Well, that fucking hurt.

  I absolutely cannot recommend letting an A-css non-super vilin throw you through a wall. Or three. Yeah, it was three.

  I was just having a really nice and chill day working at my small garage, the one I was still paying off, when I got an alert that a Super was attacking a bank near me. It wasn’t even a major branch, just one of those little ones that has a few thousand on hand for cash transactions. Barely even worth the risk.

  That being said, Crusher was not exactly the smartest guy in any room he was in, including if he was alone in said room. He’s one of those guys who thinks just ‘cause his muscles can bend steel, it means his brain can’t be bent too. Which is wrong.

  I groaned as I pulled myself up off the ground. The floor around me was a mess of shattered concrete, drywall chunks, and the distinct scent of freshly-cracked pster. I wiped some blood from my lip and checked my suit. It was already beginning to patch itself up—ripped fabric mending, small slivers of armor reforming where the impact had torn them.

  Good. Probably still going to need a new repair job after this.

  With a hefty sigh, I rolled my neck and cracked my knuckles. Let’s go again.

  I charged right back into the bank through the three new doors that had just been made with me as the key—one of the many perks of fighting someone with the same IQ as a brick. I pnted my feet, aimed my fist, and smmed it into Crusher’s muscled stomach.

  Now, he was a big dude. Super juice, all muscle, no brains, and about half a meter taller than me, which, in case you were wondering, is pretty intimidating when you’re only 5’3” on a good day. And I’m not saying I’m weak, but when you throw a punch at a guy who’s built like a wall, it’s more of a thud than a punch.

  My fist bounced off him like a rubber ball against stone.

  “Oww, fuck!” I compined as I jerked my hand back. "Wait, shit, Heroes shouldn’t swear—uh, not like you’re gonna get a kid’s show special, Crusher."

  He chuckled down at me, his deep voice making the air vibrate. “Little girl, maybe go back and py dress-up somewhere. You’re too weak to stop me.”

  His words stung, but more than that, they reminded me just how much taller he was than me. The barb would have hurt if I didn’t already know that. I was shorter than the average hero, but that didn’t mean I was just gonna roll over.

  Still, I wasn’t gonna lie, the way he gred down at me—half smug, half expecting me to run off crying—didn’t make this any easier. The sooner I knocked this guy out, the better.

  “Aww, is the big tough guy scared of a little girl?” I taunted, letting a smirk crawl onto my face. Ouch, self-burn, but hey, if it goaded this jackass into hitting me harder, that was worth it.

  His eyebrows shot up. “What did you say?”

  I stepped back, pnting my feet, ready for his next move. My suit was humming under me, responding to the tension building in the air. I wasn’t invincible—far from it. But damn if I didn’t know how to make a comeback.

  Before Crusher could make a move, I slid to the side and let him throw a punch. It was like watching a freight train barreling toward me.

  Perfect.

  I braced myself, letting the full force of his punch crash into me. I could feel the heat of the blow, the sheer power in it, but instead of flinching, I absorbed it.

  My whole body tensed, then, in an instant, I transformed that force into kinetic energy. The world around me seemed to slow down as my suit hummed with power, my muscles vibrating with a burst of charge.

  And then, just as fast, I snapped back. My fist shot out and smmed into Crusher’s gut again—but this time, it wasn’t just my fist hitting him. It was the full force of his own attack coming back at him, multiplied by my own momentum.

  The impact sent him stumbling back, his eyes wide with shock. The air whooshed out of his lungs, but before I could celebrate, I already felt the tingling of his next move.

  I wasn’t done yet.

  I mean, hitting him with his own power was certainly gonna hurt him, but I was going to need more than that.

  “Oh, that’s it, bratl, you are gonna get it now.” He sneered, cracking his knuckles like he was about to go to town on a punching bag.

  Well, that was easy. I know I’m pretty unknown, but seriously, you’d think some people would’ve at least heard of my gimmick. Maybe seen a news story, or a meme. God knows my powers are… well, they’re something, alright.

