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Totally Not My Problem | Chapter Two | "Home Sweet Hell"

The last echoes of Blaire's footsteps faded into the vast expanse of the Davenport mansion, each step a stark reminder of everything she'd left behind. Back in Newport Haven, she hadn't lived in some cramped apartment – no, her father's position within the Super Society had afforded them a home that had rivaled even this tech mogul's showcase. A home she was desperately trying not to miss.

Her old bedroom had been a sanctuary, walls painted the perfect shade of sea-foam green that caught the morning light just so, making the whole room glow like an underwater cave. The window seat – her father had built it himself, sanding each piece of wood until it was silk-smooth under her fingers – had been her favorite spot to curl up with a book or watch storms roll in across the bay. Some nights, she'd fallen asleep there, wrapped in the hand-knitted throw her grandmother had made, only to wake to find her father had carried her to bed.

The thought of her father's Sunday morning crepes made her throat tight. He'd had it down to an art form–the batter whisked to perfect smoothness, just a hint of vanilla and orange zest that made them distinctly his. She could almost hear the sizzle of butter on the special crepe pan he'd brought back from Paris, see the way he'd swirl the batter with practiced precision, creating paper-thin circles of golden perfection. The kitchen would fill with the scent of caramelizing sugar and fresh berries as he'd prepare her favorite filling–strawberries macerated in orange juice and brown sugar, topped with fresh whipped cream he'd make from scratch, because "the stuff in cans is an insult to breakfast.”

Now, standing in the Davenport's modernist dream of an entryway, with its clean lines and gleaming surfaces that screamed "tech mogul with too much money," the contrast couldn't have been sharper. Afternoon sunlight poured through floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long shadows across Italian marble floors that probably cost more than most houses. But despite all the grandeur, it felt... sterile. Clinical.

A familiar scent tickled her nose, making her pause mid-stride. "Is that... pine sol?" The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Leo, walking beside her, snorted. “Yeah, probably. Mom went full deep-clean mode before you got here. If the house had pores, they’d be exfoliated.”

Donald cleared his throat, clapping his hands together in a way that felt less like a welcome and more like an attempt to swat away the awkward tension clinging to the air. “Alright, Blaire, let’s get you oriented. This is the main floor—kitchen’s through there, living area, and, of course, state-of-the-art security, AI integration, and tech advancements you won’t find anywhere else.”

“Oh, goodie,” a voice deadpanned from seemingly nowhere. “Another one of you.”

Before Blaire could pinpoint the source, a screen embedded in the wall flickered to life. A pair of glowing blue eyes blinked into existence, regarding her with the thinly veiled exasperation of someone being forced to entertain an unwanted houseguest.

Blaire narrowed her eyes. “And you are?”

“EDDY,” Donald sighed, already sounding like he regretted the introduction. “The smart-home system. He’s—”

“An absolute delight,” EDDY cut in smoothly. “I keep this household from descending into total chaos while also enduring the antics of a certain trio of reckless science experiments.”

Leo, who had been lounging with the kind of practiced ease only a little brother could master, suddenly stiffened. His eyes went wide in the universal look of shut up, shut up, SHUT UP. “Hah! Science experiments? Pfft. Ignore him,” he said way too quickly, stepping forward like a human roadblock before Blaire could latch onto the comment. “EDDY just likes to exaggerate. He calls me a science experiment sometimes. I think it’s his way of saying he’s impressed by my sheer awesomeness.”

EDDY let out a simulated scoff. “Yes, Leo. That’s exactly it. Your ‘awesomeness’ is just too vast and powerful for my circuits to comprehend.”

Blaire arched a brow but let it slide. For now.

Donald, visibly deciding to pick his battles, exhaled sharply and pinched the bridge of his nose. “EDDY, just try to be nice to Tasha’s niece.”

“Oh, my sincerest apologies,” EDDY drawled, his voice laced with enough sarcasm to pickle an entire pantry’s worth of lemons. “Allow me to offer a warm and heartfelt welcome to the Davenport household—where we simply can’t get enough of Tasha’s relatives cluttering up the place!” His pixelated expression turned contemplative. “Tell me, is there some sort of family discount I should be aware of? Buy one, get one free? Should I be expecting another cousin? Maybe an estranged sibling? No—don’t tell me—a top-secret government cloning experiment gone horribly wrong?”

