The warehouse was silent, except for the faint rustling of leaves outside and the distant hum of traffic from Mounds View. I'd been coming here to train for the last week, testing out the limits of my time dilation power, running laps around the place, working on getting faster—or at least making things feel slower. But today was different.

I stood in the middle of the empty room, the faint sunlight from cracked windows casting long shadows across the dusty floor. In my hand, I held a small razor blade, sharp and gleaming. My heart raced, palms sweaty, but I convinced myself this was just training. It wasn't like I'd never been hurt before. Heatwave had seen to that.

"This is for control," I muttered to myself. "Just control."

I glanced down at my forearm, steadying my breath. A deep cut—something that would normally take weeks to heal. I needed to know how far this new power could go, how much it could rewind. I pressed the blade to my skin, cold and sharp, and slid it across my arm. A clean, deep slice.

Blood began to pool immediately, crimson lines trickling down my arm and dripping onto the floor. I stared at it, my heart pounding in my ears. But just as quickly as the blood flowed, something incredible happened. I felt a strange tingling sensation, and then the blood started to... rewind.

It wasn't just healing—it was reversing. The blood that had spilled over my skin began to retract, pulling back into the wound as if someone had hit the rewind button on time itself. Within seconds, the cut sealed itself completely, leaving nothing but unbroken skin in its place. No scar, no trace of injury. Just as if it had never happened.

I stood there, staring at my arm, my breath shallow as the shock began to wear off. Then, a smile crept onto my face. Not a timid one either, but a real, full grin. I couldn't help it. This—this was something. I wasn't just fast anymore. I had something beyond that. Something that could make me practically unstoppable.

"Hell yeah," I whispered to myself, adrenaline surging through my veins. The possibilities flashed through my mind in rapid succession. I wasn't just the new Flash. I was something more.

With this kind of power, maybe I could take on the Rogues.

I snapped myself out of my little celebration, forcing my mind to slow down. Sure, healing a cut was cool, but I didn't know the limits. Maybe it was just for cuts, bruises, burns—things I could walk away from. What if it didn't work if I lost a limb? Or worse.

I wasn't Wolverine. I wasn't some indestructible superhero with crazy regeneration. I was just… me.

My fingers absently brushed the spot where the cut had been, the smooth skin a reminder of how little I really knew about this new ability. For all I knew, it could have been a fluke.

I decided to put my new healing ability aside and focus on something more immediate: my stamina. If I was going to keep up this Flash business, I needed to train like it mattered. So, I started doing laps around the warehouse, my feet pounding against the concrete as I pushed my body to its limits.

The frustrating part? From my perspective, I wasn't moving fast at all—just running normally in a world that was moving at half-speed. There was no thrill of wind rushing past me, no blurred landscape. Just… normal. It felt like watching paint dry, but I kept at it, knowing my body needed the conditioning. I wasn't about to gas out in the middle of a fight again like I had with Heatwave.

After what felt like hours, my muscles burned with exhaustion, and I slowed to a stop, panting. My powers didn't give me super stamina, after all, just the ability to move through this sluggish world. I wiped the sweat from my forehead, my heart still racing, but at least I could call it a productive day.

By the time I got home, my parents still hadn't returned from work. It was eerily quiet, the kind of stillness that made me feel like I was alone in the world. I grabbed a drink from the fridge and slumped onto the couch, flipping on the TV. I wasn't sure what I was hoping to see—maybe some acknowledgment of what I did, something that made it all feel worth it.

And there she was. Jaclyn O'Connor, back on the screen, looking as sharp and professional as ever.

She launched into a segment on the news about my "latest exploits," her tone clipped and skeptical.

"Today's mystery vigilante, who we've all been calling 'the new Flash,' made another appearance in Windsor Heights. While he did manage to stop a series of muggings, the real highlight of his evening was a fight with one of Central City's most notorious rogues: Heatwave. The pyromaniac left the supposed hero beaten and burned, but that wasn't the end of the chaos. Their battle left a local strip club engulfed in flames, and while the vigilante managed to save the people inside, it raises the question—does this replacement even know what he's doing?"

Her words cut like a knife, and I could feel my stomach sink. She wasn't wrong was she?

The camera cut to footage from the aftermath of the fight—smoke billowing from the building, people rushing out as flames licked at the walls. They didn't show me fighting Heatwave, but the damage was clear. And yeah, I had saved everyone, but Jaclyn wasn't letting me off that easy.

"Eyewitnesses say that while this 'Flash' did manage to rescue the patrons, his reckless use of violence against the muggers earlier in the night raises concerns. Can we really trust someone who seems so out of control with the mantle of Central City's hero? If anything, it feels like this copycat is playing dress-up, wearing a Halloween costume of the real Flash—a hero who wouldn't have let things spiral out of control like this."

