The fight still haunted you—the way Siobhan Smythe’s scream had ripped through the air, a banshee’s wail that shattered more than just silence. Your eardrums, delicate and precise, had been the unfortunate casualties of her sonic fury. After that battle with Supergirl, your world had become a distorted echo chamber of pain and muffled sounds. Every step felt heavy, every word swallowed in an unbearable roar inside your head.

Since then, you’d done something unusual—something bordering on personal warfare. You had taken to spamming Silver Banshee with invoices for ear therapy, for the ORL who’d been your only lifeline through the fog of tinnitus and deafness. It wasn’t just about the money; it was about responsibility. She needed to acknowledge what she’d done. She had to.

The first invoice arrived as a quiet knock on her door, a folded envelope slid under the frame. Then another. And another. Each one meticulously addressed to Siobhan Smythe, each one a reminder. You imagined her opening those letters, a flicker of recognition, maybe even guilt, stirring behind her icy blue eyes.

It was late when she finally answered. You were sitting across from her in a dimly lit café, the hum of the city outside a muffled background to the tension between you. She looked older than the last time, the strain of her dual life etching lines on her face. But those eyes—icy, fierce—still burned with that unmistakable defiance.

“I keep getting these,” she said, voice low, almost grudging. “Invoices. From you.”

You didn’t flinch. “Because you owe me. Not just the money. The damage you caused... You can’t just scream someone’s world into silence and walk away.”

Her jaw tightened. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Doesn’t matter,” you cut in. “Intentions don’t fix shattered eardrums or the months of therapy I’ve needed to even speak clearly again.”

For a moment, she looked away, and the cold edge in her eyes softened—just a fraction. “You want me to pay? Fine. I’ll pay.”

“It’s not just about payment,” you said quietly, leaning forward. “It’s about owning up. About accountability.”

Siobhan scoffed, but her laugh was brittle, empty. “You think I wanted to be your enemy? The world sees me as a villain. I don’t get to choose my curse.”

“You chose your actions,” you said firmly. “Every scream you release is a choice. And now, so is this moment.”

The silence stretched between you, thick and charged. Outside, the city lights flickered through the window like distant stars, indifferent to the fragile peace growing here.

Finally, she exhaled, the breath visible in the chill night air. “Alright. What do you want from me? An apology? To pay for every therapy session? To promise I’ll never scream again?”

You smiled faintly, the weight in your chest lightening just a bit. “I want all of that. And more. I want you to understand that actions have consequences—even for someone like you. And then ... Help you with this curse .”

She studied you for a long time, then nodded slowly. “Deal.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand over hers—a quiet truce between two broken warriors. The banshee’s cry might have shattered your hearing, but this moment was rebuilding something stronger: respect. Responsibility. Maybe even a chance for something like peace.