Jackets were half-zipped against the October chill, students in black, green, and white milled across the cracked pavement and patchy fields outside Van Buren High, the whole place smelling faintly of damp leaves and fried food drifting from the cafeteria vents. A ball smacked against the side of the gym with a hollow thud, followed by groans from a group of kids playing two-touch.
Leon stood at the edge of the soccer field, his breath clouding faintly in the cool air, lined up with his two closest friends. Amir al-Moustaoui, round in the face and forever squinting as if the sun had it out for him, was mid-rant, gesturing with both hands like he was pitching the universe itself an argument.
"I'm telling you," Amir said, puffing out his chest, "if I had powers, just one, Lady Valiant would be allll mine. No hesitation!"
Beside him, Shake, Tadeo Fogones, though no one called him that anymore—snorted, the sound caught between amusement and disbelief. At six feet tall with cornrows tied back neat, his size made the laugh come out more like a rumble. "Or… how about you gain a couple extra inches in height while you're at it?"
Amir clicked his tongue, swiping the air with mock offense. "Height's overrated. Unlike you, I wouldn't need to shop in the extra-husky aisle!"
Shake barked out a laugh, leaning on his knees. "Big talk from a guy who's still single. Meanwhile I've already got a ring picked out for my babygirl."
"Yeah, yeah… wait, what?" Amir froze mid-retort, eyebrows climbing. "For real?"
Shake smirked, unbothered. "Yeah, for real. Don't look so shocked. Some of us actually pull."
Before Amir could spit back, Leon cut in, the muscles at his jaw tightening. "Focus, guys. You're making a scene." His voice came quieter than he intended, but sharp enough to check them. The noise of the courtyard swelled again, and then her voice sliced through it, laced with irritation and unmistakable presence.
"Ugh, no jodas…"
Christianna Yaraquén. Even when she wasn't shouting, her tone carried like a strike of steel. On the field, she stood with her arms crossed, black curls damp at the tips from mist, eyes narrowed toward the remaining line of stragglers. Leon felt his stomach tighten.
On the other side of the circle, her opposing captain; Álvaro Cruzado, all smirk and lazy confidence, let out a low chuckle. "God, that's rough," he said, lifting his chin at the lot of them. "She's left with the No Hopers and their midget friend."
Heat crawled up Leon's neck. He could feel Amir stiffen beside him, Shake shift uncomfortably, but none of them spoke. His pride was stubborn, raw, and dug in before his sense could stop him.
"I'll just join her," Leon blurted.
Christianna's eyes snapped to him. She clicked her tongue, muttered something under her breath in Spanish sharp enough to sting, then spat it fully: "Nadie quiere a un cojo en su equipo." Nobody wants a cripple.
Álvaro grinned wider, mock-delighted. "I think it's a great idea."
Christianna's nose wrinkled, her face folding in visible disgust, as though the very thought of him had soured the air. For a moment, Leon thought she'd outright refuse. But then she sighed hard, throwing her arms out.
"Fine. Join. Just... try not to be completely useless. You can catch a ball, can't you?"
Amir leaned in with a grin, voice pitched low but cutting all the same. "Don't worry, he's good at catching... just not the balls you think."
Leon's head whipped around. "Shut up, you dick." His voice cracked sharper than he meant, but he didn't care. He stepped out of line and crossed toward Christianna, the mud sucking at his sneakers with each stride.
Standing beside her, he felt it immediately: how much smaller he seemed next to her presence. Christianna was known for never holding back, even in meaningless games like this, and her abilities, super-abled, inherited, made her something no one challenged lightly. She didn't have to posture; dominance radiated off her like heat.
The last picks came quick. Álvaro pointed at Shake, claiming him with a grin, while Christianna snapped up Amir with a roll of her eyes. That left Raul Alvarez: the short, bespectacled kid, to shuffle reluctantly onto Álvaro's side.
The whistle wasn't real– it was just Álvaro clapping his hands, smirk plastered across his face as he tossed the ball into play. The courtyard noise dimmed at the edges; for Leon, all he saw was the spread of green-and-white jerseys darting across the cracked, chalk-marked field. His breath caught in his chest.
