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The school field is quiet in that late‑afternoon way — warm air, long shadows, the faint smell of cut grass. Marc and Nath sit side by side on the bleachers, backpacks dumped behind them, legs dangling. Marc keeps tapping his heel against the metal, restless energy buzzing through him. Nath keeps pretending he’s not watching that.
It’s peaceful.
Almost too peaceful.
Then Sabrina jogs up, her cleats clicking sharply against the concrete. She’s flushed from warm‑ups, hair tied back, jersey slightly crooked like she rushed to put it on.
“Marc!” she calls, waving. “We’re short a player for our rec team. Could you fill in?”
Marc perks up instantly — like someone flipped a switch inside him.
“Oh—yeah! Yeah, of course!” he says, already half-standing.
Nath watches him go with a tiny smile he doesn’t let show fully. Marc looks happiest when he’s moving, when he’s running, when he’s doing something that makes him feel alive. Nath loves that about him. Maybe too much.
Marc jogs toward the group, blending in effortlessly. Sabrina pats his shoulder, the team greets him, and Nath feels… something. Something tight. Something warm and cold at the same time.
He doesn’t know why.
He just watches.
The game starts slow — casual passes, light laughter, the kind of friendly competition where nobody’s trying too hard.
But Marc…
Marc doesn’t know how to “not try.”
His movements sharpen.
His footwork gets cleaner.
He slips past defenders like water.
Nath’s chest tightens with pride.
Then with something else.
More students wander over, drawn by the noise.
Then more.
Then more.
A small crowd forms along the sidelines, cheering whenever Marc gets the ball.
Nath’s heartbeat picks up.
He doesn’t like crowds.
He doesn’t like when Marc is swallowed by them.
He doesn’t like when he can’t keep his eyes on him without looking weird.
Marc scores once.
Then again.
The cheers get louder.
Nath’s stomach twists.
He tells himself it’s nothing.
Just nerves.
Just the noise.
Just the heat.
But he keeps watching the guy on the opposite team — the one who hasn’t cheered once, hasn’t smiled once, hasn’t taken his eyes off Marc.
There’s something off about him.
Something stiff in his posture.
Something sharp in his glare.
Nath notices every detail.
Marc doesn’t.
The game gets faster.
Rougher.
Competitive in a way it wasn’t supposed to be.
Marc goes for the ball, weaving between players with that stupid natural grace he has.
The guy moves toward him.
Too fast.
Too direct.
Nath’s breath catches.
Something’s wrong.
Marc doesn’t see it.
He’s focused on the ball, on the play, on the moment.
The guy swings his leg.
Not for the ball.
For Marc.
A brutal, deliberate kick —
straight to Marc’s face.
The sound is sickening.
A sharp crack that echoes across the field.
Marc drops instantly.
No stagger.
No stumble.
Just collapse.
The crowd erupts — screams, gasps, shouts.
Nath’s vision tunnels.
He’s already moving, already pushing through bodies, already trying to get to Marc—
But players swarm around him, shouting:
“Give him space!”
“Don’t touch him!”
“Move back!”
“Someone call 911!”
Nath tries to shove through, but someone grabs his arm and pulls him back.
“Dude, stay back—”
“I need to—” Nath’s voice breaks.
He can’t see Marc.
He can’t see anything except backs, jerseys, frantic movement.
His pulse is pounding so hard it hurts.
Someone kneels beside Marc.
Someone checks his breathing.
Someone lifts his head gently.
Nath hears someone say:
“He’s not waking up.”
His knees almost give out.
More students crowd in.
Phones come out.
People whisper.
Nath feels like he’s underwater — everything muffled, everything slow, everything wrong.
Then sirens.
Paramedics rushing across the field with equipment bags bouncing against their sides.
They kneel beside Marc, pushing players aside, taking over.
Nath still can’t see him.
He still doesn’t know if Marc is conscious.
