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DATE:29th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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I wondered why the aspirin didn't activate.
Was I not angry at all during the fight? And judging from the lack of side effects, did I actually enjoy it?
The thought disturbed me more than it should have. I'd been strangled, beaten, nearly killed—and somewhere beneath the violence, had I been... entertained?
All in all, the incident was still a failure.
No Emily. No Crater. No answers. Just more questions and a ghost-woman I'd bullied into compliance.
We all three sat in a Thinker's—a local fast food chain—and ate burgers.
Well, "burgers" was a long shot in calling them that. I think the bread was actually some kind of egg composition. Dense, yellowish, with that rubbery texture eggs got when overcooked. The patty sat between the buns like a punishment.
The taste was a bit bland. The meat was unseasoned—just gray protein with the faint metallic tang of cheap beef substitute. No salt. No pepper. Nothing.
I think this restaurant is owned by Silvian Morris?
The hero. The businessman. The man who'd somehow convinced the Unified Kingdom that cardboard pressed into vaguely food-shaped objects counted as cuisine. I didn't really see why it would be popular, but whatever. It wasn't like this was something I should focus on right now.
Pamela had a very focused expression while eating. A little like she was going to murder someone.
Her jaw worked mechanically, chewing each bite with intensity. Eyes fixed on the table. Knuckles white around the burger wrapper.
"A ghoul, huh," Mike said, unbothered. He took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. "Can't say I expected it."
"Yeah, I was also surprised," I muttered, picking at my own burger.
"So then why aren't you eating brains or something? Or hearts? I can't remember what the grannies were saying back in the villages..."
"Apparently I'm a 'perfectly made' one, whatever that means."
Mike grunted. "So then what about your memories? Are they limited to human capacity, or...?"
"Human limit? Not really sure. Honestly, it feels more like I was made to forget rather than forgot myself."
"Is there a difference?"
"Yeah, obviously," I said, leaning back. "If I forgot myself, then my brain was shutting down—normal decay, trauma, time. But being made to forget means it was part of that contract I was talking about. Deliberate. Controlled."
"Like a non-disclosure clause?" Mike asked, one eyebrow raised.
"Putting it like that is just..." I trailed off, shaking my head.
Too corporate. Too clean. Like my entire existence was some legal document with fine print written in blood.
"It's not from your soul," Pamela interjected suddenly.
We both turned to her.
She'd stopped eating, burger abandoned on the wrapper. Her eyes were distant, focused on something we couldn't see.
"I remember every second of my life," she continued quietly. "Be it in my own body or when I was displaced. Twenty years as a ghost, and I didn't lose a single memory. Souls don't forget. Bodies do."
She looked at me directly now, gaze steady.
"It is certainly part of your contract, Kassius."
Mike frowned. "Who is Kassius?"
I felt my jaw tighten.
"Anyway," I said, deliberately changing the subject, "so what are you doing these days, Mike?"
Mike raised an eyebrow, clearly catching the deflection. But he shrugged it off.
"I was hunting officials from the Combine," Mike said, wiping grease from his fingers with a napkin. "But they're too secretive. I can't seem to find the big 'investors' no matter what. Large sums of money can't simply move unnoticed."
"Why can't it?" I asked, bored.
Mike stared at me. "Hah? Are you hearing yourself? We're in the Unified Kingdom..."
"Yeah, but you're forgetting something. The elites here are split between old Ventian clans and Normandian tycoon families. The Normandians are certainly watched by their administration, but the feudal remnants?"
I gestured vaguely with my half-eaten burger. "Those old families operate like their own private kingdoms. No oversight. No accountability."
"I'm aware," Mike said, frowning. "But still—"
"Mike, this city still doesn't have an actual police force. Neither actual healthcare outside of that over-crowded central hospital. Of course the Combine is funded in a black market style. It's the only way to operate here without leaving a paper trail."
He considered that, jaw working. "But doesn't this still narrow the list of targets? If we know it's coming from old Concordian money..."
"I guess," I conceded. "But good luck getting close to anyone in those circles. They don't talk. They don't trust outsiders. And they certainly don't leave witnesses."
"Also," Mike said, munching down the last of his "burger," "there's something more important we need to talk about."
I raised an eyebrow.
"I fought some very strange agent," he continued, expression darkening. "At first I thought he was from the Time Bureau, but now I'm not so sure. He had this... swirl of flesh instead of a face. You know him?"
