Iris couldn't keep up.

In a game of shopping, Helena and Iris often gave each other a run for their money, consistently outdoing each other in their eagerness to purchase as much clothes, makeup and jewelry as they could afford — and then some. Sometimes, Iris stole Evan's credit card and sneaked in a few hundred dollars in between his own purchases, big enough that he rarely noticed.

This time, she had to rely on her own funds to carry her through the stores of the innermost part of the city — though that wouldn't hold her back. She'd go as long as her wad of cash would take her. The hour long bus ride back to the suburbs was what she was most dreading with the bags she was collecting as she and Helena popped in and out of boutiques, the former slowly but surely losing stamina.

Iris knew she was out of shape. Had quit exercising after her hospital stay, never able to build the habit back up. Didn't have the discipline, not like she'd had for restriction — and it was much more difficult to hide workouts from her dad, whose watchful eye was impossible to avoid for the first year since she was released back into the world. Unfair.

She'd felt fine earlier that day, laid about in bed without anything to make her feel ill. The moment she stepped out into the heat, her body decided to commit mutiny.

Helena, of course, didn't notice the lag.

Her head spun, breath catching in her throat as they made their way into a dress shop, with Helena's insistence they look at homecoming dresses, an event that Iris was surprised hadn't been called off. Given what had happened at the school, she'd expected a hoard of disgruntled students to follow an announcement of cancellation.

Instead, it was still on.

Three weeks from then, a hoard of students would gather in the school gym, listen to shitty music, and make out with their partners. Helena wouldn't shut up about it.

"Brayden and I are going to have such a blast," she said for the third time, running a hand over a blue silk dress.

There wasn't a spot on the wall that didn't have a dress hung, keeping the wallpaper concealed save for a sliver near the floor. Even the windows were coated with the backs of signs, signaling to anyone who might pass by that a sale was being had. A woman's judgmental gaze followed them around from behind the register.

"So you've said," Iris hummed, rubbing her forehead with her fingers to soothe the ache that had begun to thunder.

The topic of Brayden only contributed to the sway her body took with every step. Not so much of anger, though that hadn't depleted just yet. But rather, what had gone down at the school.

A broken neck, all to save her from a danger she'd never truly been in.

If Iris had wanted, she could've stopped the whole thing. If she hadn't been enticed by the offer they'd dangled before her, perhaps everything could've gone different. She could've sent them on their merry way, and told them to donate all their savings to a charity in the meantime.

She could stop Helena in this moment, too. Get her to shut up about Brayden.

But if there was one thing she'd taken away from the Buzzer's broken neck, it was that her powers served no one. Only hurt, in a time where she'd already cut her knife into people as deep as it would go.

Twisting it.

Her mind drifted to Wesley, though she refused to let it linger for more than a few seconds, as their last encounter echoed within her.

His inability to deny she was a bad person.

She juggled between guilt and acceptance over that fact. Knew there was no changing it. Knew it benefited her, kept her safe, the walls her words built up.

Knew that somewhere, her Moron looked down on her.

Her Moron.

God, she was fucked.

"Iris," Helena said, waving a hand in front of her face.

Her head snapped up. "Yeah?"

"You zoned out."

"Oh. Sorry." She followed Helena's arm until her attention landed atop the dress she'd pulled out of the rack, and how she was eyeing the skirt with a scrunched nose.

She cleared her throat. "Are you going to buy that?"

"You should get it," Helena said, letting go of the skirt. The dress slumped back into the rack. "It'd be cuter on you. Fit you better, probably."

Biting down on the side of her cheek, she didn't let up until the taste of blood infected her tongue. "I already have a dress I want."

"Hm." She pulled out another one, this time a bright yellow thing that hurt to look at. "You're going with the Phantom, then?"

"I..." Her words got caught in her throat — a pathetic I don't know.

She could. She should.

But did she have the pride to ask Moron? After their latest conversation, the ground they stood on was shaky at best. How could she go about asking him to a dance — that was his job. A job she knew for certain he wouldn't do.

