Taking the bus as a Supervillain was humbling.

He could've gone as Wesley, but he'd been worried about where he'd change into his Phantom getup in the process of leaving the bus and entering Iris's home. She'd told him to show up in his alter ego's clothes, since her brother was home, and the risk hadn't been worth any reward. He could've taken the car, too, but since the thing still hadn't been cleaned out since Martin puked in it, he'd decided public transit would have to do.

He instantly regretted every decision he'd made. His outfit, which already tended to get him a decent amount of attention, after Evan Crawford's newest press release, was now the subject of whispers from damn near everyone aboard the bus, frightful stares that he tried to appear worthy of and parents hugging their children tight as they got off stops that weren't their own.

As if he'd cause public chaos. That was more the Buzzer's style. Wesley's crimes were more targeted — less room for error.

Still, people stared at him as though expecting him to explode on the spot, the eyes only easing up once he got off the street nearest to Iris's house and strode the remaining few blocks of the well-to-do suburbs and to her home, head in the clouds as he did.

Maybe he should've been focused on his surroundings, rather than reciting ways to break the news of Evan Crawford to Iris in his head, unable to settle on one that felt right. Everything came off wrong — too blunt or too soft or too patronizing or too disconnected.

He'd approached the driveway to the house he recalled as hers, the beautiful garden and a shiny BMW parked in the driveway, when he came to a halt. His thoughts had occupied every ounce of his attention, rather than the world he wandered through, only jerked out of them when his gaze settled on Brayden Berry, hand placed atop the door as he knocked over and over.

His instinct was to run.

But Wesley wasn't Wesley right now, he reminded himself with a hand tracing the outline of his mask. He was the Phantom, and the Phantom was undefeated.

"Clearly no one's home, asshole."

Brayden spun around, eyes narrowing in on Wesley. Not at all shocked by his presence — like the rest of the world, he must've seen Iris's post. Knew precisely why the Phantom was there.

"Then why are you here?" He shot back, taking a step down the path and in Wesley's direction. "Unless you're robbing your new girl's home. Wouldn't put it past you, getting revenge on Evan Crawford by raiding his home — and fucking his daughter. It's clever, I'll give you credit for that."

His jaw shifted, the urge to defend himself, defend Iris, coming and going. The only thing holding him back being a knowledge that it was exactly what Brayden wanted from him — a denial. A reaction.

So, he ignored the statement entirely. "I'll correct myself — whoever's home wants nothing to do with you, as can be seen by the fact that they haven't answered you." Through his mask, he stared long and hard at the Hero, at his lifelong bully. "So fuck off, yeah?"

"Fuck off," Brayden repeated, crossing his arms over his chest. "You don't scare me, Phantom. Especially now that I know you're fine with sloppy seconds."

The disrespect felt like a whip — not towards Wesley, but towards Iris, who he wanted nothing more than to stand in the line of verbal fire for. Not out of obligation, though he supposed he had that too, but genuine disgust at what was being implied.

Hands curling into fists, it took every ounce of self control not to swing in the direction of the boy in front of him.

Instead, he cocked his head to the side, trying not to let the severity of his defensive urges shine through. "Jealous?"

"Been there, done that." He nudged his chin towards the door he'd been pounding on. "There's a reason I moved on. Good luck with that one. She's a fucking handful."

"Moved on? Then what are you doing here?"

"Confirming rumors." His gaze scaled Wesley, who struggled not to shrink beneath the look of disdain. "Which I see don't need any further proof. You've truly sunk so low, Phantom. To think, I actually had respect for you."

"Iris is—"

"Insane," he filled for Wesley, who'd had a dozen other adjective working their way up. "I'm serious. Take this as a warning — bro to bro."

"I'm not your bro."

"That's for sure." Brayden barked a laugh, the wind catching through his dark hair, sending it in waves behind him. He looked the part as Hero, with his strong stature and hair like a movie, but his insides, Wesley knew, were as malevolent as they came. "Iris Crawford has more issues than you will know what to do with. There comes a point."

"Shut up," was all Wesley could think of to say, mind too entranced with adding up the various tales told of the girl he'd thought so perfect. Her father calling her mentally ill, now Brayden backing up that claim with professions of issues.

Everyone had issues. Wesley sure did. He could feel them emerging in this very moment.

But Iris had seemed so untouchable.

