Chapter 11: hospital

The morning light rises slowly over the city, its golden rays contrasting with the weight he carries in his heart. The streets, usually bustling at this hour, seem eerily silent, as if the entire world is holding its breath, waiting for news about the hero's condition.

He hurries along the sidewalks, his distorted reflection glancing back at him from the windows of still-closed shops. His footsteps echo on the pavement, a frantic rhythm that matches the accelerated beating of his heart. At every corner, he sees glaring headlines in newspapers and on television screens, all reporting the devastating confrontation from the previous night. Blurred images of the combat play repeatedly, reminding him of every painful moment.

As he nears the hospital, he notices the crowd that has already gathered in front of the building. Fans, journalists, and ordinary citizens congregate, all united in their concern for the symbol of peace. Anxious murmurs fill the air, blending with the distant sound of sirens and the constant hum of the awakening city.

He slips through a side entrance, avoiding the attention of the crowd. The interior of the hospital is a stark contrast to the chaos outside. The hallways are silent, broken only by the occasional sound of hurried footsteps and the steady beep of heart monitors. The smell of antiseptic permeates the air, mingling with an underlying aroma of coffee from the hospital cafeteria.

As he walks towards the hero's room, he notices the tense expressions on the hospital staff's faces. Nurses exchange worried looks, doctors converse in hushed tones in corners, all aware of the importance of the patient under their care. The atmosphere is dense, heavy with apprehension and expectation.

Upon reaching the ward where he is hospitalized, he notes the discreet yet unmistakable presence of security. They are strategically positioned, their vigilant eyes scanning every person who passes by. He feels the weight of their gazes as he approaches the door to the room, but they recognize him and allow his passage with a silent nod.

Before entering, he pauses for a moment, his hand hovering over the doorknob. He closes his eyes, trying to brace himself for what he is about to see. The muffled sound of medical machines filters through the door, a constant reminder of the gravity of the situation.

Finally, he turns the knob and steps into the room. The first thing that strikes him is the contrast between the bright hallway and the dim room. The curtains are partially drawn, allowing only narrow beams of sunlight to filter in, creating a pattern of shadows on the floor.

The room is larger than he expected, likely a private suite reserved for important patients. The walls are a sterile white, adorned only with a solitary painting of a serene landscape—a sight that feels ironic given the circumstances. A small sofa is positioned against one wall, with a neatly folded blanket over it, suggesting someone spent the night there.

In the center of the room is the hospital bed, surrounded by a variety of medical equipment. Monitors blink silently, displaying a constant dance of numbers and graphs. Tubes and wires snake from the bed to the machines, forming a complex web of life support.

His heart tightens at the sight of his father, the legendary hero, reduced to this state. His hands tremble slightly as he approaches the bed, his eyes burning with unshed tears.

"Dad..." he whispers, his voice breaking.

The young hero swallows hard, trying to hold back the wave of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. He reaches out, hesitating, before gently touching the hero's arm, careful not to disturb any of the tubes or wires.

His father's skin is cold to the touch, so different from the comforting warmth he always associated with him. A sob escapes his lips before he can stop it.

He can't believe what he's seeing. His father, the symbol of peace, the invincible hero, now looks so... fragile.

He closes his eyes tightly, the memories of the battle flooding his mind. Every blow, every cry of pain, every moment he wasn't fast enough, strong enough, good enough to protect his father.

"I'm so sorry," he murmurs, his voice choked with emotion. "I should have done more. I should have been better."

His legs give way, and he collapses into the chair beside the bed. With his elbows resting on his knees, he buries his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.

The guilt eats away at him. If he had been faster, stronger, maybe his father wouldn't be in this situation.

Recovery Girl watches the scene with a heavy heart. She approaches quietly, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Don't blame yourself, young man," she says softly. "You did everything you could."

He looks up, his eyes red and tear-filled. "But it wasn't enough," he replies, his voice barely a whisper.

Recovery Girl shakes her head. "You saved his life, Clark. Without you, we wouldn't be here now, with hope for recovery."

Her words hang in the air, and the young hero's gaze shifts back to his father. The hero looks so small in the hospital bed, so different from the powerful figure the world knows.

Swallowing hard, he silently nods and moves to the other side of the bed, his eyes scanning the various monitors and equipment. Every beep and hum seems amplified in the room's silence.

"When... when will he wake up?" the young man's voice trembles.

The doctor shakes her head slowly. "It's hard to say. His body has suffered immense trauma. He's in a medically induced coma now, to give his body time to heal. It could take days, maybe weeks."

