Why?
The question fractured through Mateo's mind as Brett's weight pressed down on his chest, pinning him against the cold concrete of the alleyway. Blood pooled in his mouth, metallic and warm. His ribs screamed with each shallow breath.
Why was this happening again?
The last time he'd asked himself that question—really asked it—was three years ago. When the smoke cleared. When the sirens wailed in the distance but never came fast enough. When Alec's hand had gone cold in his.
Why was he about to die in the same godforsaken neighborhood where heroes never showed up when people needed them most?
Brett's face loomed above him, twisted in that familiar expression of predatory satisfaction. The same look villains wore in the news footage. The same look that haunted Mateo's nightmares. The twisted metal axe gleamed dully in the early morning light filtering between the buildings.
"Nowhere to run now, kid," Brett sneered, adjusting his grip on the weapon. "Should've minded your own business instead of playing hero."
Playing hero. The words cut deeper than any blade.
Mateo's vision blurred as he struggled against Brett's weight. His knuckles were already split and bleeding from the punches he'd thrown. Every technique he'd drilled in those sleepless nights—every combination, every counter, every desperate move he'd practiced until his body gave out—all useless. Completely fucking useless.
He'd thought he could do this. He'd actually believed he was ready.
Arx had been right. God, Arx had been right about everything.
"You know what I think?" Brett continued, pressing the axe handle against Mateo's throat. Not enough to kill, not yet. Just enough to make breathing a conscious effort. "I think you're one of those wannabe hero kids. Thinks watching footage and throwing punches at a punching bag makes you special."
The pressure increased. Mateo's hands clawed at Brett's arms, but the gang member was too strong, too experienced. Too everything that Mateo wasn't.
"Problem is," Brett's voice dropped to a whisper, "real heroes don't come to places like this. They're too busy with the big villains, the flashy fights that make good TV. Nobody gives a shit about kids like you getting carved up in alleys."
No. No, that wasn't—
But it was true, wasn't it? Where were they? Where were the heroes when his apartment building exploded? Where were they when his mother bled out in the rubble? Where were they when Alec—
"Say your prayers, kid."
The axe rose.
And something inside Mateo's chest cracked open like a dam breaking.
Not again. Not like this. Not when Alec died believing Mateo could be something more than this. Not when—
Wrong.
The thought sliced through his panic like a blade. All those statements racing through his head—about being weak, about being nothing, about dying pathetically in this alley—they were right. But one part was wrong.
He wasn't powerless.
He had a quirk. A disgusting quirk that he'd buried so deep he sometimes forgot it existed. The same quirk that had wrapped around him like a shield when the explosion tore through their building. The same quirk that had saved his miserable life while letting everyone he loved die.
Brett's axe began its descent.
Mateo raised his trembling arm—not to block, but to surrender to the thing he hated most about himself.
The slime erupted from his forearm like a geyser.
Dark green, thick as motor oil, it poured out in quantities that defied logic. Brett's axe stopped mid-swing as the viscous mass engulfed his weapon, his hand, his entire arm. The gang leader's eyes went wide with shock and disgust.
"What the—"
The slime kept coming. Gallons of it, pouring from Mateo's arm in waves that seemed to have no end. It was nothing like the small amounts he'd produced as a child—this was a flood, driven by two years of suppressed power and the raw terror of impending death.
Brett staggered backward, trying to shake the slime from his arm, but it clung to him like glue. The substance spread across his chest, weighing him down, making each movement a struggle. He swung his axe frantically, but the blade passed through the slime without effect. Every cut sealed itself instantly, replaced by more of the suffocating mass.
"Get it off!" Brett screamed, panic replacing his earlier confidence. "Get it fucking off me!"
But Mateo couldn't stop it even if he wanted to. The quirk operated on its own logic now, responding to his desperation, his rage, his bone-deep need to survive. The slime poured from him in torrents, spreading across the alley floor, climbing the walls in thick rivulets.
I hate this, Mateo thought as Brett collapsed under the weight. I hate this so fucking much.