If he’s bleeding.
If he’s breathing.
If he’s—
His chest tightens painfully.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t think.
He can’t do anything except stand there, shaking, watching strangers take care of the person he cares about most.
And he’s never felt so helpless in his life.
Nath still can’t see Marc.
He’s standing at the edge of the crowd, fingers digging into his palms, breath shaking, vision blurring. People keep shifting, blocking his view, moving around the paramedics like a wall he can’t break through.
He hears the stretcher click.
He hears someone say “Watch his head.”
He hears the ambulance doors swing open.
But he doesn’t see Marc.
Not even a glimpse.
And that emptiness — that not knowing — feels like someone is squeezing his lungs shut.
The paramedics lift Marc inside.
The doors slam.
The sirens flare to life.
And Nath’s world snaps.
He turns away from the crowd, stumbling behind the bleachers, behind the equipment shed, anywhere no one will see him.
He whispers the words.
Light bursts around him.
Caprikid stands where Nath was — breathing hard, chest tight, eyes burning.
He leaps.
Up the wall.
Onto the roof.
Across the next one.
He follows the ambulance like a shadow, bounding from rooftop to rooftop, the city blurring beneath him. Every jump feels heavier. Every breath feels sharper. His thoughts spiral so fast he can’t catch them.
What if he’s not waking up.
What if he hit his head too hard.
What if he’s bleeding.
What if I never get to—
He stumbles on a landing, catching himself on a chimney, shaking his head violently.
He can’t think like that.
He can’t.
He won’t.
The ambulance turns toward the hospital.
Caprikid follows, pushing himself harder, faster, until his legs burn.
When they reach the emergency entrance, he lands on the roof of the hospital, crouched low, watching the paramedics unload Marc.
He still can’t see his face.
Just the outline of his body.
Still.
Unmoving.
Caprikid’s breath catches.
He drops down behind a vent, the transformation flickering — not from lack of energy, but from sheer panic. He forces himself to stay hidden, to stay quiet, to stay out of sight.
When the paramedics disappear inside with Marc, Caprikid slips into a narrow alley beside the building. He presses his back to the wall, squeezes his eyes shut, and lets the transformation fall away.
Light fades.
Nath is back.
He sprints inside the hospital, nearly tripping over his own feet. The receptionist tries to stop him, but he blurts out Marc’s name so fast it barely sounds like words.
They direct him to a hallway.
He rushes down it.
A nurse steps in front of him.
“Sir, you need to wait outside.”
Nath freezes.
His chest rises and falls too fast.
His hands tremble.
His throat tightens.
He can see the door.
He can see the room number.
He can see the shadow of movement inside.
But he can’t go in.
He can’t see Marc.
He can’t do anything.
He just stands there, shaking, staring at the door like it’s the only thing holding his world together.
And for the first time since the field…
He feels completely, utterly alone.
Nath doesn’t remember falling asleep.
One moment he’s staring at the closed hospital room door, eyes burning, body trembling from adrenaline and fear. The next, his head is slumped against the wall, arms wrapped around himself, exhaustion finally dragging him under.
It’s not a peaceful sleep.
It’s the kind where his body shuts down because it can’t handle anything else.
He dreams of the field.
Of Marc falling.
Of the crowd blocking him.
Of sirens.
Of running.
Then—
A hand shakes his shoulder.
“Nathaniel.”
His eyes snap open.
Shirel stands over him, her purse slung across her shoulder, her expression tight — not angry, not cold, but that strained, too‑calm look she gets when she’s trying to be supportive but doesn’t know how.
“You shouldn’t be sleeping here,” she says softly, brushing hair from his forehead. “Come on. Let’s go home.”
Nath jerks upright.
“What? No—no, I have to stay—”
“We’ll come back tomorrow,” she says, voice firming. “You need rest. You’re shaking.”
She’s right.
He is shaking.
But that doesn’t matter.
