The rain came down in cold sheets, soaking the cracked pavement and turning the neon glow of street signs into blurred smears of color. The city never slept, but it sure as hell felt more desperate at night.

  Damaged moved through the shadows, his coat heavy with rain, eyes locked on the small convenience store across the street. It wasn’t much—a family-owned corner shop, the kind barely staying afloat with the way the city worked against people like them.

  And tonight, someone was trying to take even that from them.

  Through the glass storefront, he saw them—two figures inside. One held a laser pistol, pacing near the register, barking orders at the terrified shop owner. The other… well, there were three of him.

  A cloner.

  Damaged clicked his tongue. That was going to be a pain.

  Taking a slow breath, he stepped forward.

  “I don’t wanna hurt nobody,” the man with the laser pistol said, voice strained, eyes darting between the shop owner and the cash register. Nervous. Twitchy. He wasn’t some hardened criminal—he was desperate.

  And Damaged knew him.

  “Come on, Lenny,” Damaged called out as he stepped through the door, his boots heavy against the tiled floor. His voice was calm, but firm. Authoritative. “This isn’t you.”

  Lenny turned, his wide-rimmed glasses slipping down his nose, rain-slicked hair sticking to his forehead. The man used to be a scientist, a genius even—but gambling got its hooks into him, and it hadn’t let go. Now, here he was, robbing a corner store with tech he probably built himself.

  Lenny’s laser pistol twitched upward, but he didn’t fire yet. “Stay back, man,” he warned, his voice shaking. “I don’t wanna do this.”

  “But you’re doing it anyway,” Damaged said. Disappointment laced his words. “What happened to getting clean? You were working on something real, something that mattered.”

  “I—” Lenny’s grip on the gun faltered for a second, but the cloner—or cloners, rather—weren’t hesitating.

  Three identical men blocked the exit behind Damaged, each holding a crowbar or a pipe. Their grins were identical too—wide, mean, full of bad intentions.

  “We doing this or not?” one of them asked.

  Lenny hesitated.

  Then his finger tightened on the trigger.

  Damaged saw the glow before the shot even came.

  He moved fast, lunging forward just as a bolt of red-hot energy blasted toward him. Instinctively, he raised his arm, shielding his face with his scarred hands—

  The impact burned, even through his resistance. The scars from the Messiah’s golden vision had made him tougher against heat, but not immune. The pain still bit deep, but he didn’t flinch.

  Lenny’s eyes went wide. “What the hell—”

  Damaged didn’t give him time to process it.

  With a burst of movement, he closed the distance, knocking the laser gun aside with a brutal swipe of his arm. The pistol clattered against the ground, spinning across the tiles.

  Lenny barely had time to react before Damaged’s fist buried itself in his gut, knocking the wind out of him.

  One down.

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  The clones were next.

  The first swung a crowbar—Damaged ducked. The second came in from behind—he spun, catching the clone with a sharp elbow to the ribs, feeling the satisfying crunch of bone.

  The third one—too slow.

  Damaged grabbed him by the throat, swinging him like a human shield just as the first clone swung again. The crowbar connected with his own copy’s ribs, sending the poor bastard crumpling.

  Two down.

  The last clone lunged. Damaged let him get close—then drove his forehead straight into the man’s nose.

  A sickening CRACK. Blood spattered.

  Three down.

  The real one—the original—yelped and collapsed as his copies disappeared, the pain overwhelming his mind. That was the problem with clones. They felt everything together.

  Damaged stood over them all, breathing heavy, burned hands throbbing.

  Lenny groaned, clutching his stomach. “Shit…”

  Damaged knelt beside him, staring him in the eyes. “This is where this ends, Lenny.”

  Lenny’s face twisted with guilt, his body shaking. “I didn’t… I just needed the money, man.”

  “Yeah,” Damaged muttered. “That’s what they all say.”

  He reached into his coat, pulled out his phone, and dialed a familiar number.

  “Gomez,” he said when the detective picked up. “Got two for you. A cloner and an old friend with a gambling problem.”

  Gomez sighed on the other end. “Christ. You’re gonna keep me busy tonight, aren’t you?”

  “That’s what I do,” Damaged muttered, running a bandaged hand through his damp hair.

  He leaned back against the store counter, watching the rain trickle down the shattered glass.

  Another long night in the city.

  And it was far from over.

  The flashing blue-and-red lights of the police cruisers cast long, fractured shadows across the rain-slicked pavement. As officers piled into the store to round up the criminals, Damaged was already leaving. He never stuck around when the job was done. Gomez would handle the rest.

  Stepping onto the sidewalk, he tugged his coat tighter around him, keeping his pace casual but steady as he made his way back toward his apartment.

  Another job finished. Another night in the city.

  But after only a few blocks, something felt off.

  He knew the city well, knew the natural rhythm of the streets at night. The way people moved, the sounds of traffic, the way shadows stretched under streetlights.

  And right now?

  Someone was following him.

  Not a pro. Not subtle enough. But persistent.

  Damaged exhaled through his nose, slowing his steps just enough to let his shadowed pursuer get a little closer. Then, without warning, he ducked into a nearby alley, sliding into the cover of darkness.