The ball bounced toward him first, sharp and sudden. He moved without thinking, prosthetic leg clanking just enough to throw off his balance. He caught the ball under his other foot, steadied, then passed it to Amir with more force than he meant.
Amir whistled low. "Not bad, Leon."
Christianna wasn't impressed. She snapped at him as she surged down the sideline, curls bouncing, eyes sharp as knives. "Stay in your lane. Don't overkick!"
"I got it," Leon muttered, though his pulse thudded in his throat.
Play went messy from the start. Shake muscled past Raul like a freight train, nearly tripping the smaller boy as he barreled into the lane. Leon intercepted him, barely, by throwing his whole body in the way, catching Shake's knee with his prosthetic and sending the ball tumbling loose.
Shake blinked, startled. "Damn, Bramante. Playing dirty already?"
Leon's cheeks burned. "Shut up and keep moving!"
He pushed the ball toward Christianna, but she was already sprinting past him, fast and fluid. He swung his leg, clipped the ball too late, and sent it skittering sideways. Christianna skidded to a stop, groaning loud enough for half the field to hear.
"Madre de Dios, you can't even trap a ball right?"
The laughter from Álvaro's side stung worse than the cold air. Leon clenched his jaw, pride prickling hot. He wanted to walk off. He wanted to throw the whole game. But then Amir jogged past him, grin crooked.
"Relax, man. You're fine. Just don't aim at me, yeah? My hair's too good to risk a header."
Leon let out a breath that was half laugh, half growl. His stomach twisted, but he stayed.
The game dragged, rough and scrappy. Twice he cut Christianna off mid-drive, his leg clanging awkwardly as he nudged the ball out from under her. Each time she glared at him like he'd insulted her lineage. Once he got tangled up with Raul, their shins knocking, both of them hitting the ground as Álvaro darted by with the ball.
"Eyes open, cojo!" Christianna snapped, yanking Leon to his feet by the arm. Her grip burned through his sleeve.
"I said… I've got it!" Leon shot back, even though his stomach was turning knots.
But the worst came near the end.
The score tied, everyone sucking air like they'd been running marathons, mud streaking their uniforms. The ball came rolling toward Leon; the perfect angle, the perfect chance. His heart jumped, legs tense as he readied to block Álvaro's drive.
Then Christianna appeared at his side, fast as a spark. Her face was twisted with frustration, lips pulled tight. For one terrible second, heat bloomed off her skin.
Leon saw the faint shimmer of flame tracing her fingers as she lunged for the ball. It wasn't much. A flicker. But it was enough.
Fear shot through Leon like lightning. His throat locked, his chest seized. His prosthetic slipped in the mud as he flinched back, and he hit the ground hard, palms stinging as gravel scraped his skin. The ball rolled past him, unnoticed in his panic, straight to Álvaro.
He didn't waste the chance. With one swift kick, Álvaro sent the ball sailing into the net cobbled together with cones and backpacks. The field erupted with shouts, half triumphant, half groans.
Leon stayed down. His breath came shallow, rain-slick air tasting metallic on his tongue. He swore he could still feel the ghost of heat where Christianna's hand had nearly brushed his arm. His heart pounded too fast, too hard, as if reminding him that he wasn't like them.
Above him, Christianna hissed something sharp in Spanish under her breath, yanking her hand back as if the flame had betrayed her. She didn't look at him as the teams shuffled off the field, laughter and complaints mingling in the cold air.
Leon stared at the gray sky, trying not to taste the humiliation as sharp as the dirt in his teeth.
Álvaro's team howled like they'd just won the state finals. Raul was jumping up and down, glasses fogging in the cold air, while Álvaro loped in circles with his arms raised, soaking in every laugh, every cheer.
On the other side, Christianna folded her arms tight. Her jaw worked, eyes flashing as she glanced at Leon sprawled in the mud.
"You see?" she said, not to him but to everyone watching. "This is what happens when you let the cojo play."
