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Chapter Text

36 AC, August - 18th Heroes Tournament

Everything Liu Yuwei had sacrificed for the past decade converged on this moment. To stand as a participant in the Hero Tournament—a privilege given to only the top 10 heroes.

The vast arena stood silent under the midday sun, its seats absent by design. Yet despite it, she felt the weight of millions watching through camera feeds. After years of discipline, training, and rigid adherence to her own rules, the crown of X—the ranked one hero—lay within reach.

At the pinnacle of her career, she had risen through life carried by the strength of her ideals. A prodigy, a genius. They called her that, not knowing the lengths she had gone to become so.

And from those ideals, her power—the ability to set rules that forced the world to adhere to them—-had manifested as a result of her ambition. Through this, she had forged an unstoppable path to the top. Inspiring others to rise up in her wake, to chase the reality that she sought.

The Announcer’s voice rang out, proclaiming her goal: “...the hero who had vowed to create a new order for this world.”

At twenty-two years old, draped in white-and-gold stood Liu Yuwei, the one they knew as…

“Queen!” 

Now at the finals, it had become apparent to her—she wasn’t just fighting an opponent. She was fighting for the ideal she had always clung to: that by becoming X, she could reshape a broken system, prove that heroes weren’t forged from self interest but from doing what’s right.

She tightened her grip on her spear, feeling its familiar weight. The metal hummed faintly with her power, ready to enforce whatever rule she declared upon the world. She would finally see her dream come to fruition.

Yet when her opponent appeared, it was with great shock. Bowa, her apparent rival that she had expected to face against in the finals, did not stand before her.

“And on the other side,” the announcer’s voice boomed, bright with theatrical flourish, “a contestant who barely scraped into the top ten before the ranking matches—a dark horse passerby!”

A man walked out instead. White hair slicked neatly back, a matching suit gleaming under the lights, and a smile far too casual for a stage like this. He looked more ready for a gala than a fight.

“A man whose name,” the announcer continued, “has yet to be registered in the Hero Association’s official roster.”

Light caught the coin spinning between his fingers, flashing with every turn. Yuwei frowned. His was a face she’d never seen—no record, no reputation, nothing.

Still, she forced herself to steady her stance. Underestimation was a luxury she couldn’t afford, not here, not now. She hadn’t come this far to lose to hubris.

She raised her spear, intent on ending the match in an instant—to seal the field with one of her Rules.

Until a snap rang out, echoing with impossible clarity across the arena. 

Before she could process what was happening, her world collapsed into nothing. Darkness took her before her spear ever touched the ground.

When her vision cleared, she found herself on her back, the cold ground beneath her and the endless sky above. Her eyes traced the clouds, mind struggling to comprehend what had happened.

"Have I... lost?" The thought settled like lead in her chest.

No applause. No outrage. Not even gasps. Just silence, heavy and unbroken, her mind left alone to only imagine the reactions of those behind screens.

She rose to her feet without even a limp or grimace, with an expression carved from stone. Queen, the model hero, stood and walked out with grace. That was what Mickey expected. What her Father expected. That was what the cameras expected.

Her mask held until she stepped onto a platform that took her to the threshold of the arena’s gates. Into the shadow of the arena, beyond the sunlight. To a silent, stone building that marked the end of her run. A coffin of her dreams.

Only then, out of sight, did she feel the first crack in her composure. Her rules, her discipline, her pride… all of it had been enough to build her up. But the first time they failed her, they left nothing to catch her fall.

The one crowned Hero X: nameless, mysterious… and worst of all, not her.

The Hero Tower had never felt so silent. Or maybe it was just her shutting the noise out.

Liu Yuwei’s phone pulsed with notifications. Messages from friends, fellow heroes, even strangers who had seen her “great match.” Some congratulated her effort. Others tried to console her. None of it mattered.

It got to the point that she let them stack unread, hoping they could fade away.

Every following morning followed the same loop: Wake up. Stare at the ceiling. Consider training—stop—replay the loss in her head, frame by frame. 

She told herself she would study and analyze her mistakes. But whenever she reopened that fateful video of her match, she saw nothing. The strike she hadn’t anticipated. 

No, it was wrong. The strike she never even saw.

It felt like a mockery of her very being. She once believed herself to be the absolute pinnacle. She had fought her whole life in and out of the battlefield. Yet on the day of the tournament, she would not even be granted a final fight for the crown.

In that moment her certainty cracked. She had pushed herself forward with such urgency and dilligence—trusting in the certainty that she would succeed. Yet in the end, despite all her effort, she was beat.

“By nobody.” She laughed bitterly to herself. A pitiful attempt to regain some sense of pride or dignity. But that wasn’t true anymore. In the end, that nobody had become X.

Meals came and went—left by her door, sometimes skipped—every one eaten mechanically in silence. Days blurred together. The Hero Tower still thrummed with life outside her door but like her loss before: the world kept moving without her.

Sometimes she tried writing. Training notes, corrections, theories. Her pen hovered, ink bled, but the pages stayed unorganized and fruitless. What could she correct?

Her mind looped over all the various possibilities. Was X’s power speed? Someone faster than E-Soul? If he was she should’ve begun by restructuring the terrain to her advantage. But the idea didn’t add up. There was no indication that what he wore was even suited for high speeds.

It could be time manipulation. An action triggered by that finger snap. That had more plausibility than speed, but it brought up a different set of problems. What level of Trust would someone need to have to have control over such a fundamental concept? To have dominion over reality itself, even more than her, and yet be unknown. It just didn’t make sense.

And on it went, questions piling on her conscience like rain in a storm. Endless possibilities conjured until she was too tired to think.

Other times she paced her room, from bed to desk to door and back again, counting her steps as though discipline alone could anchor her. 

Ninety-eight from wall to wall. A hundred-and-ninety-six for the full loop.

Again. Ninety-nine from wall to wall. A hundred-and-ninety-five for the loop… 

She checked again. Maybe she had miscounted—no, the walls hadn’t changed.

The mirror was worse. Each glance showed the same rigid posture, the same controlled face she had trained into perfection. And yet beneath the skin, she saw a stranger. 

Was this what the world saw too? A champion who collapsed in a single blink, who bowed from a stage with nothing to her name?

She thought about leaving the Tower, just once. The thought ended the same every time: if she stepped outside, the whispers would follow. The fall of Queen. The arrogant, prideful prodigy who couldn’t even achieve what she had boasted so confidently.

Three weeks into her isolation, she found herself browsing her phone without purpose. Not searching for anything specific—just something, anything, to fill the emptiness. To see if the world outside still existed. To see if she did.

A thumbnail caught her eye—her younger self, poised and confident. An interview from when she was 14, just graduating university. She hesitated, a finger hovering above the video.

After some consideration, she tapped on it, perhaps hoping to find answers or find a spark.

“I believe I have the ability to create order. I also believe that I can use this power to reach the top. And when that time comes, I will overturn the Trust Value system, and create the world’s order anew.”

But all her words had done was strike her down.

A bitter smile graced her lips. She had been so naive then, so full of hope. The memory twisted in her chest, and before she could stop it, a word clawed its way up her throat like bile, slipping out as though it carried her spirit with it.

“Failure.” She whispered. She feared that word.

The very meaning of it. The lack of success. To be someone who has fallen short.

Her father had never called her that. Neither Mickey, nor Lucky Cyan nor Little Johnny. Nobody would dare call her that. Was it assuredness? Trust? Results? Not even her most harsh critics would dare to say she was a failure before.

And yet. There she was. With the evidence to prove otherwise.

“Failure. A failure.”

Could there be no better word to represent who she was right now?

“Failure. Failure. Failure.” The words spilled from her lips until even the silence seemed to whisper it back. She repeated it like madness.

So she stayed. Curtains drawn. Lights dim. Days blurred into silence.

It wasn’t rest. It wasn’t recovery. It was erasure.

36 AC, December - Four Months after the 18th Heroes Tournament

It had been four months, holed up in the darkness of her room with only the sun and the moon at her back, and the light of the TV in front—a hollow connection to the outside world.

Sometimes she wondered what would happen if she continued to hide away like this. Would she be forgotten? Would her powers fade into dust? What would she be afterwards when she no longer had powers? A nameless face among the masses?

Though she knew that was impossible, she had made sure no one could forget who she was. But now, through the fruit of her labor they would always remember what she wasn’t.

Her conviction had become a double-edged sword that only served to mock her. Where could she go so that no one would ever remember her name or who she was? 

She briefly considered looking at her Trust value. To see where she was now among the world. In her four months of isolation, she hadn’t bothered to check—afraid to see her downfall in real time.

Downing the last of her alcohol. She placed it down onto the table beside the various wine bottles, another symbol joining the ranks of her despair. She looked to her shelves for another, but it seemed she had finished her last.

Being sober was proving to be a burden.

…

The outside air bit against her skin, sharp and cold, and for the first time in months, she felt not the stagnant chill of her room but something alive. The cold of winter stung her face, filled her lungs, and for a moment it almost grounded her.

Snow fell in slow spirals under the streetlamps, catching in her hair, clinging to her coat. She stopped for a moment beneath one such light, watching it drift down. The first snowfall of the season, arriving in the emptiness at 2 AM when the city slept.

At times like these, she had once appreciated their beauty. A symbol of change, of renewal. But now they were nothing to her, just cold ice accumulating, drifting along in the wind without purpose—much like herself.

Her feet carried her past a park, silent and empty at this hour. For a heartbeat, she could almost imagine it filled with children dashing through fresh snow, their phantom laughter echoing in her memory. The ghost of normalcy cutting through her numbness.

She had been one of them once. She recalled a distant memory—one with her father. 

”Jump forward. Be brave.”

She shook her head, forcing the thought away. She hadn’t come out here to chase memories. This was a brief errand, nothing more: alcohol to drown out the night. There would be no answers in the snow.

Shrouded in clothing to conceal her identity, she walked quickly, hoping no one would recognize her in this humiliated state. The nearest convenience store waited down an empty street, its lights glowing against the dark—one of the few establishments still open at such an hour.

The doors slid open, inviting her to a wash of artificial lights and a maze of shelves. She surveyed the store, noting its desolate state. From the corner came the faint rustle of restocking. At the counter, a lone worker stood watch.

Her boots clicked softly against the linoleum as she made her way toward the back. The glass doors of the refrigerators reflected pieces of her: scarf, hood, a shadow of her face. She kept her gaze low, unwilling to confront the mirror image of what she had become.

The wine bottles were stacked in neat rows on shelves. She stood there, staring, hand hovering. A single bottle wouldn't last. She knew herself too well. One was a denial, a half-measure. If she was going to drown, she needed depth.

At the counter, the clerk straightened when she set the bottles down. "Will that be all?"

He was young—younger than her. His unkempt dark brown hair and dark eyes matched his overall casual demeanor. He slouched slightly, gaze half-lidded as though the night itself bored him.

She gave the faintest nod, her voice caught somewhere between her throat and her pride. Bottles slid across the scanner—punctuated by sharp beeps.

“Cold night,” he said absently, as if speaking just to fill the space.

A receipt spat out. The sounds thundered in her ears, louder than they should have been, like the register was announcing her disgrace.

The bag crinkled as he held it toward her. "Careful out there," he said quietly.

His eyes met hers, a moment of direct contact that felt suddenly searching. Something in his expression shifted— as if he'd glimpsed something familiar. His gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before sliding away.

She muttered something noncommittal, pulling her hood tighter against what felt like scrutiny. Was he trying to place her face? Had he recognized “Queen” beneath the disguise? 

She grabbed the bag and left without another word.

The night air struck her again, clean and cold, and the door sealed behind her with a sigh. The bag swung against her leg, its weight both anchor and escape.

Liu Yuwei walked, crunching snow beneath her boots. The street was quiet, the kind of stillness that pressed in from all sides. She didn't make it far before her legs slowed, then stopped, then folded. Against the shadowed mouth of an alley, she sank down, the bag of wine bottles slipping from her grip.

Her hand lingered on one, pulling it free. She felt the cold glass. The reflection of her own eyes warped across the curve.

Disgust churned low in her chest. How far she had fallen.

She was about to twist it open when a sound startled her: hurried footsteps slapping the snow, drawing closer.

"Had someone recognized me?" She stood quickly, poised to activate her Rule.

"Wait!"

She watched, eyes narrowing, as the boy from the counter stumbled into view, breath misting in the cold. His already unkempt hair splayed across his face, and in his hand swung a thin plastic bag.

Her brow furrowed. "You again?"

He held the bag out, catching his breath. "This is for you. You don't need to pay for it."

Her pride bristled instantly. "I didn't ask for this."

"I know." His voice was quiet and gentle. "But sometimes it helps." Then, with a faint grin, he continued, ”…You know, to fill your stomach with something besides alcohol. Otherwise you’ll wake up wishing you hadn’t."

Her eyes narrowed further, suspicious. What angle was this? Surely not kindness for its own sake. Fame, perhaps, assuming that he had recognized her.

"How many times have you done this before?" she asked, studying his face.

He blinked, surprised by the question. "Done what? This?" He gestured vaguely at the bag of food.

She waited, expression unchanged.

"Never," he admitted, looking down briefly. "I mean, I've wanted to help people before, but..." He trailed off, looking almost embarrassed. "This is actually the first time I've ever just... followed through, I guess."

She took the bag from him and peeked inside. An assortment of snacks, wrapped buns, a couple cans of warm tea.

"More than a gesture," she thought, "Practically a haul." Her brow arched.

An awkward silence settled between them. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, glancing back toward the store, then at her. She recognized it as giving her space to leave, to take the food and disappear into the night like any normal person would.

But he had no obligation to wait for her. For what purpose, she didn’t know—Concern? Interest?

Though she didn't move either. Where would she go? Back to her empty room, back to staring at the ceiling, back to the crushing weight of having nothing to do and nowhere to be? At least here, in this strange moment, it brought something different for her.

"That's… excessive." She said, raising an eyebrow. "I doubt your store would appreciate this."

He relaxed slightly, seeming relieved she was still talking to him. "Just this once. If they don't notice, it'll be fine."

She studied his face for a moment. "You're not trying to hit on me, are you? It's brave, but I'm not looking for a relationship."

Color rushed to his cheeks. "It's not like that!" He held up his hands. "Seriously!"

She waited, watching him squirm for a moment. 

“It’s just…” He glanced back toward the store, then at her. "You looked like you needed help."

She blinked. "You're… serious?"

"Dead serious," he said, hands raised in mock surrender.

A small huff escaped her, almost a laugh. His awkward honesty disarmed her more than any smooth line ever could. "So… you give out food for strangers?"

"Maybe. But some people need help, even when it's inconvenient."

For the first time in weeks, her lips curved into something real—a smirk, quick and fleeting. He caught it instantly, his face brightening as it spurred him on.

“Think of this as the first act of The Snacker!” he declared, puffing his chest half in jest. “Name’s still a work in progress. When I get signed as a hero, I hope you’ll remember me.”

Her smirk faltered slightly. A hero? The word snagged at her, stirring something bitter. For a moment, she wondered if this boy even knew what he was saying—or if he simply believed it because he hadn’t yet been crushed by the weight of the world.

Or maybe that was exactly why. His ambitions were small enough, inconsequential enough, to be spoken aloud without fear.

She studied him closely, her eyes sharp despite her outward calm. He looked at her like she was just another person who needed help, not a failed prodigy or a fallen hero. Nobody has ever looked at her that way.

She tilted her head. “A hero?”

"Yup," he said with a grin. “Somebody that arrives to save someone's day.”

"That seems optimistic. You'll need more than a few kind acts to become a hero."

"Maybe," he admitted, smile never faltering. "But I think anyone can be a hero. Even small things can keep people going. Maybe that's all being a hero really is."

"Anyone?" she pressed. "Even you?"

His smile widened, boyish but steady, a spark in his eyes. "Especially me. I don't need to be the strongest, or the fastest, or the smartest. I just need to show up. Do what I can. Even when people tell me I shouldn't bother."

She paused on that last line, pondering his words. "People tell you that often? That you can't be a hero?"

"All the time. My friends laugh it off, classmates mock it behind my back, even family members tell me to be more realistic.”

He shrugged. “They say I’m wasting my time, that someone like me will never make it as a hero. But…” He met her gaze. “I’d rather try and fail than never try at all.”

Unbeknownst to him, she had her own view on heroism—one shaped not by medals or applause, but by the cracks she had seen in the system. A world that praised deeds publicly but quietly rewarded shortcuts, ignored failures that didn’t make a good story, and exploited its heroes as pawns for power and profit.

She wanted to challenge his naive certainty, to ask what it meant to be “enough” in a world designed to measure heroes like commodities. But the questions that came to mind revealed too much about who she really was.

Instead, she found herself studying his face in the dim streetlight.

“You really believe that? That showing up is enough?”

"I have to," he said, his face determined. "Because what's the alternative? Giving up? Deciding that because something's hard, it's not worth trying?"

