The next morning, the apartment smelled faintly of burnt toast and coffee that had boiled too long. Sunlight spilled weakly through the blinds, cutting stripes across the messy living room where Rodey sat at the table, elbows pressed against the wood, head low.
Alikae shuffled in, hair tangled from sleep, drowning in an oversized hoodie. She yawned, scratching her head, and eyed him suspiciously.
"You look like a man who stayed up all night rehearsing a breakup speech. Should I be worried?"
Rodey didn't look up. His voice came out low, hoarse, but steady.
"I left the hospital."
The silence that followed was sharp. The only sound was the hum of the old refrigerator in the corner.
Alikae blinked once, then twice, then snorted.
"Left? As in, you forgot your keys and now you're whining? Or left as in… you quit?"
He lifted his eyes finally. There was no fire in them, no storm. Just exhaustion—a bone-deep emptiness that made her smirk falter.
"I quit," he said flatly. "Walked out last night. Didn't look back."
Alikae stared at him for a moment, then dropped into the chair across from him, her bare feet tucked under her. She leaned her chin on her palm, watching him with a mixture of curiosity and irritation.
"You… quit. Just like that. After all the swearing, all the late nights, all the self-righteous 'I'll save the world one patient at a time' speeches? You just tossed it in the trash?"
Rodey's jaw tightened. "It wasn't saving anyone anymore. Not the way it should've been. All I saw there was greed. Rot. The poor dying while the rich got prettier bandages." He dragged a hand down his face, eyes bloodshot. "I couldn't stand another second pretending I was fixing anything."
Alikae whistled low, tilting her head. "Damn. And here I thought you'd at least get fired for stabbing a corrupt chief with a scalpel or something. But no, our doc just… quit. How anticlimactic."
He glared at her, but it was weak, half-hearted at best. "This isn't a joke, Alikae."
She leaned back, arms crossed, smirk returning—though her eyes were softer than her words.
"I know it's not. That's why I'm making it one. Somebody's gotta, otherwise you'll drown yourself in melodrama before lunch."
Rodey didn't answer. He just sat there, shoulders slumped, hands clasped tight like he was holding on to something invisible.
Alikae studied him for a long moment. Then, more quietly, she asked:
"…So what now, doc? If you're not a doctor anymore… what the hell are you?"
The question hung in the air, heavier than either of them wanted to admit.
Rodey's silence stretched until it felt like the walls themselves leaned in to hear him. Then he looked up, eyes cold, jaw set in a way Alikae had rarely seen.
"I'll fight," he said simply. "On the streets. In the alleys. Wherever there's dirt to clean out. If hospitals won't save people, maybe my fists will."
Alikae blinked. For a moment, she thought he was joking. But his eyes didn't flicker, not even a twitch of humor.
Her chair scraped against the floor as she sat forward, voice sharp.
"You're out of your damn mind."
Rodey frowned. "I'm serious."
"So am I!" She slapped her hand against the table. "Street fights? Gang wars? You think that's how this works? This isn't some noble crusade, Rodey—it's meat grinding. Blood in, blood out. You don't save anyone in that world. You either die quick, or worse—you become just like the bastards you hate."
Her words cracked like whips, but Rodey's expression didn't soften.
"I can handle it," he muttered.
Alikae laughed, but there was no humor in it—just a sharp, bitter sound. "Handle it? You're a doctor, not a butcher. You patch wounds, you don't make them! Do you have any idea what happens in those fights? I was there, Rodey. I've been in those alleys. Men with knives, women with pistols, gangs with debts so high they'll sell their own family to pay them off. You won't fix anything there—you'll just get swallowed."
But Rodey stood, pushing the chair back so hard it nearly toppled. His voice cracked with anger.
"Then let it swallow me! At least I'll be doing something instead of watching helplessly while people rot in hospital beds they can't afford!"
The air went heavy. Alikae opened her mouth, then shut it, her hands curling into fists at her sides.
Rodey grabbed his coat—or what was left of it—and stormed toward the door. She followed a step, her voice cutting after him like a blade.
"You walk out that door and you're not some hero, Rodey—you're just another dumbass looking to bleed!"
His hand froze on the knob for the briefest second. Then he pulled it open, slammed it shut so hard the frame shook, and was gone.
Alikae stood there in the ringing silence, her chest heaving, anger simmering against the knot of worry in her gut. She kicked the chair he'd left behind, muttering through gritted teeth-
"Dumbass."