Donald groaned. “EDDY.”

“I mean, statistically speaking, it’s not out of the question,” EDDY mused, eyes twinkling with mischief.

Blaire, unfazed, crossed her arms and smirked up at the AI. “Aw, don’t worry, Uncle D.” She turned her full attention to the screen, her grin taking on a razor-sharp edge. “Wassup, you overgrown smarthouse. I’m sure we’ll have tons of fun together—y’know, once you upgrade from Windows 95.”

A horrified silence fell over the room.

EDDY’s pixels practically bristled. “Windows 95? WINDOWS 95?” His voice shot up a full octave. “I’ll have you know I am a custom-built, next-generation artificial intelligence with processing speeds so advanced your tiny human brain would short-circuit just trying to comprehend—” He paused. Then let out a delighted, almost sinister chuckle. “Ohhh, I like this one. More bite than Tasha. No offense.”

“EDDY!” Tasha’s voice rang from another room, a clear warning.

But the AI had already flickered off the screen with what could only be described as a dramatic, digital flounce.

Leo let out a low whistle and leaned in, stage-whispering, “Congratulations. You just became EDDY’s new favorite human.” He patted her shoulder with mock solemnity. “He’ll probably only try to lock you in the elevator twice now.”

Blaire shot him a look. “Excuse me?”

Donald sighed. “Don’t encourage him, Leo.”

“No, no, let’s rewind a second,” Blaire said, eyes narrowing. “What was that about the elevator?”

Leo coughed. “Uh. Welcome home?”

Blaire barely had a second to process Leo’s suspiciously casual Welcome home? before Donald clapped his hands again, a clear signal that the tour must go on.

“Alright,” he said, already ushering her forward, “moving on—there’s a lot to see, and I’d rather you not be introduced to the house by way of accidental electrocution.”

Blaire shot him a look. “That a common problem around here?”

Leo grinned. “Depends on your definition of common.”

She was still debating whether to be concerned when they stepped into the kitchen—and damn. The place looked less like a kitchen and more like the nerve center of some high-tech spaceship. Stainless steel surfaces gleamed under soft, automated lighting, every appliance sleek and modern, calibrated to perfection. Even the fridge had a touch screen.

It was the kind of kitchen engineered for efficiency, for precision. A place where cooking was less about tradition and more about controlled chemistry.

And yet, Blaire had to fight the instinct to wrinkle her nose.

It wasn’t that it wasn’t impressive—it was. But it was a far cry from her old kitchen, where the warmth of home clung to every worn granite countertop, where the scent of fresh basil and rosemary curled from the small herb garden her father had stubbornly maintained on the windowsill. That kitchen had been alive. Lived in. Marked by flour-dusted disasters and triumphant late-night snack creations.

This? This was a machine.

But then, as she let her gaze wander, she noticed the cracks in the pristine image. Leo’s gaming controller sat abandoned on the coffee table, one cord precariously dangling off the edge. A half-finished crossword puzzle rested on the counter, Tasha’s neat handwriting filling in the blanks. In the corner, a prototype of one of Donald’s latest inventions whirred quietly to itself, an exposed wire sparking every few seconds, like it was on the verge of deciding whether to live or die.

These little imperfections—the mess of humanity—made the house feel less like a showroom and more like a home. And somehow, that made it worse.

Her fingers brushed the smooth countertop, the cold metal surface distorting her reflection. She shouldn’t miss her old house this much. Missing things made you vulnerable. And vulnerability? That wasn’t a luxury she could afford anymore.

But the memories were relentless. The hidden passage behind her bookshelf that her father had built when she was seven. The third step on the staircase that would creak no matter how carefully she stepped. The small observatory on the roof, where they’d spend hours stargazing, her father pointing out constellations while she imagined stringing them together into new shapes, new stories.

Her throat tightened.

She refused to let it.

Blaire pulled her hand back, straightening, forcing the memories back into the locked drawer where they belonged. She wasn’t here to dwell on the past.

She was here to figure out what came next.

“Alright, what’s next on the tour?” she asked, injecting a lightness into her tone that she didn’t quite feel.