  I positioned myself away from the huddling hostages in the bank, keeping my back to the wall. Crusher was too busy being a giant, rampaging meathead to think much about where his punches nded. Good. I just had to make sure I didn’t get in the way of the terrified civilians. They weren’t exactly keen on a bunch of flying fists nding in their p.

  Why was my power so dumb?

  I mean, it's great for a one-on-one fight when you're up against someone who doesn't know what’s coming, but when you're facing off with a guy who can basically swing like a wrecking ball? It's less about “resilience” and more about not being fttened.

  The first hit came in, and holy shit, I barely stayed on my feet. It was like being hit with a goddamn train. My knees buckled, and I stumbled back, almost crashing into one of the bank’s pilrs. But just as I teetered, I forced myself back up with perfect timing to feel another fist connect with my side. That also fucking hurt.

  The pain shot through me like a bullet, but I didn’t drop. Crusher was clearly getting more frustrated with every punch, and honestly? I wasn’t about to let some musclehead think he could take me out that easily.

  Still didn’t go down though.

  Crusher frowned at me, his brows drawn in confusion. Some of the civilians in the bank looked both terrified and confused too. I could hear them whispering in the background, and I bet half of them were thinking, “Who the hell is this girl? She’s just standing there, getting smacked around.”

  Yeah, no kidding.

  I was an unknown—had only stopped a few small-time crimes in this suit. It wasn’t like I was some famous viginte. Hell, I was still paying off my garage—which, let's be honest, isn’t exactly what a superhero should be doing with their life. And let’s not even get started on my superpower.

  Getting hit hurt. A lot.

  But I survived. That was my gimmick.

  Crusher swung again, his fists coming down like thunder. I barely had time to brace myself, but I knew what would happen. That shockwave of force would hit me, and I would absorb it. The power coursed through my bones as his fist connected with my chest, driving me back. His punch almost felt like it crushed my ribs, but the real kicker was the charge that I could feel swelling inside me.

  The world went a little blurry as my body hummed with energy, the sting fading into the raw potential of what I could do with it. It wasn’t just pain I was soaking up—it was strength.

  Crusher growled and reared back for another hit. “Okay, I am done pying, kid,” he said, his voice deep and guttural like the growl of an angry animal.

  God, he was such a cliché. Sentient brick factory was the best description. His muscles were bigger than his brain. But whatever, I wasn’t going to just give up. If I had to take a thousand hits to take him down, then so be it.

  How many hits would I need to take before I could knock this asshole down?

  I took a deep breath, clenching my fists as he lunged again. I was already tired, my muscles aching from the relentless blows, but I knew something Crusher didn’t: I could take this. It wasn’t pretty, but it was my thing.

  The question wasn’t how many hits it would take. It was whether I could keep getting back up after each one.

  I mean… probably.

  Crusher was, hands down, the strongest guy I’d ever fought when it came to raw physical strength. Just pure meat-and-muscle, swinging with the kind of power that could reduce small buildings to rubble.

  But still—getting jumped by the Caprici Gang st winter? Way worse.

  That had been a ten-on-one ambush, involving chains, crowbars, one guy with a goddamn nailgun, and a lot of very creative swearing. I’d crawled home from that one missing half my suit and with a dislocated shoulder I had to pop back in myself. That was pain. This? This was just another day.

  A fist smmed into my face before I could even finish the thought. One second I was standing, the next, airborne.

  I didn’t even scream. What was the point?

  Now, the heroic thing to do in that moment—what Apex or any golden-boy cape would’ve done—was to twist midair like a gymnast, spin into a roll, and nd crouched, probably striking a pose for the cameras while they were at it. Absorb the impact gracefully, like a pro.

  So, naturally, I decided the best course of action was to nd face-first on the cold, unyielding stone tile floor.

  My nose bounced. Then the rest of me followed.