It was honest disgust. His power was wrong.
The slime continued its relentless advance. Brett's struggles grew weaker as the mass pressed down on him, restricting his movement, his breathing. His face, visible through the semi-transparent substance, had gone from red to purple. The other gang members took a step back, then another.
Brett's eyes bulged as the pressure increased. Mateo could see the man's mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, could hear the wet sounds of someone drowning in open air. The gang leader's legs kicked weakly, and a dark stain spread across his pants as his body's basic functions gave out.
The sight should have disgusted Mateo. Should have made him sick. Instead, he felt... nothing. Empty. Like watching something happen to someone else.
This is what saved me, he thought distantly. This gross, pathetic power. It made a cocoon around me while Alec and Mom burned. It kept me alive to be alone.
The other thugs were backing toward the alley mouth now, their weapons forgotten. Their faces showed the same expression Mateo had seen on civilians' faces in villain attack footage—pure, animal terror.
"We should go," one said.
"Yeah. Yeah, let's get out of here."
They ran. Not with any dignity or coordination, just pure flight instinct taking over. Their footsteps echoed off the alley walls until the sound faded into the morning traffic noise from the main street.
Smart choice.
Mateo stared down at Brett, still struggling weakly beneath the mass of slime. His movements were getting slower, more desperate. How long could someone survive under that much pressure? How long before—
No.
The thought came from somewhere deeper than conscious decision. Mateo didn't want to examine it too closely, didn't want to understand why the idea of Brett dying made his stomach clench. The guy was scum. A villain, even if he wasn't the villain Mateo was hunting. The world would be better without him.
But Alec wouldn't have wanted this. Alec had dreamed of being a hero, and heroes didn't... heroes didn't kill people in dirty alleys.
The flow from Mateo's arm began to slow, then stopped entirely. The sudden absence of power left him feeling hollow, drained. His legs gave out, and he collapsed to his knees beside the mountain of green slime that had consumed half the alley.
Every muscle in his body screamed. His vision grayed at the edges, and a bone-deep exhaustion settled over him like a heavy blanket. He'd heard about quirk recoil before, but experiencing it was different. It felt like his body was eating itself from the inside out.
Beneath the slime, Brett had stopped moving. For a terrifying moment, Mateo thought he'd actually done it—actually killed someone. Then he saw the slight rise and fall of the mass where Brett's chest would be. Unconscious, not dead.
The thought surprised him with its intensity. When had he started caring whether Brett lived or died? The man had been ready to kill him, would have killed him without a second thought. By any reasonable measure, Brett deserved whatever he got.
But Mateo wasn't reasonable. He was eighteen, traumatized, and desperately trying to live up to the memory of a brother who'd wanted to save the world.
He forced himself to stand, legs shaking like a newborn colt's. The alley was a disaster zone—slime coating the walls, pooling in corners, creating a landscape that looked like something from a horror movie. No one would be able to trace this back to him, not unless they had video footage or witnesses. And in this neighborhood, at this time of morning, that was unlikely.
People here minded their own business. It was a survival trait.
Mateo stumbled toward the alley mouth, each step an effort of will. He needed to get out of here before Brett woke up, before the other gang members worked up the courage to come back, before someone called the police. He needed to disappear into the morning crowd and pretend this never happened.
But as he reached the street, one thought echoed in his mind with perfect clarity:
He still needed money for that Atlas Academy admission ticket.
The irony wasn't lost on him. He'd just used the quirk he hated most to survive a fight he couldn't have won on his own, and his first thought was about how to get back to his original plan. Maybe Arx was right. Maybe Mateo really was losing his mind.
But what else was he supposed to do? Give up? Accept that he'd never be strong enough to find his family's killer? Accept that Alec had died believing in a lie?
Not likely.
Mateo pulled his hood up and stepped into the stream of morning pedestrians, just another face in the crowd. His body ached, his conscience gnawed at him, and his quirk had left him feeling like he'd been turned inside out.
But he was alive. And as long as he was alive, he could keep fighting.