The sun was high, but the streets felt colder than night. Rodey walked with no direction, jaw clenched, fists itching. Alikae's voice still echoed in his skull—"You're a dumbass, Rodey. Street fights? Really?" He had slammed the door to drown her out, but the words clung to him like smoke.
And then he heard it.
A sharp cry. A sound that made his spine lock.
Down a narrow alley, where shadows pooled despite daylight, a teenager was pressed against a dumpster. A man twice his size had him by the shirt, beating him raw while another filmed, laughter bouncing off the walls.
"Cry louder, kid! Gimme the tears for the video—this'll go viral!"
Rodey's stomach turned. He saw the phone, the smirk, the helpless boy—and the same burning, choking rage from last night came alive.
"Enough."
The word left his throat like thunder.
The thug turned, sneering. "Or what, pretty boy?"
Rodey moved first. Fast. Always fast. His fist cracked against the thug's jaw, sending the phone clattering to the ground. The boy gasped in shock, stumbling aside.
But the man didn't fall.
Instead, he grinned—then seized Rodey by the collar and slammed him into a steel door. The impact shook through his ribs. Rodey groaned but swung again—another hit, quick as lightning—but the thug absorbed it, laughing, before hurling him against a window. The glass rattled.
Without his scalpel, his speed was just motion. Without edge, speed was nothing.
Blood streaked down his face as he staggered. The world spun. And then—
Memory bled in.
He was small again, barefoot on rough asphalt. His lungs were fire, his knees raw. And at the edge of the track stood Hussain Flash—his father, the man once called the fastest alive. Stopwatch in one hand, a whistle in the other, voice sharp as knives.
"Again, Rodey! Faster! You'll be better than me—you have to be! The world only loves winners, and we can't afford to be forgotten!"
The boy that was Rodey cried as he ran, but Hussain didn't soften. He never softened. He had been a champion once, the kind whose name echoed in stadiums. But the world moved on. Younger, stronger sprinters dethroned him. Sponsors left. Fame turned to silence.
And Hussain—broken, bitter, desperate—poured everything into his son.
"You're my second chance, Rodey. Don't you dare waste it."
Back in the alley, Rodey staggered to his feet, chest heaving. His opponent raised a fist, ready to crush him again. But Rodey's body remembered the drills. The screams. The endless hours under his father's whip.
Feet light. Breath sharp. Eyes forward.
If he was going down, he'd go down fast.
The thug's fist swung wide, air cutting like a blade. Rodey ducked under it—barely—his instincts sharper than his strength. His ribs ached, his breath wheezed, but his legs carried him faster than thought. He landed two sharp jabs into the man's stomach, fast enough to blur.
The impact forced the thug back a step. Just one step.
But Rodey felt it—a crack of hope.
And with that came the voice of his father again.
Hussain Flash had been the kind of man who never walked—he ran, even to the kitchen. The stopwatch rarely left his palm. But the first time Rodey saw him fall, really fall, it wasn't on a track. It was in the middle of a coughing fit that painted a cloth red.
"Dad?" Rodey had whispered, only eleven.
Hussain shoved the cloth in his pocket, eyes burning. "Run, Rodey. Don't stop. Don't ever stop."
But days turned to weeks, and the cough grew worse. Hospitals were too expensive, treatments out of reach for a family that once thought fame was fortune. His father, the legend, was nothing more than a man sitting in cracked slippers, coughing blood while neighbors whispered.
Finally came the word Rodey never forgot: cancer.
Lung cancer. The fastest man alive was being strangled from the inside.
Still, Hussain didn't stop. Even when his chest rattled like broken glass, he dragged himself outside. "Come on, son," he would croak, whistle trembling in his lips. "We don't quit. Not Flash blood. Faster. Again."
And Rodey would run, legs screaming, tears streaming, because he knew his father's dream was heavier than any stopwatch.
Back in the alley, Rodey's opponent roared, lunging forward. His meaty hand slammed into Rodey's chest, sending him sprawling against the dumpster. Pain flared white-hot. His vision swam.
The boy huddled in the corner cried out, "Get up! Please!"
Rodey spat blood, his jaw set. His father's words echoed like thunder.
"Flash blood doesn't quit."
He pushed himself up, wobbling on his feet. The thug smirked, ready to break him again.
But Rodey leaned forward, breath steadying, eyes locked. For the first time that day, his legs felt like his father's.
And Hussain Flash's son began to move.
The thug cracked his knuckles, grinning like a butcher before the cut. Rodey staggered upright, chest heaving, vision tunneling. His hands trembled, not from fear—but from rage fighting with exhaustion.