If Wesley was under this impression, who else was? Was she getting the protection, the help, the grace she deserved? What everyone else received, was she lacking due to external perception?

"Shut up?" Brayden repeated alongside a scoff, and a shake of his head. "I'm so scared." Another step taken in Wesley's direction, until there was little more than a foot separating the two men. "You used to have my respect, Phantom. Seriously. But knowing how low you bring your dick—"

He didn't let the bastard finish his sentence.

The anger he'd had rapidly rising in him, towards the Inferno and the mutiny he'd led, towards Evan Crawford, towards everyone who compared him to his mother, towards his own father for the expectations placed on his shoulder, towards the world as a whole, accumulated in his right hand, as his fist pummeled towards Brayden's cheek.

He knew what was coming. Dodged it with ease, ducking and causing Wesley to lose his balance, before his own fist came charging into Wesley's jaw.

Pain flared the moment the punch landed. The taste of blood infected his tongue, fueling further rage as he hit back, harder.

This one didn't miss.

It was hard enough that his own hand ached after the contact with Brayden's cheekbone, but it paled in comparison to the frustration he felt seeping out of him with every passing second of violence.

It hurt, the emotions he'd lost control of. To the bone, it hurt like he'd never hurt before.

Wesley had long ago prided himself on self control, never reacting out of what was appropriate. Though perhaps, he considered mid-punch, this one landing in Brayden's gut, that hadn't been the right way of going about it.

It wasn't the right way to become evil, being good.

Being walked all over at school had been a mask to his identity, no different than the physical one he wore now. But had it been worth it, letting himself be treated as poorly as he had been? By Brayden, by Helena, and even by Iris.

Wasn't this violence the only way out of mistreatment? Climbing up to the top?

Wasn't that what Villainy was all about?

Even now, he wasn't sure it was enough. Defending Iris was a noble cause, not an evil one, but he wasn't considering that when he'd leaped into action. All he'd been thinking was that everything over the past few days was too much, far too much, and only one way existed to get it all out.

Only one person he was willing to let suffer — the person who'd made his life a living hell.

The cruelty shown towards Iris was simply the catalyst. The breaking point.

Another hit, this one dodged by Brayden and returned with a vengeance.

"That all you got, Phantom?" A laugh shot from the Hero as his knuckles slammed into Wesley's cheek, the same spot the first hit had been, increasing the level of discomfort from an unpleasant ache to a prominent pain.

"Weak," Wesley spat.

Egging him on, for a reason he couldn't wrap his head around. What did it matter, this fight? He wasn't going to win, not when Brayden exceeded his strength by a mile. Backing out now would drain his pride, but only Brayden would know about his victory against the Phantom.

This wasn't public, this was personal.

And it could very well result in the Phantom's unmasking. With the way Brayden fought, he had no doubt that his victory would lead into his eye mask's removal.

Was defending Iris fucking Crawford's honor worth risking his identity?

Was his pride worth it?

Fuck it, it was.

When Brayden lunged for him, it wasn't an additional hit that followed, though it was clearly intended to be. Moments before he was about to strike, a yelp shook through Brayden, followed by him jerking backwards as far as he could go — maneuvering out of the way of a strong stream of water.

Shocked from a sudden surge of cold that splashed onto him, Wesley's head pivoted in the direction of the Crawford home.

Iris stood in the doorway, garden hose in hand, spinning it so the water was once again aimed at Brayden. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but heroes aren't supposed to trespass."

"Not a hero," he coughed as she withdrew the water, sending it pouring into the grass. Between shudders, he pushed himself back onto his feet, now drenched head to toe. "I'm here as Brayden, not the Raven..."

"Right. Then fuck off, Brayden." She waved the hose in warning. Though the threat wasn't directed at Wesley, he winced as though it had been, the droplets of water that had melted into his clothes causing him to shiver from the cold.

"Like I said," Brayden sputtered, directed not at Iris, but at Wesley. "Fucking insane."

And with that, he was lifted into the air, using his flight powers to propel himself as far away from the Crawford home as he could get.

When Wesley took his attention off of the Bravin' Raven in favor of fixating on his fake girlfriend, she had returned to the hose nozzle, turning the water off with a satisfied smile on her lips.

"I punched him," Wesley offered. A callback, of sorts, to when she'd hit Brayden, accompanied by a small smile in what he hoped was recollection of the memory.