Leo perked up. “Oh, you’re gonna love this part.”

Somehow, she doubted that.

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Purple.

Purple everywhere.

Blaire stood frozen in the doorway of what was apparently her new bedroom, every nerve in her body shrieking at the overwhelming assault on her senses. It was like a grape-flavored fever dream had swallowed the room whole.

Behind her, Leo dropped her suitcase unceremoniously to the floor with a loud thud, then sucked in a sharp breath, clearly struggling not to laugh.

Donald, standing beside him, shot him a warning look before discreetly smacking the back of his arm.

Leo flinched, rubbing the spot, but the corners of his mouth still twitched as he side-eyed Blaire’s expression—one that likely hovered somewhere between mute horror and barely concealed existential despair.

The walls were painted a soft lavender, the kind that looked like it belonged in a scented candle commercial. The bedspread was a deeper shade of violet, plush and ruffled, with decorative pillows stacked like some kind of royal throne. The curtains? Lilac. The rug? Amethyst shag. Even the damn desk lamp had a purple base, and to top it all off, a set of twinkling string lights shaped like butterflies blinked cheerfully above the headboard in alternating shades of you guessed it—purple.

Blaire’s eye twitched.

Tasha beamed, oblivious to the crisis currently unfolding in her niece’s soul. “So? What do you think?”

Leo let out a strangled sound that was definitely a laugh disguised as a cough. Donald elbowed him again.

Blaire’s brain was screaming, WHY? but her mouth, in a desperate attempt not to seem ungrateful, betrayed her.

“I… like it,” she said, her voice about as natural as a hostage reading a ransom note.

Tasha’s smile grew impossibly brighter. “I knew you would! Oh, wait till you see everything up close—I went all out for this!”

Before Blaire could stop her, Tasha swept into the room like a home décor tornado, launching into a rapid-fire breakdown of her decorating process.

“So, the bedding is imported—Egyptian cotton, super soft, and breathable, because I know California summers can be brutal. And this desk? Solid oak, but I got it painted to match the theme—custom job, took forever to get right. Oh! And the fairy lights! I saw them at this boutique in Silver Lake and immediately thought of you!”

Did you, though?

Blaire tried to nod along, but her face felt stuck somewhere between a grimace and a frozen smile.

Tasha whirled toward the bookshelf, excitement bubbling in every movement. “And look at this—I stocked it with some classics, a few bestsellers, and some fantasy novels since I think I remember you liking those? And—” she paused dramatically, “—the pièce de résistance?”

She flung open the closet doors.

A purple beanbag chair sat proudly in the corner. Next to it, shelves lined with decorative storage bins (all violet, obviously) were neatly stacked. But the true horror? The clothing rack.

An array of purple clothes.

Blaire felt something inside her wither and die.

Leo made another suspicious noise behind her.

Donald pinched the bridge of his nose. “Leo. Out.”

Leo threw his hands up. “I didn’t say anything!”

Donald gave him a pointed look. With a defeated sigh, Leo backed out of the room, but not before shooting Blaire a look that clearly said, I’m never letting you live this down.

Tasha turned to Blaire expectantly, practically vibrating with pride. “Well?”

Blaire swallowed. “It’s… really something.”

That seemed to be enough for Tasha, who sighed in satisfaction before perching on the edge of the bed. “You know,” she said, more wistfully now, “this actually all started years ago.”

Blaire blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in tone. “What did?”

Tasha’s expression softened as she leaned back on her hands. “Your second birthday. It was one of the only times your parents ever visited, back when things weren’t—” She hesitated, waving a vague hand, “—so complicated.”

Blaire didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. She’d heard mentions of those visits before, but no one ever really talked about them.

“You were so tiny,” Tasha continued, a nostalgic smile flickering across her lips. “And for some reason, that whole party? Everything was purple. I don’t even know why—maybe your mom just liked the color, or maybe someone picked a random theme and ran with it—but you were obsessed. You wouldn’t stop grabbing at anything purple, dragging this ridiculous stuffed dragon around like it was your own personal bodyguard.”

Blaire tried to picture it—herself, barely a toddler, clutching some violet dragon while the adults around her waded through whatever mess had been simmering beneath the surface.