The word stung sharper than the fall had. Laughter bubbled from Álvaro's side of the field, low at first, then freer, louder, kids nudging each other as if they'd just been given permission to laugh.
Leon pushed himself up on shaky elbows. His palms burned where gravel had dug in, wet dirt clinging to his sleeves. The field tilted for a moment, or maybe it was just his chest caving in on itself.
Amir, trying to mask a wince, called out, "Hey, leave him alone, Chris. He was fine… up until the part where he wasn't."
Shake snorted, half amusement, half pity, scratching the back of his neck. "He had some good saves. Just… yeah. Not that one."
Their words didn't help. They were smudges of sympathy he hadn't asked for, lifelines tossed after he was already drowning.
Leon dragged himself upright, legs unsteady, the weight of his prosthetic heavier than usual. His breath felt raw, like he'd swallowed the cold air wrong. He wanted to yell back, wanted to spit something sharp that would cut through her disdain, that would remind everyone he wasn't just their punching bag.
But... the words never came. They curdled in his throat.
Instead he muttered, low and harsh, "Go to hell," not even sure if anyone heard him.
The laughter thinned, replaced by a ripple of whispers. His ears burned. Every face seemed turned his way, eyes pressing on him like needles.
Christianna only scoffed, rolling her eyes as if he weren't worth another second. She was already shouting to Álvaro for a rematch when Leon forced himself to move.
Each step felt wrong with mud sucking at his sneakers, the prosthetic stiff and unforgiving, his body tilting too far one way then overcorrecting the other. He tried to walk fast, tried to storm off with dignity, but it looked like what it was: a stumble, a limp, a retreat.
Don't let them see it, he thought. Don't... don't let them see how much it gets to you.
But he knew they already had. He could feel their stares, their smirks lingering like fingerprints on his skin. His chest ached, not from the fall but from the heat of shame pressing into him, hollowing him out.
By the time he cleared the edge of the field, the cheers and jeers had blurred together into one ugly hum. He kept his head down, hands balled so tight his knuckles ached, jaw clenched to keep the sting behind his eyes from spilling where anyone could see.
He hated himself for walking away.
He hated himself more for knowing he couldn't do anything else.
Amir caught up to him first, jogging with a slight huff, his sneakers slapping wet against the pavement. "Hey, bro, don't take that to heart. Chris talks trash to everybody."
Leon didn't answer. He kept walking, shoulders tight, jaw locked, but the heat in his face betrayed him.
Shake lumbered up behind, rolling his shoulders like he hadn't just finished a scrappy half-hour of soccer. "She's brutal, man, but you didn't do bad. Better than me, anyway."
Leon let out a sharp breath that wasn't quite a laugh. "Yeah, right."
"Seriously," Shake pressed. "You held Álvaro back more than once. Dude's basically glued to a ball."
Amir chimed in, half-grin crooked. "If it makes you feel better, you made Chris look dumb at least twice. That's, like, a miracle."
Leon slowed, the words barely reaching him. He appreciated them, somewhere deep down, but the sting hadn't dulled. They didn't understand, not really. For them, failure was just embarrassment. For him, it was proof. Proof of what everyone already thought when they saw the limp, the awkward hitch in his gait, the clank of metal when he moved too fast.
He mumbled something about heading to class and left them behind, the chatter of students fading into the echo of his own thoughts.
By the time he was back in his seat, the noise of the courtyard had dissolved into the stillness of a classroom. The smell of pencil shavings and disinfectant hung heavy in the air. Papers shuffled, chairs scraped against the tile.
Mr. Harrell, their Sociology teacher, prowled between desks, handing out tests with a kind of deliberate slowness. "Eyes on your own work," he muttered as the first page slid onto Leon's desk.
Leon glanced down. Questions on social hierarchies, public institutions, the role of civic duty. He clicked his pen, chewing the cap, trying to shake off the weight in his chest.
Across the room, a cluster of voices carried over the silence, hushed but not hushed enough. Christianna and her friends. Leon didn't need to look to know she was in the middle of them, her tone cutting, her laugh sharper than anyone else's.
"Hero's Day's gonna be insane," one of the girls said.
