The first thing Lucas learned after the surgery was silence.
Not the peaceful kind — the kind that settled in when machines stopped beeping and visitors went home. The kind that made thoughts louder.
He lay in bed staring at the blanket draped neatly over where his legs used to be.
Gone.
His brain still tried to move them.
Every morning, he woke up expecting pain.
Every morning, there was nothing.
That was worse.
"You'll get used to it," the doctor said gently. "The prosthetics are advanced. You'll walk again."
Lucas nodded.
Walking wasn't the problem.
Standing was.
Physical therapy began a week later.
The prosthetics were sleek, powerful, and painfully impersonal. Cold metal met sensitive nerves. Every step felt borrowed.
"Again," the therapist said.
Lucas fell.
Again.
He bit down on his lip to keep from swearing.
Again.
Sweat soaked his shirt. His hands shook as he pushed himself upright.
"I'm fine," he said, even as his vision blurred.
The therapist didn't argue.
They never did.
Visitors came often.
Old friends. Rescue officials. Media representatives.
They told him how inspiring he was.
How brave.
How lucky.
Lucas smiled and thanked them.
After they left, he stared at the wall and wondered why bravery hurt so much.
His father visited once.
He stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped tightly.
"You did exactly what I taught you," his father said.
Lucas swallowed.
"That's the problem," Lucas replied quietly.
His father didn't understand.
At night, Lucas dreamed of falling.
Not screaming.
Just falling.
Over and over.
He always woke up before hitting the ground.
When he was finally discharged, Lucas returned home.
The house had been modified. Ramps. Railings. Safety systems.
Everything was easier.
Lucas felt heavier.
He tried to help around the house. To carry things. To fix what he could.
"Sit," his mother said gently. "We've got it."
He sat.
And hated it.
One evening, Lucas rolled himself onto the balcony and looked out over Raventon.
The city lights flickered steadily.
Safe.
Because he had stayed behind.
Lucas clenched his fists.
"If I can't run in," he murmured, "then I'll hold the line."
The words surprised him.
They felt… right.
That night, he started training again.
Upper body. Balance. Reaction speed.
He pushed until his arms gave out, then pushed more.
Pain, at least, made sense.
Months later, a representative from the Aegis Program arrived.
"We design adaptive combat frames," she said. "You have the mindset we need."
Lucas looked down at his prosthetics.
"I'm not fast," he said. "I'm not strong."
"You stayed," she replied. "That's stronger than most."
Lucas closed his eyes.
Staying had cost him everything.
But it had saved others.
"I'll do it," he said.
Not because he wanted to fight.
But because if someone had to stand between danger and the helpless…
It might as well be him.