Tod woke to the steady, unfamiliar sound of beeping.
It took him a moment to realize it wasn't inside his head.
His eyes fluttered open, light pressing against them too harsh and too white. The ceiling above him was smooth and spotless, broken only by long fluorescent panels that hummed softly. The air smelled clean—too clean. Sharp, sterile.
A hospital.
That thought came slowly, sluggish and heavy, like his mind was wading through thick water.
His body felt wrong.
Numb in some places. Burning in others. He tried to move, only to realize he couldn't—not without pain blooming through him in waves. Tubes were taped to his arms and chest, IV lines snaking away from him, monitors quietly keeping track of things he didn't fully understand.
"What…?" he tried to whisper, but his throat was dry, his voice barely there.
Confusion crept in first.
What the hell happened?
Why does everything hurt?
And then it all crashed back into him at once.
Slade.
The yard. The screaming. The weight of his own body changing, the instincts clawing at his thoughts. The sound—that sound—when his arm gave way. He could still feel it, sharp and vivid, like it had just happened seconds ago.
His breathing picked up.
Slowly, carefully, Tod turned his head and looked down at himself.
That was when he noticed it.
Or rather… when he didn't.
His arm wasn't where it should have been.
There was a thick bundle of bandages instead, wrapped tight and suspended, his shoulder oddly light in a way that made his stomach twist. He could feel his arm—every nerve screaming, itching, burning—but his eyes couldn't find it.
Panic surged through him, hot and sudden.
It hurt more the moment he noticed. Like his body realized it was supposed to hurt and decided to remind him all at once. A deep, aching burn settled into the space where his arm should have been, and his hand—his missing hand—itched fiercely.
He tried to scratch it.
Nothing happened.
His breath hitched.
The room felt smaller. Too tight.
Then, softly, he heard someone shift beside him.
A familiar presence.
Lily.
She was slumped in the chair next to his bed, curled in on herself in a way Tod had never seen before. Her head was tilted awkwardly, her body still except for the slow rise and fall of her breathing. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, the skin around them red and swollen—like she'd been crying.
That… didn't feel real.
Tod had never seen Lily cry. Never seen her worry. She was always steady, always joking, always acting like nothing could really touch her. Like she was built to take things without flinching.
But here she was.
Staying.
Waiting.
Something tight twisted in his chest.
"What a weird sight," he thought distantly, clinging to the thought just to keep himself grounded.
As if the day was determined to keep its strange timing, the door to the room opened quietly.
A nurse stepped inside, her movements practiced and calm, like this was just another room on a long list. She glanced at her clipboard as she walked, then looked up—and paused when she saw Tod's eyes open.
There was a flicker of surprise. Just a flicker.
It vanished almost immediately, replaced by a professional smile.
"I'll let Dr. Cage know you're awake," she said gently. "And I'll inform your caretakers as well."
Before Tod could respond—before he could even figure out what he wanted to say—she turned and slipped back out of the room, the door clicking softly shut behind her.
The beeping continued.
Lily slept on.
A small thought surfaced through the haze.
It felt… nice.
Nice that the nurse hadn't reacted to his face with disgust. Nice that the flicker of surprise had been because he was awake—not because of how he looked. It was a small thing, barely worth noticing, and yet it settled in his chest all the same. A quiet relief he hadn't realized he was bracing for until it never came.
He let that thought linger for a moment longer than he probably should have.
Then the door opened again.
A doctor stepped inside.
He was tall, blond, and middle-aged, with neatly combed hair and a trimmed mustache that looked more decorative than friendly. He didn't have the kind of face that smiled easily. No warmth in his eyes. No candy-in-the-pocket energy. He looked like the kind of man who delivered bad news for a living and slept just fine afterward.
He glanced at Tod only briefly before lowering his eyes to the clipboard in his hands.
"Tod Smith," he began, voice flat and clinical. "Quirk: Animal Aspect. Born April sixteenth, two-thousand-four."
Each word felt like it was being filed away instead of spoken to a person.
"The report states that you and another child were involved in a… scuffle." The word sounded wrong coming out of his mouth, like it didn't belong there. "During the altercation, your quirk backfired, resulting in catastrophic trauma to your arm."
Tod's remaining hand clenched at his words.
The doctor barely paused, flipping the page as if reading a grocery list.
"We attempted to save the limb. However, due to the extent of the damage—and the insurance limitations under Saint Lia's coverage—we were unable to authorize intensive reconstruction for two mutant patients simultaneously."
Tod felt the words hit him all at once.
Attempted.
Unable.
Limitations.
"With only modern medical technology available, and given the insurance you're currently under, amputation was deemed the most viable option. The procedure was performed while you were unconscious. You've been under observation for the last two days."
Two days.
Gone.
The doctor didn't look at him when he said it.
It was obvious then—painfully obvious—that the man wasn't here to explain, or comfort, or even apologize. He was here to inform. To say what needed to be said and move on to the next room.
He flipped the clipboard over again.
"We are aware that your quirk demonstrates regenerative properties," he continued. "It is possible—possible—that with time and proper understanding of your ability, regrowth could occur. However, given the degree of nerve damage sustained, even successful regeneration would have likely resulted in permanent paralysis."
He finally looked up.
"We acted in your best interest. Within your budget."
Cold. Efficient. Final.
Tod could feel it—something sour and empty rolling off the man, like stale air. People gave off feelings. Smells. Vibes. Tod had always been good at noticing those things, even before he understood why.
This man didn't care.
All Tod was to him was a chart. A cost. A risk assessment.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, trying to absorb what had been taken from him. Trying not to think about the space where his arm should be. Trying not to think about the burning itch that still screamed through nerves that no longer had anything to connect to.
The doctor turned toward the door.
"Mr. Jhones has been notified," he said. "He'll be arriving shortly."
Before he could leave, Tod forced himself to speak.
"How is Slade?"
The question surprised even him.
He didn't like Slade. He didn't forgive him. But wishing this kind of pain on someone else—anyone—made his stomach twist.
The doctor paused, hand on the door.
Then he turned back, eyes tired now instead of detached.
"He's stable," he said. "He arrived in critical condition. Collapsed lung. Severe chest trauma. He survived surgery."
Tod's breath caught.
"Mr. and Mrs. Jhones allocated the majority of the orphanage's emergency insurance toward quirk-related surgical care," the doctor continued. "Without it, his injuries would have been permanent. He would've required constant medical supervision."
He hesitated.
"The orphange made the correct allocation of resources. . . the rest of them payments came out of Mr, and Mrs. jhones's pockets "
The doctor left after that.
The room felt quieter somehow.
Tod lay there, staring at nothing, the weight of it all finally settling in.
He had nearly killed someone.
Not a villain. Not a monster.
A kid.
A bully, yes—but a kid who lashed out because he felt unwanted. Because he felt cornered. Because pain had nowhere else to go.
I did this, Tod thought.
His chest felt tight.
Maybe Slade had been right all along.
Maybe this—him—was something dangerous. Something broken.
Maybe he really was a freak.
The thought lingered, heavy and bitter, as the machines continued to beep beside him and Lily slept on, unaware of the storm quietly tearing through his mind.