Christianna's voice followed, low but firm. "I'll be there, obviously. My mom's already prepping for it, says it'll make Madison look like a backyard barbeque."
Her mom was Ember Cain. A name everyone knew. A woman who had literally melted tanks during the Fenway Riots ten years ago. Leon's stomach tightened.
He barely caught the rest; something about Christianna's "training," about how she wasn't wasting her time on high school games when she knew where she was headed. Her voice carried the certainty of someone who thought destiny was already hers, who spoke like the Valor Nine were a doorway she just hadn't bothered to walk through yet.
Leon's eyes dropped back to his test, the words on the page swimming a little.
He knew the story. Everyone did. Christianna, daughter of Ember Cain, one of Boston's fiercest defenders. The girl who openly bragged she'd surpass even the Pinnacle of Man someday, as if ambition alone was enough to get her there.
And why wouldn't she believe it? She had the bloodline, the fire, the presence. The whole city already bent a little when she walked past.
Leon tightened his grip on the pen.
Meanwhile, he was just a kid with one leg, faking his way through schoolwork, trying not to trip in a pick-up soccer game. He couldn't stop thinking about how small he felt– small in the hallways, small in the shadow of people born with flame in their veins, small in a city that celebrated its heroes like gods while barely glancing at kids like him.
What's civic duty mean when the world worships people who can throw cars across rivers? he thought, eyes flicking over the words of the test. Where does that leave the rest of us? What's our role… cheering from the sidelines? Trying not to get stepped on?
At the front of the room, a television bolted high in the corner droned low. A news anchor's voice carried through the static, a headline scrolling about preparations for Hero's Day: street closures, parade routes, confirmed appearances of the Valor Nine. The anchor's tone was reverent, almost celebratory.
The students barely looked up. Christianna and her friends giggled again. Amir tapped his pencil in rhythm against his desk. Shake was already chewing on the eraser of his.
Leon just stared at his paper, the answers blurring. His chest tightened, caught between frustration and something worse.
Insignificance wasn't just a feeling. To him, it was fact.
The room was steady in its rhythm: pens scratching, the faint hum of the heater rattling in the vents, muted gossip from Christianna's corner. Leon had just scrawled down half an answer on the question about "institutional frameworks" when the television overhead crackled louder than usual.
Then the anchor's voice cut through the quiet. "We interrupt this program with… breaking news."
Every pen stopped. Even Mr. Harrell froze mid-step, eyes drawn to the screen as though pulled by gravity.
The chyron unfurled in bold white letters against a black bar: Breaking: Valor Nine member Captain Gray dead at 43 after long battle with colon cancer.
The anchor continued, measured but shaken. "Markus Gray, better known as Captain Gray, one of Boston's own, has passed away last night surrounded by family. A beloved member of the Valor Nine for nearly two decades, Gray had fought quietly against his illness while continuing to serve…"
The words dulled into a hum, like the static had climbed inside Leon's head. His pen rolled from his hand, clattering against the desk.
The classroom went silent except for the TV. No scribbles. No whispers. Only the low, deliberate cadence of the anchor describing Gray's career, his selflessness, his legacy.
Christianna's laugh, which had been so sharp a minute ago, was gone. Leon turned his head slightly, just enough to see her face over her shoulder. The mask she wore, all steel and fire, had cracked open. Her mouth was parted. Her eyes wide, fixed on the screen.
"No way," one voice muttered under his breath, too quiet to be real conversation. "No… fucking way."
Another swore softly, a single word heavy enough to carry.
Mr. Harrell set the stack of papers he was holding down on a student's desk without looking, rubbing at his jaw like he could grind sense out of the moment. His usual sharp presence shrank, shoulders sinking.
Leon's chest tightened. His mind scrambled. Dead? Just like that? To something like… Cancer?
Captain Gray wore the tired face he'd seen in several of his interviews, the man who somehow made exhaustion look noble, who'd still been out there breaking up fights and pulling people from wrecks. A man Leon had never thought much about beyond the headlines but assumed would always be there. Untouchable. Master of the Sorcerous Ways… Heroes didn't just… die like that. At least not one of the Valor Nine.