She dug her hands into the nearest dress as a new wave of dizziness rushed over her.

"They might not let him in," Helena went on, much to Iris's relief. She wouldn't have to fumble for an excuse. "Since, you know, he's a Villain. And they can't verify his age, and obviously can't have some freak adult coming in. You'd be better going solo." Her lip protruded in a pout.

That had been the plan, but when laid out in front of her by Helena, it no longer felt viable. Like doing such would be humiliating.

Her companion didn't linger on the subject for long.

"You've got to tell me about Jessica, by the way." She was now eyeing a long red thing with a slit riding up the side, far too grand for homecoming, not to mention the dress code she'd surely get. "You seemed buddy-buddy for like, a day. Are you still talking?"

"No. I'm not going to stoop that low. She's working with my dad, I know you saw that."

It'd been one of the many things Iris had been dwelling over in the past few days — her frustration with how the potential friendship she'd been nursing with Jessica Taylor had so easily flat-lined.

"Right." Helena clicked her tongue. "Suppose that would put a nail in that coffin." She turned away from the dress to fully focus her attention onto Iris. "How much do you know about Jessica?"

"What do you mean?"

She shrugged, a casual thing in contrast to the intensity in which she'd spoken with. "It's just curious that she's suddenly on the in with your dad. Wasn't she just going on about how hot the Phantom was?"

"I think she had a change of heart." She didn't bring up why, that they could've been killed at Lucy's Diner a few weeks ago.

"She's being used," Helena urged. "You should talk to her. Get her away from your dad. The cause he's supporting is wrong, and she's being propped up as some sort of saint — a sweet little almost-victim he can use to legitimize his stance. It's disgusting."

Iris had known this from the start. Hearing it spelled out, though, had that spinning sensation in her head increasing, added to it with the knowledge of who was saying it.

"Since when do you care about right and wrong?" She shot without thinking, venom thick in her tone.

Her hand tightened around the dress.

"Hey," Helena frowned, reaching into her purse. A response wasn't given — not that she'd expected much, as she pulled out a packet of crackers. "You look...pale. Eat something."

"I'm fine." She wasn't. She probably should eat.

She wouldn't. Not when she was being watched.

Tested.

"Iris. Come on."

"I said I'm fine. I think I just need to sit down..." She rubbed at her head. "I'm fine, really, just...keep shopping. I'll be over there." A bench was situated near the back of the shop, positioned by the wall of shoes.

She plopped down on the uncomfortable wooden slab, though Helena didn't let up, lingering at her side as she did, crackers still in hand. "Have you eaten at all? Had water?"

"I'm fine," Iris insisted through clenched teeth and curling hands. Head pounding, spinning, throbbing, her entire body shook, like one wrong gust of wind would cause her to topple over.

She took a seat next to her, a discomforting silence following. Then, in a small voice, Helena confessed, "I know you have problems, Iris."

Her brows furrowed, but her confusion didn't last long. Not when frustration bubbled to the surface. "You don't know a thing about me — nor do you care. Not when you've done all the shit you've done."

There wasn't a need to elaborate, though Iris wanted to. If she knew about her eating habits, why had she made all the snide comments? Treated her as she had, like something to be walked all over, with plausible deniability for each and every misstep.

Why had she treated Iris like a chew toy for her own frustrations to be let out. Iris could bleed all she wanted, but there wasn't a stain on Helena's pretty teeth to indicate her guilt.

Helena didn't bother attempting an apology, nor feigning guilt Iris wouldn't have believed if she'd tried. Instead, a scoff ripped from her. "You think Brayden was about you?"

"I'm not going to talk about Brayden with you." Iris crossed her legs. "I'm not that desperate. I've gotten better now, anyways. You're stuck with my leftovers, so don't try to act all woeful now. You did me a big favor, anyways — the Phantom is great."

It wasn't a lie, either. She'd had more fun fake dating Moron than she'd ever had really dating Brayden. It wasn't even a competition.