The falling snow seemed to avoid him somehow, melting the moment it touched his hair, his shoulders, as if his warmth extended beyond his skin.

He paused, seeming to remember something. "My grandma once told me that the hardest part isn't showing up for other people. It's showing up for yourself when you don't think you deserve it."

She found herself studying him more closely. "Your grandma sounds wise."

A soft smile crossed his face, the first one that seemed purely personal rather than hopeful. “She raised me. My parents died when I was young—a car accident while I was at school. She took me in when she was already in her seventies, while others refused.”

"She's the one who taught me about heroes, about what really matters. Even now, when the medical bills are piling up and I'm working double shifts, she still worries more about whether I'm eating enough than whether we can pay rent."

"She sounds like she matters to you."

"She's everything to me," he said without hesitation. "Which is why I can't just give up on the idea that people are worth saving. Because someone like her exists in the world, you know? Someone who sees a scared kid and decides he's worth the trouble."

The simple honesty in his voice made something twist in Yuwei's chest. "You say it like it's easy."

"It's not." His tone was calm, without a hint of hesitation. "It's hard when no one believes in you. But if I don't believe it, who else will? Someone has to start somewhere, right? Even if it's just with snacks and warm tea on a cold night."

She studied his face, searching for something she couldn't name. "You really think doing this… makes any difference?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "I... yeah. I mean, what if nobody ever took that risk? What if everyone just walked by?" He hesitated for a moment. “You had this look in your eyes. Like you were lost somewhere far away and didn’t know what to do next. My grandma gets that same look sometimes when the doctors give her bad news.”

The comparison stung. "And you just decided to involve yourself? Most people would have minded their own business."

"Maybe they should have," he said, but his eyes stayed steady on hers. "But I couldn't just leave you sitting there. What if you were my grandma? Wouldn't I want someone to notice?"

"I'm not your family."

"No," he agreed simply. "But that doesn't mean you don't matter."

The words hung between them, simple and devastating. She felt something crack in her chest.

"So you want to be a hero," she said, deflecting. "Even though people tell you not to bother. What do you hope to gain from it?"

His laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating. “Honestly? Probably nothing. I’m not strong enough for the big leagues, not smart enough for the elite academies. It’ll probably take me years just to build enough Trust to qualify for anything.” 

He paused, watching the snow fall. "I'd rather spend my time helping in any way I can, even if it's tiny, than..." he gestured vaguely with his hand, searching for the perfect phrase, "than just drift through everything and mean nothing."

"That's it?"

"Yeah, that's it." 

He looked up towards the sky, a wistful look on his face. "I remember my grandma used to tell me stories about this hero from way back–before the Trust system got so complicated. He wasn't extraordinary by today's standards, but people still remembered him because he was there no matter how small the problem was." 

He paused, before meeting her eyes. "It made me realize that being a hero isn't about how strong you are. It's about what you're willing to do for other people, even when it costs you something."

Yuwei felt the weight of his words settling into those broken places in her chest. For a moment she found herself intrigued. He spoke like he had been waiting to tell someone his ambitions his whole life.

His words, unburdened and naive, made her want to believe in him too. Despite the thin uniform and the snow gathering around them, he didn't seem cold. There was something about his quiet certainty that seemed to warm the space between them.

The silence stretched for a heartbeat, and then a voice called from down the street.

"Lin Ling! Where'd you disappear to?" The tone was more exasperated than angry, carrying a hint of sleepy amusement typical of late-night shifts.

He winced, glancing back toward the store. "That's my manager. He's actually pretty cool—lets me get away with a lot during these night shifts as long as I'm at least in the building." Then he gave her a sheepish grin. "I should probably head back before he thinks I abandoned my post entirely. But I'm glad I did this."

She didn't answer right away. Her fingers brushed one of the warm cans through the bag, the heat seeping into her palm. The snow fell softly between them, settling on his shoulders until he finally turned to jog back.

"Lin Ling…" she murmured out of earshot, testing the name of the stranger that rushed out into the dark for her.

As he jogged away, she could hear the tail end of their conversation.

"You can't just wander off at 3 AM, kid. What if someone actually came in?" The manager’s voice carried, more resigned than angry.

"I was helping someone! It's heroic!" Lin Ling protested.

"Heroic would be actually being behind the counter when I come back from inventory," came the reply, followed by what sounded like a good-natured sigh. "At least tell me next time..."

Their voices faded as they disappeared inside. She lingered in the silence long after he disappeared, the muffled scolding of his manager fading into the night. The snow drifted quietly down, piling soft against her boots.

Her eyes fell to the spot where she'd been standing. The bag of alcohol still lay half-buried in snow, wine bottles glinting faintly under the streetlight. She bent down to pick it up, brushing the frost from its side. For a moment, she just stood there, holding the weight of old habits in her hand.

Then her gaze shifted to the second bag that he'd given her. Without thinking, she reached inside and pulled out one of the warm cans of tea. The metal radiated faint heat against her skin. She hesitated, then cracked it open.

Steam rose in a thin curl, catching the streetlight as she lifted it to her lips. The first sip burned a little, unfamiliar, but it lingered with a quiet kind of comfort.

She adjusted her grip, tucking both bags into one hand and the tea into the other, and started walking again, slowly this time. A strange ache settled in her chest, gentle and unfamiliar, as if the night no longer pressed quite so hard around her.

Chapter Text

A week later Liu Yuwei found herself once again on the dark empty streets. She tugged her coat tighter around her shoulders, annoyed at how quickly she'd run out of alcohol. For a moment, she considered a few different stores nearby, then shrugged. Might as well go back to the same place as last time—it was convenient.

She moved quickly through the aisles, focused on the shelves and the bottles she needed. When she looked up and saw Lin Ling behind the counter, she stopped in her tracks.

She hadn't been thinking about him when she walked in—she'd come for the alcohol, not the person who'd chased her into the dark to talk about heroes. But there he was.

Lin Ling blinked back, evidently as surprised as her. "Hey," he said, voice slightly too quick, like the word had jumped out before he could think.

"Hey," she echoed, setting her shopping basket on the counter.

He kept his eyes down as he began scanning items. His movements were careful, measured—as if he was deliberately attempting to not remain in her line of sight. 

The boy who had once chased her into the snow with such earnest confidence was now almost hunched behind the register, a stark contrast to last time. His fingers tapped nervously against each bottle before scanning it, a rhythm too even to be casual.

“You seem different,” she said. “Are you alright?”

He fumbled with the bottle he was holding. “Different?”

“More tense,” she elaborated.

He blinked, eyes flicking toward her, then down again. “Oh, that.” 

He hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or grimace. “It’s just—everything I said last time. About heroes and showing up. It sounded... important then.” 

He shrugged. “Now it just seems… presumptuous. Cringey, even.”

He gestured vaguely toward the counter. “I mean– Who chases after a complete stranger in the middle of the night to lecture them about heroism? I keep thinking about how that must have sounded to you.”

She considered him for a moment, relieved that his inner turmoil was apparently something trivial. "I didn't mind."

"You didn't?" He looked genuinely surprised.

"I found it admirable," she said, her admission seemingly as unexpected to her as it was to him. "Most people don't say what they actually think."

He gave a thoughtful look, turning her words over in his mind. It seemed that what he viewed as embarrassing–the chasing, the hero talk–hadn’t struck her as such at all. The tension in his body slowly released, and he straightened just a fraction, a hint of ease flickering in his expression.

Somehow seeing his reaction to his own words made it seem more genuine to her—like he hadn’t been there to make himself look better.

As he continued scanning, her eyes drifted to the snacks lining the shelves beside her. The same type of treats he'd given her that night—packaged in bright wrappers with cartoon mascots.

"Did I get you in trouble?" she asked suddenly.

His hands paused mid-scan. "Trouble?"

"Last time. With your manager."

"Oh." He said, realizing what she meant. One hand reached up to scratch the side of his neck. "A little. An employee vanishing out of thin air isn't usually the expectation–especially with an armful of inventory, that one didn't really slide."

"...Sorry about that."

"Ah–" He shook his head, resuming his work. "It's fine. Not like you made me." 

He fell silent as he finished scanning and placed the last bottle carefully into a bag. His movements were still measured, but some of the earlier tension had eased from his shoulders.

She reached for the bags, then paused remembering something. "Thank you," she said quietly. "For the food and the warm tea. I didn't get a chance to say that last time." She gave a half smile. "It was… a bit of a shock."

His eyes met hers, surprise giving way to a small, genuine smile. "You're welcome," he said warmly.

"I hope things get better," he added after a moment, his voice quieter.

The sincerity in his tone caught them both off guard. A brief, awkward silence followed as neither quite knew how to navigate the unexpected moment of connection.

"I'll be around," he offered finally, his gaze dropping to the counter. "If you need anything. I mean–" He stopped himself, clearly uncertain how to finish the thought without overstepping.

"I know what you meant," she said, saving him from his stumbling. Something almost like amusement flickered in her eyes.

She stepped out into the cold night, the quiet chime of the bell announcing her departure. Snow crunched beneath her boots, and the wind bit at her cheeks. Much like last time, tonight felt different from all the other nights. She wondered what to make of that–and whether she’d be back here again.

37 AC, January - Five Months after the 18th Heroes Tournament

Before she knew it, her trips to that same convenience store had become a sort of routine every few days whenever she ran out of alcohol. Late night errands while the city slept. To her, the world didn’t feel quite so suffocating when there was less of it to see.

She knew her coping wasn’t the healthiest. Yet little by little, the outside world crept into her routine, until the days she didn’t step out felt oddly incomplete.

Outside, the streets lay abandoned under winter's hollow embrace—empty sidewalks stretching between dark buildings, streetlights casting pools of cold light on untouched snow. 

Inside, the store was hardly more inviting: harsh fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead, casting shadows across sterile aisles and mass-produced goods. 

And yet, amid all this emptiness stood Lin Ling behind the counter. Over time, the initial strangeness of seeing each other had worn away. Now, his greeting was effortless, his smile warm and bright, a small constant in the otherwise colorless rhythm of her days. 

…

She placed her items on the counter, the faint clink of glass bottles punctuating the quiet as Lin Ling picked up the first one and scanned it efficiently.

“Good to see you again,” he said, his voice casual, a small, bright smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey,” she replied softly.

He glanced at the collection of wine bottles. "You know, you could probably order online, so you don't have to make so many trips," he said lightly, scanning the items.

“It’s no big deal. Just exercise.”

“Alright.” He chuckled, “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

She gave a soft exhale of amusement and let the silence settle between them, watching him work. They had done this many times before. Their conversations were often brief, never pushing beyond the boundary of strangers. 

Usually, Lin Ling would ask a question and she would offer a half hearted reply. Offhand comments about mundane things like the weather. 

But tonight, the quiet felt different.

“How have you been?” She asked.

Lin Ling froze, barcode scanner hovering mid-air. His eyes widened just enough to show he wasn’t expecting the question–she hadn’t asked him a question since that second night. A small smile tentatively tugged at his lips, caught somewhere between amusement and warmth. 

“I… I’ve been okay,” he said after a beat, returning to scanning. “You know… keeping busy.”

The words hung between them. Truth be told, she hadn’t meant to ask, but as nights went on she found herself curious about the boy behind the counter. After a pause, she prodded again quietly, “And your grandmother… Is she doing well?”

Lin Ling nodded. “Yeah,” he said, smiling softly. “She’s stubborn as ever. Still fussing over my meals and worrying that I’m working too much.” 

He shrugged lightly. “She’s… she’s a handful, but I guess that’s why I’m still here, trying my best.”

She gave a small hum of acknowledgment. 

He took advantage of the pause to dig through the drawer underneath, then awkwardly set a small snack bag beside her items. “Uh… I thought you might like this,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t sure… how to, you know… give it to you.”

Yuwei blinked at it, brow furrowing slightly. “Did you steal this from the store again?”

His eyes widened before he laughed softly, hands waving frantically in front of him. “No no no! I’ve paid for it already this time. Just… something I like, thought you might enjoy it too.” He shifted on his feet, clearly a little uncertain.

"If you don't, it's fine. Making sure it was something I liked was a backup plan in case you didn't want to…" He said trailing off. His fingers tapped lightly against the counter, a nervous gesture.

She almost shook her head, reflexively refusing out of habit. But seeing the way he hesitated–how careful he was with his words, how stiffly he held himself–as if waiting for her judgment. Again, there was a quiet honesty in his awkwardness, a care that wasn’t performative.

"Thank you," she said, handing over payment as he bagged the bottles. She took the snack along with her receipt, placing it in her bags. 

She caught the brief smile he gave and let herself mirror it with a small one of her own. "Take care of yourself," he said softly, closing the register drawer. "Hope things get a little easier this week."

“Next time… tell me if this is any good. Or if I just have bad taste.” He gestured to the small snack, eyes bright with quiet anticipation. She let herself smile just slightly at the remark.

“Okay.”

She turned toward the door, the bell chimed behind her. The errands were mundane, but the world felt like it could hold a corner that was hers without weighing down on her.

…

Later, Yuwei sat shrouded within the darkness of her room. The glow of the TV flickered across her face, an array of vivid colors shifting against the quiet. She had flipped to some random broadcast, as she often did. News, documentaries, reruns–it didn’t matter what was on–as long as it filled the silence.

Silence—she found—often gave room for her thoughts to fester. Thoughts about her present situation, of her uncertain future. Thoughts that at the moment, she wasn’t ready to face.

Presently, she found herself watching a TV drama with muted interest. Two lovers who had crossed paths by chance, yet split apart by fate. Their words–passionate and intimate–rang hollow against her heart.

Clutched within her hands was a near-empty wine bottle, her first of the night. As she downed the last of her drink, it was evident she would need another. She reached into the bag in front of her, her fingers brushing against something smooth and plastic.

Freeing the object–the snack bag that Lin Ling had given her–she observed its colorful packaging. The label “White Rabbit Candy” stamped on the bright bag as the mascot—a cutesy white rabbit—leapt across with a cheeky grin. She looked at it in brief contemplation, before her fondness for cute things got the better of her, and she unwrapped a soft milk stick from the bag.

She gave a preliminary bite, noting its texture and softness–the way in which it gave away but still held its form.

“It’s sweet.” She murmured.

She rarely touched sweets, seeing them as a small indulgence she didn’t need. Yet tonight, the cute rabbit seemed to demand her attention. She found herself unwrapping one after the other until the bag was drained of its contents.

Throughout it all, a soft smile graced her face, the sweetness bringing back memories of when she was younger. Back when her father was still a reporter, when they would spend evenings going on small adventures throughout the city. 

During these adventures, they would make visits to the nearest convenience store, where she picked out anything that happened to catch her eye. Her only criteria was that it had to be cute–keychains, gummies, cards–they were inexpensive, yet they meant the world to her.

She bit into the soft candy again, and a sudden thought struck her. A reminder of a treat she hadn’t had in years–a small, chewy snack from her childhood. If she remembered correctly, it was called…

…

Lin Ling tilted his head, eyebrows raised, his gaze flicking to the colorful snack bag. “Starwhal Gummies?” he asked, glancing at the item he’d picked up for scanning.

He seemed faintly surprised–she’d never bought anything besides alcohol.

Yuwei gave a small nod, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “They were my favorite when I was little. My father used to let me pick them out sometimes… I haven’t had them in years.”

She hesitated, then added quickly, “Also… I enjoyed the snack you gave me last time. It had a nice soft texture to it.”

“Right? It’s kind of like…” He searched for the right word, tapping his finger against the counter. “A sweet cheese stick.”

She gave an amused hum. “Something like that.”

The scanner beeped as he finished ringing up her items. When he handed the bags back, she lingered a moment instead of leaving right away. Pulling the pastel pack of Starwhal Gummies from the bag, she tore open the top edge with a soft crinkle and held it out toward him.

He blinked, eyes flicking from the open bag to her face, as if unsure whether she was serious.

“Try one,” she said, giving the bag a small shake.

After a pause, he reached in, carefully plucking a single star-shaped narwhal between his fingers. The candy shimmered faintly under the store’s fluorescent lights. He popped it into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. She watched his brows lift slightly–first in surprise, then amusement–as the berry filling burst across his tongue.

“It’s pretty good,” he admitted, a small grin tugging at his lips. “Nice and chewy. I wasn’t expecting the fruit filling.”

Yuwei nodded, almost pleased. “There’s still some other flavors,” she encouraged, angling the opening of the bag more towards him.

He laughed softly under his breath and reached in again, taking a few more at random. This time, he didn’t hesitate.

For a moment, neither spoke–the air between them filled only with the quiet hum of the refrigerator cases and the faint rustle of candy bag as they ate.

Lin Ling's eyes lingered on her hands for a moment, noticing the way she handled the candy with care. It struck him how strange this was, sharing snacks in the middle of the night with someone who'd become a regular customer, and yet–

“Thanks for sharing these, um–” Lin Ling stopped, fidgeting as if realizing something mid-sentence. Yuwei tilted her head, waiting.

