All the words that pierced his ears, the stares that stabbed through his skin, and the unreadable expressions… formed an inescapable siege. Slowly, without realizing it, Arnold was swept away into a fog of his own making. Something inside him began to crack—not out of weakness, but because there was no longer any space he could occupy except himself.
The days passed like an endless downpour.
People's words became bullets, and the world seemed to know only one language: condemnation.
He fell silent, then froze, and eventually lost his way.
But from the rubble, a voice resurfaced.
Faint.
But clear enough to jolt his mind.
Secret mission.
Two words he had heard on the radio a few days ago.
Those words shattered like glass inside him, awakening something that was nearly dead.
He snapped out of his daze and ran out of the alley.
Breath heavy, eyes wild, searching.
And in front of him, the image burned into his mind—
a kindergarten, colorful fences, and the sound of children laughing.
But that wasn't what caught his attention.
Standing in the middle of the playground was a grown man wearing a teacher's uniform.
The way he stood, the way he watched the children—
it was not normal.
Not comfortable.
Not safe.
Misleidend appeared without warning.
He jumped the fence, landed lightly on the ground, then gestured quickly for the children to step back.
His voice was low, urgent.
But the children only stared at him.
Confused.
Not one of them moved.
Then, a scream.
A woman's voice tore through the air.
"Get away from my child!"
Her face pale with rage, her hand pointed directly at Misleidend.
"You… you're the one who hurt my child that time! You think I forgot?"
Misleidend froze.
That voice dragged him back into the past,
to a blurred and painful memory—a little boy, his small shoulder shoved hard to the ground, because Misleidend thought he was holding a bomb.
But what the boy had… was only a toy.
"What…" his voice caught, "that's not possible…"
People began to gather.
One of them called the police, mentioning possible kidnapping and trespassing on school property.
And when two officers arrived shortly after, Misleidend didn't resist.
He didn't run.
He just stood there, swallowed by confusion, staring at the world as if he no longer knew what was real and what wasn't.
At the police station, he sat in the interrogation room.
A lamp hung low above his head.
His sweat ran cold, though the room had no breeze.
The officers asked question after question—his name, his address, his reason for being at the kindergarten—
but none of them connected him with the heroic figure he had always believed himself to be.
Arnold answered as honestly as he could, but the more he explained, the more absurd it sounded.
None of his heroic stories could be proven.
No reports.
No records.
No footage.
Until finally, the statement was made:
that Arnold Pompeii showed signs of delusional disorder.
A strong belief that he was a hero named Misleidend.
A savior who existed only in his own mind.
He didn't deny it.
Didn't try to correct it.
Just remained silent.
His head lowered.
Hands on his lap.
The world had made its decision, and he… had nothing left to explain.
And as the entire room dissolved into heavy silence, only one thing kept echoing inside his head
—not crying
—not screaming
But a small whisper, barely audible:
"This mission isn't over..."
"Rejection is a fractured mirror—it reflects a version of yourself the world doesn't want, but it also gives you a chance to see who you are without the mask of their expectations."