The penthouse was beautiful.
That was the thing people noticed first when they visited—not that many people visited. Floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked the city skyline. Sleek modern architecture with clean lines and expensive materials. The kind of place that screamed money without having to say a word. It was on the top floor of Sterling Tower, one of the most prestigious buildings in the city, paid for by Atlas Sterling himself.
Hero hated it.
Too much space. Too much light. Too much expectation built into every polished surface.
But right now, standing outside the building's entrance, Hero wasn't thinking about the penthouse. He was thinking about how much he'd rather be back in it, wrapped in his blanket burrito, controller in hand, ignoring the world.
Robert stood beside a sleek black car—some expensive model that Hero couldn't be bothered to identify. The butler looked as composed as ever, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect.
Hero walked up, his hair still damp from the shower, dressed in what Robert had laid out for him: dark jeans, a button-up shirt (only half-tucked because he had some dignity), and a jacket that probably cost more than a semester at a normal school. He looked... presentable. Ish.
"Okay," Hero said, exhaling like a man walking to his execution. "Let's get this over with."
Robert chuckled. Actually chuckled. A soft, amused sound that immediately put Hero on edge.
"I'm not the one driving you."
Hero blinked. "What? But you're a driver."
"No, I'm not."
"You're not?" Hero's brow furrowed. "What are you then?"
Robert inhaled slowly—the kind of breath that suggested he'd had this conversation before and didn't want to have it again. "That doesn't matter."
He gestured toward the car with one hand, his expression unreadable.
"He is going to drive you."
Hero followed Robert's gaze to the driver's seat. The tinted window rolled down with a smooth mechanical hum, and a head popped out.
The driver was young—maybe early twenties—with slicked-back blonde hair and a smile that was way too cheerful for this early in the afternoon. He wore a crisp chauffeur's uniform, complete with a cap, and looked like he'd stepped straight out of a movie about rich people problems.
"Hello, Sir Hero!" the driver said brightly, his voice dripping with enthusiasm that should be illegal before 5 PM.
Hero stared at him.
Then turned slowly to look at Robert.
"Really?"
Robert clasped both hands behind his back, his expression serene. "Really."
Hero exhaled through his nose, a long, suffering sound.
Robert took a step back. "I should be getting going, sir." His tone shifted slightly—still professional, but softer. "And so should you."
He bowed slightly, just enough to be respectful without being excessive, then raised his head back up.
"Please don't bring shame to your father's name."
Hero's face scrunched up. "That rhymed."
Robert's lips twitched.
He winked.
And then his body started to disintegrate.
It wasn't dramatic. No explosion, no flash of light. Just... dissolution. His form turned to ash, particles breaking apart and drifting on the wind like cigarette smoke. Within seconds, he was gone, scattered across the breeze, leaving nothing behind but empty space where he'd been standing.
Hero sighed.
Loud.
Long.
The kind of sigh that contained multitudes of regret.
He turned toward the car, walked around to the front passenger seat, pulled open the door, and dropped into it like a sack of depressed potatoes.
The overly enthusiastic driver turned to him, still smiling.
"Ready to go, Sir Hero?"
Hero slouched lower in the seat, pulling his hood up despite not wearing a hoodie.
"Just drive."
The driver turned in his seat, that smile still plastered on his face like it had been surgically attached.
"My name's Gary, by the way. Gary Peterson. I've been working for your father for about six months now. It's such an honor, really. Not just to work for Atlas Sterling, but to meet you. I mean, wow. Hero Sterling. In my car. This is—"
Hero stared out the window.
Gary's smile faltered for half a second before rebounding with renewed vigor.
"Uh, Sir Hero? Could you please put on your seatbelt? It's, you know, safety regulations and all that. Your father was very specific about—"
Hero continued staring out the window.
Gary glanced at the unbuckled seatbelt, then at Hero, then back at the seatbelt. His hands tightened on the steering wheel.
"Right. Okay. We'll just... we'll go then."
He put the car in drive.
