The door opened with a softer creak this time.
Tod didn't look right away.
He didn't need to.
He recognised the smell of sawdust, and soap.
The footsteps were slower than the nurse's. Heavier. Familiar in a way that made his chest ache before his mind could catch up. A chair scraped gently against the floor, careful not to wake Lily, and then the weight of someone sitting beside him settled into the space like it belonged there.
Silence followed.
Not the uncomfortable kind. The kind that didn't demand anything.
Tod stared at the ceiling, eyes burning but dry, his thoughts looping back on themselves again and again. The missing arm throbbed dully beneath the bandages, phantom fingers itching in a way that made him want to scream. His throat felt tight. Empty. Like something had been scooped out and never put back.
He didn't turn his head.
Hank didn't push him to.
After a while, Hank spoke, his voice low and rough around the edges.
"You scared the hell outta me, kid."
Tod swallowed.
"I messed up," he whispered. His voice sounded smaller than he felt. "I hurt him. I— I didn't mean to. I just— I lost control."
Hank leaned back slightly in the chair, arms resting on his knees. Tod could feel him there, solid and real, anchoring the room.
"I know," Hank said simply.
That wasn't condemnation. It wasn't dismissal.
Just understanding.
Tod's chest hitched despite his effort to stay quiet. "They took my arm," he said, the words cracking apart. "They didn't even ask me. They just— decided."
Hank nodded, even though Tod wasn't looking. "Yeah. I know."
"I can still feel it," Tod whispered. "It hurts, and it itches, and I can't— I can't do anything about it." His breath shook. "What if I don't grow it back? What if this is it?"
The chair creaked as Hank leaned closer.
Then, very gently, Hank reached out and rested a hand over the blanket near Tod's shoulder. Not on the bandages. Not on the space that hurt.
Just near him.
"Tod," Hank said quietly, "I'm proud of you."
The words didn't register at first.
Tod frowned faintly. "What?"
"I'm proud of you," Hank repeated. His voice was steady now. Certain. "You didn't run. You didn't shut down. You didn't let what happened turn you into something ugly."
Tod's eyes finally turned toward him.
Hank met his gaze without flinching.
"You cared about the other kid," Hank continued. "Even after everything. Even after what it cost you. That matters."
Tod's lips trembled. "But I almost killed him."
"But you didn't," Hank said gently. "You stopped. You survived. He survived. And you're here."
Hank exhaled slowly.
"Bad things happening doesn't make you bad."
The tears came then.
Quiet ones. The kind that slid down into his hairline and soaked into the pillow instead of falling freely. Tod turned his face away, embarrassed, but Hank didn't comment. Didn't move away.
"I'm scared," Tod admitted, his voice barely audible. "I don't want to hurt anyone again."
Hank squeezed his shoulder lightly. "That fear means you won't."
They sat there like that for a while. Lily stirred once in her sleep but didn't wake, her breathing evening out again as if she trusted the room to stay safe.
Eventually, Hank reached into his pocket.
"I brought you something," he said softly.
He placed it on the bedside table, close enough that Tod could see it without moving much.
A small keychain.
It was a sandcastle—tiny towers and walls carved with simple care, a little uneven, like it had been made by someone who tried very hard. The metal loop glinted faintly under the hospital lights.
Tod stared at it, confused. "What…?"
"It's from Hope," Hank said.
Tod's breath caught.
"She sent it to the orphanage," Hank continued. "Wanted to make sure you got it. Said she found it with her new family and thought of you."
Hank smiled, small and tired but warm.
"She said sandcastles don't last forever," he added. "But that doesn't mean they weren't real. Or important."
Tod reached out with his good hand and curled his fingers around the keychain.
It was cool. Solid.
Real.
Hank stood slowly. "I'll let you rest," he said. "I'll be back tomorrow."
He paused at the door.
"I love you, Tod."
The words stayed long after Hank left.
Tod lay there, Lily sleeping nearby, the machines humming softly around him. He held the sandcastle tight against his chest, feeling something fragile but steady take root beneath the pain.