My hand stopped mid-reach for my drink.
"Yeah," I said slowly. "I call him the Psyker. Bumped into him a few times. He's some kind of super-powered mercenary. In a way kind of like us."
"He ran away with launch codes," Mike said, voice dropping lower. "To the anti-air defense missiles guarding the Wharf."
I blinked. "So? What's so important about missiles meant for airplanes?"
Mike leaned forward, eyes locked on mine. "They have ventium cores. They can easily be repurposed as dirty bombs. One detonation in a populated area would contaminate everything within miles. Thousands dead within hours. Tens of thousands over months."
The weight of that settled over the table like fog.
"I tried to call you a few days ago as it was happening," Mike added, frustration bleeding into his tone. "But you didn't respond. I couldn't find you, even with teleportation."
"Yeah, I was probably in Ventia at that time," I said. "Dream prison. Long story."
Mike rubbed his face, exhausted. "So what now? Do we defuse them?"
"Do you know rocket defusal?"
"...No."
We sat in silence for a moment.
"Don't you know that professor?" Mike asked. "What do you call him?"
"Mundi?"
"Yeah. Get him to do it."
I sighed, leaning back in the booth. "I guess..."
That meant trying to wring out even more favors from that secretive bastard. And I for one don't really care if the city is devastated, but I suppose a native certainly would… Too bad I need Mike's help for my own thing.
Outstanding.
"When do you need this done?" I asked.
"Yesterday," Mike said flatly. "The Psyker's employer—whoever they are—isn't going to sit on those codes forever. We have maybe a week before they weaponize them."
I nodded, mind already working through logistics.
Pamela was still staring at her burger wrapper, silent. Processing everything.
"Fine," I said finally. "I'll contact Mundi. But you owe me."
Mike smirked—rare for him. "Add it to the tab."
I remembered Mike was ex-military. Between the Mercenary work. Couldn't he ask his old buddies?
"What about your old days?" I asked. "Can't you reach out to someone from back then? Get official support for this?"
Mike shook his head. "I was never formally part of any garrison. They're... you know, static. Territorial. I was an attached 'expert' who mainly helped with training."
I rolled my eyes. "The last part is a lie."
His expression didn't change, but I caught the slight twitch at the corner of his mouth. Confirmation enough.
"Anyway," Mike continued, ignoring my comment, "even if I wanted to, the army is barred entry from the metropolis per the orders of the Royal Governor."
I frowned. "Why?"
"Officially? To not scare the populace. Keep things calm and orderly." He leaned back, arms crossed. "In reality—or at least from my opinion—it's to protect the authority of the pseudo-nobles in the Royal Investigators battalion he controls. Can't have actual military competence showing them up."
"That checks out," I muttered.
Politics. Always fucking politics. The Royal Governor hoarding power, keeping trained soldiers away so his pet investigators could play at being enforcers without real competition.
Or was it to let the stage open for the existence of heroes?
Was it even the decision of the Governor? When he hasn't been seen in recent months?
Or by that logic, why was the wharf an exception? The personnel guarding it was at the very least made of 2000 thousand men because that is the lowest a Unfied Army regiment goes.
What rules could be at play here?
Too many. Way too many.
Whatever. I should take them one step at a time.
After that, I turned to Pamela. "Give me the phone."
She gave me a mean look, lips pressed into a thin line. "You never returned it."
Right. I'd taken it earlier and... what, left it somewhere? Lost it in the chaos?
I scoffed. "Mike, go get it. Should still be at the warehouse."
Mike blinked—literally blinked out of existence—then reappeared three seconds later holding 'my' phone. Blood-smeared, cracked screen, but functional.
"Thanks," I said, taking it and scrolling through contacts.
I found Mundi's number and made the call.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
No answer. Voicemail kicked in—a robotic voice, clipped and professional, asking to leave a message.
It was actually the first time he didn't pick up. Was he doing something important?
I hung up without bothering.
"Tough luck," I said, raising my arms in a deflecting gesture, palms up. "He's not picking up."
Mike's jaw tightened. "We can't postpone this operation, Carter. Every day we wait is another day the Psyker's employer has to move those missiles."
I scoffed, gesturing at myself—at the blood soaking my shirt, the bruises darkening my neck, the burns still healing on my arms.
"Look at me," I said flatly. "Neither me nor Pamela are in any shape for a fight. I can barely stand without my ribs screaming. She just had a stone hand punched through her chest an hour ago."