  With all the elegance of a dropped sack of bricks, I skidded across the floor and crashed into one of the bank's support pilrs, knocking loose a thin cloud of dust and maybe a chunk or two of the foundation. My ribs screamed in protest, and I’m pretty sure my left kneecap had a very serious compint it wanted to file.

  I y there for a beat, blinking at the ceiling lights—dull fluorescents that buzzed faintly above like they were mocking me. I could practically hear them going, "Wow, she’s really just lying there, huh? This is the hero?"

  The worst part? I wasn’t even mad.

  Because as much of a muscle-brained jackass as Crusher was, damn if he didn’t have phenomenal aim.

  With a series of clicks, cracks, and one disturbingly squelchy pop from somewhere near my spine, I forced myself upright. My legs trembled a bit, but they held.

  Gotta stop this guy. Mostly from throwing me into another load-bearing structure, but sure, also the whole “robbing a bank” thing. Minor detail.

  Crusher snarled like a junkyard dog. “Why won’t you stay down, girl?” he roared, chest heaving.

  I wiped a smear of blood from my lip and offered him my best shit-eating grin—at least, the half of it I could still feel. “Pretty sure I’ve taken harder hits from a toddler having a tantrum. You sure you’re cut out for this whole ‘vilin’ gig?”

  That did it.

  His face twisted like someone had told him protein powder was a scam. The vein in his forehead pulsed hard enough I thought it might detach and go looking for a better host.

  Perfect.

  Now, under normal circumstances, taunting a super-strong, actively violent maniac into flying into a blind rage would be considered unwise. Especially when your main defense is "I bounce."

  But Crusher wasn’t the kind of vilin who pyed chess. He was the kind who flipped the board and tried to eat the pieces.

  I needed him mad. Sloppy. Predictable.

  “I’m gonna kill you, kid,” he growled, voice suddenly low and deadly serious. That kind of fake-calm that always means something truly unhinged is about to happen.

  I clutched my aching ribs and smiled wider. “How’re you gonna manage that when you hit like a sad kitten with arthritis?”

  Yeah, okay, maybe that one was a little much.

  He charged, snarling, shoulders down like a freight train with no brakes. I winced in advance. The bank was definitely getting another “sorry” card from me.

  But he didn’t punch me. He didn’t even throw me.

  Instead, he grabbed me by the arm with surprising speed—seriously, where was this coordination when I was taunting him earlier?—and then suddenly smashed me into the floor on the other side of his body.

  And then, without pause, lifted me back up and smashed me down again—this time to the left.

  Then right.

  Then left.

  Back and forth. Like a kid with a really pissed-off ragdoll.

  Each impact knocked the wind out of me. Pain fred behind my eyes, and I couldn’t even tell if I was screaming or just exhaling in raw, shocked grunts.

  Yep. This hurt like a bitch.

  Still better than taking one big hit, though. I could feel it—the pressure building, kinetic energy winding tight in my bones. My body was turning every blow into stored potential like a living spring being pulled to the breaking point.

  He had no idea what he was doing for me. And the best part? He was helping.

  “WHY—”

  WACK.

  “WON’T—”

  SMASH.

  “YOU—”

  CRUNCH.

  “DIIIIIEEEE?!”

  Buddy, I thought, if I had a dolr for every time someone asked me that, I could retire.

  But instead of answering—because I like keeping my secrets—I just let him finish.

  With a final snarl of frustration, he hurled me across the bank like a discarded action figure. I crashed through a desk, a load-bearing column that was definitely not going to pass inspection now, and finally skidded to a halt by smming into the small, sad excuse for a vault the bank had.

  Silence.

  Well, aside from my groaning.

  Definitely the second-most painful thing I’ve experienced this month.

  Because unfortunately, even quasi-invulnerability doesn't mean shit against period cramps. Those were still worse. And they didn’t come with a free revenge charge-up.