For the first time since waking up, the room didn't feel so empty.
Tod's POV
The door had closed behind Hank a while ago, but his words still hung in the air like warmth from a fire that hadn't quite gone out.
I clutched the sandcastle keychain tighter, the cool metal pressing into my palm. It helped. A little.
Lily shifted in the chair beside me.
I glanced over. Her eyes were open now, glassy and tired, watching me with that steady look she always had—like she was figuring out a puzzle but didn't mind if it took time.
"You awake?" she asked, voice scratchy from sleep.
I nodded. Couldn't find words yet.
She sat up slowly, rubbing her neck. "Hospital chairs suck. Feel like I got folded up
and put away wrong." A pause. "Kinda like me on a bad day."
i tried to smile but the way my lower face is i dont have the skin or mucles to smile, but i could squint my eyes a bit to show i thought it was a amusing.
Lily leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "You look like crap, Tod."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"Welcome." She grinned, but it faded fast. The room went quiet again, just the beeps and my breathing.
She stared at the blanket over my shoulder—the empty space where my arm should've been.
"They really took it, huh?"
". . .Yeah."
Silence stretched. Not awkward. Just… heavy.
Lily exhaled. "I'm sorry."
I blinked. "For what?"
"For… everything." She shrugged one shoulder, like it was obvious. "For Slade being a jerk. For you having to be the one who stopped him. For this." She nodded at my bandages. "You didn't have to do that. Stand up for us like that."
I looked away. "Someone had to."
"Yeah. But it should've been me. Or Hank. Or anyone bigger." Her voice dropped.
"Not you. Not when it cost…"
She trailed off.
I swallowed. "I couldn't just watch anymore."
Lily nodded slow. Then she stood—careful, like the floor might break—and moved to the bed. Sat on the edge, close enough I could feel her there.
"You're a dumbass," she said softly.
I huffed a laugh. It hurt.
"But you're my dumbass." She reached out, hesitated, then took my good hand in both of hers. Her fingers felt cool. Jointed. Real. "You stood up for me. For Luke. For Hope. For all of us. Even when it hurt you worst."
Her eyes met mine—clear, no joking now.
"You're my hero, Tod."
The words hit harder than I expected.
Simple. Quiet.
True.
Tears pricked again, but I didn't fight them this time.
Lily leaned in careful—mindful of tubes and bandages—and hugged me. One-armed from my side, both from hers. Her head rested light against my good shoulder.
We stayed like that.
No more words.
Just the beeps, and breathing, and the feeling—like for a minute—the world wasn't ending.
Like I wasn't alone.
Hank's POV
Hank rounded the corner toward Slade's room, his boots heavy on the linoleum. The hospital smell—antiseptic and stale coffee—clung to everything. He just needed to see the boy. Make sure he was breathing. Make sure both his kids were still in this world.
A voice stopped him.
"Mr. Jhones?"
He turned. Two people waited in the hallway: a woman in a neat suit
"We need a word," the woman said. "Privately."
Hank's gut tightened, but he nodded. They led him into a small consult room—beige walls, no windows. He stayed standing. They sat.
The woman folded her hands. "We've reviewed the incident report from St. Lia's. The altercation between Todd Smith and Slade [LastName]."
Hank's jaw flexed. "It wasn't an altercation. Slade's been hurting the younger kids for years. Tod finally stood up."
The man with the clipboard didn't look up. "Be that as it may, Todd's quirk manifestation resulted in catastrophic injury to both parties. His file has been flagged high-risk under the Children's Quirk Safety Restructuring Act."
Hank's voice stayed low. "He's nine years old."
The woman nodded sympathetically—too sympathetically. "Which is why we're acting now, before further incidents. For his safety…and the safety of the other children."she smiled soflty " "before he turns ten soon. before he gets stronger and more aggresive." she spoke as if all she was saying was destined to be.
Hank leaned forward slightly. "He protected them. That's what he did."
The man finally met his eyes. "The law is clear. Uncontrolled quirks in group care settings require specialized placement. We have a facility equipped for cases like his—secure monitoring, individualized control training."