No scalpel. No weapon. Just legs. Just blood.
The man charged. Rodey's body reacted before thought—sidestepping, sliding, turning the momentum. His father's drills weren't just about running; they were about rhythm, about flow. He ducked and jabbed, fast enough that his fists were blurs, slamming into the man's ribs, cheek, temple.
For the first time, the thug cursed. His body shook under the rapid strikes.
But Rodey's lungs burned like fire. His legs screamed for air. Every burst of speed ripped his body apart a little more.
Flash blood doesn't quit.
But Hussain Flash had.
Rodey remembered the night vividly—the last night. His father was skeletal, a husk in a creaking bed. The stopwatch sat on the nightstand, its glass cracked, its hands forever stuck. Hussain's voice was nothing but a rasp.
"Rodey… don't let it… end like me. Run. Run till your bones break. The world forgets losers, son. Don't… let it forget you."
The boy—only thirteen—grabbed his father's frail hand, crying. "I'll make you proud, Dad. I swear it. I'll run. I'll run."
Hussain smiled faintly, then coughed one last time. His chest went still. And just like that—the fastest man alive was gone.
Back in the alley, Rodey felt his chest rattle the same way. Each breath was like swallowing knives. But he didn't stop. Couldn't stop.
The thug swung again. Rodey ducked—barely—and came up with a desperate flurry, fists raining against the man's jaw. One. Two. Three. A crack. The thug stumbled, spit flying, his grin finally gone.
Rodey surged forward with the last of his strength, driving his knee into the man's stomach. The giant dropped to one knee, gasping.
But Rodey collapsed too, falling against the wall, blood running from his mouth. He was fast, yes—but his body was breaking.
The boy who had been beaten earlier crawled to him, eyes wide. "Mister… you're bleeding so much…"
Rodey smirked through split lips, whispering, "Flash blood… doesn't quit."
Then darkness threatened to swallow him whole.
Rodey's chest rattled, every breath a stab. The thug rose again, staggering but furious, his fists ready to crush him into the dirt. Rodey's body screamed enough, but something deeper kept him upright.
Flash blood doesn't quit.
The man lunged. Rodey pushed off the wall, his body a blur in spite of the pain. With one last scream, he snapped his leg up, foot cracking against the thug's neck.
Rodey's final kick landed clean on the thug's neck, the man collapsing with a strangled cry. The alley went still, except for the ragged sound of Rodey's breathing—then even that faltered.
He staggered forward, chest heaving, then dropped to his knees. His body shook once… twice… and went still.
From the shadow of a stack of crates, a voice groaned.
"Unbelievable. I knew you'd pull something this stupid."
Alikae stepped out, tossing aside the empty soda can she'd been sipping. She had been following him since he stormed out, muttering the whole way.
"I said to myself, 'Alikae, don't bother. Let him burn out his dumb rage.' But nope! Here you are, collapsing in an alley like some tragic action hero knock-off."
She rushed forward, catching his head before it hit the ground. Her hands trembled as she pressed her ear to his chest. No rhythm. Just choking. His lips were blue.
"Rodey…? Oh no. No, no, no—you absolute dumbass."
Her mind raced. She looked around—no ambulance, no chance for help. Just her.
"God, I can't believe I'm doing this." She tilted his head back, pinched his nose, and pressed her mouth against his. Air rushed into his lungs. Once. Twice. Nothing.
She slammed her fist lightly on his chest. "Come on, Rodey! Don't you dare leave me here! If you die, I'll kill you myself!"
On the fourth breath, his chest jerked. He coughed violently, blood spattering the pavement, air clawing its way back into his lungs.
Alikae yanked back, wiping her mouth with the back of her sleeve.
"Ugh! Tastes like rust and bad life choices. Figures."
Rodey's eyes fluttered open, lips curving into a faint, broken smile. "Guess… pseudo-wife duties… upgraded."
"Shut it, Flash," she snapped, tears stinging her eyes despite the smirk on her face. "Next time you try this, I won't save you. I'll just sit on your chest and eat chips while you die."
She slung his arm over her shoulder, dragging his half-dead weight up.
But neither of them noticed the man still crouched at the alley's edge, phone raised. He had filmed everything—Rodey's impossible speed, the brutal fight… and the daughter of Dylan Dicosta giving mouth-to-mouth to a man drenched in blood.
The recorder's lips curled into a grin.
"The whole city's gonna eat this up."