She reached out, fingers skimming over one of the decorative pillows on the bed, the fabric soft and embroidered with tiny lilac flowers. It felt expensive. Like something meant to be looked at rather than actually used.

Tasha’s hand shot out almost instinctively, straightening the pillow the second Blaire’s hand left it.

The movement was small. Almost unnoticeable.

But Blaire noticed.

Her stomach twisted with something she couldn’t quite name.

“I guess… I don’t know.” Tasha sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. “When I was setting this up, I kept thinking about that day. How happy you were.” She laughed a little, but there was something strained about it. “Guess I kinda latched onto that memory a little too hard, huh?”

Blaire opened her mouth, then closed it.

What was she supposed to say to that? Yeah, you did. Also, fun fact, my favorite color is actually green.

Tasha had clearly tried. Maybe in the only way she knew how.

Tasha hesitated, glancing around the room. “If, uh—if it’s not really your thing, we can change it. I want you to be comfortable here.”

Blaire looked at her. At the hopeful flicker in her eyes. The way her fingers fidgeted in her lap.

And she could say it. Could tell her the truth. That she hadn’t been obsessed with purple—that it had just been a toddler’s fascination with bright colors, nothing more. That if Tasha had ever really known her, she would’ve known that green had always been her favorite—the deep, earthy kind, like pine trees after it rained, like moss creeping up old stone, like the seaweed that used to tangle around her ankles during summer trips to the coast.

But she saw the way Tasha’s expression wavered, just for a second. A flicker of something almost like… doubt.

And suddenly, Blaire didn’t have it in her to correct her.

So she forced a smile.

“No, it’s—” She swallowed. “It’s perfect.”

Tasha’s face lit up again, and just like that, the moment passed.

Blaire didn’t say anything else.

Because the truth was, it didn’t feel like hers. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But for now, she let Tasha have her moment.

And she let the walls stay purple.

For now.

Tasha hesitated. For the first time since Blaire had arrived, her energy flickered—like she was caught between instinct and restraint. Her hand lifted slightly, reaching toward Blaire’s hair, fingers poised to smooth it down in an absent, affectionate gesture.

But then, just as quickly, she stopped herself. Let her hand fall.

Blaire pretended not to notice.

Tasha cleared her throat. “Well, we should, uh—let you get settled. If you need anything, just let me know, okay?”

Blaire nodded mutely, still standing stiffly in the center of the purple abyss that was now her room.

Donald clapped his hands together. “Alright, let’s clear out, people.”

Tasha lingered for a second longer, her gaze flickering around the room, as if scanning for any last-minute imperfections. Finally, as she turned to leave, she absently reached out and adjusted the corner of a picture frame on the wall—one that hadn’t even been crooked in the first place.

Donald sighed. “Tasha, come on.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” she muttered, reluctantly following him out.

At the doorway, Donald glanced back, offering Blaire a small smile and a wave before gently pulling the door shut behind him.

Silence.

Blaire exhaled a long, slow breath before throwing herself backward onto the bed, limbs splayed out dramatically against the sea of ruffles and frilly decorative pillows.

She stared up at the ceiling, scowling.

She hated this room.

So. Fucking. Much.

This was it. Her new reality. This purple nightmare was where she’d be stuck until she finally got to escape to college. Home sweet hell.

She let out a frustrated huff and was just about to bury her face into the stupidly soft, stupidly luxurious, stupidly purple pillow—

When she heard voices.

Right outside her door.

Leo’s voice, barely muffled. “Told you. Pay up.”

Donald groaned. “Dammit.”

Blaire’s eyes snapped open.

…They bet on this?

She sat up slightly, scowling toward the door as Leo continued, “I knew she’d hate it. You should never bet against me, Big D.”

Donald grumbled something under his breath before there was a distinct sound of movement—probably him digging into his wallet.

Blaire flopped back against the bed, covering her face with both hands.

Unbelievable.

She really was going to die in this room.

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Blaire stared at her hands, at the power dampeners encircling her wrists like expensive accessories. In the dim light filtering through her window, their surface shimmered, subtle iridescent ripples chasing each other along the bands—a deliberate design choice by Uncle Donald, meant to make them look like harmless fashion statements.