I pointed at Pamela for emphasis. She was hunched over the table, face pale, one hand still pressed unconsciously against where the wound had been.
"You want us to storm wherever the Psyker is hiding and disarm ventium-core missiles in this condition?" I continued. "That's suicide. Not strategy."
Mike stared at me, frustration written across his features.
"We need time," I said, voice firm. "A day. Maybe two. Let me heal. Let Pamela recover. Then we go after the codes."
"And if they detonate one before then?"
I met his eyes. "Then they detonate one. And we deal with the fallout. But rushing in now guarantees we all die for nothing."
I think he knew I was the leader of the Legion. Why didn't he ask for them? He can't trust heroes even if there isn't another option? So he'd rather risk all those "people"? Now that was petty.
Silence settled over the table.
Mike exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Two days. But that's it. After that, I'm going in with or without you."
"Fair enough," I said.
Pamela finally looked up, eyes red-rimmed but focused. "Where do we even start looking for this Psyker?"
Good question.
"We should follow the trail of money like you've been doing. Or… I actually didn't know." It was hard doing something like this without Emily.
"I'll do that myself. Find somewhere to hole up in the meantime," he said, standing from the booth. "Rest. Recover. I'll track down leads on the Psyker."
"Where should I drop you two?" he asked.
"My hotel," I said, giving him the address. "It's a fancy one."
He nodded, gestured for us to follow, and led us outside the Thinker's. The night air was cool, carrying the smell of exhaust and distant rain.
He placed a hand on each of our shoulders, and reality folded.
We reappeared at the hotel entrance a moment later—stomach lurching from the displacement, ears popping from the pressure change. Mike let go, stepped back, and vanished again without another word.
Gone to hunt.
I still didn't get how he was so good at using that watch.
I remembered that to use the precise teleportation function, you had to calculate the exact position—longitude, latitude, elevation—to not end up materializing inside walls or underground. One miscalculation and you'd be embedded in concrete, dead instantly.
Guess some people are just better at spatial reasoning. Perhaps he should have become a mathematician. Or… Can I have him be my secretary?
The receptionist really gave us a side-eye as we walked through the lobby.
I wasn't sure if it was because I was covered head to toe in blood—dried now, flaking off in patches—or because Pamela wasn't wearing shoes, her borrowed sweatpants dragging on the marble floor.
Probably both.
But the receptionist didn't seem to have the courage to say anything. Just watched us with wide eyes as we crossed to the elevator, clutching her clipboard like a shield.
In the elevator, I asked drily, "Why are you following me?"
Pamela turned, eyebrow raised. "You were supposed to help me control my powers," she said sarcastically.
"Oh, yeah, I know that," I responded, matching her tone.
She crossed her arms, leaning against the elevator wall. "You're a real piece of shit, you know that?"
I shrugged.
"But dying there," she continued, voice quieter now, "would have made all my suffering meaningless." Boohoo.
I glanced at her. "Do you plan to take revenge?" At least be done with it already.
"No," she said immediately, shocked. "Why—why are you like this?"
"Like what?"
She didn't continue. Just stared at me, searching for something in my expression she wouldn't find.
The elevator dinged.
The door opened, and I walked down the hallway toward my room, fishing the key card from my pocket. Miraculously, I hadn't lost it in the chaos.
"I'll be taking a shower," I said, scanning the card and pushing the door open.
Pamela followed me inside without asking permission.
__________
Half an hour later, wearing a fresh bathrobe a cleaner had brought earlier, I found Pamela stretching while watching TV.
She was surprisingly nimble.
Legs extended in a split, back arched, arms reaching overhead. The movements were fluid, controlled—nothing like the lumbering mass she'd been in the warehouse.
"Are your joints also made up of fat?" I asked.
She reacted both embarrassed and angry, snapping upright to meet my eyes. "Why would you like to know?"
"Because joints are the real weakness of a human," I said flatly. "If yours aren't bone, then you can't be immobilized. No dislocations, no breaks. That's tactically important."
Her expression softened slightly—still guarded, but less defensive.
"I'm not like Mr.Perfect," she muttered. "It's not that extreme."
I scoffed. "Who?" Oops. I almost forgot.
"The—" She paused, realizing. "Never mind."
"Right." I wonder what happened to him? Did the inquisition execute him? No way, to waste a killer of his caliber?
I walked past her to the full-sized-fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. My throat was still raw from the strangling.