Hank's fists clenched at his sides. "You mean a prison for kids who scare you."
The woman's smile didn't waver. "It's a therapeutic environment. The alternative is continued operation of St. Lia's under probation—full audits, funding review, and immediate closure if another incident occurs."
Silence stretched.
Hank's voice dropped further, rough around the edges. "You're telling me I lose one of my boy's… or I lose all of them."
"It's not personal, Mr. Jhones," the man said. "It's protocol."
Hank took a slow breath. When he spoke again, it was quiet—but the room felt smaller.
"That boy in there?" He nodded toward the hall. "The one with the crushed arm? He just woke up thinking he's a monster because he stood up for kids too small to stand up for themselves. And you're punishing him for it."
The woman shifted. "We're protecting—"
"Protecting?" Hank cut in, voice still low but edged now. "From what? From having a family? From someone who gives a damn?"
He stepped closer, towering without trying.
"I've pulled kids out of burning buildings. I've held them while they cried because the world decided they were too different. I'm not handing Tod over to some cold facility where they'll teach him to hate what he is. He's my son. You want him? You'll have to go through me."
The officials exchanged a glance.
The man cleared his throat. "We'll need your signature by end of week. For the transfer."
Hank didn't answer. He just turned and walked out, the door closing harder than he meant.
In the hallway, he leaned against the wall, breathing slow.
They weren't taking his boy.
Not without a fight.
3rd POV
Mia stood in the kitchen, sunlight spilling through the window and settling across the counter where she worked. The knife moved in slow, careful rhythms as she chopped vegetables, the soft tap, tap against the cutting board almost meditative.
Normally, this was her favorite part of the day.
Today, her thoughts wouldn't stay still.
They drifted—unwanted but persistent—back to two boys lying in hospital beds.
Tod. Slade.
Her hands didn't falter, but her chest ached. Children weren't meant to know that kind of pain. They weren't meant to bleed for being different, or to carry anger heavy enough to crush them from the inside out.
Yes, they had hurt each other.
Yes, something terrible had happened.
But love wasn't something that broke just because it was tested.
Mia loved Tod. She loved Slade. She loved all of them—the quiet ones, the loud ones, the broken ones, the ones who didn't yet know how to ask for help. Love didn't weigh the good against the bad. It simply stayed.
She exhaled softly, wings giving a small, unconscious flutter as she turned the vegetables into neat piles.
A sudden patter of footsteps snapped her from her thoughts.
"Miz Jhones!"
She turned just in time to see one of the newer children barreling into the kitchen, nearly tripping over his own feet. José had only turned five a few weeks ago, all elbows and energy, his large curled horns making him wobble as he ran. His skin glowed a warm red hue, flushed darker with excitement.
He stopped in front of her, rocking on his tiptoes, unable to hold still.
"There's someone at the door!" he announced loudly, beaming up at her like he'd delivered the most important news in the world.
Mia smiled instantly, the kind of smile that lived in her eyes as much as her lips.
"Thank you, José," she said gently. "You did very well. Now go run along, alright?"
He nodded enthusiastically and took off again, his laughter echoing down the hallway.
Mia set the knife down carefully and washed her hands, drying them on a towel she'd folded a thousand times before. As she walked toward the front of the house, her wings lifted slightly, fluttering with a quiet, nervous energy she didn't bother to suppress.
Visitors rarely came unannounced.
The door felt heavier than usual as she opened it.
Two people stood on the porch—a man and a woman, both dressed neatly in dark suits. Their smiles were polite, practiced, but not unkind. Clipboards were tucked under their arms, their posture calm and professional.
Mia's heart sank just a little.
"Hello, Mrs. Jhones," the woman said warmly. "We were hoping to speak with you."
Mia returned the smile, though her wings stilled behind her. "Of course," she replied softly.
The man glanced down at his notes before looking back up.
"We'd like to discuss Tod Smith," he said, voice even and careful, "and his relocation process."
The words settled between them, heavy and final.
Mia's smile didn't fade, but something in her eyes did.
And for the first time that day, her hands trembled.