  He moved fast, stepping into the crook of a doorway and pressing himself against the damp brick wall. His breathing slowed. Controlled. Silent.

  He waited.

  Seconds later, footsteps hesitated at the mouth of the alley.

  Then, slowly, they crept forward.

  Too light for an adult. Too uncertain for a trained tail.

  Damaged stepped out of the shadows.

  The kid barely had time to react before Damaged grabbed him by the hoodie, lifting him an inch off the ground and pinning him to the wall.

  The kid let out a yelp, eyes wide.

  “Jesus—! Wait, wait, wait! I’m— I’m not a bad guy!”

  Damaged frowned, taking a better look at him.

  A kid.

  Couldn’t have been older than thirteen. A little chubby, dressed in a rain-soaked hoodie with a tattered backpack slung over one shoulder.

  Damaged slowly let him drop back onto his feet, but kept his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “Start talking.”

  The boy rubbed his neck, swallowing hard. “I— uh— I was following you.”

  “No shit,” Damaged muttered.

  The kid took a deep breath, still nervous, but excited now. “I saw you.” His voice sped up, enthusiasm breaking through his fear. “In the fight with Timber! And just now— in the store! I saw the whole thing! Dude, you were—” He stopped himself, taking a moment. “You were awesome.”

  Damaged blinked.

  That… was new.

  People didn’t say that about him.

  They avoided him. They feared him. They respected him, sure, but no one had ever looked at him like this.

  Like he was a hero.

  Damaged sighed, rubbing his temples. “Kid, you really shouldn’t be following people in alleys. You looking to get yourself killed?”

  The boy shook his head, stepping forward eagerly. “No, listen— I— I have powers too! Not like, super strong powers, but something kinda like yours. I thought they were useless, but after seeing you fight, I—”

  Damaged held up a hand, cutting him off. “Kid, slow down.”

  The boy bit his lip, nodding quickly.

  “Start with your name.”

  “Oh! Uh—” The kid stood up straighter, puffing his chest out a little. “I’m Robbie.”

  Damaged arched a brow. “Alright, Robbie. What do you mean, ‘something like mine’?”

  Robbie hesitated, then lifted his sleeve. “Here. Let me show you.”

  Before Damaged could react, the boy balled his fist and punched the brick wall beside them.

  Damaged's first instinct was to grab the kid’s arm before he broke it, but before he could move—

  A ripple spread across the boy’s skin.

  Where his knuckles hit the wall, the flesh instantly hardened, turning dark and rough, like stone-covered scar tissue. The bricks cracked beneath the impact, but the kid didn’t even wince.

  Robbie grinned, flexing his fingers as the hardened skin faded back to normal. “See? When I get hit, or when I hit something, that part of me hardens—it doesn’t last forever, but for a little while, it helps me take more damage.”

  Damaged narrowed his eyes. Not permanent. Not like his own scars. But adaptive. Reactive.

  Robbie clenched his fist again. “I used to think it was useless. What’s the point of taking a punch better, right?” He exhaled sharply, looking up at Damaged with determination in his young eyes. “But then I saw you. And I saw what you can do. And I—” He swallowed. “I wanna be like you.”

  Damaged stared at him.

  Like me.

  No one had ever said that before.

  He wasn’t one of the Paragons. He wasn’t beloved. He wasn’t the type of guy people wanted to be.

  And yet, here was this kid, looking at him like he was something to aspire to.

  Then Robbie smiled. “I even thought of a name.”

  Damaged’s brow arched. “A name?”

  Robbie nodded eagerly. “Yeah! You’re Damaged… so I figured I could be Impact.”

  Damaged stared at him.

  Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Kid…”

  Robbie leaned forward, hopeful. “What?”

  “…I’m not a hero.”

  Robbie flinched, his face falling just slightly.

  “But—”

  “No ‘but.’” Damaged shook his head. “I don’t do this for admiration. I don’t do it for recognition. I do it because people like you don’t have the Paragons looking out for them.” He crouched slightly, looking the kid in the eye. “This life? It’s not what you think it is.”

  Robbie’s enthusiasm dimmed, but he didn’t back down.

  “…You’re wrong,” he said quietly.

  Damaged arched a brow. “Oh?”

  Robbie straightened his shoulders. “You say you’re not a hero. But you still save people. You still fight for them. That’s what a hero does.”

  Damaged exhaled sharply, standing back up. He glanced at the kid’s arm again, at the calloused patches of skin. The way the kid carried himself—uncertain, but willing.

  Damn it.

  He could see it now.

  A younger version of himself.

  Finally, after a long moment, Damaged reached out, gripping the kid’s shoulder.

  “Go home.”

  Robbie froze. “What?”

  “You heard me.” Damaged gestured toward the street. “Go home, kid. Stay safe.”

  Robbie clenched his fists. “But I—”

  Damaged narrowed his eyes. “Don’t make me say it again.”

  Robbie hesitated. His shoulders slumped slightly, but he nodded.

  “…Alright.”

  Damaged watched as the kid turned and jogged out of the alley, disappearing into the night.

  He stood there for a long moment, staring after him.

  Then, slowly, without meaning to, he smiled.

  Just a little.

  Then he pulled his coat tighter, shoved his hands into his pockets, and kept walking.