"So?" I pressed, twisting the cap off. "Are they or aren't they?"
She sighed, sitting cross-legged on the floor. "I don't know. Maybe? My body feels... different when I'm like this. Lighter. More flexible. But I've never tested it scientifically."
"We'll need to," I said, taking a long drink. "If we're going up against the Psyker, I need to know your limits. What you can tank. What breaks you."
She looked at me, something unreadable in her eyes. "You really don't care about anything but utility, do you?"
"No," I said simply.
And I didn't.
I took a seat behind her on the couch and said, "Everyone would want to be immortal like Mr. Perfect if they could. I certainly would."
She turned slightly, looking at me over her shoulder. "Powers aren't all flowers and sunshine."
"What downside is there?" I asked, genuinely curious. "And don't confuse it with physical appearance."
She frowned, thinking. "Ackerman, for example. The hero who seems invincible. He turns into water if hit with a strong sound."
"What's so bad about that?"
She looked at me, frustrated. "You don't actually think he doesn't have pain receptors, do you? Even a fourth grader would get it. If he disperses, every molecule splitting apart—he feels all of it. Imagine being torn into a thousand pieces and staying conscious through it."
I grinned, opening my robe to expose my chest—all battered, covered in shades of green and brown. Bruises covering bruises. The ventium burns overlapping with fresh contusions from the Albion agent's strikes. Even from hers.
"I barely feel anything even from these injuries," I said.
She closed her eyes, exhaling slowly. "I'm not even surprised anymore."
Guiding her hand to her own stomach, she pressed gently where the stone hand had pierced. "I feel the rawness of the wound even now. It probably didn't—or never will—truly heal underneath, even if it doesn't impair my movement."
Then she raised her hand to her side, where I'd kicked her ribs repeatedly. "These hurt more."
Her fingers traced the bruises gently, wincing.
"I didn't expect to..." She opened her eyes and stared into mine.
She didn't continue. Just held my gaze, searching.
After a moment, she looked away. "I don't even know why I bother."
I sipped the water. "I also don't know."
"You really aren't human," she said quietly.
I felt annoyance flare—sharp, immediate. "This sort of babble is starting to get really tiring."
"It's actually really important," she shot back, voice firm. "Just as you want to know my limits, I want to know yours."
I raised an eyebrow.
"What would you stop at?" she asked. "What is the line you don't cross?"
I stared at her for a long moment.
Then I said simply, "There is no such line."
Silence fell between us.
She searched my face again—looking for the joke, the exaggeration, the humanity she expected to find buried somewhere beneath.
She wouldn't find it.
"Nothing?" she whispered. "There's nothing you wouldn't do?"
"Nothing."
"You'd kill children? Innocent people?"
"If it served my purpose, yes."
Her expression shifted—horror mixing with something else. Not just fear. Understanding. The kind that came when you realized you were sitting three feet away from something genuinely monstrous. But there was also something else. Something I couldn't quite figure out.
"Then why haven't you?" she asked, voice barely audible. "If there's no line, why aren't you worse than you already are?"
I considered the question, taking another sip of water.
"Because most atrocities are inefficient," I said finally. "Killing children doesn't get me closer to breaking my contract. Massacring innocents doesn't recover Emily. Cruelty for its own sake wastes time and energy."
I leaned forward slightly, meeting her eyes.
"It's not morality stopping me, Pamela. It's pragmatism. The moment something horrible becomes the most effective path forward, I'll take it without hesitation."
She stared at me, face turned, focused.
"That's the difference between us," I continued. "You have lines you won't cross, even when it costs you. I have goals. And everything else is negotiable."
Her hands were tight. Was She preparing to strike?
"So if you're looking for reassurance," I added, leaning back, "that I won't hurt you again or betray you when it's convenient—you won't find it. Our arrangement lasts as long as you're useful. After that, you're on your own."
She didn't respond. Just sat there, processing.
She stepped forward and bent down, placing her hands on my knees. Our faces were about thirty centimeters apart.
Too close. Invasive.
"That isn't the case," she said quietly. "Because from what time I had to look you up, you were still a hero—even if your intentions were elsewhere."
I felt irritation spike. "I already had this stupid conversation with someone else I despised."
"What's one more?" she asked, not moving.
I drew a deep breath, jaw tightening. "Get out of my face."
"I won't," she said firmly. "Because I want to see what you truly say."