Moron managed, even on the bad days, to make her smile. Feel like there was something worth getting up for, reminding her the minuscule joys in life. Brayden had only ever dug a shovel into her insecurities, digging them up out of the pit she tried so desperately to bury them in.

Moron wouldn't dream of it.

If Helena had a response, she held her tongue. Instead, she placed the packet of crackers in Iris's hand, using her own to fold her fingers around the food.

The touch had a shudder running through Iris, too soft to belong to someone so hardened as Helena Haider. The kind that she could mistake for care, if she was desperate enough. Stupid enough.

Instead, she ripped her hand away, tucking the crackers into the pocket of her jeans. Reminding herself not to touch it — for more than one reason. Her pride came out on top, more so than any food insecurities.

When she spoke, it was an accusation laced in a question. "Why did you even come over? Why did you invite me to this?"

"You're my friend," Helena said, a bit dumbly. "I needed someone to go dress shopping with. And I wanted to gossip. I wanted to hear about the Phantom, and the Buzzer, and what happened with Brayden."

"Right." Iris rolled her eyes. "Couldn't you just ask your boyfriend?"

"You're my friend," she said again, like it meant something. Like she hadn't thrown that away at the first opportunity, but not been kind enough to sever the final string holding them together. Helena wanted the best of both worlds, and for once, Iris wasn't sure she was willing to indulge in it.

Helena paused, biting down on her lip. "We didn't stop being friends because of Brayden Berry...did we?"

This time, it was Iris's turn to scoff, unable to believe what it was she was hearing. For once, her ego wasn't a subject of belittlement — it was Helena on the chopping block, with her executioner.

The image of Wesley appeared in her conscious, stopping her before she could instinctively agree with Helena, go along with whatever it was she said. Avoid conflict with the girl who made her feel important.

Special.

Disposable.

Moron had told her over and over again — she'd deserved better than Helena's treatment. It was only in this moment, however, that she truly believed it. That Wesley Moran had become a better friend to her than this girl had ever been. A boy who had no reason to like her, to care for her, had been the one to show her what it was she should and shouldn't tolerate.

Wesley fucking Moran showed her more kindness than her best friend ever had, and what had she done? Made a brief vow of kindness she couldn't keep even if she tried. Treated him poorly — and couldn't muster up the courage to stop.

Iris nearly choked on the air she'd inhaled.

Was she his Helena?

Tears were welling in her eyes as she forced her gaze to lock in on the girl at her left. "I don't think we ever were friends."

"Iris—"

There wasn't much strength left in her, but she used it anyways in a simple command; "Quit talking about it."

The door burst open, just as the telltale nosebleed began to drip down onto her lips — it instantly became clear to her that she'd made a mistake, the increase in her dizziness so much so she nearly collapsed from where she sat.

A flash of yellow through her newly blurred vision blared, accompanied by the sinking of Iris's stomach, the recognition agonizing.

The Bolter shouldn't have been as intimidating without his companion, but the terror that chilled Iris's veins was greater than in the school. With the Buzzer, their was a sensation of being held back. That whatever could be done, wouldn't be, as the two had the other to balance a moral compass.

Now, the Super had nothing to lose.

Something she could stop. If people were going to get hurt, if they were going to avenge the Buzzer by doing something to Iris, by attacking the public, this was something she could—

"If you come with me, Crawford, no one needs to get hurt."

Helena managed a cry, jumping onto her feet in tandem with Iris, hand jutting to entwine her fingers with Iris's.

It didn't last long. Vision spotting, her conscious slipped away just as she did, painless as her body hit the floor. The last thing she felt wasn't the blood from her nose, nor the ringing in her ears, but rather the sensation of Helena's hand as she slipped out of her grip.

*

Flora was, all things considered, a bit much. Polite when you first spoke to her, Wesley had never actually dug deeper than the surface level of his stepmother, and what she agreed to offer up.

Now, it appeared she was more comfortable when outside of SuperHQ's confines, as she'd barely ceased talking since they'd clambered on the bus and into the shopping district of the city. The subject had jumped from a TV show they'd both been hate watching to Wesley's gradually depleting grades to what had happened with him, Iris and Brayden at the school.