But they weren’t harmless.

Three interlocking bands, forged from a specialized alloy her mother had theorized about in her final research papers, sat snug against her skin. The outer layer responded to her bioelectric fluctuations, shifting through minute color changes as it absorbed excess energy. The middle band housed the actual dampening mechanics, its hair-thin circuitry woven into a network so intricate it took a genius like Donald Davenport to turn the blueprints into reality. But the innermost band was the one that mattered. The one that anchored directly to her.

Smooth. Cold. A barrier between her and the world.

Her mother’s research had been clear—Blaire’s abilities weren’t just electrokinesis. She didn’t simply conduct or manipulate electricity; she generated it.

"Not just electrokinesis," her mother had written in one of her final entries, "but pure electrical synthesis. The potential for exponential energy generation makes containment crucial."

Blaire could power an entire city if she wanted.

Or reduce one to ashes if she wasn’t careful.

Her mother had spent years trying to quantify just how dangerous she could become. Stacks of research papers filled with calculations tracking the exponential increase in her energy output. Graphs showing how stress, anger, even excitement could spike her power levels unpredictably.

"Sustained emotional distress increases output unpredictably. No reliable threshold found."

A fancy way of saying that if she lost control, there was no telling how much damage she could cause.

Her father had never paid much attention to the research. He’d believed in discipline, control, willpower over science. If she trained hard enough, if she fought through the instability, she would master her abilities the way every hero was supposed to. He had no patience for theories about “containment.” To him, power wasn’t something to fear—it was something to use.

And it sure as hell wasn’t something to walk away from.

The artificial freshness of Bath & Body Works' Japanese Cherry Blossom room spray—her attempt at making this new space feel like home—couldn’t quite mask the scent of ozone that followed her everywhere. The faint, electric hum of something waiting, something restrained but never dormant.

Along her windowsill, seashells sat in the fading glow of the sun, tiny remnants of a life that felt further away than it should. A spiral whelk from the day she first manifested, when the wet sand beneath her feet had been glassed over from an uncontrolled surge. A perfect sand dollar from the morning before her first patrol. A broken conch shell from the last beach trip with her father before the Onyx Syndicate changed everything.

Some people kept photos. Blaire had these.

Her gaze shifted to her bed, where her new civilian wardrobe lay in a tangled mess—remnants of an identity she still wasn’t sure fit.

Instead of reinforced Kevlar bodysuits, she now owned destroyed skinny jeans from Hollister (destroyed on purpose, for some reason). Instead of static-resistant training gear, she had flimsy layered tank tops from Forever 21. And instead of boots designed for traction and speed, she had a pair of TOMS shoes that looked like they would disintegrate in light rain.

In one corner, a pile of PINK by Victoria’s Secret hoodies and yoga pants sat untouched, their neon tags still dangling like price-stamped accusations. The fabric was absurdly soft, the kind that clung to skin and offered no real protection—not against a sudden electrical discharge, not against an unexpected attack, not even against a strong breeze.

Girls her age wore this stuff every day without a second thought. Blaire, on the other hand, had spent years dressing for battle, for infiltration, for escape. Now, she was supposed to care about outfits.

And not just outfits.

Makeup.

Her vanity looked like it belonged to another person entirely. The sleek, mirrored surface reflected a collection of products that had no business existing in her world—rows of bottles, compacts, and brushes arranged with an almost clinical precision.

She had spent hours watching tutorials, trying to memorize techniques that other girls seemed to learn through osmosis. Contouring. Blending. Baking—which, disappointingly, had nothing to do with actual food. The level of precision required was ridiculous.

How did anyone have the patience to spend twenty minutes shading their eyelids when they could be using that time for something productive?

Yet, somehow, she now owned an Urban Decay Naked 2 palette—an investment, according to some beauty blogger, though Blaire wasn’t sure what part of her life required twelve variations of brown.

A MAC Russian Red lipstick sat among the collection, its bullet-shaped tube the only item that looked remotely useful.

A Maybelline Great Lash mascara in its obnoxious pink-and-green packaging had been a mandatory purchase, or so Aunt Tasha had claimed.

