Riley Ross

Meanwhile, as Riley was being interviewed, a man lay in a hospital bed—the same man from the alleyway whose hands had been crushed earlier while holding the can Riley had tested his powers on. And right now, he was receiving the worst news of his life. And no, it wasn’t his dismembered arm. It was-

"I want a divorce, Richard."

"A divorce?" Richard’s voice was hoarse, his body weak. "What... what do you mean, honey? I... I just lost an arm." He could barely process the pain, even through the haze of painkillers. The words hit harder than the injury, rendering the drugs useless.

"I can’t do this anymore," his wife said, shaking her head. "I just can’t. You’re never home. I have to take care of the house alone."

"I work three jobs! Eighteen hours a day!"

"Don’t raise your voice at me!" she snapped. "Do you think being a mother is easy? I wash your clothes, make your meals, clean the house, and take care of the dog—I work twenty-four hours a day without rest! You think being a housewife is hard!?"

"We literally have a washing machine! And a housewife!? We don’t have a child, Sam!" Richard’s voice cracked as he fought against his frustration. "And do you want me to count the number of hours you actually do something around the house? Three! If you add it all up, it’s just three hours! The rest of the time, you’re on social media!"

"I want a divorce!"

"W... why?" His breath hitched. "I... I treated you like a queen, Sam. Why...?"

"Because of this." She gestured at him. "Because you scream at me, Ricky."