“I’m not leaving,” Nath whispers, voice cracking.
Shirel sighs — that long, tired sigh she does when she thinks Nath is being dramatic. She takes his arm gently but insistently.
“Nathaniel. You can’t help him by collapsing in a hallway.”
He tries to pull away.
She tightens her grip.
“Mom—”
“We’re going home.”
Her tone leaves no room for argument.
She starts dragging him down the hallway, her hand wrapped around his arm, guiding him toward the exit. Nath’s feet move only because she’s pulling him. His head keeps turning back toward Marc’s room, toward the door he never got to open.
His chest aches.
His throat burns.
He feels like he’s being ripped away from something vital.
They reach the entrance.
Shirel pushes the door open.
And that’s when Nath sees them.
Marc’s parents.
Running.
Not walking fast.
Not hurrying.
Running.
Marc’s mom’s face is streaked with tears.
Marc’s dad is out of breath, keys still in his hand like he didn’t even stop to put them away.
They rush past Nath and Shirel, straight into the hospital, straight toward the hallway Nath just left.
Nath stops dead.
His mother tugs his arm again.
“Nathaniel—”
But Nath doesn’t move.
He just watches Marc’s parents disappear around the corner, his heart dropping into his stomach.
Something happened.
Something changed.
Something urgent enough to make them run.
And Nath isn’t there.
He isn’t allowed to be there.
He’s being dragged away.
His voice comes out small, broken:
“Mom… please…”
Shirel hesitates.
Just for a second.
But then she pulls him again.
“We’re going home.”
And Nath follows, because he has no choice.
But his eyes stay locked on the hallway where Marc’s parents vanished.
And for the first time since the field, Nath feels something worse than fear.
He feels helpless.
Nath doesn’t remember the walk home.
Everything feels blurry — the streetlights, the car ride, his mother’s voice, the sound of the front door closing. It all blends together into a dull hum, like his brain shut down the moment he lost sight of Marc.
By the time he reaches his room, he’s barely holding himself together.
The door clicks shut behind him.
And Ziggy bursts out of his pocket immediately, her eyes wide with panic.
“Nath—Nath, are you okay? What happened? Is Marc—”
Her voice cracks.
She’s scared too.
Nath sits on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, hands trembling so badly he can’t even pretend to be fine.
“I don’t know,” he whispers.
His voice sounds hollow.
Like it’s coming from somewhere far away.
He pulls out his phone with shaking fingers and opens Marc’s contact.
He types:
Are you awake?
Please text me.
Please.
He stares at the screen.
No reply.
He tries again.
Marc?
Please just… say something. Anything.
Nothing.
The silence feels heavier than the hospital hallway.
He feels it pressing against his ribs, squeezing his lungs, making it hard to breathe.
Ziggy floats closer, her tiny hands resting on his shoulder.
“Nath… he’s in good hands. The doctors are with him. His parents are there now.”
Nath’s throat tightens.
“I should’ve stayed,” he whispers. “I should’ve been there. I should’ve—”
Ziggy shakes her head firmly.
“You were exhausted. You were shaking. You couldn’t even stand. You would’ve collapsed.”
He doesn’t argue.
He can’t.
He just stares at his phone, waiting for a reply that isn’t coming.
Ziggy gently nudges his cheek.
“Hey… look at me.”
He does.
Her voice softens.
“The sooner you go to sleep… the sooner you can get back to him.”
Nath’s eyes burn.
He doesn’t want to sleep.
He doesn’t want to close his eyes and see Marc falling again.
He doesn’t want to wake up and find out something worse happened while he wasn’t there.
But his body is done.
His muscles ache.
His head throbs.
His eyelids feel heavy.
Ziggy curls up beside him on the pillow, her presence warm and steady.
“I promise,” she whispers. “You’ll see him tomorrow.”
Nath lies down slowly, clutching his phone to his chest like it’s the only thing keeping him connected to Marc.
