Sparky POV

The car slows before I'm ready for it to.
The closer we get, the harder it is to breathe. I keep my eyes locked on the window, watching the streets shift from quiet to crowded — too many people, too much noise.

When we pull into the courthouse lot, I see cameras. Not a swarm like the trial, but enough. Two reporters waiting near the steps, one officer by the doors. Their voices hum low, words I can't make out but feel anyway.

"Don't look at them," Dr. Saunders says quietly beside me. "They're not here for you. They're here for the story."

Same thing, I think.

The door opens. Cold air rushes in — sharp, biting, real. One of the officers helps me out, his grip firm but not rough. The cuffs aren't tight, but they're there. I feel every click.

The whispers start almost instantly.
That's him.
The boy from the shooting.
He doesn't look crazy.

I wish I could disappear back into the car. Back into the facility. Back into the quiet white nothing where I don't have to hear this.

Dr. Saunders walks beside me, not in front of me — like I'm not something to hide. "Just keep your eyes forward," he murmurs.

We step through the doors. The warmth inside hits too fast, and my stomach turns. The echo of our footsteps bounces around the marble walls, the sound hollow and heavy at the same time.

"Straight ahead," one officer says. "Small conference room. Judge'll meet you there."

I nod. My throat's too dry to speak.

We pass a hallway lined with framed photos — smiling people, awards, ribbons. I catch sight of myself in one of the reflective panels. For a second, I don't recognize the face.

Dark circles. Tired eyes. Skin pale from too much medication and too little sunlight.
I look like a ghost of what I used to be.

The conference room's small, sterile. There's a single table, a pitcher of water, two glasses. A woman in a gray suit sits at the far end, papers neatly stacked in front of her.

She looks up. "Sparky?"

I nod.

"I'm Judge Reyes. This isn't a formal hearing — I just need to evaluate your current state before your next phase of treatment."

Next phase.
That means I'm not done.

Dr. Saunders sits beside me. "He's made consistent progress," he says, professional but calm. "There's still work to do, but he's cooperative. Medication compliant. More responsive in therapy."

I just sit there, hands clasped so tight my knuckles ache.

The judge studies me quietly. "And how do you feel, Sparky?"

It takes a moment to find the words. "I feel... tired."

She nods slowly, like she understands. "Tired can be a good thing. It means you've stopped fighting yourself."

"Sometimes," I whisper. "Other times, it means I've stopped fighting at all."

That silence again. The kind that weighs more than words.

Dr. Saunders rests his hand on the table, steady and sure. "He's aware of his guilt, of the consequences — that's part of recovery. But he's also showing remorse, and that's not something you can fake."

Judge Reyes nods again, jotting something down. "You'll continue your treatment, same structure, same monitoring. We'll reassess in three months."

Three months.
That's both forever and tomorrow.

She stands. "Thank you for coming in, Sparky. You can go."

It's over that fast.

The officers lead me back out. No cameras this time — just the cold. The world feels too wide, too loud. I stare down at my shoes as we walk back to the car.

Dr. Saunders opens the door for me. "You did well."

"I didn't say much."

"You didn't have to."

As the car pulls away, I glance one last time at the courthouse behind us. The people standing there. The world still spinning without me.

I lean my head against the glass.
The reflection looking back isn't the boy who picked up a gun.

But he's still in there somewhere, and I don't know if I'll ever get him out.

The drive back feels longer than the way there.
I keep trying to breathe like Dr. Saunders told me — in for four, out for six — but my chest won't listen. Every sound feels louder. Every thought sharper.

"Still with me?" he asks without looking up from his clipboard.

"Yeah," I manage, though I'm not sure it's true.

He hums softly, making another note. "Good. We'll get back, have lunch, maybe lower your evening dose. You've earned a break."

I want to thank him, but then the light hits us.
Headlights — blinding, cutting through the windshield — dead ahead.

"Dr. Saunders—"

He looks up, eyes wide.
Then everything explodes.

Metal screams. The world folds in half. My seatbelt snaps tight against my ribs as the airbag punches me back.

And then, nothing but the hiss of the engine and the smell of smoke.

I blink, vision swimming, throat raw from the scream I didn't realize came out of me.
The front of the car is crushed, glass glittering like frost.

The driver is slumped forward. Still.
Dr. Saunders is breathing — shallow, wheezing — his head pressed against the side window, blood trickling down his face.

"Doc..." My voice shakes. "Dr. Saunders, hey, can you hear me?"

No answer.

The passenger door's crumpled, jammed. I shove at it once — twice — but it doesn't move. I can feel the heat from the engine, the bite of winter air seeping in through broken glass.

The only way out is the window.
The glass is cracked but not shattered. I pull my sleeve over my hand and hit it once. Twice. The third time, it breaks.

I squeeze through, my hoodie snagging on the jagged edges, but I pull free.
Cold air slams into me. The sky's gray, snow just starting to fall again.

I stumble out into the ditch, my breath fogging in front of me. The road is empty. No cars. No headlights. Just silence.

"Help!" I shout, but my voice bounces off nothing.

I turn back — Dr. Saunders still isn't moving much, his chest rising too slow.
I look for his phone — it's still clipped to his belt inside the wreck. The screen is spidered, black.

I can't stay here.
If I don't get help, he's going to die.

I start running.

The road feels endless. Every breath burns. Every step slips in the snow.
I don't know how long I've been running before I see it — lights in the distance. Music. Voices.

The carnival.

I push harder, lungs tearing, vision blurring. I reach the edge of the parking lot and shove through the crowd. People turn, staring — I know what they see: the hospital gray, the scratches, the blood on my sleeve.

Someone screams.
Someone else backs away.

And then I see her.

Liberty.