He gave a nervous smile before meeting her eyes. “I just realized I don’t really know your name.”

Yuwei froze, her hand still resting near the opened bag of Starwhal Gummies. “My name?”

“Oh, that’s right, I never introduced myself.” She realized fleetingly.

It wasn’t born out of disrespect. Truthfully, she hadn’t expected to have included traveling to the same convenience store as part of a weekly alcohol run. Giving her name–especially given her own status–would’ve been unnecessary at best and detrimental at worst.

She considered deflecting, giving a different topic to change the subject–or she could just ignore him and leave. Given their early interactions, it wouldn’t have been out of place for them.

But the idea felt cowardly.

She entertained giving out a fake name. Some kind of alias to satiate his curiosity. Logically it made sense—the likelihood of him following up on it was low. In the time they'd spent together, he had never pried into her background. He knew nothing of her, he didn't even know her full face.

She could introduce herself as someone else and he’d be none the wiser.

Yet, something had shifted. The thought of lying to him didn’t sit right. Imagining him greeting her with that same bright smile, calling out to a name–a fake name. It felt wrong.

Noticing her hesitation, Lin Ling quickly stuttered out a response. “A-Ah, nevermind you don’t have to tell me if it makes you—”

“...Yuwei,” she said quietly, “You can call me Yuwei.”

His eyes widened.

Over time, it felt like her real name had steadily lost itself to the world. The media, the people, other heroes–even Little Johnny and Lucky Cyan–they all referred to her by her hero name. To everyone except her father, she was simply Queen–powerful, unrelenting, proud–the pinnacle of heroes.

But these past few weeks, she hadn’t felt like Queen. Just someone that had fallen short of the crown–her name a hollow moniker. The day she had met Lin Ling, she was not the rank 2 hero—but simply, Liu Yuwei, the lost and forgotten, the one who had failed.

That day, Lin Ling knew nothing of her life. He didn’t know the reason for why she drowned herself in alcohol. He didn’t know why she wandered the streets glassy eyed and ashamed. Yet nothing could stop him from reaching out to Yuwei, who had already been judged by the world.

For her, this was a compromise–a small part of herself entrusted to a stranger. He would never know her full story, but maybe that wasn’t so bad. For once, she could just be Yuwei again.

Lin Ling's expression softened. 

"It's nice to meet you, Yuwei.” He said, with a warm smile. “Properly, I mean."

She gave a slight nod, unsure what else to say now that this small barrier between them had fallen.

“I’m Ling by the way.” He said, pointing his thumb towards his chest.

“I know,” she replied, yet she couldn’t help but give a small laugh. Still, she decided to humor him. “Nice to meet you too, Ling.”

…

In the weeks that followed, their midnight exchanges changed slightly. Nothing dramatic—they still had brief conversations over the checkout counter. Only this time, they occasionally shared snacks, a sign of the gradual easing of the formality between them. 

She still came for the alcohol, but found herself lingering a few minutes longer each time, as if the store offered something the bottles couldn't. 

The bell chimed softly as Yuwei stepped through the door, the familiar fluorescent lights washing over her. Yet  something was different tonight. Instead of the usual bland corporate muzak, an energetic beat filled the space. A group of female voices harmonized over synthesizers, their upbeat lyrics encouraging listeners to "soar through the sky" and "never give up."

Lin Ling looked up from his phone, brightening as he recognized her. "Evening–I mean, morning, technically."

She nodded. "Morning."

Yuwei made her way through the empty aisles, gathering her usual items. When she approached the checkout, she couldn't help but comment, "Something about the music seems different today."

A slight flush colored his cheeks. "Manager's gone for the night shift. Store policy says music has to be on, but doesn't specify what kind." He held up his phone, connected to a small speaker behind the counter. "Thought I'd make the most of it."

She listened more carefully to the synchronized vocals and polished production. The lyrics were impossibly bright—overflowing with hope and determination—almost to the point of being overwhelming.

“I think I’ve heard this somewhere,” she said carefully. “They’re… idols, right?”

“Yeah! Mews,” Lin Ling said, his tone brightening. “You listen to them?”

“No,” she said, too quickly. “Just… familiar sound. Somebody I know played stuff like this.”

What she didn’t say was that Lucky Cyan enjoyed occasionally playing that group’s songs.

"I follow all the major groups," he continued as he scanned her items, "But I'm also really into foreign idol scenes. There's this new group, B-Ko–they just debuted last year overseas, but their songs are produced by some big-name composers, so the quality is incredible."

He trailed off, perhaps realizing he was rambling as he finished bagging her purchases. "Sorry. Not everyone appreciates idol music."

She fought back a small smile, accepting the bag and her change. There was something oddly endearing about his unfiltered enthusiasm. "It's... energetic," she offered, not unkindly.

As she turned to leave, his curiosity got the better of him. "What kind of music do you like?" he asked suddenly, leaning forward on the counter.

She paused at the unexpected question. This was the kind of personal detail she usually avoided sharing. But after weeks of these late-night visits, the usual boundaries felt less important.

"Heavy metal," she said finally.

His eyes widened. "Heavy metal? Seriously?"

"Is that surprising?"

He hesitated. "Kinda? You just seem so... careful about everything. The way you move, how you choose your words." He gestured vaguely at the space between them. "I would've guessed classical or something equally precise."

"I like bands like Iron Matron and Metadeth," she said. "Music that is intense and expressive."

"I've never really listened to metal," he admitted, then his face lit up with an idea. "Wait–would you play some?" He slid his phone across the counter. "The store's empty, and we've got hours before anyone's likely to come in."

She stared at the device, hesitant. It felt oddly intimate, sharing something so personal.

"A trade," he suggested. "You play something you like, then I play something I like. We can go back and forth until we get bored or a customer shows up." He glanced around the empty store. "Which, at this hour, isn't likely."

The proposal hung in the air between them. It was ridiculous, really–turning a convenience store into an impromptu music exchange at nearly three in the morning. And yet...

"One song," she conceded, setting her bags down by the counter and taking his phone.

She scrolled through the music app, finding a track from Iron Matron–something with enough melody to be accessible but still authentically heavy. When she hit play, the guitars began galloping in perfect sync, with rolling riffs and drums that pounded with relentless precision.

His eyebrows shot up at the wall of sound, but instead of flinching, he leaned in, his posture shifting from polite interest to genuine engagement. 

She watched his face carefully, noting how his initial surprise gave way to concentration—the way his eyes narrowed slightly as he tried to follow the intricate patterns of sound.

By the halfway mark, his foot was tapping involuntarily, and his fingers drummed against the counter, trying to match the complex rhythms.

“That’s–” he began when it ended, then stopped himself. “I didn’t expect that… but… I kind of like it? There’s a kind of relentless energy to it.”

She raised an eyebrow, a sly smirk tugging at her lips. “So you’re a fan of intense expression too, huh? Didn’t peg you for that.”

He laughed, a little embarrassed. “Honestly, neither did I. But there’s something freeing about it. Like they’re saying everything they’ve ever wanted to say, just… louder.”

Scrolling through his own playlists, he selected a track with newfound enthusiasm. "This might be different than what you expect."

The song opened with bright, synchronized vocals layered over an upbeat rhythm–every note perfectly timed, every harmony slotting into place like clockwork. As the chorus swelled, dozens of voices blended into one, creating a sound that was both overwhelming and strangely beautiful, like order made audible.

Yuwei tilted her head slightly, listening. "They blend well," she remarked. "Almost unnervingly so. It’s like listening to one person split across a hundred."

Lin Ling smiled, half proud, half sheepish. "Well, there are forty-eight of them."

She gave him an amused look. "That explains a lot."

"But that’s the point," he added. "It’s not about one voice standing out–it’s about how they move together. Every harmony, every formation–it’s like choreography for the ears."

Something in his earnestness was oddly fascinating, the beginnings of a smile threatening to break through.

As they traded more and more songs, the wall came slowly but surely. Lin Ling found himself drawn into Wyvern Force’s intricate aggression, his whole body reacting before he realized it—head bobbing to a fierce breakdown until he caught himself, embarrassed.

Across from him, Yuwei later caught herself humming along to the chorus of a particularly catchy Racket Girls track, freezing the moment she noticed. But Lin Ling had already seen it and only smiled, saying nothing as she queued up the next song.

So it went on. Their playlists clashed like two opposing forces—bright and cheery against loud and raw; hope meeting rage. Yet somehow, those contrasts began to blur, the boundaries softening with each track. What started as a quiet standoff turned into a shared rhythm neither of them expected.

At one point, their eyes met across the counter. In that brief moment, the music seemed to fade, and they both laughed quietly at themselves—two people caught in the simple joy of the songs.

By the time they noticed how long they’d been there, they were leaning against opposite sides of the counter, Yuwei’s purchases forgotten beside her. The convenience store—with its harsh lighting and linoleum floors—had transformed into something else entirely: a private concert hall for an audience of two.

"You know," Lin Ling said as a heavy metal track faded out, "I’ve been listening to some stuff outside my usual, and just discovered Lucky Cyan. You might actually like her debut song. It's got more of an edge than most hero promotional singles."

Before Yuwei could respond, he'd already pressed play. A driving beat with electric guitars filled the space, with Cyan's distinctive voice singing about fighting for her dreams, making her own path.

She went still, the lyrics hitting differently than they had when she'd first heard them before. 

Back then, Queen had been at the height of her confidence, certain of her path to becoming X. She'd supported Cyan with the casual assurance of someone who believed both their stars would only rise higher. 

Now, from the depths of her own failure, Cyan's optimistic declarations felt almost painfully bright. A pang of guilt washed over her–she hadn't spoken to Cyan in weeks, avoiding not just her but everyone else as she withdrew into isolation. While Cyan continued to shine, to believe in dreams and perseverance, Yuwei had been hiding in the shadows, running away from everything.

"You know this one?" Lin Ling asked, noticing her reaction.

"Yes."

"There's something about her that stands out from the other hero promotion artists," he observed. "Most of them feel like they're reading lines, but she sounds like she actually believes what she's singing."

"She does," Yuwei said softly, the words escaping before she could stop them.

He looked at her curiously but didn't press. Instead, he glanced at his phone. "It's almost four. I should probably switch back to the approved playlist before my shift ends."

Reality reasserted itself. They were standing in a convenience store at an hour when most of the city was asleep, sharing music like teenagers instead of... whatever they were. Customer and clerk? Acquaintances? Something else entirely?

"Right," she agreed, gathering her purchases.

As she turned to leave, Lin Ling called after her, "See you next time?"

She paused at the door. "Maybe."

But they both knew she'd be back. This strange, improbable ritual had become something neither of them had expected—a small pocket of authenticity in lives that had grown complicated in very different ways.

Cyan's lyrics about making her own path echoing in her mind as she stepped back into the night.

...

The door to her room clicked shut behind her. Yuwei set the bottles on the glass table with a familiar clink, the sound echoing in the emptiness. Tonight's purchase was habitual–she'd gone to the store as she always did, bought what she always bought.

But something felt different.

She uncapped the first bottle and poured a glass, settling into her usual spot on the floor, back against the sofa. The TV remained off. She didn't need the noise tonight.

Taking a sip, she found herself replaying fragments of the music exchange instead. Lin Ling's surprised expression when she'd chosen Iron Matron. The way his fingers had tapped against the counter during the bridge unconsciously. How his eyes had widened during the guitar solo.

She took another sip, smaller this time. The alcohol's familiar burn didn't seem as necessary tonight. Not when she could still hear the idol music he'd played–more complex than she'd expected, with harmonies that had caught her off guard.

The memory carried an unexpected warmth, like embers glowing in the darkness of her room. Not happiness, exactly. Her failure still loomed large, the weight of it still pressing down. But alongside it now existed something else. Something unconnected to her rank, her powers, or her fall.

She set the glass down, realizing she'd barely touched it.

For months, she'd needed the alcohol to numb everything–to blur the edges of her consciousness until sleep came. To make the weight bearable enough that she could breathe under it.

But tonight, the memory of shared music and genuine conversation offered a different kind of relief–not numbing the pain but existing alongside it, creating space around it so it didn't consume everything.

She picked up the glass again, swirling the amber liquid. She would still drink tonight. The tournament loss, the shame, the isolation–none of that had changed. But she found herself taking small sips rather than desperate gulps, preserving rather than erasing the fragile connection from earlier.

She knew one night of music in a convenience store couldn't heal what was broken. But for the first time in months, she felt something besides emptiness or pain–a small spark of connection worth staying present for, even if just for tonight.

Yuwei arrived at the convenience store just after 2 AM. The doors slid open with a soft hum, the familiar chime announcing her entrance. But the usual greeting didn't follow. The checkout counter stood empty.

She paused, an unexpected twinge of disappointment catching her off guard. The store felt different without Lin Ling's presence—just another empty, soulless space. She glanced around, noting the silence where usually his voice would break the quiet.

It was strange, this sudden hollow feeling. She'd started these trips for wine, not conversation. Yet over these past weeks, she'd grown accustomed to his greetings, his small talk, his earnest questions. Their brief exchanges had become a ritual of sorts, a moment of connection in her otherwise isolated existence.

She moved toward the wine section, telling herself it didn't matter. He was just a convenience store clerk, after all. People had shifts, days off. Life happened. It wasn't as if he owed her his presence.

As she rounded the aisle, a movement caught her eye. Down at the far end of the store, Lin Ling struggled beneath a wobbling tower of three stacked 24-packs of bottled water. His face was flushed with effort, sleeves pushed up past his elbows as he attempted to navigate toward the beverage display.

Something in her chest eased at the sight of him. A tension she hadn't realized she was carrying released, replaced by a quiet relief she wasn't quite ready to examine.

The tower of water bottles tilted precariously as he took another step. His arms trembled slightly under the weight—easily over 80 pounds of awkwardly balanced plastic bottles.

"Let me," Yuwei said, stepping in with inhuman speed before he could protest or—more likely—drop the entire load on himself.

"Yuwei!" His face brightened despite his struggle, though he quickly refocused on not dropping everything. "I thought I could save some trips. Turns out water's heavier than it looks."

She reached out, effortlessly taking the entire stack from him. The weight that had him straining felt like nothing in her arms. "Why the rush? You look like you're about to collapse under these."

"Morning shift couldn't finish restocking," he admitted with a sheepish grin, rubbing his sore arms. "And we've got a surprise inventory check tomorrow. The manager said everything needs to be counted and organized before my shift ends."

"And you thought crushing yourself under water bottles was the solution?" she said dryly, carrying the water bottles to their display without any visible effort. "Where do these go?"

He blinked at how easily she handled what he'd been struggling with, but recovered quickly. "Over by the coolers. I've been at it for hours already, and I'm not even halfway done. The manager's going to kill me if it's not finished."

Yuwei nodded, setting the water bottles down precisely where they belonged. "Show me what else needs to be done." As she turned to follow him to the next section, Lin Ling noticed a strand of white hair escaping from her hood–stark white, not blonde or gray–but quickly averted his eyes when she caught him looking.

Throughout the rest of the inventory work, he busied himself with the sheets and clipboard, organizing their approach to the task, but couldn't help stealing occasional glances as they continued working side by side. More details emerged as she moved around the store. The way she could reach the highest shelves without stretching. How she instinctively organized items with military precision. The golden flash of her eyes when the light caught them at certain angles.

When she lifted a 24-pack case of glass-bottled drinks to place on the top shelf, her hood fell back completely. The case safely positioned, she quickly reached to pull her hood forward again. But not before Lin Ling glimpsed the cascade of white hair that tumbled down past her shoulders, luminous even under the harsh fluorescent lights.

He said nothing, but she'd caught his startled expression.

"It's a... genetic thing," she offered after a moment of awkward silence, tucking a strand back under her hood. "The hair."

“It’s beautiful,” he blurted, then froze. “I mean–uh, it suits you. Not that I was, you know, staring or anything. Just–observing. Casually. Professionally.”

His voice cracked halfway through, before he quickly busied himself rearranging a nearby display like it had suddenly become urgent.

She smiled at his flustered response, returning to the inventory count without further comment. Though Lin Ling noted that her hood stayed slightly farther back for the remainder of the night, no longer pulled so tightly around her face. 

Later, when he dropped a stack of canned soup, she caught three cans simultaneously before they hit the floor–her reflexes impossibly fast.

"How did you–" he began, then stopped himself.

"Good reflexes," she said, the explanation obviously inadequate.

He nodded, accepting the non-answer. "Very good reflexes."

There was a question in his eyes, but he didn't ask it. Just as she didn't explain why she could lift stock that should have required two people, or how she moved with such fluid precision that seemed beyond ordinary human capability. 

It was a delicate balance they were maintaining–her revealing just enough to feel honest, him noticing everything but demanding nothing. A slow uncovering that remained safely short of full disclosure. 

As dawn approached and they finished the inventory, Lin Ling handed her a steaming cup of tea from the store's counter machine.