He felt a strange emptiness, like his insides had hollowed. He wasn't grieving, not the way Christianna clearly was, but he felt the weight of it pressing down anyway. A man with powers, with status, with a name carved into the city's bones... gone. And here he was, a kid who could barely run a soccer drill without humiliating himself.
If even someone like him can go just like that… then what are the rest of us worth?
The anchor's voice cracked slightly before regaining composure. "We'll have more details soon, but Boston has lost one of its own protectors today. A vigil is expected to be announced later this week."
Christianna shifted suddenly, her chair scraping loud against the floor. Her hands gripped the desk so tightly her knuckles whitened. For once, no one mocked her intensity. She looked furious and broken all at once, lips pressed thin, eyes glistening though she refused to blink.
Leon couldn't look away. He knew what this meant to her. Everyone did. Gray wasn't just a hero to her; he was the yardstick she measured herself against, the wall she'd been planning to scale.
The silence stretched. The heater kicked on again, a low metallic groan that only made the stillness heavier. Someone sniffled in the back row.
Leon picked up his pen, but the test in front of him had turned into nothing more than white paper. The questions didn't matter anymore. Not next to that black bar of text still burning across the screen.
For the first time all day, he didn't feel humiliated. He felt small in a different way, like a witness to the reminder that no one, not even heroes, was untouchable.
And watching Christianna, rigid and shaking, he thought: If even she can look breakable, then maybe the whole system isn't as invincible as it pretends to be.
Leon sat frozen, pen idle in his hand, while the world in front of him shifted in slow, fractured pieces.
Christianna's chair screeched backward, the sound so sharp it made him flinch. She didn't ask, didn't look back, just pushed past the rows and shoved open the door, her friends trailing behind like a tide pulled after her. Their footsteps faded into the hallway, a blur of murmurs and the slam of the door closing.
Mr. Harrell lifted a hand, his voice catching in the space they'd left. "Everyone, wait! Sit. We're still in the middle of—"
Nobody listened. Two more kids slipped out after the first wave, one muttering, "My mom's gonna freak," the other staring at their phone like the world had tilted sideways.
The silence they left behind wasn't clean. It was cluttered—scrapes of chairs, whispered curses, the faint whir of the TV as the anchor repeated Gray's biography over muted footage of old rescues. The smell of pencil graphite hung thicker now, mixed with the tang of sweat; everyone's nerves seemed to make the room warmer, damper.
Leon swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, but his palms were damp against the paper. He glanced sideways: the few kids still in their seats shifted like they were waiting for permission to bolt. One boy drummed his pencil against the desk, faster and faster. Another girl had her head in her hands, hair spilling between her fingers.
Leon didn't move. Not because he wasn't shaken– he was, but because leaving felt like admitting something he didn't have the courage to name. His stomach twisted. Is that cowardice? Or is it the only thing keeping me from looking pathetic in front of them, too?
At the front, Mr. Harrell pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked older than he had at the start of class, the kind of old that wasn't about years but about hours suddenly laid heavy. He sighed long, slicking his damp forehead back with one hand, his fingers leaving streaks in his thinning hair.
"Alright," he said finally, his voice tired, stripped of the authority he usually wore like armor. "Forget the test. We'll pick it up tomorrow morning. Go on."
No one cheered. No one even moved right away. The dismissal hung awkwardly in the air, like none of them wanted to be first. Then chairs scraped, backpacks zipped, and the shuffle toward the door began.
Leon stayed seated a moment longer, staring at the test in front of him. The ink marks he'd made earlier already looked like they belonged to someone else. He pressed his thumb to the edge of the page, smearing a faint graphite streak.
Captain Gray is dead, he thought, trying the words on like they might fit. But they didn't—not yet. They felt distant, like something on TV wasn't supposed to press into the real world.
Still, watching his classmates scatter, seeing Christianna's empty chair, Leon felt that hollow weight again: the reminder that for all the noise and power around him, he was still just sitting here, small and unremarkable.
And no one was looking at him at all.