His breathing shakes.
His eyes close.
And for the first time in hours, he lets himself fall asleep — not because he wants to, but because he can’t fight it anymore.
Nath wakes up like someone yanked him out of a nightmare.
His eyes snap open.
His heart is already pounding.
His phone is still in his hand from last night.
No messages.
No missed calls.
No updates.
He doesn’t even put on socks.
He doesn’t even grab breakfast.
He just bolts out of his room, hair messy, shirt half‑tucked, shoes barely tied.
Shirel is sitting in the living room with a mug of coffee, scrolling through her phone. She opens her mouth to say something — maybe “Good morning,” maybe “Slow down,” maybe “Where are you going?” — but Nath doesn’t even look at her.
He’s already out the door.
He runs.
Down the sidewalk.
Across the street.
Past the park.
Past the bakery.
Past everything.
His lungs burn.
His legs ache.
But he doesn’t stop.
He doesn’t slow down until he reaches the hospital entrance, where he forces himself to walk — fast, but quiet, trying not to disturb anyone. His breath is still uneven, his hands still shaking, but he keeps moving.
He knows the hallway by heart now.
He knows the room number.
He knows the door.
He stops in front of it, raises his hand, and knocks.
It’s a soft knock — the kind you do when you’re scared of the answer.
A few seconds pass.
The door opens.
A nurse stands there, smiling gently when she sees him.
“Good morning,” she says.
Nath swallows hard.
“Can I… can I see Marc?”
The nurse nods.
“You can. He’s awake now.”
Nath’s breath catches.
Awake.
Awake.
Awake.
The word hits him like sunlight after a storm.
The nurse steps aside, but before he goes in, she adds:
“If he needs anything — anything at all — just call me, alright?”
Nath nods quickly, almost too quickly.
He doesn’t trust his voice.
He doesn’t trust his legs.
He doesn’t trust anything except the fact that Marc is awake.
He steps inside.
And everything else falls away.
It takes him a second to process what he’s seeing.
Marc is sitting up.
Not fully — he’s leaning against the pillows, moving carefully, blinking slowly — but he’s awake. He’s drinking water from a small plastic cup, his hands a little shaky. His head is wrapped in white bandages, one strip running across his forehead and another covering his left eye.
He looks tired.
He looks hurt.
He looks alive.
Marc notices him almost instantly.
His eyes widen — the good one, at least — and his breath catches.
“Nath?”
That’s all it takes.
Nath doesn’t walk.
He doesn’t think.
He just runs.
He crosses the room in seconds, stopping only when he’s close enough to wrap his arms around Marc — carefully, gently, but with all the force of someone who’s been terrified for hours.
Marc lets out a soft, startled sound as Nath buries his face in his shoulder.
“Nath—hey—careful—” Marc laughs weakly, but his arms come up anyway, hugging Nath back with slow, steady pressure.
Nath is shaking.
Not a little.
Not subtly.
His whole body trembles with relief, fear, exhaustion, everything he’s been holding in since yesterday. His breath breaks against Marc’s hospital gown, and he clings tighter, careful not to touch the bandages.
“I thought—” Nath’s voice cracks. “I thought you weren’t gonna— I didn’t know if—”
Marc hushes him softly, rubbing small circles on his back.
“I’m okay,” he whispers. “I’m okay, Nath. I promise.”
Nath doesn’t let go.
He can’t.
He’s crying — quietly, desperately — the kind of crying that happens when fear finally lets go of your throat.
Marc’s hand moves to the back of Nath’s head, fingers threading gently through his hair.
“I’m sorry,” Marc murmurs. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t—” Nath tries to speak, but his voice breaks again. “I couldn’t see you. They wouldn’t let me— I didn’t know if you were—”
Marc’s chest tightens.
He hugs Nath closer.
“It’s okay,” he whispers again. “I’m here. I’m right here.”
And then—
A soft flutter.