"Thanks for the help tonight," he said, his eyes briefly meeting hers–sharp golden eyes that he now knew weren't just a trick of the light. "Couldn't have finished without you."

"It was nothing," she replied, accepting the tea. Her hood was still up, but sat more loosely now, white strands visible at the edges.

"It wasn't nothing," he said quietly.

For a moment, she touched the edge of her hood, fingers lingering on the fabric she used to shield herself from the world. The thought of simply pushing it back, of letting him see her fully, flickered through her mind. 

She trusted him, she realized with mild surprise. Trusted his discretion, his respect for boundaries, the way he noticed but never demanded. But trust in him wasn't enough–not when the convenience store had windows, not when anyone could walk in, not when a single glimpse of Queen buying alcohol at 3 AM could destroy what little dignity she had left.

So the hood stayed, even as she allowed herself to stand a little straighter, to meet his eyes more directly than she had with anyone in months.

"Same time next week?" he asked as she gathered her purchases.

She nodded. "I'll be here."

37 AC, March - 7 Months after the 18th Heroes Tournament

It was the start of the month when Yuwei entered, immediately sensing something different in Lin Ling's demeanor. He was organizing shelves with unusual intensity, his movements betraying a nervous energy.

"You're early tonight," he said, glancing up with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

The inventory night from weeks ago changed something between them—feeling more at ease with him than she had before. She no longer pretended she might not return, and he no longer asked if she'd be back.

Approaching with her usual items, Lin Ling took a deep breath. "I gave my notice today," he said, the words coming out in a rush. "Two weeks, and then I start at an advertising agency downtown. It's an internship, but it pays better, and my grandma's medical bills..."

She felt that hollow sensation in her chest again. "That's... good news," she said, trying to convey her approval. And part of her did approve, he deserved better than night shifts at a convenience store.

Yet that didn’t seem to absolve her of the sudden feeling of sadness.

"Yeah," he agreed, not meeting her eyes. "It's what I've been working toward. A step closer to supporting my grandma properly. Maybe even save enough to go to a university someday."

They fell into awkward silence as he scanned her items–a routine that suddenly felt precious now that it had an expiration date.

"I'll miss this," he admitted, gesturing vaguely around them. "Our... whatever this is."

She nodded, surprising herself with her honesty. "I will too."

Lin Ling looked up, hope flashing briefly across his face. "We could..." he started, then faltered. "I mean, if you wanted to exchange numbers or something. Meet somewhere else sometimes."

The suggestion hung in the air between them. Yuwei felt a pull toward the idea—of allowing this unexpected connection to continue beyond these fluorescent-lit nights.

But reality intruded. She understood that their paths were never meant to cross in any meaningful way. A civilian and a hero–the imbalance alone created danger. Her world was one of protocols and threats, of reporters tracking Queen's every move and villains targeting anyone perceived as important to her. The complexity of her life would overwhelm him, the danger would be irresponsible.

And yet, there was a selfish part of her that wanted to say yes. To create a connection that extended beyond this fluorescent-lit bubble they'd created. To have one more person in her life who knew her as Yuwei, not as Queen.

But that selfishness was exactly why she couldn't. Heroes protected people, even from themselves. Especially from themselves.

"I can't," she said quietly.

His face fell, though he tried to hide his disappointment. "Right. Of course. I shouldn't have–"

"It's not that I don't want to," she interrupted, the words escaping before she could stop them. "...It's complicated."

He studied her face. "Your life outside this store. The reason you come at 3 AM. Why you keep your hood up." He didn’t phrase them as questions, rather listing out what he had already known.

She said nothing, enough of an answer for him.

"I understand," he said, though she knew he couldn't possibly understand the full truth. "Some paths just cross briefly."

…

The final two weeks added a new dimension to their encounters. What had once been a comfortable routine now carried the quiet weight of an ending.

As his departure drew nearer, their exchanges grew more personal. Lin Ling began bringing in old hero advertisements he’d collected, analyzing what worked and what didn’t with surprising insight.

"See how they position Queen here?" he said, blissfully unaware of who he was speaking to. "They've reduced her to this authoritarian 'Queen of Rules' caricature, when her actual philosophy was about creating stability so ordinary people could live without fear."

Yuwei's fingers tightened imperceptibly around the energy drink she'd been examining. For a moment, her careful composure wavered–not enough for anyone else to notice but it affected her the same. 

"It's... insightful to hear you interpret it that way," she managed, her voice deliberately neutral despite the storm of validation and regret churning inside her. "Most people just take it at face value."

He nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! Hero marketing constantly does this–flattens complex philosophies into catchy slogans." He set the advertisement aside, unaware of how closely his words had struck home. "Anyway, sorry for the tangent. I just find it fascinating."

"No," She said, perhaps too quickly. "It's... interesting."

Yuwei turned away, pretending to study a nearby shelf, using the movement to rebuild the walls that had momentarily cracked. When she faced him again, her expression was composed—but something in her eyes had changed. A small spark of recognition, or maybe relief.

The convenience store became a confessional of sorts, a temporary sanctuary where words spoken at 3 AM seemed to exist outside normal time. Both aware that each conversation was numbered, they abandoned the careful distance they'd maintained, if only through words. 

Of course, the counter remained between them, as did her hood–but the emotional distance had already begun to dissolve.

…

On his final night, Lin Ling prepared a gift. A small box sitting on the counter when she arrived.

"I made you something," he said with an embarrassed look. "It's nothing special."

Inside the box were sets of enamel pins from her favorite metal bands, the kind that were hard to find. And next to them, something unexpected–a small plush cat with careful stitching, handmade but well-crafted. Black and white with a tiny golden bow around its neck.

"I remembered you said you liked cute things," he said, a bit sheepish. "Even if people don't expect that from you."

She held the plush carefully, surprised that he'd remembered something she'd mentioned weeks ago in passing. Her cheeks warmed before she could stop it, a sensation so rare she wasn’t sure how to react. She focused on the cat’s stitching, hoping he wouldn’t see how uncontrollably her face had betrayed her.

"Thank you."

As the night wound down toward their final goodbye, Yuwei found herself reluctant to leave. They'd exhausted their usual topics, yet still she lingered by the counter.

"You'll be a good hero someday," she said finally.

His eyes widened slightly. "You remember that? From the first night?"

She nodded. "I've been thinking about what you said that first night—about heroism being about showing up, about small things mattering."

"Still sounds naive, I bet," he said with a self-deprecating smile.

"No," she said, meeting his eyes directly. "You weren’t wrong."

For a moment, she considered telling him everything–removing her hood completely, revealing herself as Queen. But the impulse passed. That wouldn't be a gift, it would be a burden.

Instead, she just gave a half smile, "Maybe our paths will cross again–when you're a hero."

The words carried a selfish hope she didn't voice: that if he entered her world, she would have reason to see him again. That heroes can have connections normal people can't.

In her head was an ideal—of Lin Ling coexisting in her life. She imagined him meeting Little Johnny and Lucky Cyan. Of Lin Ling gushing over Lucky Cyan’s music, or running around with the Johnnies. They could train together–she could teach him everything she knew about combat and de-escalation. She could present her idea of a just society, of a Trust value system overturned.

It was an unhealthy thought, longing for a world that didn’t exist. In the end, those false expectations would only hurt her. She had already been hurt once before.

"I'd like that," he nodded. “Then, maybe I’ll see you around… Yuwei.”

She nodded in return, a faint, bittersweet smile gracing her lips. She stepped toward the automatic sliding doors, watching the familiar bell chime as they parted—perhaps for the last time. The night air hit her cheeks, sharp and real. His life was moving forward, and hers–paused for too long–felt like it could start too.

She watched the glow of the store blur into the shadows as she continued walking forward. Perhaps it was time to carry the warmth of these small moments back into the larger world she'd been avoiding.

Chapter Text

37 AC, March - One Week after Lin Ling’s Departure

BREAKING NEWS: LUCKY CYAN’S BACKGROUND EXPOSED!

Reports have confirmed that rising idol and top hero Lucky Cyan is the sole survivor of the 23 AC plane crash, a fact that had, until recently, been buried. This revelation has set off a storm of controversy.

Once believed to embody luck itself, Lucky Cyan now finds herself at the center of a heated debate. Former fans and critics are asking: Is her fortune truly her own? Or is it bought with the misfortune of others?

On one side, defenders insist Cyan’s survival was nothing more than fate, proof of her miraculous gift. But detractors argue the opposite: that her power is parasitic, contracting disaster from the world around her to secure her own well-being. Some even go further, accusing Queen herself of knowingly exploiting Cyan’s “luck” to ensure victory in battles past.

Sponsors are withdrawing support. Venues are canceling events. Online platforms are ablaze with vitriol and doubt. What was once considered a symbol of joy and good fortune is now tainted with suspicion.

As one former supporter posted: “If she’s the only one who lived… how many had to die for her to sing today?”

Had Liu Yuwei been more arrogant she would’ve believed fate held a personal grudge against her. She wasn’t superstitious, but still–the timing felt cruel. 

This incident–much like her tournament loss–had come without warning. It hadn’t been long after Lin Ling had left that the world had decided to strike at her again, though this time through Cyan.

For those in the hero profession, rumors and scandals were not an odd occurrence. Old history always came to light, statements circled back, actions reexamined–the validity all dependent on the accuser.

But more articles came. Each one more venomous than the next. She did not believe them, but frustratingly, she couldn’t disprove it either. Even Cyan herself couldn’t explain the source of her powers.

But in light of the scandal, something else transformed accusation into outrage.

District 70—Cyan’s home—had always treated her like a living charm. The townspeople built shrines in her likeness, carried her image on pendants, and whispered her name before exams, elections, and even births. They believed that worshipping her brought them fortune—that her luck was theirs to borrow.

Now, in the wake of the revelation, their faith twisted into terror. Those that once prayed for her protection began muttering curses under their breath. They feared the blessings they’d taken might turn to poison.

And then the “illness” began.

At first, it was whispers of unease. People acting odd, more irritable–more violent. Then came the reports—people shambling through the streets, eyes clouded black, veins darkened like ink beneath the skin.

Some called it mass hysteria. Others called it a curse. But one name rang louder above the rest–they called it Fear.

Attempts to reason in the face of the unknown had birthed something cruel and destructive. In a world where powers manifested by mere thought, it only seemed logical that an unexplained phenomenon could only exist because someone willed it to.

And it just so happened that the person they chose to blame was her friend.

…

A week later, Yuwei was still glued to the news. It was noon, sunlight spilling into her room as she sat on the edge of her bed, scrolling through headline after headline—every one of them tearing into Lucky Cyan.

The comments sections were cesspools of speculation and judgment from people who'd never met Cyan, never seen the way she fretted over injured civilians or spent hours after concerts talking to fans who needed encouragement.

She was about to shut off her phone when it vibrated in her hand, a new notification flashing atop her screen.

"LUCKY CYAN’S BIRTHDAY - MARCH 24"

Yuwei stared at the screen, the words sinking in before the meaning did. A tight, twisted feeling took hold in her chest.

Today wasn’t just another day in this crisis—it was Cyan’s birthday. Somehow that small fact made everything sting worse. The same headlines, the same hatred, now recontextualized.

Her own birthdays had never meant much. Five months ago, the day had passed quietly, doing nothing to soften the loss of the 18th Heroes Tournament.

But Cyan wasn't her. To Cyan, birthdays were celebrations—bright spots in the year meant for happiness and renewed hope. The thought of her friend spending that birthday alone, scrolling through hateful headlines, suddenly made the distance Yuwei had maintained feel unbearable. 

She set the phone down beside her, uncertain. What could she possibly do about it? She couldn’t fix the scandal or erase the headlines. She couldn’t silence the critics or undo months of isolation.

Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on the small plush cat with its golden bow that sat on her nightstand. The sight of it stirred something in her.

Before she knew it, she’d made her decision. 

Yuwei rose from her bed and walked to the bathroom, flipping on the light. The harsh fluorescence revealed what she'd been avoiding for months–her own face, tired and drawn. Her fingers found a brush and began to work through the tangles of her hair, a motion so familiar it felt almost foreign after so long.

She had no gift to bring. No solution to offer. Just herself, and even that felt inadequate after so long. But the plush cat on her nightstand seemed to suggest that perhaps presence itself could matter. 

Her hands moved automatically, separating her hair into three sections before weaving them together. The simple act felt significant—a small reclaiming of herself.

When she tied off the end of the braid, she met her reflection in the mirror. She looked different—tidier, composed—but more than that, she looked closer to who she’d been before.

Yuwei changed from her sleep clothes into a simple shirt and pants–nothing formal, just presentable enough to walk the halls of the Hero Tower without drawing attention.

At the door, she paused, her hand resting on the handle. Cyan was only a few floors down, in the section reserved for heroes ranked outside the top ten. Not so far that she could justify staying put, but far enough that every step toward the elevator would be a deliberate choice.

Doubt whispered that she wasn't ready, that she had nothing to offer, that her presence would only remind Cyan of better times–when Queen had been strong and certain.

She pushed the thought away. The Yuwei who had spent months hiding from the world wouldn't have recognized this impulse to reach outward instead of retreating inward. But then, that Yuwei hadn't yet learned that sometimes the smallest gestures held the most meaning.

The hallway outside was empty as she stepped through her door and let it close behind her with a soft click.

…

The elevator descended silently, floor numbers blinking on the display. Yuwei watched them count down, each digit bringing her closer to a conversation she wasn't sure how to begin.

With a soft hum, the doors opened onto Cyan's floor. The triangular lobby appeared before her, each face containing an apartment reserved for a hero. Like all upper levels of the Hero Tower, this floor was designed with carefully engineered tranquility—soundproofed walls, climate control, and lighting that adjusted to match the natural rhythms of daylight.

None of which would be helping Cyan now.

As she approached Cyan's door, she paused before the security panel mounted beside it. A small green light indicated the system was active.

She pressed the buzzer, wondering if Cyan was even there.

After a moment, a voice came through the speaker, strained and wary. "Johnny?"

"It's me, Queen."

Silence followed, stretching so long that Yuwei wondered if Cyan had simply chosen to ignore her. Then came the sound of rapid footsteps, a lock disengaging, and suddenly the door flew open.

Cyan stood there for only a heartbeat, her cyan hair disheveled, dark circles under her eyes. Their eyes hadn’t even met before she’d lunged forward, throwing her arms around Yuwei in a fierce embrace that nearly knocked her back a step.

"You're here," Cyan whispered, her voice breaking. "You're actually here."

Yuwei stiffened at the sudden contact, then slowly brought her arms up to return the hug. The raw emotion in Cyan's voice carried more than just relief at having support during the scandal—it held months of worry for a friend who had disappeared.

"I saw the news," Yuwei said quietly. After a pause, she added awkwardly, "And...happy birthday." 

Cyan pulled back, her eyes filling with tears. "You remembered?" 

Yuwei nodded. "I'm sorry it's like this." 

Cyan shook her head, a small smile breaking through her exhaustion. "Are you kidding? Having you here—actually here—is the best birthday gift I could have gotten." 

Her friend’s honest admission sparked an unexpected warmth in her heart–an unfamiliar feeling she'd been experiencing more frequently lately. But a pang of regret soon followed as she reflected on all the months she'd kept her distance. How differently might things have unfolded if she hadn't hidden herself away?

Cyan stepped back to let Yuwei enter her apartment. Inside, evidence of her distress was everywhere: dishes piled in the sink, half-empty mugs on every surface, blankets tangled on the couch where she'd clearly been sleeping rather than in her bedroom.

On the coffee table, Cyan's tablet displayed yet another scathing report, the headline visible even from the doorway: "LUCKY OR LETHAL? THE REAL COST OF CYAN'S SURVIVAL."

Yuwei moved to the couch, carefully shifting a blanket to make space to sit. Cyan followed, curling into the opposite corner, knees drawn to her chest in a protective posture.

"I didn't think you'd come," Cyan admitted. "Not after everything."

"I know what it's like," Yuwei said quietly. "When they turn against you."

She’d seen how easily people had turned to mock her–ridiculed for seeking truth in a world of false idols. But it was not as if she cared what they said. What had stung her more was seeing how quickly they’d lost faith.

"Does it get easier?" Cyan asked hesitantly.

Yuwei considered lying, offering the comfort of false hope. But Cyan deserved better than that.

"No," she said finally. "But you get stronger."

An awkward silence settled between them, both unsure of how to continue the conversation. Yuwei noticed a mug on the table, the tea inside untouched and cold.

"Have you eaten today?" she asked.

Cyan shrugged.

"I'll make something," Yuwei said, rising from the couch. It wasn't a solution to the scandal. It wasn't even advice. But it was something concrete she could do right now, at this moment.

As she moved toward the kitchen, Yuwei could feel Cyan watching her, a silent question hanging in the air.

"What should I do, Queen?" Cyan finally asked, her voice  soft. "They're saying such terrible things. I don't know how to fix this."