  I forced myself to get up again, because if there was one thing I was really good at—aside from pretending I wasn’t scared shitless—it was refusing to stay down. My knees wobbled like cheap suspension, and I limped forward with all the swagger of a goose with a broken leg and a vendetta. The dent my body had left in the vault door was probably going to cost someone a lot of money. Hopefully not me.

  “Izzat all you got, kitten?” I slurred, blinking past the ringing in my ears and the double vision that was just starting to think about becoming triple. Okay, I was a little woozy. It’s fine. No one had knocked me out before, and I wasn’t about to let my streak end with this sentient sb of steak.

  Crusher looked stunned, and not in the ‘oh no my pn is failing’ way—more like the ‘is this small girl some kind of horror movie monster’ way. Honestly, I wasn’t sure I could bme him.

  “How?” he growled, confused, furious, and just a little bit scared.

  “Y’see,” I said, wobbling closer with a limp that was either fake or not—I wasn’t sure anymore. “I’m actually kinda shit at this fighting thing. No training montage, no grizzled mentor, not even a punching bag at home. Should probably fix that someday.”

  He didn’t move. Idiot.

  I kept closing the distance, step by painful step, leaving a little trail of blood like a breadcrumb path to revenge. He was dumb enough to let me get close, and I was just dumb enough to take advantage of it.

  I spat a mouthful of blood off to the side and wiped my chin with the back of my glove. “Hey, kitten,” I said with a lopsided grin. “You ever heard of the Kerbal Space Program?”

  “What the fu—”

  “Bap.”

  I flicked him. Just one finger. Right on the forehead.

  Now, pyfully would be the wrong word. That flick had the cumutive force of every punch, sm, throw, and crash he’d inflicted on me over the past twenty minutes. My entire body was a battery, and this was the discharge.

  There was a crack. A real one. Like thunder had just drop-kicked the air.

  The bank lobby exploded in a shockwave. Tiles shattered. Windows screamed. Debris flew. A couple hostages were knocked off their feet. (They’re fine. Probably. I’ll send flowers.)

  As for Crusher? I made renovations.

  He unched. Straight up. Through the ceiling. Through several more floors. Through the roof.I might’ve made a few unpnned renovations to the building. Skylights are trendy, right?

  Now, if he’d been a normal dude, his skull would’ve popped like a watermelon dropped from a highway overpass. But no—Crusher was a tough son of a bitch. Super-juiced, thick-skulled, and resilient enough to survive me flicking him into low orbit.

  I watched the new hole in the ceiling for a moment, one eye twitching from the pain. “Huh,” I mumbled. “Guess he’s experiencing rapid unscheduled disassembly.”

  Then I colpsed onto my knees, ughing and groaning at the same time. God, my powers were stupid. Who the fuck needs to take a beating just to do nay damage.

  Couldn’t even get the standard-issue invincibility like the Golden Boy himself—no, he gets to tank missiles without flinching, and I get the bootleg version. I feel everything. Every cracked rib, every pulled muscle, every goddamn time someone uses me as a human speed bag.

  The cheers started rolling in. Relief. Appuse. Some people crying. Guess that meant I’d done my job. Y’know, the one that doesn’t pay. Volunteer hero work—like community service, except you get punched through drywall instead of picking up trash.

  I turned to the crowd, gave them a shaky smile and a little wave. Real poster-girl moment. Then I promptly doubled over and coughed up a solid mouthful of blood.

  Okay. Less poster-girl. More horror movie third act.

  The cheers started tapering off. People looked… worried. A couple even stepped forward, like they weren’t sure if I was dying on my feet. Which, to be fair, was not entirely off the table.

  I waved again. “It’s fine,” I wheezed. “Just... the usual Tuesday.”

  They didn’t look reassured.

  But I knew the drill. Internal bleeding always stopped after a few minutes. That probably meant it wasn’t serious. I mean, blood’s supposed to stay in your body, right? So once it stopped coming out, clearly everything was going back to normal. That’s how biology works. Probably.