Donned in their respective Villain clothes, no one bothered them through their hushed conversation on the bus, in which Wesley considered jumping out of the window. Not out of any particular malice towards the woman his father had married — but rather, a desire to have a moment to his thoughts that wasn't interrupted by a question or comment.

"Four," Wesley answered — the question having been how many Heroes had been there at Iris's near kidnapping, something that had his stomach tightening when the reminder flashed before him.

If he'd been late. If Brayden hadn't sucked up his ego and agreed to help. If things had gone ever so slightly awry.

Where would Iris be now?

"Aside from the Bravin' Raven, I mean," he went on. "The Heroes R Us leader was there. Adonis — the Raven's dad, apparently."

"And he didn't try to fight you?" Flora questioned, to which he shook his head.

"No. If anything, he seemed happy I was there."

I know more than you could ever begin to guess, Phantom.

Something unsettling lingered in those words spoken all those days ago, more than he could pick apart in the crowded bus, with eyes burning holes into him from every direction.

It'd been in response to a question he'd yet to have answered — the origin of all this. Of evil. Of good. Of duty.

He didn't think he'd get an answer at this point. Decided that, while he'd not give up on his inquiries, there were more pressing matters. Like why Iris wouldn't answer his texts.

Because yes, at some point in time, a girl who'd previously never spared him a second glance had become so important to him, her absence felt like someone had reached into his stomach and pulled out his kidneys.

"Maybe he thinks we can all defeat the Bolter together," he suggested at the following silence, feeling a little foolish as he did. It was a fair thought, Wesley knew, but admitting it out loud — a Hero and a Villain potentially desiring an alliance — was bound to face judgment.

Flora, to his shock, simply shrugged. "Perhaps. It'd be in our best interest." She cleared her throat. "We balance each other. It's only natural we defeat those who break that balance."

The bus came to a stop, which had Flora rising to her feet, Wesley following suit. He wasn't quite sure what they were meant to be doing — a crime was all he'd been told about, but he had few reservations as to whatever she wanted.

As talkative as she was, she was a criminal mastermind, and if anything, he'd learn a thing or two. It was no wonder that August had sought her out. After the Illusion, she was the next best criminal — alongside the Buzzer.

His gut tightened as his feet collided with the sidewalk, the bus door closing behind them and leaving the pair in the heart of the city.

In his pocket, his phone buzzed.

Martin: u free? want 2 play minecraft.

Wesley: Sorry, dude. I'm with Flora. Crimeing in the city.

Martin: lame!

"Martin?" Flora guessed as he tucked his phone back into his pocket, to which Wesley nodded.

"You guys seem close," she said, maneuvering down the street, before turning her head over her shoulder to ensure he was following. "How long have you been friends for?"

"Since we were kids. He's the person I'm closest to."

There were a hundred different words he could use for his friendship with Martin, and none of them fit just right. Not too different from the exorbitant emotions he'd been developing towards Iris, without a single phrase capable of defining it.

Martin and Iris were enigmas, so vastly different and yet in the same unexplainable territory.

Flora hummed something beneath her breath that he strained to catch, only just missing over the hustle and bustle of the city. Stares, just as on the bus, locked in on the two — the Phantom and his accomplice, a less known Villain, but masked all the same.

Enough to promise a threat.

He kept his head high. Gave himself a brief reminder of who he was — the Phantom. One of the top Villains to those who had no inside knowledge of SuperHQ.

And within their headquarters...rising in the ranks of respect.

This, he decided as he trailed after Flora, would further solidify him as something more than the loser son of a mediocre leader. Whatever crime she had in mind — robbery of some boutique, he guessed — could only benefit him.

Unless he failed.

He couldn't. It simply wasn't an option.

When had it ever been?

"Where is it we're going?" He asked, rushing to keep up with Flora's intense pace, shoving through the passersby in the process. Adjusting his mask as they came to a stop at the corner of the street as the light turned red, she nudged her chin towards a large brick building down the block.

