Chapter 19: Rehab working?
Rhea peered into the bag, then back at him—amber glinting, smirk curling slow. "Aw," sheoed, voice dripping mock-sugar, "you do care." She swung the bag over her shoulder, t-shirt swaying, and sauntered toward her room—hips rolling, a tease in her step.
Kael sighed, rolling his eyes—pain tugging his face as he turned. "Just shower, pyro," he muttered, voice dry, boots thudding toward the bathroom.
"Don't miss me too much," she called back, tossing the words over her shoulder—smirk audible, door clicking shut behind her.
Kael twisted the faucet, water hissing hot, steam curling thick into the air. He peeled off his jacket—ribs screaming, blood flaking from his knuckles—and stepped under the spray, heat scalding his skin, washing red and grease down the drain. His hazel eyes closed, breath easing out slow, steam fogging the glass, heuld feel his insides healing, slowly and gradually.
Bodies of Superheroes had the ability to heal themselves because of the damage they do to themselves when they use their powers, it's degree varying by how strong they were, but still serious cases like broken bones, deep cuts, severed limbs, would need a medic to heal.
As of now, Kael just hoped that his ribs didn't break. He touched his chest, using Empathic Resonance on himself to increase his heart beat, which in thus increased his blood flow, which would help him rver faster from swellings and bruises.
A villain was dead—neck broken, blood alreadyld. The Havenuld bme a target, a ben for trouble, just as Harris had warned. Should he relocate it somewhere more secure, perhaps within the city? No, that wasn't an option. Who would rent to him if they knew he was sheltering supervillains? Besides, he needed to keep the Haven out of the spotlight—he didn't want the attention thatuld attract unwanted trouble.
Kael scrubbed his face, water stinging his nose—pain a dull pulse, grounding him. Rhea was changing—shifting, a spark bending not breaking. Rehab working? Looks positive so far. He exhaled into the steam, uncertaintyiling tight—hope and doubt warring. The water roared, drowning the quiet, and Kael stood still—blood gone, wounds raw.
The faucet hissed, drowning the Haven's quiet, and he stayed longer than needed—twenty minutes, maybe thirty—until his fingers pruned and the sting dulled to a throb. He twisted the knob off, silence slamming in, water dripping soft from his black hair onto the chipped tile.
He toweled dry, rough fabric scraping tender spots—ribs twinging, nose pulsing—and tugged on fresh night clothes: loose black sweats sagging low, a faded gray tee sticking damp to his chest. The mirror threw back a battered face—nose swollen, lip split, hazel eyes shadowed under wet strands—but he shrugged it off, boots scuffing as he stepped into the hall.