My left hand moved before I could think—balling into a fist, pulling back to strike. But I caught it mid-air with my right hand, restraining myself. The knuckles whitened from the pressure of holding back.
She saw it. Watched the aborted punch hover between us.
But she didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just kept staring at me with those unremarkable eyes.
"Do I seem like a hero," I asked through gritted teeth, "after all I did to you?"
"What is a hero?" she asked back.
I sighed deeply. "This is so preachy—"
"What is a hero?" she repeated, vehement. Focused.
I told her in the least annoyed way I could manage, "Someone who inspires and saves others and blah blah blah... selflessness, sacrifice, all that nonsense—"
"You know what I think?" she interrupted.
"What?" I snapped.
"I think you're avoiding the question."
Now this surprised me.
"What is this about?" I asked, genuinely confused.
"You've been avoiding my gaze," she said.
"I have no reason to fear you."
"Exactly," she said, leaning slightly closer. "Because you have no reason, someone like you shouldn't avert his eyes."
She paused, letting that sink in.
"Look into my eyes," she said. "Really look."
What was this about?
I forced myself to meet her stare directly. Her eyes were nothing out of the ordinary. Chestnut-colored with some discoloration around the iris—probably age, or stress from her body running amok. It wasn't like the hidden desperation in Sophie's eyes, that drowning need for validation. Or the grandiosity of Alice's little moons, those twin reflections of manufactured divinity.
I didn't see anything in particular in Pamela's. Perhaps not even light.
Just... emptiness. The kind that came from losing everything and having nothing left to fear.
Yet she was right.
It was hard for me to keep my vision straight, even consciously. My gaze wanted to slide away—to focus on her forehead, her cheek, anywhere but directly into those hollow eyes.
Was it because she could see more than I could? Those floating letters, the names branded on my soul—Kassius, Aionis—things I couldn't perceive myself?
Or was it something else?
"You can't, can you?" she whispered.
I didn't answer.
"Why?" she pressed.
I didn't know. And that bothered me more than anything she'd said.
"So what do you think is a hero?"
I bit my lip in anger, tasting copper.
"Are we still doing this?" I really didn't have the strength to fight back. Sucks to suck, I guess.
"Answer me, Kassius. What is a hero?"
If my explanation from earlier didn't satisfy her, then perhaps the one from my childhood stories would shut her up.
"Someone who punishes evil," I said flatly. "Slays a dragon, something grand, you know. The usual nonsense."
"So do morals matter in that fight of yours?"
"What are you even getting at, woman? That I'm trying to be a hero?"
"What do you mean by 'trying' when you already are?"
I was almost fuming.
Heat crawled up my neck, jaw clenching so hard my teeth ached. My hands trembled—not from weakness, from rage barely contained.
"Even after everything I did?"
"What everything?" she asked, genuinely confused.
Was she actually retarded?
"What did you actually do?" she continued. "From what I saw and heard, you only killed people who attacked you first. Self-defense, retaliation, survival."
"So?" I spat. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves. Do you actually think I care about this city? About the people in it?"
"Well, what do you actually care about?" she asked, unflinching. "You say it's to see that Necromancer, to cancel your contract. But you aren't stupid enough to think that'll really happen, are you?"
The question hit like a slap.
I wanted to be done with it, so I felt myself go limp—giving up the struggle, letting the exhaustion take over.
She raised her hands, grabbing my face and straightening it so I had no choice but to look at her. Even though her flesh was soft, I could feel that unnatural power heroes shared—the density beneath the skin, the strength that defied biology.
"What did you actually do, Kassius?" she asked, voice quiet but insistent. "You're continuously fighting against this figure—Secundo Manus—and for what? A danger you could simply avoid by running away?"
I tried to look away. Her grip tightened.
"And even for this missiles thing," she continued, "you probably think you're 'forced' to help Mike. But who is actually forcing you? He clearly said he would do it even alone."
Silence stretched between us.
My throat felt tight. Not from her earlier strangling. From something worse.
"You could have left the city weeks ago, no, months ago." she pressed. "Could have ignored the Combine entirely. Could have run from every fight you've been in. But you didn't."
"Because I need—"
"Need what?" she interrupted. "Emily? The Necromancer? Those are excuses, Kassius. Justifications you tell yourself so you don't have to admit the truth."
"And what truth is that?" I asked, voice hoarse.
She leaned closer, eyes boring into mine.