"What do you say we hit up the bank? Maybe you can buy yourself a nice suit for homecoming with the funds."

"I'm not going to homecoming."

His instincts proved to be detrimental. Wincing beneath the look of confusion Flora gave him, he fumbled to explain, "Uh, they won't let me in. As the Phantom, I mean. And as Wesley..." He shrugged.

"Iris doesn't know you're Wesley," she said, a lie he'd professed enough times, he could almost believe it.

Because, at the end of the day, there was stark difference between Wesley Moran and the Phantom.

One had potential.

One was nothing, and would always be nothing.

"You know," Flora said, lowering her voice to a whisper. "I don't think it'd be a problem if you told her. Just...blackmail her into keeping it a secret."

Wesley almost laughed. Little did Flora know, Iris was the one holding the cards. Their false relationship wouldn't end until she wanted it to.

"I'm not going to blackmail her."

Her brows arched. "Down that bad, are you?"

"I guess so." It didn't feel like a lie, either. Down bad, he supposed, was an accurate description of the gathering of emotions that had manifested towards the girl — towards someone he shouldn't feel a thing for. "Besides, if I'm going to kill her dad, I should probably be nice to her to make up for the fact."

Flora's lips formed a tight, thin line. "I can help you with that, you know. If you need help, guidance — you know it's my specialty."

It would've been so easy to agree. He truly had no reason not to.

"Phantom!"

Both he and Flora spun around at the calling of his name — a civilian stood on the other end of the block, frantically waving his suit-clad arms around to gather his attention. With a brief case set down at his feet, his face had gone red, and his thin hair was slick with sweat.

Wesley exchanged a glance with his stepmom, then maneuvered in the direction of the man, who continued shouting. "Phantom, the Bolter! The Bolter is there!"

"Shit." He swallowed, running a hand through his hair, before breaking out into a run and closing in the space between him and the man. "Where is he?" He demanded once face to face with him.

A Villain supporter, he must've been, if he was alerting the Phantom rather than trying to contact one of the many Heroes. Not too uncommon to find among middle aged, upper class men trying to prove that they're not like every other middle aged upper class men.

Typically, Wesley paid his fanboys little mind.

Now felt like an opportunity to throw that previous behavior away. With a surging reaction — the Bolter, someone who'd tried to hurt Iris, his Iris, his friend—

When the man answered with a point towards some dress shop, he didn't waste time. Darting through the busy street, he nearly got hit by five different cars in his journey, only just narrowly avoiding a near certain death.

Something might've crashed behind him. No matter. He kept going, mind narrowed in on the singular thought of the Bolter, and perhaps, more redemption.

He wanted the Bolter gone more so than Evan Crawford, more so than a duty he'd sworn himself to — not when the latter had yet to pose a threat to someone he cared more about than he could wrap his head around.

It'd been Iris's influence that pushed him through the rally. Iris who'd, even without intending to, thrust him into the shoes the Phantom had yet to fully grow into, forced him to begin to mold them to his shape, rather than the other way around.

He was growing. Changing. He could feel it, like a kid as they expanded to new heights. And while there were external pressures adding to that, he knew the source.

Didn't he have a duty to avenge her, when here mere presence in his life had uplifted his status? Wasn't her having been in danger reason enough to leap to action? Sure, nothing had happened, but it could have. And that, to Wesley, was enough.

"What's the plan, Phantom?!" Flora called out from behind him, struggling to match his pace, and her tone thick with disbelief.

"Don't know, don't care!" He shouted over his shoulder before flinging the door to the shop open with enough effort that he checked after to ensure he'd not ripped it off its hinges.

It was fine — he was clearly not strong enough for that, he supposed, refocusing his attention. Not what he was here for.

The Bolter, who was stood at the mid-point of the room, spun around at his arrival, eyes narrowing through the mask that concealed the majority of his face.

"Phantom," he spat. "What's your business here?"