He closes his eyes, feeling the weight of those words. Weeks. The world will have to wait weeks to know if their symbol of peace will return. And if he does, will he be the same hero as before?

"And what about... long-term damage?" he asks hesitantly, fearing the answer.

She is silent for a moment, her eyes moving to the hero. "It's too early to say for sure," she begins slowly. "But... the impact was severe. Even with his extraordinary healing ability, there are likely to be some... permanent limitations."

He feels as if the ground has disappeared beneath his feet. Permanent limitations. For the man who always seemed limitless, the idea is almost inconceivable.

Silence falls over the room, broken only by the rhythmic sounds of the machines. He moves to the window, slightly pulling back the curtain to look outside. The crowd below has grown, a mass of people united by hope and concern.

"What do we tell them?" his voice is barely audible.

She rises slowly, her bones protesting with a crackle. She joins him at the window, her gaze following his to the crowd below.

"For now, we'll tell them he's stable," she responds. "That he's fighting, as he always has. The rest... the rest we'll have to wait and see."

Hours had passed since he arrived at the hospital. The room was steeped in tense silence, broken only by the constant beeping of monitors. He hadn't left his father's side, his eyes fixed on every little movement.

Suddenly, the hero's fingers twitch slightly. He leans forward, his heart racing.

"Dad?" he calls softly, gently squeezing the hero's hand.

Slowly, the hero's eyes open, blinking a few times to adjust to the soft light of the room. His gaze finally fixes on him, and a small smile forms on his lips.

"Clark..." his voice is hoarse and weak, but full of affection.

He feels a wave of relief seeing his father awake, but worry still weighs heavily on his heart.

"Dad, you're awake," he says, his voice trembling slightly. "How are you feeling?"

The hero tries to move, but a grimace of pain crosses his face. "Like I've been hit by a train," he responds, trying to maintain some humor.

Swallowing hard, knowing he had to tell his father about his condition. "Dad, I... I need to tell you something."

The hero looks at his son, noting the seriousness in his eyes. "What is it, my son?"

He takes a deep breath, gathering courage. "The doctors... they did several tests while you were unconscious. Your body... it suffered extensive damage."

The hero closes his eyes for a moment, as if he already expected this. "Tell me everything, Clark."

He feels his heart tighten at seeing the resigned expression on his father's face.

"Your lungs were severely affected," he begins, his voice low. "And there is significant damage to your muscles and bones. The doctors... they say your ability to use your power will be severely limited from now on."

He hesitates, his hands involuntarily squeezing his father's. "The doctors say the stress of the battle... it accelerated the deterioration of your body. Your time... your time as the Symbol of Peace..."

"Is coming to an end," the hero completes, a sad smile playing on his lips.

His heart tightens seeing the acceptance in his father's face.

"Dad, I..." he begins, but the words fail him.

The hero raises his free hand, gently caressing his son's face. "Clark, my boy. Don't blame yourself. This day... I always knew it would come."

Tears begin to stream down his face. "But it's so unfair! You've done so much, sacrificed so much..."

"And every sacrifice was worth it," the hero interrupts, his voice gaining strength. "Look at you, Clark. Look at the hero you're becoming."

The pride in the hero's voice is palpable, filling his chest with emotion.

"But the world still needs you," he argues, his voice choked with emotion.

"You will be a better hero," the hero says with conviction. "Because you have something I didn't have when I started: you have a heart that knows both strength and compassion."

The hero's words resonate deeply within him, igniting a flame of determination in his heart.

"All For One is imprisoned," the hero continues. "But the fight for peace never ends. And you, my son, you will carry that torch forward."

He nods slowly, drying his tears with the back of his hand. "I promise, Dad. I'll continue your legacy. I'll protect everyone's smiles, just like you always did."

The hero smiles, his eyes shining with pride and love. "I know you will, Clark. And that's why I can face the future with hope, no matter what happens to me."

The hospital room was silent, except for the soft beeping of the monitors. The light of the evening filtered through the curtains, creating an almost ethereal atmosphere.

The hero was leaning back in the bed, his fragile body contrasting with the strength in his eyes. He was sitting beside him, leaning forward, attentive to every word his father said.

The hero took a deep breath, his chest expanding painfully. He knew it was time to reveal the truth he had carried for so long.

"Clark," he began, his voice hoarse but firm, "there's something I need to tell you about my power. One For All... it's not just an ordinary quirk."