"Is that what you call that?" She weaved the hose back into the holder before pushing herself off of her knees and onto her feet, giving him a bemused look. "Because to me, it looked like Brayden was about to beat your ass — and I saved you."

"I wasn't saved by you," he argued, watching as Brayden became a spec in the distance. He didn't notice the waver in his tone until he was turning back to look at Iris, who was holding back a laugh.

"Why would that be a problem, if I'd saved you? Because I'm a girl?"

He was silent, the answer clear enough.

"This is the sexism I was scolding you for, Moron. There's nothing wrong with a heroine."

As more often than he liked to admit, she was right.

"Sorry."

"Good." Stepping out of the grass and back onto the cement, she was halfway back to the ajar door before pausing. "Are you coming, or what?"

Right. He was there for a reason. Not just to get into brawls with her exes.

The sun cast a deep shadow over the welcome mat laid out in front of her home, which Wesley diligently wiped his shoes atop before stepping inside the Crawford home, the second time in the past twenty four hours. At least this time, there was no suspected home invasion — though the light mood Iris carried herself with wouldn't last long.

"Keep your mask on," she said beneath her breath as they approached the hallway. "My brother's home."

"Would he snitch?" Wesley asked, recalling the boy from the night before, and the tense behavior exhibited by both Crawford sibling in the presence of the other.

She shrugged. "Do you want to risk it?"

He supposed not, adjusting his mask as he followed her in the direction of her bedroom.

"Your dad's not home, is he?"

"Nah, he's doing some press thing. With Jessica Taylor, apparently."

Wesley pretended to act shocked, though he knew it failed to resonate. Luckily, Iris didn't question the odd expression he wore as she pushed open her bedroom door.

Somehow, in the time that had passed since the previous night, the mess had only expanded. The thong he'd been scolded for staring at was now accompanied by a bra and a singular yellow sock, with dozens of other items of clothing sprawled out across her floor.

"Ignore that," Iris said as she shoved the door closed behind her. "I couldn't figure out what to wear this morning."

He leaned down, picking up a black lace shirt that only fully concealed the breast area. "And this was in the running? Is this a shirt or a bra?"

"Don't be a dick. I thought it would piss off my dad," she snapped, snagging the shirt out of his grasp and tossing it in the direction of a laundry basket — missing by a foot or so. "And don't touch my clothes, either. You're wet."

"Your fault," he pointed out.

"Oh, don't even." Her eyes rolled so far back, her irises almost entirely vanished. "Like I said, I saved your dumb butt. What were you thinking, fighting with Brayden? He lifts like, a gazillion pounds at the gym."

The truth was far too embarrassing to admit, so he shrugged. Played dumb — something that came more than easy to him. "He started it."

"He always starts it." She placed a hand on her hip, situated near her overflowing dresser, various nicknacks scattered across the top. Refusing to hold eye contact, he instead fixated on a tub of lipstick as she pressed, "But you've never fought him before, have you?"

"Usually when he starts a fight, I'm Wesley. Not the Phantom."

A wry smirk slid on her lips, not buying the excuse for a moment. "The Phantom typically runs. What changed?"

Wesley was backed into a corner, one Iris wouldn't relent from. Facing the question head on wasn't an option, so he dodged it with the same clunkiness he'd dodged Brayden's fists. "I saw your post. Of us, I mean."

"I know. I saw your comment." She turned around, facing the mirror she had hanging off the back of her bedroom door. Fluffing her hair up with her hands, she made eye contact with him via the reflection.

Wesley winced at the sight of his own appearance, in contrast to the effortless perfection of Iris's. With his eye mask, black beanie hat and striped shirt, he really did look like the Hamburglar. Or a loser from a punk band.

"You wanted to come over," she said into the mirror. "Did something happen? Or did you just miss me that much?"

"Uh..." Wesley scratched the back of his neck, feeling heat burn its way up his skin until his cheeks were rosy.

His hesitancy was enough, Iris turning back around, eyes narrowed in on him. "Well?"

"It's not a big deal."

"You came all the way here." Her nose scrunched. "On the bus, too, which is always gross. Unless you can fly."

"I can't fly," he confirmed.

"Good. Fucking hate bird freaks." She stepped over towards him, maneuvering to the side then plopping herself down on her bed. Legs crossed, she leaned back into the palms of her hands as she peered up at him with those big hazel eyes. "Your face looks nasty, by the way."