There was that jab again. The costume. The way she said it, like I was some kid running around pretending to be Barry, just made me feel small.

The broadcast switched to an interview with a woman outside the strip club, her face streaked with soot and panic. She was grateful, sure, but she couldn't hide the fear in her eyes.

"I don't know what I just witnessed," she stammered. "He saved us, yeah and I'm grateful, but… he's not like the real Flash. It's like he was just throwing himself at the guy, not thinking about the consequences, he was thinking more about fighting him than protecting us. I… I don't know if I feel safe with him around."

Jaclyn's voice came back, cool and judgmental.

"Central City needs a hero, there's no question about that. But is this the hero we deserve? A copycat, a reckless fighter, and someone who—according to eyewitnesses—left civilians exposed and vulnerable in the middle of a firefight?"

I shut off the TV, the room plunging back into silence.

The words hung heavy in the air. Even though I'd saved people, it felt like a failure.

I clenched my fists, the anger bubbling up inside me. How the hell am I supposed to match up to Barry? The guy was a legend, the Flash for crying out loud. I just started, and I'm already expected to have it all figured out. They're acting like I'm supposed to be perfect from day one, like I can just step into his shoes and be the same.

Newsflash, I'm not Barry. I don't even have the same powers! I'm barely faster than a damn bicycle, and they expect me to outrun guys like Heatwave and stop burning buildings from crumbling down? What the hell do they want from me? I'm still figuring this out, and every time I try, it feels like the universe is screaming at me that I'm not good enough.

I punched the couch in frustration. It wasn't fair. No one sees the struggle, no one sees that I'm trying. How am I supposed to save anyone when I can't even catch a break long enough to learn what I'm capable of?

I let out a bitter laugh. Maybe Jaclyn's right. Maybe I'm just some idiot playing dress-up, pretending to be a hero I'll never live up to.

Before I could spiral further, I heard the door creak open. I turned my head, and there was Aunt Iris, walking in with calm determination, a package in her hand. She didn't say anything at first, just stood there, taking in the sight of me—angry, exhausted, confused.

She placed the package down on the coffee table, her eyes locking onto mine.

Iris sat down on the couch across from me, her expression a mixture of disappointment and sadness. She sighed, looking down at the package on the table for a moment before finally speaking.

"I told you to stop," she said, her voice firm but gentle. "I told you to take a break, to think about what you're doing. And you didn't listen, Wally. You went out there again, got yourself hurt, and for what? You're not ready for this, and you're making the same mistakes Barry made when he started."

I looked away, unable to meet her eyes. "I couldn't stop," I mumbled. "I couldn't just sit back and do nothing. I had to do something."

"I know," she replied softly. "I know you feel like you have to step in, like it's all on your shoulders now. But you don't get it, Wally. Barry used to mess up just as bad as you. He wasn't perfect, not at the start. The city… Central City is grieving. They lost him, and now you show up, trying to fill his shoes. It's not that they don't want to accept you, but they're hurt. Everyone's still hurting."

I clenched my fists, feeling the frustration bubble up again. "I get that, but what am I supposed to do? Just sit here and let the Rogues run wild? If I don't step up, who will? At least give me some credit for trying. I'm out there risking my life because no one else is!"

Iris watched me for a moment, her face softening. "You're right," she admitted. "You're trying. And you're doing more than anyone else would, considering the circumstances. I'll give you that. But that doesn't make it any easier for me to watch you walk down the same path Barry did. I've already lost him, Wally. I don't want to lose you too."

I could see the pain in her eyes as she spoke, the weight of Barry's death still heavy on her. For a moment, I almost felt guilty for putting her through this, but I couldn't stop. I couldn't walk away from this responsibility, even if I wasn't ready.

She sighed, standing up from the couch and gesturing to the package. "I realize now you're not going to stop, no matter what I say. You're going to keep doing this, and I don't have it in me to stand in your way anymore. So… I got you something."

I raised an eyebrow, looking at the package. "What's that?"

"A new costume," she said, smiling slightly. "I got it from a friend in green. He said you'd need something better than a Halloween costume if you're going to keep this up."

I blinked, surprised. A friend in green? There was only one person she could be talking about—Green Lantern. I reached out, slowly pulling the package toward me, unsure of what to say. She was supporting me, in her own way, even if she didn't fully agree with what I was doing.

"Thanks," I muttered, my voice low. I didn't know what else to say.

Iris just nodded, her expression still tinged with worry. "Don't thank me, Wally. Just… be careful, okay? You don't have to be perfect. Just try not to get yourself killed."

With that, she turned and left the room, leaving me alone with the package and my thoughts.