He feels a sudden tension in the air, realizing he is about to hear something of great importance.

The hero paused, gathering his strength. "One For All is a unique power, passed down from generation to generation. It's a legacy, Clark, a power cultivated and strengthened by each bearer."

His eyes widened in surprise. "A power... passed down?"

The hero nodded, a small smile on his lips. "Yes. And now... it's time to pass it on again."

His heart races, anticipating what his father is about to say.

"Clark, my son," the hero continued, his voice laden with emotion, "I wanted to pass this power to you. I believe you would be a worthy successor."

The hero extended his hand, gently touching his son's face. "You already have the heroic spirit, the pure heart. You understand what it means to be a true hero."

He felt the weight of those words, the responsibility implied in them. His heart was racing, his mind processing everything he had just heard. But deep down, he already knew his answer.

Slowly, he shook his head, a soft smile on his lips. "Dad, I... I deeply appreciate this offer. But..."

The hero watches intently, seeing the determination in his son's eyes.

"I already have a power," he continued, his voice firm but gentle. "A power that is more than enough. And more than that, I have already inherited everything I truly wanted from you: your heroic spirit, your courage, your determination."

The hero listened in silence, his eyes shining with pride and a hint of sadness.

"Dad, I don't need One For All," he explained, his voice full of conviction. "My quirk, combined with everything I've learned from you, is more than enough to allow me to be the hero I want to be."

He paused, carefully choosing his next words. "Besides, Dad, there are so many others who could benefit more from this power. People who have the heart of a hero but not the means to realize their dreams."

His words resonate in the room, filled with maturity and wisdom beyond his years.

"Imagine, Dad," he continued, his eyes shining with passion, "someone who desperately wants to help others but has no power of their own. Someone who understands the true meaning of being a hero but never had the opportunity to realize that dream."

The hero felt his chest swell with pride. His son, his dear Clark, was demonstrating an understanding and compassion that surpassed even his expectations.

"Clark," the hero said, his voice choked with emotion, "you... you have truly grown, my son."

He smiled, gently squeezing his father's hand. "All thanks to you, Dad. You taught me what really matters. And that's why I know One For All should go to someone who really needs it, someone who can use that power to achieve their dream of becoming a hero."

The room falls silent for a moment, father and son sharing a look of deep understanding and mutual respect.

The hero finally broke the silence, a genuine smile lighting up his tired face. "You're right, Clark. Completely right. Your wisdom... it fills me with pride and hope for the future."

He felt tears forming in his eyes, moved by his father's words. "Thank you, Dad. For everything."

After the emotionally charged conversation, he slowly rises, his legs a little numb after hours of sitting by his father's bed. He stretches his arms, trying to relieve the tension in his muscles.

"You need to rest, Dad," he says softly, adjusting the hero's pillows. "I'll get some coffee. Do you need anything else?"

The hero shakes his head slowly, a tired but contented smile on his lips. "No, my son. Just seeing you here is more than enough for me."

He leans over, gently kissing his father's forehead. "I'll be right back."

Leaving the room, he heads to the small coffee machine at the end of the hallway. As he waits for the coffee to brew, his thoughts drift to everything that had happened. The fight, his father's injuries, the revelation about One For All... it all seemed surreal.

The coffee machine beeps, pulling him from his reverie. He pours a cup, savoring the aroma for a moment before taking a sip. The warmth of the coffee spreads through his body, providing a moment of comfort.

As he returns to the room, he finds the hero resting, his breathing steady. He quietly places the coffee cup on the bedside table and sits back down, resuming his silent vigil.

In the quiet room, he reflects on his decision. He knows it was the right one, even if it means facing the challenges ahead with his own power. He feels a deep sense of resolve, determined to honor his father's legacy in his own way.

Minutes turn into hours, and the hospital room is filled with the soft light of dawn. The hero slowly awakens, his eyes focusing on his son, who has not left his side.

"Clark," he says softly, "come here."

He leans forward, his eyes meeting his father's. "Yes, Dad?"

The hero's hand reaches out, gently gripping his son's. "Promise me you'll take care of yourself. And promise me you'll never lose that light in your heart."

He feels a lump in his throat, his father's words resonating deeply within him. "I promise, Dad. I'll carry your legacy forward and make you proud."

The hero smiles, his eyes filled with love and pride. "I know you will, Clark. I know you will."

As the first rays of sunlight stream through the window, father and son share a moment of deep connection, united by their love and the unbreakable bond of family.