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."
Richard let out a shaky exhale. "This is the first time I've ever screamed at you."
His wife didn't flinch. "I want a divorce, and that's final."
She stood up, turning away without a second glance. Only as she reached the door did she pause, sparing him a fleeting, indifferent look before whispering,
"Goodbye, Ricky."
Richard wanted to move, to get up and chase after her. But the painkillers caught up with him again, dragging his body deeper into the mattress. He couldn't even find the strength to scream.
And then, before he had the chance to even process what had just happened, the doctor walked in.
"I'm afraid we can't recover your arm, Mr. Richard," the doctor said, his voice heavy with rehearsed sympathy. "It was… beyond saving."
Richard blinked up at him, exhaustion weighing down every fiber of his being. "What about… healers? Don't you have Supers—superheroes in the hospital?"
"We don't have one here," the doctor admitted with a sigh. "A private hospital might, and we can endorse you to one—but you'd have to go now."
Richard swallowed hard. "Can… can my insurance cover it?"
"That..." The doctor hesitated. "...I am afraid your insurance doesn't even cover your balance here."
"I see."
"I'm truly sorry, Mr. Richard."
The doctor left, and Richard was alone. Alone with his pain. Alone with his thoughts.
At first, he wanted to cry. To wallow.
But then—his lip split as he bit down on it, his remaining hand curling into a fist. His body trembled, but not from weakness anymore. His face twisted into something darker, something colder.
"You…" He whispered, his words shaking with fury. "The both of you…"
His fingernails dug into his palm, his breath heavy.
"This is all your fault… you stupid kids."
***
Back at Mega Academy, Blinkshot repeated his question, his voice steady.
"If someone held your sister hostage and demanded you do something terrible… how far would you go to keep her safe, son?"
Silence fell over the room. Even Voltdevil, who had been interrupted earlier, said nothing.
For the first time since the interview began, Riley hesitated. He sat still, staring at the floor, his expression unchanged. The instructors waited.
Then, after a few moments, he tilted his head slightly and answered.
"197 million square miles, sir Blinkshot."
The room remained quiet. Blinkshot narrowed his eyes, glancing at his colleagues before focusing back on Riley.
"That's the surface area of the planet."
"I suppose so, sir Blinkshot." Riley shrugged.
"And what are you willing to do in those 197 million square miles, son?"
"Anything the hostage taker demands of me, sir Blinkshot."
"Even killing innocent people? Hundreds of them?"
"Yes." Riley didn't hesitate.
The instructors exchanged glances, their expressions shifting. Eventually, all eyes turned to Bulwark. But he simply shrugged, then gestured for them to continue.
Blinkshot said nothing more. Instead, Interesting Intestines took over, his chair creaking from his fat as he leaned forward.
"You do know that makes you a villain, right?" His deep voice rumbled through the room. "A supervillain, to be exact."
"I suppose so, Mr. Interesting Intestines."
"You must be willing to make the hard choices. The hard sacrifices."
"Okay."
"Okay… I don't think you're understanding," Voltdevil sighed, rubbing his temples. "If you become a supervillain, that means you're a very bad person. And we, as superheroes… we'd have to stop you, Mr. Riley."
Riley tilted his head. "I am confused, Mr. Voltdevil. If you were going to stop me, shouldn't you have stopped the kidnapper first? Father told me the best way to stop a crime is to prevent it from happening in the first place. That is why Mega Academy exists—to help with that."
Voltdevil leaned back in his chair, taken aback. The instructors glanced at each other, then—despite the heavy conversation—some of them smirked.
"It's a hypothetical situation, son," Blinkshot clarified.
"Then hypothetically, Sister would not be taken hostage, sir Blinkshot." Riley nodded. "She can burn everyone in this room to ashes, including Mr. Bulwark."
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Then, after a heavy breath, Interesting Intestines burst into laughter, the scent of rust and oil thick in the air. He patted his stomach, his chuckles deep and rumbling.
"Your sister said the same thing." He grinned. "So, the two of you would become supervillains for each other, huh? Tell me, son… don't you want to be a superhero?"
"No," Riley shook his head. "I'm only here to accompany Sister. She didn't want to leave me outside the gate, Mr. Interesting Intestines."
"That's… you really are something." Interesting Intestines chuckled, glancing at the others. "But at least you're honest. Unlike most of the kids who came before you."
"Then let me change the question." The room quieted as Bulwark raised his hand. "What if the hostage wasn't your sister, Riley? What if it was a random person you didn't know? Would you still go that far?"
Riley tilted his head, considering the question.
"Why would the hostage taker ask me if I have no connection to the hostage, Mr. Bulwark?" His confusion seemed genuine. "Even in a hypothetical situation, they would target someone you care about instead, Mr. Bulwark."
"Just humor us for a moment."
"Hmm." Riley's eyes narrowed slightly as he looked down. "Then I will eliminate the problem, Mr. Bulwark."
"You mean you'd kill the kidnapper, son?"
"Yes," Riley nodded at Blinkshot. "If they're not threatening Sister but a random person, then that means I have a chance to eliminate them, sir Blinkshot."
"Wait, son…" Blinkshot sighed, clasping his hands together as he leaned forward. "Do you understand what killing means?"
"I suppose so, sir Blinkshot," Riley said matter-of-factly. "Killing means stopping the crime from happening again. Completely."
Blinkshot fell silent for a moment. Then, with a heavy breath, he lowered his head slightly.
"I've killed a lot of people in my time, son," he murmured. "And killing… it changes you. It takes something from you. You sacrifice a part of yourself in the process."
Riley's voice dropped to a whisper. "I am confused. Being a superhero is about making the hard sacrifices, is it not? Would that not make you more of a superhero, sir Blinkshot, and not less?"
Blinkshot blinked behind his mask, momentarily stunned. Then, slowly, he leaned back in his chair and said nothing more.
The room fell into silence once again.
Voltdevil was about to ask another question when the one instructor who had remained quiet finally spoke. His extravagant mustache, extending well past his cheeks, twitched as he curled his lips into a slight smirk.
"This is getting us nowhere," Spectacular Mustache Man huffed, crossing his arms. He picked up the questionnaire, scanning it with a raised brow. "We're wasting time. Mr. Ross, one of the questions here asks what you would do if you saw an old woman crossing the street while the traffic light was green—" He suddenly waved the paper in front of Riley. "What is this answer!?"
Riley blinked in confusion. "Did I answer incorrectly, Mr. Spectacular Mustache Man?"
"What do you mean did you answer incorrectly!?" Spectacular Mustache Man waved the paper even more dramatically. "You doodled all over the test paper!"
He flipped the paper around for the rest of the room to see. It was covered in random stick-figure drawings. Not a single question had been answered.