"That you care," she whispered. "Despite everything. Despite the cruelty, the violence, the detachment—you keep putting yourself between threats and innocents. Not because you have to. Because some part of you, buried so deep you can't even see it anymore, still wants to."
"You're wrong," I said.
But the words felt hollow.
"Am I?" she asked. "Then why haven't you killed me yet? I'm a burden. A liability. You said it yourself—no use anymore. So why am I still breathing?"
I didn't have an answer.
She held my face tightly, sitting arched on her tips.
"You're a hero, Kassius," she said softly. "You just hate yourself too much to admit it."
I stared at her, bewildered.
"No, that's not it," I said. "I need Mike to get Emily."
"But why do you need her?" Pamela pressed. "She won't get you any closer to your freedom. You should clearly know that there is no 'return' for a sold soul."
"What?"
"You think I wouldn't figure it out?" She tilted her head. "Actually, why didn't you figure it out yourself? There is no 'contract' in the realm of necromancy. They act only in oaths of servitude. And that's for the weak ones."
My stomach turned.
"If you said you were brought back 'perfectly' and that your memories were manipulated," she continued, "then what hope do you have? You think whatever resurrected you left a loophole? Left you a way out?"
"So I'm supposed to do nothing?" I snapped.
"I just don't get it." She shook her head slowly. "Someone as calculating as you shouldn't be so foolish... or perhaps it's because you choose to be..."
"What do you even know about me?" I demanded. "We've known each other only for a few days."
"What is a hero?" she asked again.
"We're back to this?"
"Say it!"
I gritted my teeth. "Someone who fights evil and protects the weak."
"So what have you been doing up until now?" she pressed. "No matter how many lies and false pretenses your crusade was based upon, no matter who or how they manipulated you—what have you been actually doing?"
"I don't fit your narrative."
"What exactly don't you fit?"
I grabbed her hands and headbutted her—hard.
But she let her weight go forward instead of resisting, using my momentum against me. She pressed me back against the couch, pinning me there.
She got on my lap and fixated my face straight with both her arms, holding me in place with that unnatural strength.
I tried to slap her across the face. My palm connected with her cheek—hard enough to snap a normal person's neck sideways.
She didn't move. Just absorbed it, flesh cushioning the impact.
"Enough of this!" I shouted.
"Tell me, Kassius," she said, voice steady despite the red mark blooming on her cheek. "Why exactly aren't you a hero? When worse men than you wore that title with no shame."
I stared up at her, breathing hard.
"UltraMan is a hero," she continued. "And he's a monster parading as salvation. Silvian Morris is a hero, exploiting people with a monopoly based on servitude. The Investigators torture confessions out of suspects and call it justice."
Her grip tightened on my face.
"You kill in self-defense. You protect people despite claiming not to care. You fight threats others ignore because it's inconvenient. You're violent, cruel, pragmatic—but you're not evil."
"You don't know what I am," I said, voice low and dangerous.
"I know you haven't killed me," she whispered. "I know you're trying to stop an apocalyptic event. I know you freed me from twenty years of suffering when you could have just left me to rot."
"That was transactional—"
"Was it?" she interrupted. "Or is that just what you tell yourself so you don't have to face what you actually are?"
Silence.
My heart pounded in my chest. My hands had stopped trying to push her away, just hanging limp at my sides.
"You're looking for a reason to die," she said quietly. "For proof that you're irredeemable. Because being a monster is easier than being human. Monsters don't feel guilt. Monsters don't question themselves. Monsters don't have to care."
She leaned closer, eyes locked on mine.
"But you do care, Kassius. And it's killing you."
I couldn't look away anymore.
Those empty, chestnut eyes—the ones I'd dismissed as ordinary—weren't empty at all.
"You saw what I was capable of and you still dare—"
With two of her fingers she closed my mouth and shushed me audibly.
"Shhh."
I glared at her, but she didn't flinch.
"You think you're cruel and a degenerate, but are you even?" she asked, tilting her head. "I honestly find your behavior erratic. One moment you're calculative and rational, the next second you're impulsive and vicious. One moment you're reflective, and another you show regressive gestures. It's like your body flips a switch."
She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully.
"Is it from the drugs you use recently? That lethal dose of aspirin?"
She pressed her lips tightly, thinking.
I wanted to get her off me, but all my strength had failed. I was out of stamina—physically, mentally, all of it. My body felt like lead, muscles refusing to respond.