Orikko pops out from under Marc’s blanket, tiny arms stretched wide as he tries to hug Marc’s side.
Ziggy bursts out of Nath’s hoodie pocket, eyes already watery
“Oh thank goodness!” Ziggy cries, flying straight to Marc’s shoulder. “We were so worried!”
Orikko nods aggressively, his tiny face scrunched with concern. “You scared us! You scared everyone!”
Marc gives a tired smile, reaching out to pat both kwamis with gentle fingers.
“I’m okay,” he repeats, voice soft but steady. “Really.”
Nath finally pulls back just enough to look at him — eyes red, cheeks wet, breathing uneven.
Marc lifts his hand and wipes a tear from Nath’s cheek with his thumb.
“You came back,” Marc says quietly.
“Of course I did,” Nath whispers. “I’m not leaving again.”
Marc’s smile softens.
And for the first time since the field, the room feels warm.
Safe.
Whole.
Half an hour passes.
It doesn’t feel like half an hour.
It feels like a breath Nath has been holding for a full day finally letting itself out.
Marc talks slowly, carefully, pausing sometimes when his head throbs. Nath listens to every word like it’s oxygen. He sits in the chair pulled right up to the bed, knees touching the mattress, leaning forward with both hands wrapped around Marc’s.
He doesn’t let go.
Not once.
Marc keeps reassuring him — “I’m okay,” “It wasn’t as bad as it looked,” “I’m just tired,” — but Nath’s eyes stay soft and wet, like he’s still processing the fact that Marc is alive and right in front of him.
Ziggy and Orikko sit on the blanket between them, occasionally chiming in, occasionally cuddling up to Marc’s side. The room feels warm. Safe. Like a bubble where nothing bad can reach them.
Then Marc shifts a little, adjusting his pillow.
“Hey,” he says quietly. “There’s… two things I should probably tell you.”
Nath’s heart jumps.
His fingers tighten around Marc’s without meaning to.
Marc notices.
He gives a tiny smile.
“Nothing bad,” he promises. “Just… things you should know.”
Nath nods, swallowing.
Marc takes a slow breath.
“First… the guy who kicked me?”
He pauses.
“He got arrested.”
Nath freezes.
His eyes widen, his breath catches, and his whole body goes still.
Marc continues gently, “The paramedics reported it. And some students told the police he did it on purpose. They took him in last night.”
Nath’s jaw clenches.
Not in anger — in relief.
In justice.
In the feeling of something heavy finally being lifted off his chest.
He looks down, blinking hard.
“Good,” he whispers. “Good.”
Marc squeezes his hand.
“And… the second thing.”
Nath looks up again.
Marc’s expression softens in a different way — almost shy, almost surprised, almost like he still can’t believe it happened.
“Ladybug came to see me.”
Nath’s breath stops.
“She—what?”
Marc nods.
“She came in through the window. Quiet. Just to check on me. She didn’t stay long, but… she wanted to make sure I was okay.”
Nath’s heart does something complicated — a twist, a jump, a warm ache all at once.
Marc looks down at his blanket, smiling faintly.
“She said she was sorry she didn’t get there sooner. And that she was proud of me for staying calm.”
Nath’s eyes soften.
He doesn’t say anything at first.
He just stares at Marc — bandaged, tired, alive — and feels something warm bloom in his chest.
Marc glances up again.
“I didn’t tell her anything,” he adds quickly. “About… you know. Us. Or anything. She just wanted to check on me.”
Nath nods slowly.
He’s relieved.
He’s grateful.
He’s overwhelmed.
He leans forward and hugs Marc again — slower this time, gentler, resting his forehead against Marc’s shoulder.
Marc hugs him back, careful of his bandages.
Ziggy and Orikko quietly curl up beside them, tiny hands touching both boys like they’re completing a circuit.
And for the first time since the field…
Nath feels like everything might actually be okay.
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