The vehicle pulled smoothly away from the curb, its engine so quiet it was almost unsettling. Everything about it screamed expensive—the leather seats, the polished dashboard, the way it glided over the road like it was personally offended by the concept of friction.
"So!" Gary said, his voice filling the silence with the desperation of someone who couldn't stand quiet. "Your father. Atlas Sterling. What a legend, right? I mean, I grew up watching footage of The Rift Incident. Everyone did. That moment when he absorbed the kaiju's blast and fired it back? Incredible. The way he just—boom—took that thing apart? I must've watched that clip a thousand times. A thousand times."
Hero's reflection in the window showed zero emotion.
"And the way he rebuilt the Hero Association from the ground up after the crisis? The reforms he pushed through? The training programs? He basically revolutionized the entire hero industry. I read his biography—well, the authorized one. Twice. Once in high school and then again last year. Did you know he can benchpress a building? A building. That's not even an exaggeration. They tested it. There's footage."
A bus passed by on the left. It was hovering about three feet off the ground, its underside glowing with blue propulsion rings.
"And his tactical mind? Chef's kiss. The Seoul Incident? When he coordinated seventeen different hero teams across four time zones to take down that interdimensional warlord? Masterclass. Pure masterclass. They teach that operation in academy strategy courses now. I bet you've heard all the stories though, huh? Growing up with him? Man, what's that even like? Having Atlas Sterling as your dad? I can't even imagine."
Hero shifted slightly, his cheek pressed against the cool glass.
Outside, the city unfolded like something out of a fever dream.
The buildings stretched toward the sky—not just tall, but impossible. Structures that twisted and curved in ways that would've made architects from a century ago weep. Glass and steel and materials that didn't have names yet, all gleaming in the afternoon sun. Some of the towers floated, held aloft by massive gravity stabilizers that hummed with barely contained energy. Bridges of light connected them, holographic pathways that people walked across like it was the most normal thing in the world.
And the people.
God, the people.
They filled the streets and the sky in equal measure. Some walked on sidewalks that glowed with embedded LEDs, routing foot traffic with color-coded efficiency. Others flew—some with hoverboards that left trails of blue energy, others with jetpacks, and still others with no visible means of propulsion at all. Just flying, their bodies defying gravity through powers or tech or some combination of both.
A woman with four arms juggled what looked like orbs of pure light while waiting at a crosswalk. A man made entirely of crystal refracted sunlight as he passed, casting rainbows across the pavement. Something that definitely wasn't human—too many joints, skin like polished metal—stood at a food cart, ordering lunch.
"—and don't even get me started on his charity work," Gary was saying, somehow still going. "The Sterling Foundation has rebuilt, what, forty cities? Fifty? The scholarships alone have put thousands of kids through hero academy. Kids who never would've had a chance otherwise. He funded the entire medical wing at Central Hospital. The entire wing. Do you know how much that costs? Neither do I, but I'm guessing it's a lot."
Billboards dominated the skyline—massive holographic displays that shifted and changed every few seconds. An ad for the latest hero energy drink featuring a woman shooting lightning from her hands. A political campaign for some senator promising "stronger dimensional barriers." A movie trailer showing explosions and people in capes doing cape things.
One billboard showed Atlas Sterling himself, arms crossed, looking stoically into the distance. The text below read: "STRENGTH. HONOR. LEGACY. ATLAS STERLING SUPPORTS THE HERO ACADEMY FUND."
Hero looked away from it.
The car merged onto an elevated highway—one of the sky-roads that wove between buildings like veins through a body. Below, the ground-level streets continued their chaos. Above, other vehicles cruised by. Some were hovering sedans like theirs. Others were motorcycles with wheels made of energy. A delivery drone the size of a small car zipped past, its cargo hold probably carrying someone's overpriced lunch.
"—personally, I think his best moment was during the Chicago Standoff," Gary continued, apparently having entire conversations with himself at this point. "When he talked down that reality warper? That guy could've erased half the Midwest, but your dad just talked to him. For six hours. No violence. No destruction. Just... communication. That takes a special kind of person, you know? Not just power, but wisdom. Compassion."