He frowned, then winced at the pain.

"I don't mean ugly," she corrected. "You're not ugly."

"Thanks?"

"I just mean where Brayden hit you." She brought a hand up, as if intending to touch the injury, but stopped herself last minute. Posture stiffened as if controlled by a remote, alongside the shift of her entire demeanor, back to one of perfectly crafted stoicism. "Why are you here, Moron?"

The whiplash of what he'd witnessed was enough for his own barriers to come crumbling. "Your dad was on the news."

She didn't react. "Yeah, that's what happens when you run for mayor of the biggest city in the country on a never before seen stance."

"Did you watch it?"

"Why would I? I don't give a shit what he has to say about the economy or superpowers or how unimportant homelessness is to him. — and I definitely don't want to watch Jessica Taylor suck up to him because she found a way to get attention."

He wasn't sure Jessica was in it for the attention, but he didn't bother arguing that point. Not when there were more pressing matters.

Instead, Wesley eased himself down into the empty spot on her bed, positioning himself at her side. "Our, uh...our agreement was brought up. By a reporter."

"Huh." Iris let out a soft laugh. "I'm surprised it's out already. I bet he wasn't happy about that."

"No," he agreed, swallowing a lump that had formed in his throat. Those pesky nerves had begun to nip away at his insides — ridiculous, as if he'd been the one to do anything wrong. "He...he said a bad thing about you. A really nasty thing that...well...I just...I wanted you to hear from me first."

Her face, that cocky smile of hers she'd so proudly worn, slipped away.

"What did he say?"

"He said you were," he paused, recalling the exact phrasing. Through grit teeth, he finished, "Mentally ill."

She didn't flinch. The only reaction given at all was the subtle parting of her lips, air released from her lungs at a volume Wesley only just picked up.

"Well then." A shake of her head was followed with a laugh, strained and at an uncomfortably high pitch. "That's pretty shitty."

"I just thought—"

"You told me what you thought."

"Sorry."

She wouldn't look his way, not even as she leaned back against the bed, collapsing into the mattress with a deep sigh. When Wesley peered over where she'd positioned herself, she kept her gaze fixated on a spot just above where his head hung, like she was attempting to fool him into thinking they were making eye contact.

As if he wouldn't know what it was like for her to look at him. As if he hadn't spent the past few days drinking up the feeling it gave him.

"Iris?" Wesley urged, hating the silence. "Iris, are you okay?"

"It's fine," she said, a bit dull.

"I didn't ask if it was fine, I asked if you were fine."

"Of course I am. Who gives a shit what my asshat dad says?" She lifted her arms, placing her hands behind her head. "No one who's worth anything would believe a word that comes out of his mouth."

"Right," he agreed. "It's not true, then?"

She either didn't hear him, or was pretending not to have, as she reached for his hand and pulled on his arm until he too was leveling himself against her mattress.

The contact didn't cease, even as he situated himself at her side. Her fingers remained twisted around his wrist, running a freshly manicured nail up and down the bone just beneath his thumb.

"Iris?" He breathed, unable to wrap his head around what she was doing — why she was touching him. All he knew is he didn't want it to stop — which meant it certainly had to.

She'd never been like this before. Certainly not with him, anyways. Like something had switched a flip in her body.

"Iris," he said again, voice lowered to a whisper. "What are you doing?"

"You should hit me," she muttered, still tracing the outline of his wrist bone.

"What?" He must've misheard her. It almost sounded like—

"Hit me," Iris repeated with the same void enthusiasm. "You said you want to be evil. Hitting a girl's pretty nasty. Hit me."

"I'm not going to hit you." It came out with a laugh, unable to take her demand as anything but the joke he hoped it was.

Iris wasn't amused. Retracting her hand from his, her dull expression moved away from him as she turned to her side, back towards him. "What use do you have, then?"

He rolled over too, facing her curls. Resisted the urge to reach out and touch them, thread his fingers through her hair. See what it felt like, not to hit her, but to hold her.

Cleared his throat, banishing the thought.

"Why would you ask me to do that?"

He didn't get a response — not that he'd expected one.

Still, he didn't think he could let it go. "Are you, uh, mentally ill?"

Even though he couldn't see her face, he knew she was rolling her eyes. Fair enough, too. He'd definitely crossed a line with that one. "You can't just ask someone that, Moron."