I wanted to get out from under her. No, I NEEDED TO.
But why? She was only talking. Just words. So why would I be so repulsed?
"I don't think you're that bad of a person," she said softly. "You've had many chances to throw everything away, yet you keep fighting. If that isn't anything but noble, I don't know what is."
"Your line of thinking is reductive," she continued. "You try to diminish what you're doing from some vague prospect that you're uninvolved. For example, how can you casually throw out that you're the Leader of so many heroes? You think nothing of this, but no matter the means you got that title, it places you at the pinnacle of power in this city..."
She leaned closer, studying my face.
"And there's so much more than that..."
I tried to bite her fingers.
But she was faster—catching my tongue instead, pulling it out, forcing my mouth open. The gesture was almost playful, clinical. Like examining an animal.
She let go almost immediately, watching me with genuine curiosity.
Like I was some kind of toy. Some puzzle she was trying to solve.
"Your speech itself is reductive," I managed to say, tongue still tingling from her grip. "You think my mind is so simple? What if—"
"Actually," she cut me off, "the fact that you want to deny yourself the title of hero so vehemently is kind of cute, even in of itself."
"You're so gross," I spat.
She smiled—not mockingly, genuinely. "From what I see, your ideal of a hero is Ultraman. But you don't seem to think yourself worthy enough to stand by him."
"Why would it be him?" I asked, confused.
"The first time you answered my question, you said it was someone who inspires and saves others. The simplest way to describe Ultraman. Of course no one can stand up to such a man, but many would say that they're at least trying. You deny yourself even that."
"I think the fact you're clearly aware of the morality of your actions makes it even more obvious that you aren't as devastated as you think."
"What are you even saying? You're talking nonsense to—"
"To what?"
"Let me talk, woman!"
"What is there to talk about when you aren't honest with yourself?"
"You just want me to save the city. I get it."
"No, it's exactly because you don't." She let go of my head with one hand and pointed at herself. "I don't care about any of that."
"What do you think I want?" she asked.
"Didn't you say you wanted the voices to stop?"
She smirked and pressed my nose playfully. "You were right earlier about what you said. I tried to get over my condition, but just as you can't be free, I can never get back to the way I was before. My peace is never truly returning, just as my darling isn't."
She paused, expression softening.
"But I can still live life for all the years I wasn't able to. I can experience new things, I can—"
I felt my eyes rolling, but she pinched my nose, grabbing my attention and flashing a genuine smile.
"So this is why I want you to also enjoy living. You don't need to make excuses if you want to save the world. Neither if you regret what you did in the past."
"I get it, so get off me already!" I snapped. "You asked what a hero is. Me. I'm a hero! Is that what you want me to say?"
Her eyes went wide and she grinned proudly, letting go of my face. "You actually said it."
I pushed her away—hard. She fell backward onto the ground before me, putting up no resistance. Just lay there, still smiling. Her head was just a few centimeters away from the coffee table, sadly missing it.
"In time maybe you'll actually start to believe it," she said.
"I doubt it," I muttered, standing and walking toward the bathroom to dress in those branded clothes from yesterday. I felt suffocated.
A goal. Any goal. Yes. That's it.
I exited the suite without a word.
I wanted to get some tea.
____________
The hallway was quiet—too quiet. Just the hum of some distant orchestral music. My footsteps echoed on the carpet, each step deliberate, automatic.
My mind was static.
Not empty. Not racing. Just... noise. White noise that drowned out everything she'd said, everything I'd admitted, everything that threatened to take root if I let it.
The elevator ride down felt longer than it should have. I stared at my reflection in the polished metal doors—bruised neck, hollow eyes, scars crisscrossing visible skin.
A hero.
The word felt foreign. Wrong. Like trying to wear someone else's clothes and finding they didn't fit right, bunching in all the wrong places.
The lobby was mostly empty. The same receptionist from earlier glanced up, then quickly looked away when she saw my expression.
Smart.
I pushed through the front doors into the night air. The city sprawled before me—neon signs, distant sirens, the perpetual hum of a metropolis that never truly slept.
Somewhere out there, all my enemies moved pieces on a board I couldn't fully see.
And here I was, looking for tea.
I started walking, no particular destination in mind. Just movement. Just distance from that hotel room and the ghost-woman who'd seen too much.
A hero.
I'd said it. Out loud. To her face.
I bit my lip again, hard enough that it went numb. What a joke.
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