The waiting room buzzed with noise that felt muffled, distant. Voices, groans of pain, the hiss of healing equipment—all of it reached Mateo as if through water. He sat on the metal bench, staring at his hands. They'd stopped trembling, but he could still feel the ghost of green slime beneath his skin, waiting.
"You weren't... that bad."
Ben's voice drifted over from somewhere to his left. Mateo didn't look up. The words were nothing more than sound, meaningless consolation from someone whose quirk made him untouchable. What would Ben know about failing when it mattered most?
Even with it, Mateo thought, flexing his fingers. Even using the thing I hate most, I still lost.
The realization sat in his chest like a stone. All those months of training with Arx. All those hours convincing himself that discipline and skill could overcome anything. That he could prove himself without relying on the disgusting power that lived under his skin.
He'd been wrong. Completely, utterly wrong.
And when the moment came—when his back was against the wall—he'd surrendered to it anyway. Just like before.
It saved me then. It saved me today. I hate it.
"—mercenary work pays well. I heard there's been a rise of vigilantes with all the heroes going to the frontlines—"
"Ben, please shut up."
The words came out flat, empty. Ben raised his hands and wandered off, probably to bother Henrik. Mateo returned to staring at his hands.
Around him, medics tended to students with real injuries—broken bones, burns, deep cuts. Their pain was visible, treatable. His wounds were deeper, unfixable. Four hundred dollars in his backpack. That was all he had left of his old life. Of the dream that had brought him here.
The LCD screen above showed fights from other arenas. On one, Brett was pummeling someone with steel gauntlets, that familiar murderous glint in his eyes. On another, students with powers Mateo couldn't even comprehend traded blows that shook the camera.
None of it mattered. Alex wasn't even in this room—probably didn't need to be. She'd won decisively, moved on to whatever came next. While he sat here, nursing shame that no quirk could heal.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. The noise around him continued, but Mateo felt separate from it, suspended in his own failure.
"Mind if I heal those wounds?"
A man's voice, gentle but tired. Mateo looked up to find a medic with caramel skin and a scraggly beard standing beside him. Something about the face seemed familiar, but everything felt familiar and strange at once in this haze of defeat.
Mateo nodded. Physical pain was pointless when everything else hurt worse.
The medic's hands moved over the bruises from Alex's beating, green light flowing from his fingers. The pain faded, leaving only emptiness behind. When he moved to Mateo's ribs, the relief was immediate but hollow.
"You've got some nasty wounds on your hands too," the medic said, reaching for Mateo's gloves.
Mateo let him remove them, revealing the torn flesh underneath—Brett's parting gifts. The medic's eyes widened slightly.
"From the fight?"
"No. Something else."
The medic didn't press. The green light worked its way across Mateo's palms, knitting skin back together, erasing the evidence of his earlier victory. Soon his hands looked perfect again, unmarked.
If only shame could be healed so easily.
"You did your best, kid." The medic's hand settled on Mateo's shoulder, and his voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "Is this how you're planning on avenging them?"
The words cut through Mateo's numbness like a blade. He jerked his head up, really looking at the medic for the first time. The face—now he remembered. The paramedic who'd pulled him from the rubble two years ago. Who'd seen him covered in slime and ash.
"How did you—?"
"My wife was in Sector 12 when the bombs hit. Same as your brother." The medic's hand trembled against Mateo's shoulder. "A lot of people lost loved ones that day. But this path—are you sure it's one you want to walk? It's going to be hard"
Yes. The word formed in Mateo's throat but wouldn't come out. What was the point? He'd failed anyway. Failed at the one thing he'd built his entire existence around.
The medic studied his face for a long moment, then squeezed his shoulder. "Take care. I'll be rooting for you."
He walked away, leaving Mateo alone again with the weight of his words.
Is this how you're planning on avenging them?
Mateo stared at his healed hands. Perfect skin hiding the truth underneath—that when push came to shove, he was still the same terrified kid who'd been saved by a power he couldn't control. Still the same failure who couldn't protect anyone.
On the screen above, another fight ended. Another student moved on to whatever came next. The world kept spinning while Mateo sat motionless, trapped in the space between who he'd thought he was and who he actually turned out to be.
The slime stirred beneath his skin, responding to his distress. He clenched his fists, willing it back down. Even now, it was there. Waiting. Ready to save him again whether he wanted it or not.
He closed his eyes and tried to find some center, some place to stand in the wreckage of his certainty. There had to be something left. Some reason to—
"Mateo Mendoza?"
The voice cut through his thoughts like a gunshot. Commander Reeves stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind her back, every inch the military officer.
Slowly, Mateo rose to his feet. He felt hollow, fragile, like he might shatter if he moved too quickly.
"Yes?"
"You are being summoned." She turned without waiting for a response.
Mateo followed her out of the waiting room and into Atlas Academy's sterile corridors. Their footsteps echoed off the walls, the only sound in the maze of metal and concrete.
Finally, Reeves spoke. "You are being summoned by Eliza Atlas."