  I gave the vault one st gnce—yep, still Ivy-shaped. Then looked up through the new skylight I’d made. Crusher was long gone.

  Good. One less asshole in my airspace.

  The cheering suddenly ramped up—like, really ramped up—and for a second I was fttered. Wobbly, bleeding, and barely standing, sure, but hey, at least people appreciated the effort.

  “Apex!” someone screamed, almost giddy.

  Well, that wasn’t my name.

  Before I could even turn fully, I felt a rge, very solid hand rest on my shoulder. Big. Firm. Heroic. The kind of touch that said, “I could probably catch a colpsing building with this arm.”

  I spun around and nearly tripped over my own feet—not from surprise, but from the overwhelming dizziness and probable brain trauma—and there he was.

  Apex. Defender of the world. The man who probably saved the universe on his lunch breaks and still had time to volunteer at soup kitchens.

  Sure, he made his home in Halcyon City, but the guy could be anywhere, anytime. Usually he was off punching asteroids or putting demonic gods in time-out. Not... y’know, helping clean up a small-time bank job with like three hostages and a meathead with anger issues. Maybe it was a slow apocalypse day.

  Fuck, he was good looking. Not in a "rugged bad boy" way. No, this was the kind of clean-cut, magazine-cover, all-American, mom-wants-you-to-date-him kinda hot. Mid-thirties, probably. Chiseled jaw, like, unfairly symmetrical. No stubble, of course. His dark hair was slicked back into pce with probably the exact amount of gel dictated by w. And his spandex suit? Not a wrinkle. Not a stain. Pristine white with those gleaming gold accents. It probably bleached itself every morning.

  He was almost hot enough to make me question my deeply committed lesbianism. Almost. If he had a pair of tits—and I mean real ones, not just pecs trying to pass—I might have crumbled. That’s my weakness. Big heroic tits. But he didn’t, so I didn’t, and anyway I’d been staring at him way too long.

  Like, a solid forty seconds.

  With squinty eyes.

  And I was starting to drool a little.

  Oh, I was definitely concussed.

  “Good work, my friend,” Apex said with that charming, too-perfect smile and those suspiciously perfect teeth. Seriously, what dentist does he go to? Is it a wizard? A divine artifact? Dental impnts forged by cosmic beings?

  “Thank you for your hard work,” he added, voice like warm honey poured over a liberty bell.

  “I wonder how good he’d look in a dress,” I thought to myself, admiring the way his heroic physique filled out that spotless white spandex.

  He blinked at me.

  Oh no.

  My brain caught up with my mouth just a second too te. “Oh shit. I said that out loud, didn’t I?”

  He didn’t miss a beat. Still smiling, like nothing fazed him. That diplomatic, non-threatening hero smile that said “I’ve been media trained within an inch of my life.”

  “It seems you might have a concussion, friend,” he said warmly. “I recommend getting that looked at. I don’t mind helping around here while you do.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank.” I replied, like a raccoon trying to form human words. I gave him a thumbs-up that wobbled mid-air.

  He was probably right. Having my skull used as a blunt instrument against a marble floor was, medically speaking, suboptimal.

  Then I coughed.

  A wet, gurgly, very dramatic cough.

  And I sprayed blood directly onto Apex’s pristine, snow-white costume.

  Dead silence.

  The bank, which had been buzzing with post-battle chatter, immediately went quiet. People froze. I froze. Even the little kid with the balloon stopped mid-sob.

  There was a long, horrible pause as I stared at the deep red smear running down his gold-embroidered chest emblem.

  “…Today just isn’t my day,” I muttered, absolutely ready to crawl into the nearest safe or die.

  To his credit, Apex didn’t flinch. Not even a twitch. He just looked down, then back up at me with that same smile. Maybe a little tighter around the eyes now.

  “Please go to the hospital,” he said, still calm. “Immediately.”

  “Yup,” I croaked. “On it. Very on it.”

  I turned to leave and immediately walked into a wall.

  SupernovaSymphony