Yuwei paused, one hand on the refrigerator door. Six months ago, she would have had a strategy ready–a calculated response, a precise plan of action. 

Now she stood in Cyan's kitchen, searching for words that wouldn't come. The truth was, there was no easy answer. The public had turned, the narrative had formed, and fighting it would be like trying to redirect a flood with her bare hands.

"I don't know," she admitted finally, the words unfamiliar in her mouth. Queen always knew. Queen always had answers. But Queen had fallen too, hadn't she?

She turned to face Cyan, seeing the weight of hope in her friend's eyes–hope that Yuwei couldn't fulfill. 

"I don't think there's a simple solution," she continued quietly. "These things... They take time. And even then, some people won't change their minds."

Cyan's shoulders slumped, the brief flicker of expectation fading. "So that's it? Just... wait and hope it gets better?"

Yuwei moved back to the living room, coming to sit closely beside Cyan.

"I can't promise it will get better," she said honestly. "I can't tell you what to do to make them stop. But..." 

She hesitated, the words feeling both foreign and familiar at once. "I can be here while you figure it out."

Yuwei tentatively reached out to grasp Cyan’s hand firmly. Quiet reassurance that she would give Cyan as much strength that she had to offer. 

In their friendship, Yuwei had been many things: mentor, protector, leader. She'd offered strategies and solutions, guidance and direction. But simple presence without answers? That was new.

"Thank you." Cyan said softly.

Yuwei nodded, gently squeezing her friend’s hand.

She returned to the kitchen, this time filling a kettle and setting it on the stove. Making tea and finding food, it wasn't what the old Queen would have considered heroic.

But someone had convinced her otherwise.

…

The kettle had just begun to whistle when a sharp buzz from the door panel cut through the apartment.

"It's probably Johnny," Cyan said, glancing at the intercom. "He's been checking on me since the news broke." 

Yuwei felt a momentary urge to retreat, to find some excuse to slip away before facing another friend she'd shut out for months. But she stayed where she was, turning off the stove and lifting the kettle from the burner.

"I don’t know if you'd want company," Cyan called over her shoulder as she pressed the intercom. "But he's been checking on me since the news broke."

Through the intercom came Little Johnny's voice, characteristically energetic despite the circumstances. "Delivery service! I've got cake and I won't take no for an answer. Happy Birthday!" 

Cyan pressed the entry button, a ghost of a smile flickering across her face. "I’ll be there." 

Queen busied herself with the tea, listening to Cyan unlocking the door. There was a brief rustling sound, presumably Johnny struggling with whatever excessive amount of food he'd brought, followed by his cheerful greeting.

"The media vultures are still camped outside the Tower," Johnny was saying as he entered. "But security's keeping them at the perimeter. I told them if anyone got through, Big Johnny would personally see to it that–"

He stopped abruptly. Yuwei looked up to find him frozen in the doorway, cake box in hand, his expression cycling rapidly through surprise, disbelief, and something like cautious joy. Perched on his shoulder was Big Johnny, the alien cat-like creature that had become his inseparable companion, its luminous eyes blinking with equal surprise. 

"Queen?" Little Johnny said, her hero name carrying a weight of questions he didn't voice.

She nodded once, oddly self-conscious under his scrutiny. "Johnny."

For a moment, no one moved. Then Little Johnny carefully set the bags down on the nearest surface and straightened, his usual boundless energy temporarily contained as if any sudden movement might make her disappear. 

Big Johnny, however, had no such restraint—the alien creature leapt from his shoulder and bounded across the room, circling Yuwei's ankles with a purring sound that wasn't quite earthly.

"Well," Little Johnny said finally. "This is new."

Cyan moved to help him with the cake. "Queen showed up about an hour ago," she explained, as if this were a normal occurrence and not the first time in months their trio had been in the same room. 

"Really?" he said, a tentative smile forming.

Johnny then turned with an exaggerated squint toward Yuwei. "You know, I can't tell if you're looking better since I haven't actually seen more than your door in six months. But you're vertical and outside your apartment, so I'm counting it as an improvement."

"I was just making tea," Yuwei said, deflecting. She glanced down at Big Johnny, who was now sitting at her feet, tail swishing expectantly. "Your son seems well."

"He's missed you," Little Johnny replied, the simple statement carrying obvious double meaning. 

He began unpacking the cake, revealing a small, colorfully decorated confection with "Happy Birthday Cyan" written in elaborate frosting. 

As he finished arranging the cake on a plate, Little Johnny glanced back at his bag and hesitated. "Oh, almost forgot." 

He reached inside and pulled out a small, carefully wrapped package. "This is weirdly perfect timing." He said with a grin. "I was actually going to drop by your place with this after visiting Cyan. Thursday special." 

He slid the package across the counter toward Yuwei. Inside was a container of red bean steamed buns—the exact ones he'd been leaving at her door every Thursday for months. 

Yuwei stared at the familiar package, feeling a sudden tightness in her chest. Even when she'd shut everyone out, he'd maintained this small connection. 

"Thank you," she said quietly, the words encompassing more than just the food. "For these. For checking on me, even when I didn't—" 

"You're here now," Little Johnny interrupted, his smile gentle but firm. "That's what matters." 

He turned back to the cake, producing a small pack of candles from his pocket. "So," he said, sliding into his role as the group's emotional center, "Have we started strategizing yet, or are we still in the 'processing how much this sucks' phase?" 

Cyan's shoulders tensed. "Johnny–"

"Because both are valid," he continued quickly, his tone softening. "Just need to know where we're at."

"We're still at the tea phase," Yuwei said quietly.

Little Johnny looked up, meeting her eyes directly. "Tea phase," he nodded. "Got it." 

His smile dimmed slightly as he glanced at the tablet on the coffee table. "Those jerks online don't know you like we do," he said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "Big Johnny growls whenever he sees those headlines. He's a good judge of character." 

The alien in question had settled near Cyan, occasionally nudging her hand with his head when she stopped petting him for too long.

"They're saying I stole other people's luck," Cyan said, her voice small. "That I... that I somehow caused the crash to happen."

"Which is silly," Little Johnny said immediately.

"Is it?" Cyan challenged, a flash of real distress breaking through. "How do we know? My power–I don't even understand how it works. What if they're right?"

The question hung in the air. Little Johnny opened his mouth to offer immediate reassurance, then closed it, glancing at Yuwei. In that moment, she recognized what he was doing–creating space for her to step back into her role as the one they looked to for clarity, for direction.

Six months ago, she would have had a logical analysis ready, a reasoned argument about the nature of powers and probability. But those certainties had crumbled with her defeat. What right did she have to offer absolute statements when her own understanding of the world had proven so flawed?

"I don't know how your power works," Yuwei admitted finally. "None of us truly understand the source of our abilities." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "But I know who you are, Cyan. I've fought beside you. I've seen you run toward danger, not away from it. Whatever the truth about your luck, it doesn't change the person you've chosen to be with it."

Cyan looked up, her cyan eyes glistening with unshed tears. "I just want to know the truth."

"Then we'll find it," Yuwei said, the words coming more easily than she'd expected. "Together."

The promise wasn't a solution. It didn't address the practical reality of the scandal or offer a path to clearing Cyan's name. But it was a commitment—to remain present, to face whatever came next as a group rather than as isolated individuals.

Little Johnny's smile spread slowly across his face. "And she's back," he said softly, not quite to either of them. Big Johnny made a trilling sound of apparent agreement, ears perking up.

Yuwei didn't correct him. She wasn't back, not fully—Queen at her height had been confident, untouchable, certain. This version of herself was none of those things.

But perhaps, she thought as she watched her friends begin to eat, those certainties had been part of the problem all along.

Yuwei arrived at Cyan's door the next morning with a bag of fresh pastries from the Tower's kitchen. She hadn't slept much, but for once, insomnia hadn't led to drinking. Instead, she'd spent hours thinking about what Cyan needed, what practical steps they could take, and most importantly, what they should stop doing.

When Cyan opened the door, Yuwei immediately noticed the dark shadows beneath her cyan eyes had deepened overnight. In her hand, her tablet displayed another inflammatory headline, the words "DEADLY LUCK" accused in bold.

"I brought breakfast," Yuwei said, holding up the bag. Then, without asking permission, she reached out and gently took the tablet from Cyan's hand.

"Hey—" Cyan protested weakly.

Yuwei looked at the screen, then back at her friend. "How long have you been reading these?"

Avoiding eye contact, Cyan pursed her lips. "Just... since I woke up."

"And when was that?"

Cyan hesitated. "Around four."

Stepping inside, Yuwei set the tablet face-down on a side table. 

Yuwei surveyed the room. The screens were worse than the day before—not just the tablet but Cyan's laptop and the wall display. All of them showing various news sites and social media feeds, all focused on the scandal. A digital echo chamber of accusation and speculation.

"This isn't helping," Yuwei said quietly.

"I need to know what they're saying," Cyan argued, though her voice lacked conviction. "How else can I prepare a response? Or know who's still supporting me?"

Yuwei looked at her friend—the slumped shoulders, the trembling hands, the haunted expression. She recognized that look.

"Okay," Yuwei said, setting the pastry bag on the counter. "New rule."

The word 'rule' made Cyan's head snap up, the irony of Queen herself saying it not lost on her.

"No news for the next four hours," Yuwei continued instead. "No social media. No updates. No checking what people are saying."

Cyan opened her mouth to protest, but Yuwei held up her hand. "Checking the feeds every five minutes doesn't change them. It just keeps reopening the wound."

She moved to the wall display and turned it off. Then the laptop. Finally, she picked up the tablet again and powered it down completely.

"Four hours," Yuwei repeated. "Just a break. Then we can come back to it with clear heads."

Cyan looked like she might argue, then her shoulders slumped further. "Four hours," she agreed. "Then what?"

Yuwei opened the bag of pastries and pulled out Cyan's favorite, a lemon-filled bun with crystallized sugar on top. "Then we'll face it together. But right now, you need food and rest."

Cyan took the bun mechanically, sitting down at the kitchen counter. "I don't think I can just... stop thinking about it."

"I know," Yuwei said, taking a seat beside her. "I'm not asking you to pretend it isn't happening. Just to... create some distance. Find something else to focus on, even if just for a little while."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the absence of noise amplifying the stillness in the apartment. Yuwei watched Cyan pick at her food, remembering how Little Johnny had done the same for her—leaving meals, checking in, maintaining a connection even when she couldn't reciprocate.

"We could watch something," Yuwei suggested. "Or just talk."

Cyan shook her head. "I don't think I can focus on a show right now."

Yuwei considered for a moment. "Music, then?"

"Music might work," Cyan agreed, looking relieved at the suggestion.

Yuwei hesitated, weighing whether to share something so personal. It seemed trivial given the circumstances, yet perhaps normalcy was exactly what Cyan needed now. 

"Queen?" Cyan prompted.

“…I've been listening to idol music lately," Yuwei said finally, the admission was almost quiet.

Cyan's eyes widened as she stared at Yuwei. "Wait– what?" She gave a soft, incredulous laugh, momentarily forgetting the scandal entirely.

"Since when? Queen, you've always said idol music was 'manufactured sentiment with predictable chord progressions.'" 

Yuwei only shrugged, a faint, cryptic smile tugging at her lips. "A few months ago. I guess it came from a spontaneous decision."

Cyan tilted her head, studying her friend with genuine curiosity that had replaced her anxiety, at least temporarily. "So which groups? Mews? B-Ko?" 

Yuwei didn't elaborate, instead reaching for her phone and scrolling until she found the song she was looking for. A gentle chime of bells filled the apartment as Cyan's eyes widened in recognition. "Snow Elation? Really?" She seemed genuinely surprised by the choice. "I didn’t think you’d like this one particularly."

"Why is that?" Yuwei said with a tilt.

"Well, it’s just very romantic," Cyan replied with a teasing smile. "Like a passionate confession of love."

"I just like how it sounds," Yuwei said with a dismissive shrug. "The melody is... soothing." 

Cyan said nothing as closed her eyes, swaying slightly to the familiar chorus as she hummed. Almost unconsciously, Yuwei's fingers tapped lightly against her leg, matching the rhythm.

The last time she'd heard it, Lin Ling had grabbed a pen from the counter as if it were a microphone, mouthing the lyrics exaggeratedly. When she'd tried–and failed–to suppress a laugh, he'd only doubled down, spinning in place and throwing in a ridiculous dance move for good measure.

The memory flickered through her like a spark—unexpected and warm. The scenes of past and present gently blending together through the same song.

Cyan caught the faint smile tugging at her lips. "What's so funny?"

She shook her head lightly. "Nothing. Just… remembered something."

"Was it a good memory?"

She looked down, her smile lingering. "Yeah," she said softly. "A good one."

They continued like that, song after song, Cyan gradually relaxing as the music created a buffer between her and the world outside. She even sang along to a few choruses, her voice soft and hesitant at first, then stronger.

Yuwei found herself watching her friend come alive again, if only temporarily. This—this small moment of respite, of connection—wasn't a solution to the scandal. It wouldn't clear Cyan's name or silence her critics. But it mattered. It was something real in the midst of chaos.

An hour into their music session, Cyan's eyes began to droop. She fought it at first, straightening suddenly when her head would nod, but eventually surrendered to the exhaustion of sleepless nights.

Yuwei carefully adjusted a pillow behind her friend's head as she dozed off on the couch, the music still playing softly in the background.

For a moment, she sat there, studying Cyan's face. The worry lines had smoothed in sleep, the constant tension finally released. A small victory, temporary perhaps, but still–a victory.

She thought about the boy in the convenience store, chasing after her with food she hadn't asked for, creating a moment of connection she hadn't known she needed. Small gestures that somehow became lifelines without either of them realizing it.

Yuwei settled deeper into the couch, prepared to keep watch while Cyan finally rested. Later, they would return to the crisis. They would face the headlines and the accusations, begin looking for the truth behind the crash, and find a way forward.

The song shifted to another track—bright, bouncy, almost too alive for the quiet of the room. Yuwei reached for the phone and lowered the volume until it was barely a whisper, the rhythm softened into a distant heartbeat. Though she hummed the melody under her breath, slower, gentler, reshaping it into something tender and private.

For the first time in months, the future felt like something that could be faced rather than feared—not because she had answers, but because she remembered how to begin again, quietly, one step at a time.

37 AC, May - Two Months after News of Lucky Cyan’s Scandal

The DOS building loomed above them, its glass facade reflecting the afternoon sun. Cyan stood straighter than Yuwei had seen in months, her cyan eyes clear and focused despite the shadows still visible beneath them. 

They'd been moving with purpose since Yuwei's father had made his revelation just an hour ago. It had been an unexpected meeting–seeing her father in person for the first time in months. During what should have been a simple catch-up, he'd disclosed the existence of evidence from the plane crash, preserved at Cyan's childhood orphanage in District 70. 

Yuwei had gone immediately to Cyan's apartment, her friend still trapped in the narrative that had destroyed her reputation. The words had tumbled out almost too quickly: evidence, orphanage, proof of innocence. Cyan had gone completely still, then stood ready without a word. There was no time to waste, no strategic planning to consider. Now was their chance-the truth had been hidden long enough.

"Are you sure about this?" Yuwei asked quietly.

Cyan nodded, determination evident in every line of her body. "Mickey needs to hear this from me directly."

Yuwei had known “Uncle” Mickey since childhood, long before he became her boss at DOS. 

Despite their history, their relationship remained strictly professional. Mickey presented a warm, fatherly image to the public—all smiles and familial language about his "hero family"—but Yuwei had always seen through the performance.

Mickey looked up from his desk as they entered, surprise quickly masked by a practiced smile. "My hero sisters! What an unexpected pleasure." His gaze lingered on Yuwei, considering the implications of her rare appearance. "Especially you, Queen. I thought you were still on... sabbatical."

His assistant, Ken, followed them in, her orange hair pulled into a tight bun, cyan tie perfectly centered against her black suit. Her expression remained professionally neutral, but there was unmistakable tension in the way she positioned herself beside Mickey's desk.

"Mickey," Cyan said, her voice steadier than Yuwei had heard in weeks.

"I'm guessing this isn't a social call," he said, fingers hovering over his tablet without quite reaching for it. "Something's brought you both here together... and that suggests it's important."

"It's about the plane crash," Yuwei interrupted. "The truth."

Mickey set the tablet down slowly. "The truth? After all this time?"

Cyan stepped forward. "There's evidence. Footage from the cabin. Evidence that proves I didn't cause the crash."

Ken adjusted her glasses, stepping forward with professional concern. "Miss Cyan, while this could be valuable, we should consider the proper channels for verification. The public has already formed strong opinions." Her tone was cautious but not dismissive. 

Mickey's eyes narrowed as he looked between Ken and the heroes. "You say you have evidence? Why hasn't it come forward before now?"

"Queen's father hid it," Cyan explained, nodding toward Yuwei. "At the orphanage. He was protecting me."