And, because every magazine swore it was non-negotiable, a bottle of Clinique Dramatically Different Moisturizing Lotion rested among the arsenal, its scent strangely nostalgic, as if it carried the collective memories of every teenage girl who had ever slathered it on.

The absurdity of it all made her head ache.

Less than a year ago, she had been wiring surveillance feeds and decrypting classified data at odd hours of the night. Now, she was watching twenty-minute videos about how to fill in her eyebrows properly.

And then there was her hair.

Once upon a time, her routine had been simple: tie it back, keep it out of her face, and make sure it didn’t get singed during combat training. Now? Now she owned silk pillowcases (to reduce breakage), a satin bonnet (because apparently, friction was the enemy), and an arsenal of products with directions.

Coconut oil for moisture. Leave-in conditioner to “lock in hydration.” Edge control so her baby hairs didn’t “betray” her (Aunt Tasha’s words, not hers). And the deep-conditioning masks? They had to sit for thirty minutes.

Thirty. Whole. Minutes.

She’d fought metahumans with less effort.

The Reintegration Program for Exceptional Youth was a joke.

That’s what the Super Society believed. That’s what she had believed.

RPEY wasn’t for real heroes. It was for the quitters. The failures. The ones who cracked under pressure and needed a soft place to land. That’s how they talked about it behind closed doors, in the debriefing rooms, in the training halls. A place for the liabilities. A glorified daycare for powered people who couldn’t handle the responsibility.

And Blaire had nodded along, let those words sink into her bones, let them shape her opinion.

Until she became one of them.

Now, her name was on the same list as those she used to look down on. She was an RPEY participant. A liability. An inconvenience to be managed.

She was leaving behind the mission, the life she was trained for, to blend in. To be normal. To sit in high school classrooms next to people who would never understand what it was like to hold raw power in their hands and know it could destroy everything they touched.

And the person in charge of helping her through that transition?

Hana Soo-young.

Her assigned handler.

Blaire exhaled sharply, rubbing at her temples before reaching for her laptop. She didn’t need to open the file again—she had memorized nearly every detail.

> SUBJECT: CATALYST (HANA SOO-YOUNG)

CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 5 – RESTRICTED

SUPER SOCIETY AFFILIATION: RPEY DIVISION

ABILITY DESIGNATION: REACTIVE ELEMENTAL ENCAPSULATION (REE)

Hana had been given her abilities. Refined them. Controlled them. Wrapped them neatly into quantum-stabilized spheres that could be deployed at will.

Blaire’s powers didn’t work like that. They weren’t something she could neatly wrap up and deploy in controlled bursts like Hana’s quantum-stabilized spheres. They built. Multiplied. Escalated.

Hana’s abilities could kill a person.

Blaire’s could level a city.

And yet, it was Hana who had been labeled dangerous enough to classify.

Why?

Blaire tapped her fingers against the desk, the dampeners humming in response to the minute fluctuations in her energy. The subtle vibration was a reminder—one slip, one surge, and the dampeners would have to work overtime to keep her contained.

She had spent years believing in the Super Society’s hierarchy. That those who left—especially through RPEY—were lesser. Cowards. People who abandoned the mission, who quit because the weight of responsibility was too much.

Her father had hammered that belief into her.

"They’re a disgrace."

"Power is a privilege, Blaire, not a burden. Those who walk away are turning their backs on the people who need them most."

"If you ever consider it, don’t bother coming back."

Her father had always made his stance clear. Leaving wasn’t an option. It wasn’t just failure—it was betrayal.

And yet here she was, walking away.

She’d spent months trying to justify it to herself. That her body needed the break. That her mother’s research proved the risks of her unchecked power were too great. That she couldn’t keep up the hero’s life and stay stable. That she had a right to choose.

But deep down, part of her still wondered—had she taken the easy way out?

Would her father see her as a disgrace now?

Would she?

Her gaze flicked back to Hana’s file, her fingers hovering over the trackpad. The file was heavily redacted in places, whole sections blacked out under Super Society Clearance Protocols.

> Documented instances of unauthorized or off-record use are sealed under Super Society clearance protocols.

That confirmed it.

The question wasn’t whether Hana had used the restricted-tier spheres.

It was when.

