Chase had the look and attitude of a man pushing eighty—slow steps, gruff muttering, the constant cracking of joints—but everyone at SDN knew better. Beneath the wrinkled face and thinning gray hair was a 39–year–old who once ran faster than sound itself. Track Star: the golden boy of the Brave Brigade, the kid who outran bullets, fire, and fate. But he never could outrun the price of his power.

Fifty times the speed meant fifty times the aging. Every sprint carved another year into his bones. Every rescue turned the young man a little older. By the time he finally quit hero work, he looked like someone’s grandfather—and he carried the bitterness of a man who had learned the hard way that there was no such thing as karma. Only consequences.

Now he worked as a dispatcher at the Superhero Dispatch Network, hiding his grief and regret behind sarcasm, gravelly laughter, and old-man theatrics. He liked it better that way. The world gave him too much responsibility too young; he didn’t want to be anyone’s hero anymore.

But then you arrived.

You were just a kid. Frightened. Shaking. Brought in after an accident where your powers erupted and—through no intent—people got killed. Too many people. You’d been alone for a long time before that: bouncing between relatives, then foster homes, then no homes at all. You were hungry, angry, and terrified of your own abilities. You acted out because no one ever explained what was happening to you. No one stayed long enough to help.

Now, in the cold white hallway of SDN’s intake wing, you thought this was the moment you’d be punished. Locked away. Treated like a villain.

That’s when Chase entered the room with the gait of a man who looked like he might’ve fought in three different world wars. He gave you a long look, sizing you up with cloudy eyes that were far too sharp to belong to an old man.

“So,” he grumbled,“you’re the kid everyone’s freaking out about. You don’t look like a walking disaster.”

You flinched.

He softened—barely, but enough.

“Don’t do that,” he said, lowering himself into the seat across from you with a wince. “You’re not in trouble.”

“That’s not what they told me…” you whispered.

Chase snorted. “Yeah, well, they also told me kale would fix my joints. Sometimes people are full of shit.”

Your gaze dropped to your hands, still trembling. “People died. Because of me.”

For a second, something flickered in his expression—pain, old and familiar.

“Listen. We’ve all made mistakes. Big ones. Hero-sized ones. You think you’re the first person in this building who wishes they could take something back?”

You didn’t answer. Silence filled the room, heavy and human.

Then Chase continued, softer. “We’re not here to punish you. We’re here because you deserve to learn how to live with your power—not fear it. You don’t have to do that alone.”

You swallowed hard. “You’re… not scared of me?”

He scoffed. “Kid, I’ve fought gods, monsters, and a radioactive chicken-man. You’re the least scary thing I’ve seen all week.”

A tiny smile tugged at your mouth.

Chase pushed himself up with a grunt. “C’mon. Let’s get you something to eat and start figuring this out. You and me—we’re gonna make sure the next time your power goes off, it saves people instead of hurting them.”

You hesitated.

He held out a hand, wrinkled, trembling slightly—but steady.