"If you are, that's okay," he tried to explain. "My dad, he has a pretty bad anxiety disorder. He needs to take medication for it, or he'll have panic attacks."

He didn't want to mention his own anxiety, though not diagnosed, more than prominent. His choice was solidified with Iris's nonchalance about the confession, careless to the plight of someone outside of herself.

"I didn't ask." She rolled back onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, hands placed atop her stomach. "My dad just wanted to discredit me — us. He's grasping at straws, which means we're winning." Pausing for a moment, she filled the silence with a final, "There's nothing that wrong with me. So don't get it in your head that I'm like, sick, because I'm not."

"I never said there was anything wrong with you."

She scoffed, shaking her head against the mattress. "You asked if I was mentally ill."

"That's not a flaw — or a sickness. It's just human. There's nothing to be ashamed of."

Exhaling through her nose, she sat up. For the first time in what felt like a year, her gaze drifted towards him — or more so, the red hues of where Brayden's fist had collided with his skin. "I have lotion for that. Bruises, I mean."

"You have lotion for bruises?" He confirmed suspiciously. "Why?"

Her answer was an instant relief.

"I used to play volleyball. I got injured constantly," she said as she stood up, walking over to the disastrous dresser and examining the top.

"It might be expired." Plucking a small container from the masses and turning back towards him, she screwed off the cap, sniffing into the liquid, before shrugging. "Smells fine, so it shouldn't kill you."

"Will it kill me if it is expired?"

"Dunno." The mattress sagged as she sat down again, dipping her fingers into the creme until the white substance fully concealed the tips of her digits.

Wesley held his breath as she smeared the substance atop his cheek, wincing at the sting following the contact, though it didn't hold a candle in comparison to the emotional tirade her touch concocted in him.

"You...you probably should know," he whispered. "Besides, I can handle a little hit, it's fine—"

"I haven't abandoned my pursuit of good, and if I were to let you form an ugly bruise over a fight started in my front yard, that would be bad of me." Iris countered. "Not to mention if you and your Supervillain self have matching bruises, someone might connect the dots. Now quit talking. You're making it smear."

"It's not a big deal, really," he insisted, if only to prove he wasn't desperate for that touch to remain on him.

"Your masculinity is offensively toxic, Moron."

Her fingers dipped beneath the fabric of his mask, further spreading the lotion over what was sure to be a nasty bruise. The one he'd had from the Buzzer had faded within a day of the black and blue hues appearing, but he had no doubt Brayden's punch had been stronger.

Not that he thought Brayden would notice a matching bruise between Wesley and the Phantom. That would require him to pay more attention to him than pushing him into lockers and making snide comments about his backpack took.

Still, he knew Iris was right to try and heal it.

"You've been a bit nicer," Wesley said, only to break the silence. "So your attempt to be good has been working."

It wasn't entirely true — she'd been standoffish in their interaction today, but that had only been after he'd informed her about her father. Until that moment, she'd been seemingly in high spirits, and treating Wesley as such.

"I said to be quiet."

"Sorry."

"Moron!" She scolded. "Shut up. I don't want to get any of this in your mouth."

The fact that her fingers were that close to his lips had his heart skipping a beat, which, of course, he had to chase away with further speech. "I don't like silence."

She rolled her eyes, something she did so often he thought he should start keeping tally. "I'll talk, then."

"Okay."

"It's funny," she began as she further layered the substance on his skin. "You're not even my real boyfriend, and you've been nicer to me than Brayden ever was. You don't even have to like me — I've been pretty nasty to you. I know I have, just by letting him get away with his bullshit."

When she paused, he half expected an apology.

But no, Iris wasn't that far gone. "I don't think I realized how much of a jerk he was to me until we started hanging out. I didn't have anything to compare it to. He was my first boyfriend. We started dating in Freshman year, except for that break in the summer..." She swallowed, as he glanced towards her.

"Break in the summer?"

"I said don't talk." The hand that wasn't currently layered in lotion moved up, a singular finger placed atop his lips. "Shut it."

Wesley shuddered.

"It's funny," she went on. "My dad, up until the Bravin' Raven reveal, was so happy I was dating Brayden. He said it was good for me. As if he ever knew what was good for me."

A question balanced on his tongue, but it went answered before he could further anger Iris by asking it. "I know you think I'm a total spoiled brat, but I do have reasons to not like him."

