.
Why was I so weak?
I glance at the window, catching my reflection in the glass. I look like hell—dried blood around my eyes, a busted swollen lip, purple bruises shadowing my face. My hair's a tangled mess. But something in my reflection is different—my eyes. They're harder now, colder. The eyes of a killer. No matter how much time passes, they'll never wash clean. My hands will never be clean again.