"Zheng did?" Mickey's eyes narrowed. Some unreadable emotion flickered across his features.

Ken glanced at Mickey before addressing Cyan. "The timing raises questions that the media will certainly exploit."

Mickey leaned back in his chair, studying them both while Ken continued. 

"The public narrative has already formed. Without controlled messaging and proper verification, we risk further destabilizing Lucky Cyan's public image rather than rehabilitating it." Ken's voice carried the weight of institutional authority. "The proper approach would be a measured, agency-led investigation."

Mickey tapped his fingers on the desk, seeming to consider Ken's words while his gaze remained fixed on Cyan. There was something calculating in his expression that Yuwei didn't entirely trust. 

"I'll send a team to retrieve it," Mickey said decisively.

"No," Cyan replied immediately, her tone leaving no room for argument. "I'll go myself."

Ken's brow furrowed. "District 70 has been experiencing unusual phenomena recently. There are reports of erratic behavior among the citizens."

"All the more reason I should be the one to go," Cyan insisted. "I know that orphanage better than anyone. I know exactly where to look."

"Cyan, traveling to a potentially compromised district would expose you to physical danger as well as additional public scrutiny. The agency cannot sanction such a risk."

"I'm going," Cyan interrupted, her cyan eyes flashing with determination. "This is my story, my past. I won't trust it to strangers."

Mickey studied her carefully. Yuwei noticed how his eyes narrowed slightly, as if seeing Cyan in a new light—not as a liability but as a potential asset.

"The situation in District 70 is volatile," Ken continued, appealing now to Mickey. "If something were to happen to her—"

"Then it happens," Cyan said simply. "But I need to do this myself."

Yuwei watched her friend with a surge of pride. Two months ago, Cyan had been scrolling through hateful comments with trembling hands. Now she stood before one of the most powerful men in the industry, unwavering in her resolve.

Mickey held up a hand to his chin, considering both perspectives. He looked at Cyan with newfound interest. "And if I refuse?" 

"Then I'll go anyway," Cyan said with quiet certainty. "With or without your approval."

Ken looked like she wanted to object further, but held her tongue. Mickey tapped his fingers on the desk once more, then smiled—not the warm public persona but something more calculating.

"Very well," he said finally, his lips curved into a calculated smile. "This could be exactly what we need to turn the tides. A hero on a personal quest for truth... that narrative has potential."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. "Go find your evidence, Cyan. If you succeed, we'll craft a comeback story the public won't be able to resist." 

But when he continued, his tone was purely businesslike. "But understand this–whether you find something or not, DOS still controls the messaging going forward."

"Thank you," Cyan said, though it wasn't really gratitude—more an acknowledgment of his concession.

As they left the office, Yuwei turned to Cyan. "Do you want me to come with you to the orphanage?"

Cyan hesitated, then shook her head. "No. This is my story to reclaim." A small smile touched her lips. "But thank you. For everything."

Yuwei nodded in understanding. "I'll be here when you get back."

She watched as Cyan walked toward the elevator with renewed purpose. There had been no grand plan, no strategic calculation that led Yuwei to Cyan's door that day. 

She couldn't have known it would lead here—to Cyan finding her voice again, to evidence that might clear her name, to standing in the light instead of hiding in her darkened suite.

But that was the thing about small gestures, wasn't it? You never knew which ones would change everything.

38 AC - One Week after Bowa's Attack

A year had passed since Yuwei had shown up at Cyan’s door on her birthday. Thanks to the evidence they’d uncovered from the orphanage, the scandal that plagued her friend had finally been cleared.

As a result, Lucky Cyan had climbed to rank seven—one of the prestigious top ten—but the public outcome of it was meaningless to them. What was truly gained were the bonds forged through trial, the mutual assurance that came from standing together when the world turned against you.

That experience had changed their group’s dynamic forever. They no longer felt like a collection of individuals bound by circumstance, but a small, stubborn family that had chosen each other.

By the time the 19th Heroes Tournament approached, Yuwei had trained harder than ever, determined to prove not only her strength but her growth. She had been ready—body, mind, and heart.

Then Bowa struck. Her rival’s attack came without warning, leaving Yuwei injured and robbed of her long-awaited chance to compete. The pain was abrupt and humiliating, reminiscent of her first loss. Yet unlike that time, she hadn’t been alone. Her friends were already there—waiting to hold her up through the weight of loss.

It was then she came to an obvious but humbling realization: that the path she followed in pursuit of her goals and her friends were never meant to be separate. The lesson she learned—that her burden didn’t have to be shouldered alone—brought a quiet kind of relief.

Now, a week after her discharge, they had insisted on celebrating her return home. Not with grand gestures, but with something simple and meaningful—a quiet gathering with just the three of them.

…

The elevator doors opened to Queen's floor with their familiar soft chime. Liu Yuwei stepped aside as Little Johnny wheeled in a cart loaded with grocery bags, while Lucky Cyan followed behind, carrying a small banner that read "Welcome Home" in cheerful letters. Big Johnny peeked out from Little Johnny's shoulder, making excited chirping sounds. 

"I still think you bought too much food," Yuwei said, eyeing the overflowing cart, then immediately softened her expression as Big Johnny bounded down from Johnny's shoulder and scampered toward her. "Hello there, sweetheart." 

She moved with a slight stiffness, occasionally wincing when she turned too quickly. Bowa's attack had left its mark, though her Trust-accelerated healing had spared her the worst. No broken bones, but the lingering soreness and occasional sharp pain served as reminders of how close she'd come to worse. 

"We're celebrating," Johnny said firmly, unpacking vegetables onto the kitchen counter while keeping a watchful eye on Yuwei's movements. "You're finally discharged, Cyan's been working on a new song, and I just reclaimed my top ranking in Hero Kombat 3." 

Cyan shook her head at the last item on his list but her smile remained. Big Johnny chirped innocently, his horn gleaming as he rubbed against Yuwei's uninjured hand.

Johnny looked down at his alien companion. "Big Johnny, no running around the kitchen while we're cooking. Remember what happened last time?" Big Johnny made an indignant chirping sound in response.

Perching on one of the bar stools, Cyan hung up her banner, the legs swinging slightly. But her eyes never left Yuwei for long. There was a new protective quality to her attention, born from finding her friend trying to leave the hospital despite her injuries.

"So, what’s the plan for the evening?" Yuwei asked, giving Big Johnny one last pat before attempting to pull her hair back into a practical ponytail.

"Hot pot," Johnny announced, setting down a portable burner in the center of the kitchen island while keeping one eye on Big Johnny, who was now purring contentedly in Cyan's lap. "Celebration food. Plus, it's more social."

Yuwei found herself smiling, tinged with exhaustion and relief at finally being home. "I see. I'll handle the broth base," she said, already moving toward the ingredients as her leadership instinct took over. "Johnny, you can prepare the protein. Cyan, vegetables and—"

She winced slightly as she reached for a pot, the quick movement sending a sharp reminder of her still-healing body.

Johnny and Cyan exchanged glances.

"Actually," Johnny said, gently taking the pot from her hands, "I was thinking we'd switch things up today."

Yuwei raised an eyebrow. "Switch things up?"

"Yeah," Cyan chimed in, moving Big Johnny to her shoulder as she stood. "You always organize everything. It's our turn."

"I'm perfectly capable of—" Yuwei began.

"We know you're capable," Johnny interrupted softly. "That's not the point."

Yuwei looked between them, reading the gentle stubbornness in their expressions. "Fine," she said finally, the word carrying less resistance than it might have months ago. "What did you have in mind?"

Johnny smiled, his eyes bright with victory. "Cyan's on vegetable prep with Big Johnny as supervisor. I'm on broth duty. And you," he pointed at Yuwei, "get to season the meat at a reasonable pace while sitting down."

"That's hardly—"

"Doctor's orders," Cyan said, already sorting through vegetables. "And friends' orders too."

Yuwei opened her mouth to protest again, then relented. "Alright," she said instead, taking the seat they'd prepared for her. "But I'm making the dipping sauce."

"Deal," Johnny said, his smile widening.

They fell into a modified rhythm. Yuwei found the simple task of seasoning meat oddly frustrating yet strangely freeing. She was used to precision, control, doing everything herself. But watching her friends move around her kitchen with confident purpose-looking to her for approval but never for permission-created its own kind of comfort.

Cyan hummed quietly while washing bok choy, a melody Yuwei she didn’t recognize. Big Johnny perched on her shoulder, occasionally nuzzling her cheek.

"That's new," Yuwei observed, nodding toward Cyan.

Johnny smiled as he stirred aromatics into the broth. "She's been working on it all week. First time she's hummed it outside the studio."

"It helps," Cyan said simply, pausing to scratch under Big Johnny's chin. "Creating something... it makes everything else feel possible again."

Yuwei nodded, understanding more than she could express. "It suits you," she said quietly.

The broth began to bubble, filling the kitchen with rich, savory smells. They arranged their prepared ingredients around the hot pot. Thin slices of beef and lamb, fresh vegetables, handmade dumplings Johnny had somehow found time to make despite his packed schedule. Big Johnny watched everything with fascination, his eyes glowing faintly with curiosity.

"Okay," Johnny said, carefully lifting Big Johnny and settling him safely away from the hot pot. "Celebration rules. No talking about tournaments, no talking about injuries, no talking about rankings. Tonight we're just three friends having dinner."

"What are we allowed to talk about then?" Cyan asked, but she was smiling.

"Normal stuff. Books. Movies. Embarrassing stories that don't involve anyone getting attacked."

"That's a very specific qualifier," Yuwei said dryly, reaching for her chopsticks.

As they cooked and ate, the conversation flowed through mundane topics. Cyan told them about a terrible romance novel where the heroine kept making obviously bad decisions. Johnny complained about a commercial where they'd made him translate the thoughts of animals to the camera.

"I had to do this high-end pet food commercial where I supposedly understand what the animals are saying about the taste," Johnny sighed. "They brought in twelve different pets and expected me to 'translate' their reactions to each of their products." 

"Don’t you already do that?" Cyan asked, puzzled. 

"That's the problem! None of the animals liked it! This poodle kept telling me it tasted like cardboard soaked in fish oil," Johnny said, shaking his head. "The director kept saying, 'More enthusiasm! The pets love it!'”

“Meanwhile, the hamster kept complaining about pellet size. The cat had strong political opinions it wouldn't stop sharing. And don't get me started on the temperamental rabbit who demanded specific lighting angles to eat."

Cyan burst into laughter, nearly dropping her chopsticks. "Wait, hold on a minute! What kind of political opinions does a cat even have!?" 

"Extremely libertarian," Johnny replied without missing a beat. "Something about the inherent right to knock things off shelves."

Yuwei's lips twitched in a suppressed smile. "And I assume you delivered the enthusiasm the director wanted?" she asked with a hint of amusement.

"I tried! I really did," Johnny protested. "But then Big Johnny decided the set needed 'rearranging' and started herding all the animals around the studio."

Cyan shook her head, still smiling as she dipped a slice of beef into the broth. There was a comfortable pause as they all added ingredients to the bubbling pot–there was a simple pleasure in sharing a meal together.

"You know, speaking of Big Johnny. I actually took a cute photo of Big Johnny sleeping on your mask last week," Yuwei mentioned, reaching for her phone. "After you left him in my living room."

Johnny's eyebrows shot up. "You take photos?"

She nodded, scrolling through her gallery.

"What convinced you to start?" Cyan asked, leaning closer as Yuwei found the image—Big Johnny curled impossibly small atop Johnny's hero mask, his horn reflecting the light from above.

Johnny laughed at the photo. "That rascal, always so photogenic."

Yuwei put her phone down after showing them. "I started a few months ago," she said simply. "I realized how quickly moments pass."

"So what do you photograph?" Johnny asked, genuinely curious.

"For now just small private moments," she said. "Nothing extraordinary. Just things I want to remember."

"Like Big Johnny on a mask," Cyan said with a small smile.

"Exactly," Yuwei nodded. "Or the view from the Tower at dawn. Or the empty training room after we've finished for the day."

She picked up her phone again, scrolling to another image. She turned the screen to show them a shot of the three of their coffee mugs on a table, steam rising in the early light.

It wasn’t special by any means, but the context alone spoke more than quality could.

"I don't share them anywhere," she continued. "They're just for me. A reminder that there's more to life than hero work."

"I like that," Cyan said softly. "Seeing through your eyes." She paused. "But why show us now? You've never mentioned this before."

Yuwei's fingers traced the edge of her phone case, a momentary vulnerability crossing her features. "It seemed... trivial. Using a phone camera, nothing professional." She shrugged slightly.

"I suppose I care less about appearing perfect around you two now." 

"That might be the nicest thing you've ever said to us," Johnny said with a grin, though his eyes reflected genuine appreciation of what the admission meant. 

"Don't get used to it," Yuwei replied dryly, but there was warmth in her eyes as she put her phone away.

As the evening began to wind down, Big Johnny had made his rounds between them, finally settling in Cyan's lap as she absently stroked his fur.

"You know what I miss?" Cyan said, looking down at Big Johnny. "Real travel. Not publicity tours, but actually seeing the world I sing about." There was a wistfulness in her voice that hadn't been there earlier.

Johnny nodded, setting his chopsticks down. "I've been thinking the same thing. About spending more time in the communities we're supposed to protect. Actually getting to know the people we help, not just showing up when there's danger."

They both looked at Yuwei expectantly. Big Johnny, sensing the moment's importance, chirped softly.

Yuwei was quiet for a moment, her fingers tracing the edge of her teacup. "I think I understand," she said finally. "All this time, I've been focused on what needs to be fixed. The broken systems, the corruption, the people who abuse their power." Her gaze moved from Cyan to Johnny, then to the photos on her phone. "But I've been missing something important."

"Which is?" Cyan asked gently.

"The reason we do this in the first place," Yuwei replied. "I want to remember what I'm fighting for, not just what I'm fighting against." She looked at both of them, then at Big Johnny. "I want to be worthy of what we have here."

It felt like a promise, spoken over the remnants of their shared meal and witnessed by a small alien creature who represented the kind of uncomplicated love she was learning to accept.

"We should do this again." Johnny said as they waited for the elevator, Big Johnny perched sleepily on his shoulder.

"Perhaps next month," she suggested, giving Big Johnny one last gentle pat. "And thank you. Both of you. For the celebration, for everything. For not letting me do this alone."

"That's what family does," Johnny said.

After they left, Yuwei stood in her kitchen, looking at Cyan's "Welcome Home" banner and the now-clean hot pot setup. Her shoulder ached, and she was exhausted, but for the first time since Bowa's attack, she felt something other than frustration or pain.

She felt grateful. For friends who showed up. For second chances. For the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she was finally learning what it meant to be strong enough to let others be strong too.

…

Months had passed since that celebration dinner, and much had changed. The Ruins Incident had thrust Yuwei back into the spotlight when she single-handedly resolved what the media called "an unprecedented crisis at the alien crash site." 

The official story spoke of Queen's decisive intervention preventing a catastrophic situation, though those who had been there knew the reality was more complicated. Heroes turning on each other, agencies protecting their own interests, chaos that could have destroyed public trust in the hero system entirely.

Her swift action to restore order had impressed the people enough to elevate her back to rank 2, but underneath the facade she again bore witness to her true foe—a system’s corruption—that she had challenged years ago.

The hot pot dinners had continued through it all, sometimes celebratory, sometimes somber, but always constant. She had found herself looking forward to these evenings more than any tournament or ranking announcement.

39 AC - One Month after the Ruins Incident 

The bright studio lights illuminated Liu Yuwei as she took her seat for the interview. Cameras positioned around the soundproofed set captured her from multiple angles as technicians made final adjustments. Public appearances had once been carefully choreographed affairs, but today she sat with a different kind of composure—back straight, hands folded in her lap, but without the rigid control that had once defined her.

"So, Queen," the host began, leaning forward. "After the Ruins Incident catapulted you back to rank 2, many are calling it the comeback story of the decade. But looking at your history, two attempts at the Hero Tournament, major setbacks, and now this remarkable recovery… Do you still believe you can become X?"

The question was familiar, yet different. Not about failure this time, but about success and whether it would be enough.

Yuwei met his gaze without flinching. "Yes."

"Even after being attacked by someone who should have been your ally? Even knowing that your rise came from what many consider a crisis situation?"

"Especially because of that." Her voice was steady, not the rigid control of her younger self, but something deeper. "The first time I lost, I thought it meant I wasn't strong enough. The second time, another hero decided I was a threat that needed to be eliminated."

She paused, and when she continued, there was steel in her voice.

"Think about that. Heroes, people meant to protect others, turning on each other over accusations and paranoia. That's not justice—that is self-interest. That is exactly what's wrong with this system."

For a moment, the studio was silent except for the low hum of cameras.

"I used to think becoming X meant proving my vision was right through strength alone. That by accumulating enough Trust and power, I could impose the order this system needs." A slight smile touched her lips. "I was wrong."