She's with the others — Chase, Skye, Tuck, Zuma, all of them. They stop when they see me, like they've just seen a ghost.

I trip toward them, chest heaving. "Liberty!"

Tuck moves first, stepping in front of her. "What the hell—"

"I didn't escape!" I shout. "The car— it crashed! Dr. Saunders— he's hurt, bad! I need help!"

They all freeze. Chase stares at me like he's trying to read my soul.

Liberty's voice cuts through the noise, shaking but clear. "Where?"

"On the main road — the hill before the turnoff — please, I couldn't get him out—"

Tuck grabs her wrist. "Don't. You don't know if—"

"I know," she snaps, eyes burning. "He's telling the truth."

I nod, desperate. "Please, Liberty—please."

She's already dialing. "You run with me. Chase, call it in. The rest of you—just stay here."

I follow her. My legs barely work, but adrenaline keeps me upright.
Behind us, I hear Chase shout into his phone, Zuma calling for backup, Skye swearing under her breath.

The lights fade behind us. The snow deepens.
I just keep running, praying that when we get there, it's not too late.

My lungs burn from running, every breath stabbing sharp against the cold. The road curves ahead, snow swirling thick, and that's when Liberty stops so suddenly I almost crash into her.

The car's in the ditch.
Steam hisses from the hood, smoke curling through the shattered glass. The front end's crushed like paper, headlights dim behind the frost.

"Oh my god," Liberty gasps. "Dad!"

She runs toward the wreck, slipping on the ice, and I'm right behind her. The driver — one of the facility orderlies — isn't moving. His side of the car's folded in, windshield splintered with blood.

Dr. Saunders is in the back seat, slumped against the door, breathing shallow and slow.

Liberty's already pulling the door open. "Dad! Can you hear me?"

He doesn't respond.

I reach her side, my hands trembling so badly I can barely grip the frame. "I—I tried to wake him up. He wouldn't move."

Her voice breaks. "How did this happen?"

"A car," I say, chest heaving. "It came out of nowhere—head-on. The driver tried to swerve but it was too fast. It hit us and just... kept going."

She looks up the road, eyes wild. "Where is it?"

"They didn't stop," I whisper. "I swear, Liberty, I didn't do this. I'm not trying to run. I just—"

She turns to me sharply, eyes shining. "Sparky, stop. You did the right thing, okay? You came for help. You did everything you could."

"No one's gonna believe that," I mutter. "Not after before."

"Hey." Her voice softens. "I believe you. And they will too. Just breathe."

The distant wail of sirens cuts through the snow. Red and blue lights flash closer, flickering across the wreck.

The first officer jumps out of his cruiser, scanning the scene. "What happened here—" Then his gaze lands on me, freezing mid-step. "You're—Sparky?"

Liberty immediately steps forward. "He didn't escape! There was a crash! The driver's dead, my father's hurt—he ran for help!"

The officer hesitates, then checks on Dr. Saunders, pressing fingers to his throat. "He's got a pulse! Get the medics up here, now!"

The paramedics arrive within seconds. Liberty stays close to her father as they lift him onto the stretcher, her hand gripping his. "You're okay, Dad. Stay with me, okay?"

I step back, the lights and noise blurring into a dull roar. My hands are still shaking. I can't stop staring at the car, at the twisted metal and blood melting into the snow.

Liberty turns once more before following the ambulance. "You saved him, Sparky," she says quietly. "You did."

I want to believe her.
But all I can see is the driver who didn't make it — his body still in the front seat — and all I can think is it's happening again.

No matter what I do, someone always gets hurt.

The lights from the patrol cars cut through the snow, blinding and sharp. Officers move around the wreck, voices overlapping, radios crackling. I stand off to the side, hands clenched so tight they ache. My ears are ringing.

One of the cops steps closer — taller, older — his tone clipped. "We've got one fatality, one injured, and a fugitive out of containment. We'll have to take him into custody until we can verify the report."

Custody.
Jail.

The words hit like gunshots. My chest tightens, breath catching halfway. "Wait—no, I didn't—"

He grabs for his cuffs, and something inside me breaks. "Please, no, you don't understand—he's hurt—Dr. Saunders is hurt, and the driver—"

Liberty steps between us so fast the officer freezes. "Stop! You're scaring him!" Her voice is sharp, louder than I've ever heard it. "He didn't run! The facility isn't far — take him there! The nurses will confirm he's under Dr. Saunders' care."

The officer shakes his head. "We can't. He's technically a fugitive right now. Until we have confirmation this wasn't planned—"

"It wasn't!" Liberty cuts in, trembling. "You think he orchestrated a head-on collision just to what — run through a snowstorm and find me? He ran for help! My dad could've died!"

The officer looks between us — me, shaking and pale; Liberty, furious and crying — and lowers his hand slowly from his belt. "We'll need to verify that."

"Then verify it at the facility!" she snaps. "Call the director. The staff know Sparky's meds, his file, everything. You'll get your proof."

He hesitates. I can tell he's weighing it — the rules, the headlines, the blood on the snow.

Finally, he exhales. "Fine. But he goes in the back seat until we get there."

Liberty turns to me, eyes softening. "It's okay, Sparky. Just breathe, alright? I'll be right behind you. You did the right thing."

I nod, but my body's still shaking. The officer opens the back door of the cruiser, and I slide inside, wrists trembling against my knees. The metal door slams shut, sealing me back in the same kind of cage I thought I'd left behind.

Through the window, I see Liberty talking to the paramedics, giving directions, wiping her eyes. Then she looks back at me, and even through the glass, I can see it — the same look Dr. Saunders gives me when he's trying to pull me back from the edge.

Not pity.
Not fear.
Just belief.

And for the first time in a long time, I want to believe it too.