A building to the right was actively being constructed. But there were no cranes, no scaffolding. Just people—builders with telekinesis—lifting massive steel beams into place with their minds. Others welded joints with lasers that shot from their eyes. One worker walked up the side of the structure like gravity was a polite suggestion he'd chosen to ignore.
"I heard he's training a new generation of S-Class heroes personally. Is that true? Are you in that program? You must be, right? I mean, you're his son. You probably inherited all his abilities. Maybe even stronger? Oh man, imagine being stronger than Atlas Sterling. That's—that's crazy. Do you have the energy absorption thing? Or the strength? Both?"
The academy was getting closer. Hero could see it in the distance—Sterling Hero Academy, a massive complex that looked more like a fortress than a school. Multiple buildings, training grounds, what looked like a contained explosion happening in one of the arenas.
His stomach tightened.
"—really inspiring, honestly," Gary was saying. "Like, if I had a fraction of your potential? Man. I'd be unstoppable. Not that I'm saying you need to be anything! You're already, you know, you. Which is great. I'm sure you're great. Your dad talks about you sometimes. Well, not to me directly, but I've heard him mention you in meetings. He's really proud, you know? Really proud."
Hero closed his eyes.
The car continued forward.
Gary continued talking.
And the world outside continued spinning—bright, loud, and utterly exhausting.
"Don't you have to keep quiet to drive or something?"
Hero's voice cut through Gary's monologue like a knife through butter.
Gary blinked, his stream of consciousness momentarily derailed. Then he laughed—that nervous, eager-to-please laugh.
"Oh! No, no, sir. That's a common misconception actually. Driving isn't about being quiet—it's about awareness. Keeping your eyes on the road, your ears open for audio cues, monitoring your mirrors, being conscious of your surroundings. In fact, studies show that light conversation can actually help keep drivers alert on long trips. Silence can lead to highway hypnosis, which is when your brain kind of zones out and you're driving on autopilot, which is super dangerous even though it sounds like it would be safe because of the word 'autopilot' but it's actually—"
CRUNCH.
The front of the car crumpled like a tin can.
The hood buckled inward with a sickening WHAM, metal screaming as it folded, compressing into itself. The windshield spiderwebbed instantly—cracks racing across the glass in chaotic patterns before the entire thing shattered, exploding into a thousand glittering pieces.
The impact threw everything forward.
The airbags deployed with violent BANGS, but Hero wasn't wearing his seatbelt.
He went through the windshield.
Not through the broken glass—he went through the space where the windshield used to be, his body launched like a ragdoll, tumbling through empty air. The world spun—sky, ground, sky, ground—in a nauseating blur.
He hit the pavement.
SLAM.
Rolled.
Once.
Twice.
Three times, his body skipping across the road like a stone on water, each impact a bone-jarring thud that knocked the air from his lungs.
He finally stopped, sprawled on his back, staring up at the sky.
For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of his own heartbeat and the distant hum of the city.
Then the pain registered.
Hero groaned, pushing himself up onto his elbows, his head spinning. His jacket was torn. His shirt had road rash. His entire everything hurt.
He turned his head—slow, careful, because his neck felt like it might fall off—and looked back at the car.
The front end was demolished. Completely caved in. Smoke rose from the engine. One of the tires had popped, hissing air like a dying balloon. The bumper hung at an angle, barely attached.
Gary sat in the driver's seat, both hands still on the wheel, his face pale, eyes wide behind the deployed airbag.
Hero stared at him.
Then, with all the indignation of someone who'd just been launched through a windshield, he shouted:
"What the fuck, driver?!"
Gary laughed.
It was high-pitched. Nervous. The laugh of a man whose life was currently flashing before his eyes.
"Um." He swallowed hard. "It's actually Gary."
Hero opened his mouth to respond—probably with something creative and profane—but the light changed.
A shadow fell over him.
Huge.
Dark.
Wrong.
The temperature dropped. The sounds of the city seemed to muffle, like someone had thrown a blanket over reality.
Hero's breath caught.
Slowly—so slowly—he tilted his head back and looked up.
His eyes went wide.