The host raised an eyebrow. "So the attack and the Ruins Incident actually reinforced your beliefs about systemic change?"

"It proved them." Her tone sharpened. "When heroes are so consumed by competition and mistrust that they attack each other before tournaments, or when they can't work together even in a crisis, that tells you everything you need to know about how broken things are. We're supposed to be protectors, not gladiators tearing each other apart for a crown."

She leaned back slightly, her expression growing thoughtful.

"I've learned something important about what real heroism looks like. It's not about grand gestures or perfect victories." She paused, a quiet warmth in her eyes. "Sometimes it's as simple as sharing a meal with someone who's struggling or creating something beautiful when the world feels dark." 

The host leaned forward, intrigued. "Then what does being X mean to you now?"

"It means being someone worth following. Someone who stands up not because the rules demand it, but because people need you to." She thought of all the moments that had led her here—the songs that pulled her from darkness, the strangers who chose kindness over convenience, the reminder that heroism lived in the smallest acts.

"And you think that makes you qualified to be X?"

"Yes, it makes me confident to try again." Her eyes held a quiet conviction. "After all I've been through, I know now that change isn't just wanted—it's necessary." 

She leaned forward slightly, and her voice carried a presence that seemed to fill the room.

"There are social workers who fight for forgotten children, paramedics who hold strangers' lives in their hands, and..." she paused, her eyes reflecting a private memory, "...even heroes in convenience stores who offer kindness on cold nights. They deserve a world where their courage matters more than their power levels. Where someone will fight for them even when it seems futile."

The host sat back, clearly not expecting this response. "That's... quite a shift from your earlier statements about creating 'order' and 'rules.'"

"Order isn't about control," Yuwei said. "It's about making sure the right things matter. And sometimes, the right thing is breaking every rule you've ever made."

The host seemed momentarily at a loss. "So you're suggesting a fundamental reimagining of what the Hero X title even represents?"

"I'm suggesting we remember what the X title was always meant to represent," she replied, her brow furrowing slightly as she searched for the right words. "It's not just about... being the strongest or most popular hero."

She gestured with one hand, the movement conveying her struggle to articulate something she felt deeply but had never fully expressed. "When someone trusts you with something important, it's because they have faith in you, right? They believe you can help them."

The host nodded, allowing her space to develop her thoughts.

"But look at what's happened," she continued, her voice gaining confidence as she found her path. "We've created a system where Trust is just another metric, another ranking. Heroes chase it like followers on social media." 

She shook her head. "The powers that come with Trust were supposed to help heroes serve people better, not turn them into celebrities competing for attention."

Leaning forward slightly, her eyes focused. "I see people standing back during emergencies, waiting for a hero to arrive. Why wouldn't they? We've taught them that's how it works—that only those with special powers should act. But that creates a world where ordinary courage gets overlooked."

Her voice softened, but gained intensity. "The person who Trust was meant for—the hero who deserves to be X—isn't the one with the flashiest powers or the best PR team. It's someone who shows up for others when it's hardest to do so, and who inspires others to do the same. Someone who reminds people they don't have to wait for a hero—sometimes they can be the hero."

The interview continued for another twenty minutes, but it was this exchange that resonated most with viewers. Within hours, the clip had gone viral, with comments ranging from skeptical to inspired.

For one advertising employee watching from his break room, her words about heroes in convenience stores would prove to be exactly the push he needed.

Chapter Text

37 AC, March - 7 Months after the 18th Heroes Tournament

The tour was brief and efficient. Copy department. Design team. Account managers. Each introduction met with polite nods but little enthusiasm from his new colleagues. Most barely looked up from their screens, eyes shadowed from late nights, the atmosphere heavy with deadline pressure.

"And this is your desk," The HR lady indicated a workstation in the center row of the room. "Manager Cheng wants to see you in his office at eleven." She glanced at a nearby clock. "That's in twenty minutes. I'd recommend being early."

As she walked away, Lin Ling began arranging the few personal items he brought—a notebook, an assortment of pens, and a small framed photo of him and his grandmother.

Around him, the office hummed with subdued conversation and clicking keyboards, the stark white walls and sleek furniture creating a canvas where only the hero marketing materials stood out with vibrant color and energy.

Natural light streamed through a long window that stretched across both ends of the room. From behind glass, tall skyscrapers sat framed like a painting, with billboards of varying sizes dotting the sides of buildings, each representing a hero or a new product.

"First day?"

He looked up to find a man in his late twenties behind him, coffee mug in hand. Wire-rimmed glasses, disheveled appearance, wrinkled shirt with a coffee stain on the collar. His appearance gave off the impression of somebody who had forgotten when his last proper meal was.

"Huang Ming." He held out a hand, surveying Lin Ling's neatly arranged desk. "You're the new intern, right?"

"That's me," Lin Ling confirmed with a shake. "I just graduated last year. Full-time internship."

Huang Ming nodded. "Congratulations on landing the spot. This place has its moments." He glanced at his watch. "Gotta go, my meetings in five. Don't let Cheng see you unprepared."

Before Lin Ling could respond, Huang Ming was already walking away–hand waving lazily. Lin Ling turned back to his desk, wondering if the man's tired eyes were a glimpse into his own future as he prepared for his first meeting.

...

He waited at the entrance to his manager's office, a wooden door with a gold nameplate etched with "Cheng Yaojin". Lin Ling steeled himself for what his first assignment could be. He'd spent countless hours in school pouring over videos of heroes and forum discussions, confident that he knew what the world needed to see to become inspired.

He knocked twice, and a muffled "come in" responded from the other side. Drawing a deep breath, he pulled the handle and stepped inside.

Unlike the minimalist white palette of the open office, Cheng's private domain embraced a darker, more traditional aesthetic. The same natural light that made the general office appear airy instead cast dramatic shadows across the polished mahogany desk.

Behind Cheng's high-backed leather chair stood a collection of traditional ornaments: vases, scrolls, and bronze toads–their eyes seemingly fixed on whoever sat across from the desk. Above them all hung a framed calligraphy piece displaying the character "發"—prosperity—its bold strokes commanding attention.

"Impressive view," Lin Ling said, approaching the desk.

Cheng barely glanced up from the documents spread before him, red pen in hand as he made corrections. "Sit down."

Lin Ling settled into the chair across from the desk, straightening his posture with anticipation. 

"Your portfolio showed promise. Creative, but structured. That's good. We don't need artists here—we need professionals who understand what sells."

Cheng pulled a manila folder from a stack and slid it across the desk without ceremony. "Hero Goldwing's bribery scandal. Contract with SteelFrame Construction is still active. Clean up his image. Campaign concepts by Friday."

Lin Ling's smile faltered slightly as he opened the folder. Photos of newspaper headlines stared back at him:

"HERO GOLDWING: CORRUPT OR COMPROMISED?" and "BRIBERY SCANDAL ROCKS HERO COMMUNITY."

"Uh. How should I approach this?" Lin Ling asked, uncertain. "This seems... complicated."

"Kid." Cheng finally looked up, his expression flat. "That's what we pay you to figure out. Can you do this or not?" 

Lin Ling felt the weight of expectation settling on his shoulders. "I can do it."

"Good." Cheng was already looking back at his papers. "I expect concepts by Friday."

Walking back to his desk, Lin Ling's mind was already racing. Maybe he could create something that highlighted Goldwing's genuine heroic moments while subtly encouraging accountability. Something that inspired people to be better heroes themselves.

He sat down and opened the folder again, spreading the newspaper clippings across his desk. "HERO GOLDWING: CORRUPT OR COMPROMISED?" stared back at him in bold print. Below it, smaller headlines detailed the specifics: bribes accepted, safety inspections skipped, construction projects fast-tracked without proper oversight.

Lin Ling pulled out a notepad and started sketching ideas. Maybe he could focus on Goldwing's early career: The apartment fire rescues, the earthquake relief efforts. Those were genuine heroic acts, weren't they? 

He jotted down potential taglines: "Remember Why We Believed" or "Heroes Rise Above Their Mistakes."

He was so absorbed in his work that he didn't notice someone approaching until a shadow fell across his desk. 

"Already working on the Goldwing case?" 

Lin Ling looked up to see a woman in her early forties approaching his desk. She had short-cropped hair streaked with premature gray and wore a blazer that looked like it had been through one too many late nights at the office. Her tired eyes scanned his workspace with practiced efficiency before settling on him.

"Yes," Lin Ling said, straightening slightly. "I wanted to get started right away." 

"Wang Jie," she said, offering a brief, professional handshake. "Manager Cheng assigned you under me. I was coming to brief you, but I see you've taken initiative." She glanced at his notepad, her eyebrow rising slightly. "Mind if I see what you've got so far?" 

"Of course," Lin Ling replied, sliding the notepad toward her. "I was thinking we could highlight his past rescue work, show people why they admired him in the first place. Help them remember the good he's done." 

Wang Jie's initial look of curiosity faded as she scanned his notes. She pulled up a chair without invitation and sat down, setting the black binder on the desk. 

"Okay. This approach won't work," she said flatly. 

"Why not?" 

Wang Jie's expression didn't change. "You're thinking like a fan, not a marketer. People don't want to be reminded why they believed, that just makes them feel stupid for being fooled." 

She flipped his notepad to a fresh page. "Here's what works: show him helping children. Show him visiting hospitals, reading to kids, teaching them about safety. Make them associate his face with protection and care." She wrote down each item onto the paper, as if reciting a recipe. 

"But that's..." Lin Ling started, uncomfortable with how completely the approach erased Goldwing's actions.

"Effective," Wang Jie finished. She opened the black binder she'd brought and slid it across to him. "This is our crisis management protocol. I was bringing it to get you started." 

Lin Ling looked down at the binder, its pages filled with flowcharts, timelines, and sample campaigns. Section headers like "Integrity Rehabilitation," "Image Recovery Metrics," and "Public Trust Restoration" stared back at him. 

"Three months from now, when someone sees Goldwing's face, they'll think of him reading bedtime stories, not counting bribe money." Wang Jie tapped the binder firmly. "Follow this framework. It's been tested and refined for maximum effectiveness." 

She stood up, straightening her blazer. "I expect three concept drafts based on these guidelines by Thursday. We'll review them together before presenting to Cheng on Friday." 

"I'll have them ready," Lin Ling said, trying not to show his disappointment. 

…

He spent the next hour adapting his ideas to fit Wang Jie's framework, though something about the approach still bothered him. The methodical manipulation of reality felt wrong–like painting black into white.

As lunchtime approached, the office gradually emptied, but Lin Ling remained at his desk, determined to make progress on his first assignment.

"First crisis management assignment?"

Lin Ling looked up to find Huang Ming from that morning leaning against the edge of his cubicle, a sandwich in one hand.

"Yeah," Lin Ling gestured at the storyboard. "Wang Jie gave me the framework. It's... efficient."

"It is." Huang Ming's pen clicked once. "I wrote that framework, actually. Three years ago."

Lin Ling blinked. "You did?"

"Eva's third scandal. Before that, I was tailoring strategies for each crisis. Taking weeks, staying late." Huang Ming adjusted his glasses. "Manager Cheng told me I was wasting time. Said we needed replicable solutions, not custom approaches."

"So you created the templates."

"So I created the templates." Huang Ming confirmed, taking a sip from his mug. "Now anyone can rehabilitate a hero's image in seventy-two hours. Very efficient."

Something didn’t seem to sit right with him. "Does this happen a lot? Heroes needing... rehabilitation?"

"Frequent enough to warrant templates."

"Oh." Lin Ling looked back at the binder in a new light. The templates weren’t just about efficiency. Every polished statement, every apology script—it was all written over someone else’s failure.

"Well, good luck with Goldwing." Huang Ming pushed off from the cubicle. "Once you learn to work with what’s available, the job becomes pretty easy."

He walked away, leaving Lin Ling alone with the framework that had made crisis management routine. Maybe Wang Jie was right that this approach would work. If it worked then wasn't that all that mattered? Getting people to believe in heroes again, even if the path there was complicated?

Lin Ling opened the apartment door quietly, unsure if his grandmother would still be awake. It was later than he'd planned to return on his first day.

His grandmother looked up at the sound of the door, eyes bright despite her age, the deep smile lines around them crinkling. Her silver hair was pulled back in a neat bun, a few wisps escaping around her temples.

The living room was dimly lit, just a small lamp glowing beside her favorite chair where she sat, her knitting needles moving in a slow, steady rhythm. Though her hands bore the slight tremor of age, they moved with surprising deftness.

"There's my marketing genius," she said softly. "I was beginning to think they decided to keep you overnight."

"Sorry," Lin Ling said, setting down his bag. "They gave me my first assignment and I wanted to make good progress on it."

"Must be important if they're giving it to the new person on day one." She adjusted the light blue cardigan she always wore in the evenings, carefully placing her needles to hold her place in the pattern.

"Have you eaten? There's rice and vegetables in the steamer."

"I'm not very hungry," He replied, but moved to the kitchen anyway, knowing she'd worry if he didn't eat something.

As he put together a small bowl of food, he couldn't help but notice the new pill organizer on the counter, sorted into morning and evening doses—significantly more medication than she'd been taking just months ago. 

"So," she said as he joined her in the living room, sitting on the low stool beside her chair, "tell me about this important first assignment."

Lin Ling took a small bite, chewing slowly. "It's for a hero named Goldwing. He's been in the news recently."

"Ah," she nodded, recognition in her eyes. "The one who took bribes from those construction companies?"

He looked up, surprised. "You follow hero news?"

She smiled, a small twinkle in her eye. "I like to know what you're getting into. Old habits." She picked up her tea cup, taking a slow sip. "So what's the assignment?"

He hesitated. "They want me to develop a campaign to help people... forget about it."

His grandmother didn't respond immediately. She reached for her knitting again, the needles clicking softly as she resumed her work. After a moment, she said, "That's an interesting approach."

Lin Ling studied her face, trying to read her thoughts. "You don't approve."

"It's not for me to approve or disapprove," she said mildly. "I'm sure your company knows what they're doing."

"But?" he prompted, knowing there was more.

She glanced up, a small smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "Nothing. I'm just an old woman who doesn't understand modern marketing."

He gave an amused huff. "Come on, grandma."

She chuckled softly, her eyes warm with affection. "Alright. If you're asking what I think..." She paused, considering her words. "I wonder what happens to trust when mistakes are covered up instead of acknowledged."

Lin Ling felt uneasy. It was the question he'd been avoiding since the assignment was given. "The company says people want to believe in heroes. That reminding them of failures hurts everyone."

"Mm." She continued knitting, her expression thoughtful rather than judgmental. "And what do you think?"

"I think..." he started, then faltered. "I think it's my first day, and I need to show I can do the job they hired me for."

She nodded, accepting this. "That's reasonable." After a beat, she added, "You know, sometimes doing the expected thing can be a starting point, not the end of the journey."

"I just want to do good work," he said, shrugging. "Work that matters."

"I know you do." She set her knitting aside and reached for his hand, her touch warm and reassuring. "And you will. Maybe not always in the way you expect, but you will."

Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she added, "Just like you did at that convenience store, helping that sad girl who came in late at night."

Lin Ling felt heat rush to his face. "How did you—I only mentioned her once!"

His grandmother's smile widened, clearly enjoying his embarrassment. "Once was enough. Your eyes lit up on certain days. Haven't seen that since you were a boy with that hero cape I made you."

"It wasn't like that," he protested weakly. "I was just being nice."

"Of course you were," she agreed, too readily to be sincere. Then she patted his hand and changed the subject, mercifully. "Now, eat your food before it gets cold. Growing boys need their strength, even ones with fancy office jobs."

The familiar phrase, one she'd used since he was small, made him smile. He picked up his bowl again, somehow hungrier than before.

As he ate, she returned to her knitting, the quiet clicks forming a soothing backdrop to the evening. The weight of his first day's moral dilemma didn't disappear, but it felt more manageable in the comfort of home.

37 AC, May - Two Months after Lucky Cyan’s Scandal

Lin Ling was beginning to recognize the unwritten hierarchy of the agency. The morning status meeting made it particularly clear as he sat quietly at the back of the conference room, observing the dynamics around the table.

Account managers presented campaign updates while Cheng sat at the head of the table, red pen in hand, occasionally making marks on printed materials. His silence was more unnerving than criticism—a vacuum everyone rushed to fill with assurances and explanations.

"The Flamestrike energy drink campaign is on schedule," Wang Jie reported. "Focus groups responded positively to the 'Fuel Your Inner Fire concept. Production begins next week."

Cheng merely nodded, moving his attention to Huang Ming, who stiffened visibly.

"Nice campaign revisions?" Cheng asked, his tone making it clear this wasn't the first time he'd requested updates.

"Still waiting on final approvals from TREEMAN," Huang Ming said, shuffling through his notes. "Miss J had... additional feedback on the costume rendering."

The room temperature seemed to drop at the mention of that name. Lin Ling noticed several account managers exchanging glances.

