The soft beeping of medical equipment filled the hospital room, a rhythmic counterpoint to Hugh Campbell Sr.'s labored breathing. Hughie sat motionless in the chair beside the bed, his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing. The events of the past 24 hours played on an endless loop in his mind, a horror show he couldn't escape.
Nurses came and went, their concerned glances barely registering. They had tried to convince him to go home, to rest, but Hughie couldn't bear the thought of returning to an apartment filled with Robin's things, her presence lingering in every corner.
His father stirred, eyes fluttering open. "Hughie?" The name came out as a croak, Hugh Sr.'s voice rough from sleep and worry.
Hughie blinked, forcing himself back to the present. "I'm here, Dad," he managed, his own voice barely above a whisper.
Hugh Sr. reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he grasped his son's. "I'm so sorry, son. I can't even imagine..."
The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken grief. Hughie nodded mechanically, unable to form a response. What could be said in the face of such senseless loss?
A knock at the door interrupted the moment. A man in a crisp suit entered, his demeanor professional but sympathetic. "Mr. Campbell? I'm Gerald Feinberg from Vought International's legal department. I was hoping we could have a word."
Hughie stared at the man, uncomprehending. His father's grip on his hand tightened. "Now's not a good time," Hugh Sr. said firmly.
Feinberg nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "I understand, but it's important we discuss this as soon as possible. Perhaps we could step outside for just a moment, Mr. Campbell?"
Something in the lawyer's tone cut through Hughie's fog of grief. He stood, legs unsteady, and followed Feinberg into the hallway.
"First, let me express Vought's deepest condolences for your loss," Feinberg began, his words practiced and smooth. "We understand this is an incredibly difficult time for you."
Hughie said nothing, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Feinberg produced a document from his briefcase. "We'd like to offer you a settlement. A substantial sum to cover any expenses and... compensate you for your loss."
The words hit Hughie like a physical blow. Compensate? As if any amount of money could ever make up for Robin's death?
"In return," Feinberg continued, seemingly oblivious to Hughie's rising anger, "we ask that you sign this non-disclosure agreement. It's standard procedure in these... unfortunate incidents."
Hughie's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "Incidents?" he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. "Is that what you call it when one of your 'heroes' murders an innocent woman?"
Feinberg's professional mask slipped for just a moment, revealing a flash of genuine sympathy. "Mr. Campbell, I know this is difficult to hear, but accidents happen, even with superheroes. A-Train feels terrible about what occurred."
"Feels terrible?" Hughie's voice rose, drawing looks from passing hospital staff. "He obliterated her! There wasn't even enough left to bury!"
The lawyer held up his hands in a placating gesture. "Please, Mr. Campbell. I know you're hurting, but consider the bigger picture. The work the Seven do, the lives they save... We can't let one tragic accident undermine all of that."
Hughie stared at the man, a cold fury building in his chest. This was what Robin's life amounted to in their eyes - a PR problem to be managed, a potential scandal to be buried.
"Get out," Hughie said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Feinberg blinked, caught off guard by the quiet intensity of Hughie's words. "Mr. Campbell, please. At least take some time to consider the offer. Here's my card-"
"I said get out!" Hughie roared, snatching the card and crumpling it in his fist. Several nurses looked up in alarm, one moving towards them with a concerned expression.
Feinberg retreated, his calm demeanor finally cracking. "I'll... I'll be in touch, Mr. Campbell. Please, think about what I said."
As the lawyer hurried away, Hughie slumped against the wall, the burst of anger leaving him drained and hollow. He slid down to the floor, head in his hands, the crumpled business card still clutched in his fist.
A gentle hand on his shoulder made him look up. A nurse, her face lined with concern, crouched beside him. "Are you alright, honey? Do you need anything?"
Hughie shook his head, unable to form words. How could he explain that what he needed was impossible? He needed Robin back. He needed to wake up from this nightmare.
The nurse helped him to his feet, guiding him back to his father's room. Hugh Sr. took one look at his son's face and opened his arms. Hughie collapsed into the embrace, his body shaking with silent sobs.
As his father held him, murmuring words of comfort that couldn't possibly breach the chasm of his grief, Hughie felt something shift inside him. The initial shock was wearing off, leaving behind a raw, aching void. But in that emptiness, something else was taking root - a smoldering anger, a need for... not vengeance, exactly, but justice. Accountability.
The Seven, Vought, A-Train - they thought they could sweep Robin's death under the rug, buy his silence with blood money. They thought wrong.
As the sun began to rise over New York City, painting the hospital room in hues of pink and gold, Hughie Campbell made a silent vow. He wouldn't let Robin's death be in vain. He wouldn't let them get away with this.
He didn't know how yet, but somehow, someway, he would make them pay.
The Hughie Campbell who had walked into this hospital - the mild-mannered, conflict-averse young man content with his ordinary life - was gone. In his place was someone harder, angrier, driven by a purpose he didn't yet fully understand.
As he pulled away from his father's embrace, wiping his eyes with shaking hands, Hughie knew one thing for certain: nothing would ever be the same again.