Right.

What was the plan?

That smallness crept back within, but he held his chin up high. "I have a score to settle."

The mask had an opening for his mouth, which twisted into a snarl. "Grown a pair since the last I saw you, huh? Fumbling about, doing nothing. Had to get a Hero to do what you couldn't."

There was no crowd, save for Flora lingering behind him and the woman at the front desk, hands frozen against the wood she gripped, like she were afraid she would fall over from fright if she were to release her hold.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have a score to settle too," was the Bolter's response. A gleam in his eye, almost cartoonish, as he spun around.

Wesley followed his gaze.

Stomach sunk.

"Helena?"

It took a moment to recognize her. Not out of any visible difference, but rather the demeanor that had clung to her. Typically instilled with so much confidence it seeped out of her, she now seemed as though she'd been squeezed out of it like a sponge. Eyes wide. Nose twitching. Her knees were dug into the ground, something in her lap distorted by the Bolter's lean body.

The sound of her name didn't snare her attention. Whatever it was in her lap, it held onto her.

Brayden, maybe? Had the Raven been called to the scene?

Had the Phantom been called as backup? Clean up what a Hero couldn't?

Something about that had his blood cooling, not sure what it was the thought had provoked in him. Pride. Anger. Something in between.

"Phantom, stay back. Let me deal with this." Flora's demand was a firm warning, the kind of command so typically withheld from her. Reaching into the pocket of her jeans, he didn't need to watch to know the set of signature blades she was retracting.

She knew her powers, her skill, and so did he. Yet he'd never seen them in person. Only on TV, spoken in whispers at SuperHQ of how she could, someday, eclipse the Illusion's shadow.

In a way, she had, the moment August slid that ring on her finger.

Part of him wanted to watch her save the day.

Part of him wanted to do it himself. Take the victory.

The Bolter wasn't frightened by the warning either, back still turned on both of them. "Hand her over, girl, and this doesn't have to escalate."

"Are you stupid? She's sick!" Helena shrieked. "She needs a hospital!"

Wesley's body jerked, a flinch running through what felt like every single one of his nerves, until they were alight with new anxieties.

He didn't need to ask who she was with. There was only one woman the Bolter had to settle a score with. With the Bravin' Raven absent, there was no need for guessing.

"What happened to her?" Wesely demanded as his eyes settled on Iris, head in Helena's lap, eyes closed from the unconscious state she'd fallen into. Blood seeped down from her nose, coating her lips like lipstick, and her skin was more pale than typical.

"Hand her over," the Bolter demanded.

"Like hell I will!" Helena didn't move, but her verbal denial was enough to press a frown across Wesley's brow. There was more care in this moment than he thought her capable of. Like Iris truly meant something to her.

Wesley wasn't the one to leap into action. Not when he was too preoccupied with the bafflement and worry of the scene before him. Anguish over Iris's position and how she may have ended up in such a state, confusion over Helena's sudden loyalty to her friend, and fright that, without Brayden here to help, the Bolter might get away again.

It was Flora, knives drawn, who sidestepped around Wesley with her aim deadly.

The Bolter saw her coming, in spite of the way his back was turned. Spun around just in time, dodging the blade that she nearly lost hold of, only just keeping in her grip. Her footing fumbled.

Wesley held his breath. Heart thundered at a frantic pace, trying to outrun itself.

Somewhere on the ground, Iris stirred.

Lightning formed in her opponent's gloved hands, from where he'd moved to the other side of the room, at a speed too quick to be human.

She didn't back down.

Nor did Wesley, forcing himself to move from passive observer. Break beyond the wall of fright, shoving through it rather than take the time to scale over the top.

It was a simple solution — if the Bolter won, Iris would be taken. And who knew what would happen then? There were no rules to ransom. She could be killed or tortured or worse.

If Wesley won, he'd prove himself.

If he lost, his pride wouldn't be the only thing he lost.

He sucked in his desperation. Let it manifest in his so often ignored powers, burning as he lifted his arms. Every emotion he'd ever felt, burning through his skin as he let it seep out of his body.