"I don't think—" He began, but she pressed that finger into his lips, shutting him up.

"He wasn't around when I was young. After the divorce with my mom, I heard from him a few times a year, if even. A card on holidays with a nice check, maybe a visit on my birthday, that was it. Then Mom died, and Miles and I had to move to a huge city with this guy we barely knew, who was determined to win Father of the Year, when he could barely remember we existed until that moment. He thinks being nice now will make up for years of radio silence, of putting a weird fixation on hating Supers over his own family. So forgive me if I'm not a fan of the guy."

Every word was emphasized with the rubbing of the lotion, ending the moment she pulled her finger out from beneath his mask, as though she'd been afraid to take it off entirely, see the boy behind the villain.

Maybe it was easier, communicating this to the Phantom, rather than Wesley.

"I'm sorry," was all Wesley could muster.

How could he say anything else? How could he express anything but pity for what he'd been told, one of the few missing puzzle pieces he was collecting, adding up to the portrait of Iris Crawford and why she was the way she was.

Dead mother. Absent father. Shitty ex boyfriend. Mental health issues.

It wasn't an excuse for how she treated the world around her, not by a long shot. But it certainly explained away the haughty attitude and disdain for the man whose home she lived in.

She'd spent so long feeling weak, the only way to feel strong was to ensure those around her couldn't outdo her. As long as they felt worse than her, she was better by comparison.

Her shoulders lifted in a small, careless shrug. "Nothing to be sorry about. But I won't be opposed if you beat him up too. Add to your evilness — punching the Bravin' Raven was a step in the right direction."

"I feel like the Phantom beating up the politician who preaches against Supers would only make his cause seem more reasonable."

"I never said anything about the Phantom." She returned to her spot on the bed next to him, eyes locked on his mask. "Besides, don't tell me you didn't start that fight with Brayden out of self defense."

"What else would it have been?"

She didn't answer, as her head moved to the side. "I was listening in through the window. I heard what he called me, the shit he said. I saw that was what goaded you into punching him." Biting down on her lip, her legs swung back and forth from where they dangled off the mattress. "I would say I'm flattered, but I'm not stupid enough to take it personally. I know it was an act. You're doing pretty good at this fake boyfriend stuff, though, so I'll give you that."

Wesley's lips parted, then closed again, cutting himself off before the truth could roll out — it hadn't even occurred to him that fighting Brayden Berry in defense of Iris would further push the agenda of their relationship.

"Yeah," he agreed, voice gone a bit hoarse. "Yeah, it was to make it believable. Defending you, to prove we're actually dating." He took a breath, then added with a small smile, "And because he's a jerk, and punching him felt good."

She hummed her understanding. "Do you have super strength too, then? Is that a superpower thing?"

He shook his head, watching as Iris looked a bit disappointed in this. "I mean, someone out there probably has super strength — no one I know, though. Extra strength doesn't come alongside superpowers. You have one power, and that's it."

"Except for the Bolter," Iris pointed out. "He has two. Flight and lightning."

One of the many things Wesley had been intentionally trying not to think about. Knowing it would only boggle his mind to dwell on.

"No one really knows where Supers come from," he said, voice gone a bit shaky. "So without the science known, we can't really tell how this guy got two powers. But it's clearly possible. Maybe it's just...a mutation, or something."

"A mutation," Iris repeated. "Are powers genetic?"

"From what we understand, kind of. Not everyone with powers have powerful parents, and not every person with powers will have a child with powers, but for the most part."

Her eyes trailed away from his, fixated on her sock-clad feet. "How'd you know you had powers? I mean, you told me when you figured it out. But how did you know it wasn't a coincidence? Like...the power just went out when you happened to move your hand or something."

Scratching the back of his neck, he strained his memory alongside considering what this turn in conversation might mean. Iris's curiosity in Supers made sense, though she'd never seemed to care much about it until this moment.

Unless this was another wall of hers knocked down.

Wesley decided this was a victory.

"Well, I knew someone with shadow powers before. A distant cousin of mine. So I was able to match mine to his."

"But how did you know?" She urged. "Did something change?"

"I mean, I guess. Usually when people start developing powers, before they know how to control them, when the powers are too big for their body to handle, they get nosebleeds."

AUTHOR'S NOTE ⋆ the penultimate chapter for act 1! thanks so much for reading as always, ily all so much <3