And what had pushed her far enough to use them?

A year ago, Blaire wouldn’t have cared. She would have read this file and dismissed Hana as another former hero too weak to handle the pressure. Now, she wasn’t so sure.

Because if she could leave—if she could abandon the life she was raised for—then maybe there was more to Hana’s story than just failure.

Her laptop screen dimmed as she leaned back, the quiet hum of the dampeners filling the room. She let her head rest against the chair, closing her eyes for a moment.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Aunt Tasha.

What do you want for dinner?

Such a normal thing.

Blaire’s diet had never been about taste. It had been about precision.

Breakfast was a 480-calorie protein shake, choked down in a few gulps, thick and chalky no matter how much she blended it. No sugar. No artificial additives. No joy. Just fuel for the machine that was her body. Lunch was lean protein—grilled chicken or fish, never red meat—paired with steamed vegetables so bland they tasted like disappointment. Dinner followed the same soulless formula, her plate a sterile array of carefully measured macros.

Snacks? Protein bars so dense and dry they could double as construction material. No chips. No cookies. No stopping by a gas station to grab a Snickers just because she felt like it. The other sidekicks and heroes would sneak things here and there—a stolen bite of pizza, a quick milkshake run after patrol. But not Blaire. She had stuck to the program. She had disciplined herself.

Now, none of that mattered.

Now, she could eat whatever the hell she wanted.

Her mind spun with the possibilities, an entire world of off-limits indulgences cracking open like a long-sealed vault.

She could order Domino’s and let the grease soak into the box, feel the stretch of melted cheese between her fingers, savor the golden, buttery crust without worrying about its nutritional density. She could walk into a Taco Bell at midnight and let herself order something ridiculous—something dripping with nacho cheese and stuffed with more carbs than her old trainers would ever approve of.

A McDonald’s breakfast? God, the concept alone was obscene. Fluffy hotcakes drowning in syrup (syrup!), sausage McMuffins slick with melted American cheese, hash browns so crispy they shattered between your teeth. She could have an Egg McMuffin—not because it was calculated into her macros, but because it sounded good.

And soda.

She could drink soda.

Not the electrolyte-balanced sports drinks the Society provided. Not the flavorless water enhanced with scientifically optimized mineral content. Actual soda. The kind that burned going down, that fizzed so hard it made your nose sting.

A Dr Pepper, syrupy and dark, so sweet it was almost offensive. A Coca-Cola so cold the condensation dripped down her fingers, the first sip pure, carbonated violence. A Cherry Slushie from 7-Eleven, icy and artificial, staining her tongue red as she sucked it down too fast and gave herself brain freeze.

She could eat a corn dog from the fair, dipped in too much mustard, the batter crisp and golden. A Cinnabon, still warm, the frosting thick enough to pool in the crevices. A burger so massive it required both hands to hold, juices running down her wrist as she bit into it.

She could have Five Guys.

A greasy, unapologetic burger, stacked high with grilled onions, jalapeños, bacon, extra cheese—things she would have never allowed herself before. A mountain of fries, fresh from the fryer, so hot they burned the roof of her mouth, crispy and drowning in salt. And a milkshake—thick, rich, indulgent, not a sad, protein-enhanced imitation but the real thing, dripping with whipped cream and blended with actual Oreos.

She didn’t have to measure. Didn’t have to justify.

She could eat until she was full, until she wanted to stop—not because her meal plan dictated it, but because she chose to.

Her fingers hovered over her phone, her heart beating a little faster.

Five Guys.

Extra fries.

Small rebellions had to start somewhere. And tonight, she was going to devour every messy, forbidden bite of that burger like it was everything she'd given up—and everything she might gain. Tomorrow she could deal with guilt, with duty, with the suffocating purple walls of her new "normal" life. But right now? Right now she just wanted to be a teenager who could eat a damn burger without calculating its electrical conductivity.

Word Count: 2652

   
Chapter two, my loves. Words can't describe how I feel right now. I'm going through a tough time, and it's hard to write more so than usual. I lost a family member recently and debated whether I should continue writing, but something told me that I should cause I knew the person I lost would want me to. So here's this chapter for you all. And remember, life is too short to hold grudges. All my love and more - bbdqqce1