Shadows were cast throughout the room within a moment. The light fixture above, the sun from the window, the lightning from the Bolter's hands — all concealed within a second's time.

Wesley gasped, his own hands now creeping with odd tingles, like spiders crawling over the palms he couldn't see. Like he'd not simply hidden the light, but—

Had he—

"Phantom!" The Bolter roared with a bone chilling fury. "What did you do?!"

He almost screamed — how was he supposed to know?

He could barely wrap his head around what was happening now, and the sheer coincidence that had him here in the first place. A small bell rung in the back of his mind, something he didn't have the bandwidth to focus on in that given moment.

Flora wasted no time, the faint outline he could see through the darkness lunging in the direction of the mysterious Super.

None of them could see, and Wesley knew that. But Flora had the advantage of her knifes, whereas the Bolter's powers were limited to what he could conjure.

What Wesley had sucked up.

Much like the confrontation in the school, the one that wound up with the Buzzer's broken neck and Brayden headfirst in guilt, it was near impossible to see, with just vague outlines of each contender in the battle. The Bolter only distinguished by the difference in body type to Flora's slender frame, Wesley watched with a tight grip on the shadows as his stepmom flung herself once again in his direction.

Dodging was just as easy as it had been expected.

What they'd not expected was for the Bolter to leap into the air, much as how the Raven had in his fatal strike to the Buzzer, and slammed himself in Flora's direction.

Her two blades went flying in turn with her body, shoved up against the wall with brute force, her head slamming into the dresses before she slumped onto the ground.

Wesley let go of the shadows.

It'd not been intentional, the release of his powers. Slipping through his grasp, he couldn't find it in him to attempt to take hold of them again, not when a bigger matter had presented itself.

It wasn't an extreme care towards the woman that had him rushing to her side, kneeling painfully colliding with the ground as he began to search for a pulse. Until this day, they'd only spoken to each other for a few minutes at a time. Rarely found themselves alone together, the mom factor too great for either of them to defeat. Wesley wasn't sure he even wanted to.

But a lack of personal stake in the game didn't equate a desire for her death. Just as he'd not wanted Dana Renton to die, Flora's life mattered. To him, and more importantly, to August Moran.

He couldn't survive another heartbreak.

She was fine, he determined as he felt around her neck, searching with his shaking fingers for a pulse he found just beneath her chin. Strong, even as her body lay limp.

Flora was fine.

As for Iris—

"Phantom, watch out!"

Wesley ducked, Helena's voice giving him a moment to react before the Bolter jammed one of Flora's abandoned knives in his direction. Swinging, the blade missed his face by mere inches, plunging into one of the silky dresses separating them from the wall and splitting the skirt down the middle.

He rolled over as best he could, parting the gap between him and the Bolter as best he could until he was nearing the opposite end of the room. Leaping onto his feet, he nearly lost his balance. Caught it just in time.

With a moment left to spare as the Bolter tugged the blade out from the wall it'd been jammed into, Wesley used it to take in his surroundings through the returned light.

Iris, stirring in Helena's lap, slowly regaining consciousness with weird noises and odd, languished movements. Helena herself, tearful and afraid. Flora, out cold.

The shop owner, still at the front desk, phone in hand. Not calling police, or Heroes, but rather filming the scene as it went down.

Knives in hand, the Bolter zeroed in his attention on the Phantom, those cold eyes narrowing from the holes in his mask. Wesley adjusted his own, ensuring it fit perfect to his face as he anticipated the next move.

He thought about tearing a shadow down again. Lifted his hand to do just that, he was a beat too late, building up the wrong impression of what the Bolter's intention was.

While he was expecting those blades thrown his way, it was instead lightning that the Bolter wielded. Manifesting in his opponents hands, he didn't have a moment to react before his body was seizing up from the severity of the electricity thrust into him.

The last thing he thought before his conscious slipped into the abyss was the fluke his success had been — how he'd never stood a chance at proving himself in the end.