"What kind of feedback?" Cheng's voice was carefully neutral.

"The white needed to be..." Huang Ming hesitated, "...whiter. More pristine. She said it looked cream-colored in certain lighting, and that's unacceptable for Nice's image."

Someone at the table stifled a sigh. Lin Ling watched as Cheng's expression tightened almost imperceptibly.

"Get the design team on it. Priority." Cheng made a note, then looked up at the room. "Anything else on Nice?"

"Miss J also requested changes to his expression in the third panel," Huang Ming continued. "She said his smile needed to be exactly 30 degrees, not 25 or 35. She's sending reference images."

This time, Lin Ling caught an actual grimace on Wang Jie's face before she quickly composed herself.

"TREEMAN is our biggest client," Cheng reminded the room, though no one had overtly complained. "Nice is their flagship hero. Their standards are our standards. Understood?"

Nods around the table. The meeting continued, but Lin Ling found himself distracted by what he'd just witnessed. The same irritable manager who was indifferent his employees became almost deferential at the mention of Miss J and TREEMAN's demands.

After the meeting, Lin Ling approached Wang Jie as she gathered her materials. "Who is Miss J?" he asked quietly.

She paused. "One of TREEMAN's hero management heads and Nice's handler." Wang Jie glanced around before answering. "She's... precise. Every campaign involving Nice goes through her personally."

"And TREEMAN is that important to the agency?"

"TREEMAN represents nearly thirty percent of our annual billings. Nice alone is fifteen percent." She closed her portfolio. "When Miss J calls, everyone jumps. Even Cheng."

The conversation ended as they reached the office floor, but Lin Ling carried the information with him throughout the day, fitting it into his growing understanding of the power dynamics that governed his new workplace.

The agency cafeteria buzzed with the usual lunchtime chatter, account managers and creatives huddled over salads and sandwiches, discussing deadlines and client demands. 

Having familiarized himself with most of the employees in the company, he soon found himself invited to one of the lunch groups. Encouraged to attend by Huang Ming, he sat half-listening to the conversation while reviewing campaign notes for his afternoon meeting.

"Speaking of impossible clients," Mei from the design team was saying, "I'm about to tear my hair out over these Sunstrider revisions. Third round and Spark's brand director still isn't satisfied with the 'emotional resonance' of the sunrise imagery."

General groans of sympathy followed. Sunstrider, a mid-tier hero managed by Spark Hero Agency, had been the focus of a major campaign push recently. Lin Ling perked up at the mention—he'd been following Sunstrider's career since before joining the agency.

"At least Sunstrider's message is worth promoting," Lin Ling offered. "All that clean energy outreach, the youth empowerment stuff. Makes our job easier when you believe in what you're selling."

The table fell silent. Mei and Huang Ming exchanged glances that made Lin Ling immediately uncomfortable.

"What?" he asked, looking between them.

Huang Ming set down his fork. "You're not on the Sunstrider account, are you?"

"No, but I've followed his work. The solar power initiatives for underserved communities, the scholarship program for disadvantaged youth. He seems genuinely committed to his causes."

Another silence.

"You should tell him," Mei said to Huang Ming. "He's going to find out eventually."

Huang Ming sighed, glancing around to make sure no senior staff were within earshot.

"Sunstrider's entire 'champion of sustainable energy' backstory is manufactured. He didn't develop his technology to help communities like he claims. His family runs an energy conglomerate with questionable environmental practices that he's trying to rebrand."

Lin Ling stared in disbelief. "But all his interviews, the documentary about his mission..."

"All staged," Huang Ming continued. "The 'humble research lab' they show was rented and dressed down for the documentary. His supposed 'old college teammates' are paid actors. Our agency helped construct the narrative three years ago."

"The solar initiatives are real, though," Mei added, almost apologetically. "It's just that they're a small fraction of their operations used for PR, while their main profits come from much less eco-friendly energy sources."

Lin Ling felt something sink in his chest. Sunstrider had been one of the few heroes whose messaging had seemed authentic, whose causes aligned with actual social needs. Learning it was all carefully constructed fiction felt like losing something important.

"Why?" he asked finally. "Why not just tell the truth?"

"Focus groups," Huang Ming said simply. "The 'heir to energy empire seeks redemption' tested terribly. The 'brilliant scientist develops breakthroughs to save communities' narrative tested through the roof—especially with the 18-34 demographic who buy the most merchandise."

"Another hero had a version closer to the truth once," Mei added. "Positioned him as 'privileged innovator using family resources for good.' Trust ratings dropped 17% in a single week."

"So it's all just..." Lin Ling struggled to find the words.

"Marketing," Huang Ming finished for him. "The real Sunstrider is actually a nightmare to work with. Obsessed with being the sole answer to clean energy, sees other renewable initiatives as inferior to his own–total god complex."

"Last week he nearly walked out of a presentation because someone suggested his energy technology might benefit from collaboration with other researchers," Mei said, rolling her eyes. "He went on a rant about how 'only his people' could properly develop the technology."

From across the table, another designer chimed in. "That's nothing. You should hear about Stormrager from 872. His PR team pushes this whole 'I walk the shadows so you don't have to' persona, but he throws a fit if his green juice isn't waiting for him exactly ten minutes before every public appearance."

The conversation quickly devolved into a competition of sorts, each person sharing increasingly disturbing stories about heroes' behind-the-scenes behavior. The contrast between public personas and private reality grew more depressing with each anecdote.

Lin Ling pushed his lunch away, appetite gone. “…So they trust these heroes because of the stories we create."

"Yup," Huang Ming said. "The more people believe the story, the stronger the hero becomes."

"It's actually impressive data," Mei added, pulling out her tablet and showing Lin Ling a chart. "See this spike? That's when we released the 'childhood struggle' documentary. Sunstrider's Trust jumped 24% overnight, which translated to a substantial increase in his powers."

Lin Ling stared at the data, "So the more we lie about who heroes really are..."

"The more powerful they become," Huang Ming confirmed. "The system is literally designed to reward the best fiction, not the most authentic heroism."

Lin Ling gave a blank stare, unsure of how to react to the information. The fact that so many supposed heroes were essentially “industry plants” struck a nerve. 

It was one thing to have musicians be handed fame. But to have heroes—the ones responsible for others, the ones inspiring others—just enter through money or connections…

It felt wrong.

The next day, when lunchtime came around, Lin Ling stayed at his desk, claiming deadline pressure when Mei invited him to join them. After several skipped lunches, he didn't even need an excuse—the others had already accepted his absence from the group.

Eating lunch by himself, avoiding the daily sessions of hero gossip and industry cynicism. He told himself it was about productivity. But deep down, he knew the truth: he couldn't bear to hear any more stories that would destroy what little faith he had left in the heroes he promoted.

But each day, that separation grew thinner, harder to maintain. And each day, another small piece of his former self crumbled away.

37 AC, July - Four Months after Lucky Cyan’s Scandal

Lin Ling watched his grandmother fold laundry from the doorway of her bedroom, noting how frequently she paused to catch her breath, how the simple task that once took minutes now stretched across an hour.

The signs were becoming harder to ignore.

"You don't have to do that," he said, stepping forward to take the basket from her. "I can finish up."

"Nonsense," she replied, though she didn't resist when he took over. "I'm just a little tired today."

But it wasn't just today. It had been weeks of "just tired," of meals left half-eaten because chewing took too much energy, of conversations punctuated by coughing fits that left her exhausted.

Watching his grandmother ease herself onto the edge of her bed, breath wheezing slightly with the effort.

"You worry too much," his grandmother said, reading his expression with ease. "I've had a good run."

"Don't talk like that," he replied sharply, then immediately regretted his tone. "Sorry. I just—"

"I know." She patted the bed beside her, and he sat down, the familiar weight of responsibility settling across his shoulders. "But some things are beyond even your control, Lin Ling. You can't fix everything."

"I can try," he said, the words feeling like a promise he wasn't sure he could keep. "That's what heroes do, isn't it? Try, even when success isn't guaranteed."

She gave a bittersweet smile, the wrinkles around her eyes deepening. 

Lin Ling stayed late one evening, the office nearly empty as he worked to finish a Moon campaign brief due the next morning. He'd been tasked with drafting copy for her latest travel vlog tie-in—standard work for interns, nothing complex.

When his search for Moon's previous travel segments pulled up an unfamiliar folder on the shared drive, he clicked it without thinking. The folder was labeled innocuously: "Cross-Platform Integration - Nice & Moon Partnership Strategy."

What appeared on his screen made him freeze, staring in disbelief.

The first document was a comprehensive timeline stretching months into the future, correlating "relationship milestones" with product launches and Trust rating targets. Each intimate moment between Nice and Moon had a corresponding marketing initiative:

First public hand-holding: Sports drink summer campaign. 

Anniversary dinner: Luxury watch line expansion. 

"Spontaneous" weekend getaway: Travel luggage partnership.

Lin Ling scrolled through document after document. Focus group data measuring emotional responses to different relationship scenarios. Script notes for their "casual conversations" at press events.

The relationship that had captured public imagination—two different types of heroes finding love across their diverse approaches to heroism—was nothing but a marketing strategy.

"Working late?"

Lin Ling jumped, Huang Ming stood in the doorway, coffee mug in hand despite the late hour.

"Just finishing the Moon travel copy," Lin Ling said, hoping his voice sounded normal.

Huang Ming approached, glancing at Lin Ling's screen. "Ah," he said quietly. "Found the relationship bible, did you?"

Lin Ling hesitated, then nodded. "I was looking for reference materials. I didn't realize I had access to that folder."

"You probably shouldn't," Huang Ming said, pulling up a chair. "Someone in IT must have forgotten to set the permissions correctly." He didn't seem angry, just resigned. "Pretend you haven't seen it. That's senior-level stuff."

"It's all... planned?" Lin Ling asked, unable to hide his disbelief. "Every moment between them?"

Huang Ming nodded. "TREEMAN's PR department handles the relationship strategy. We just align our advertising with whatever 'phase' they're currently staging."

He took a sip of his coffee. "Their romance creates a narrative people want to believe in. Perfect hero meets adventurous hero, opposites attract, love conquers all."

"And they just... go along with it?" 

"Hero relationships are valuable Trust generators. Paired heroes increase merchandise sales by 64% compared to solo heroes. Nice and Moon's 'relationship' has generated more revenue than any actual heroic achievement."

Lin Ling rested a palm on his forehead. "That’s—Nevermind, I don’t know why I expected it to be real."

"Hero relationships rarely last anyway," Huang Ming added. "Real ones between heroes are the worst—too much ego, too much competition for Trust and rankings. Remember Mr. Matchstick and Ms. Blazing Fire? Their breakup burned down half a district."

"So they're all doomed from the start?"

Huang Ming considered this. "Ironically, the only ones that seem to last are when heroes date outside the industry. Someone who doesn't care about Trust ratings or powers. Someone who sees the person, not the hero."

He stood and stretched. "You should close that folder and forget what you saw. Just to be safe."

Lin Ling nodded, closing the documents. But as Huang Ming walked away, he couldn't unsee the elaborate facade.

37 AC, October - 7 Months after Lucky Cyan’s Scandal

Lin Ling entered the apartment quietly, laden with grocery bags. It was past nine, another late night at the agency working on TREEMAN campaigns. As he set the bags on the kitchen counter, he noticed the living room was dark except for a small reading lamp and the flickering blue light of the television.

"Grandma?" he called softly, assuming she might have fallen asleep in her chair.

A weak cough answered him, followed by her voice, thinner than he remembered. "In here."

He found her in her usual chair, knitting needles resting unused in her lap, an oxygen tube running to her nose. The portable oxygen concentrator hummed quietly beside her—a new addition since the doctor's visit last week. Her jade bracelet seemed looser on her wrist than before. 

On the television, a breaking news banner flashed across the bottom of the screen:

"QUEEN MAKES RARE PUBLIC APPEARANCE AFTER YEAR-LONG ABSENCE."

"You shouldn't have waited up," he said, kneeling beside her chair.

"I had to see it for myself," she explained, gesturing to the screen where Queen stood addressing reporters, her white hair gleaming under the cameras. "She's finally back. I was starting to think we'd never see her again."

Lin Ling glanced at the footage with mild interest. Queen looked composed but somehow different than he remembered from her previous public appearances. The news ticker indicated this was her first major public event since her defeat at the tournament last year.

"Where has she been all this time?" he asked, genuinely curious.

"No one knows," his grandmother replied, her eyes fixed on the screen. "After she lost the tournament, she just... disappeared. Her ranking dropped to ninth from lack of visibility alone."

She shook her head slightly. "Such a shame. She was making real progress before that."

"You've been following her career?" Lin Ling asked, surprised at her investment in a hero's public trajectory.

"Of course," she answered, as if it were obvious. "That girl is different from the others. When I was young, female heroes were rare, and none were taken seriously. Now she's been as high as rank 2, showing all those girls they can be heroes too."

Lin Ling studied Queen more carefully on the screen. There was something oddly familiar in her features—the white hair, the golden eyes. Something about her reminded him fleetingly of someone else, though he pushed the thought away. Queen had a distinct, almost commanding demeanor—far different from the person in his mind.

“Don’t stare too much.” His grandmother's voice pulled him back to the present. “Can’t risk my grandson falling for her.”

His eyes widened, shaking his head in embarrassment. “No! That’s– I wasn’t staring like that!”

She gave a wry smile. "How are things at that agency? Think you’ll stay?"

The question hit him with unexpected force. He thought of the manufactured relationship between Nice and Moon, the campaigns designed to hide hero failures. None of it felt good or meaningful.

"It pays well," he answered. "The insurance is helping with your treatments. And if they convert my internship to full-time, the benefits will be even better."

Her expression softened with a hint of sadness.

Lin Ling stood, unable to meet her gaze. "I should put away the groceries. I got those almond cookies you like."

In the kitchen, he methodically unpacked the bags, organizing items with unnecessary precision. Behind him, he heard the oxygen concentrator's steady hum, a persistent reminder of time running out.

The latest medical bills sat on the counter where he'd left them that morning—amounts that would have been impossible to manage on his convenience store salary, but manageable with his intern salary and potentially much easier with a full-time position.

Conversion to full-time status would mean higher pay, better benefits, more security. All he needed to do was prove that he could create effective campaigns.

As she dozed off in her chair, remote still loosely held in her hand, Lin Ling carefully adjusted her blanket. The television continued to play softly, footage of Queen's return giving way to commercials featuring Nice's perfect smile selling hair conditioner.

37 AC, November - 8 Months after Lucky Cyan’s Scandal

Eight months into his internship, Lin Ling had started to feel like he understood the system well enough to try something new. He'd proven himself with the Goldwing campaign and several successful product endorsements. Surely now he had enough standing to propose something different.

He spent two weeks preparing a presentation for the senior staff, working on it during lunch breaks and after hours. This was his chance to show them that authentic heroism could be marketable.

On a Thursday afternoon, Lin Ling stood before the senior team in Conference Room B, his carefully prepared presentation displayed on the projector screen. Two weeks of work after hours, developing something he genuinely believed in—a campaign concept titled "Heroes Unmasked."

"The idea is to show heroes in their unguarded moments," he explained, clicking to slides showing sketched concepts. "Not just during rescues and battles, but during their downtime—dealing with everyday challenges, having quiet moments of doubt, showing vulnerability."

The images were simple but powerful: heroes removing their masks, looking tired after a long day, struggling with ordinary problems. A far cry from the glossy, perfect imagery that dominated the agency's usual work.

"Research shows people feel disconnected from heroes," Lin Ling continued with growing confidence. "They admire their power but can't relate to their experiences. This campaign bridges that gap, showing the human side of heroes, making them more accessible without diminishing their exceptional nature."

He clicked to his final slide. "Heroes Unmasked: Extraordinary Powers, Relatable Lives."

The room fell silent. Lin Ling looked toward Cheng, whose face had gone completely still, eyes fixed on the presentation with an intensity that made the room temperature seem to drop. No one moved. Wang Jie subtly shifted her chair back, as if attempting to distance herself from what was about to happen.

"What is this?" Cheng's voice was quiet but razor-sharp, cutting through the silence.

"It's a new campaign concept that—" Lin Ling began.

"I can see what it is," Cheng interrupted, his voice low with barely contained anger. "What I'm asking is why you think we would ever implement something that fundamentally undermines everything this agency stands for."

Lin Ling felt his stomach drop. "Sir, the research suggests that showing heroes' human side actually increases audience connection—"

Cheng's fist came down on the table. "I don't care what your amateur research suggests. This isn't a school project, Lin Ling. This is a business."

He stood, moving to the front of the room. When he spoke again, his voice was dangerously quiet, forcing everyone to lean forward to hear him.

"Do you have any idea how many millions are at stake in our hero campaigns? How many careers depend on maintaining the aspirational image we've spent decades cultivating?"

Lin Ling swallowed hard. "I thought—"

"No. You didn't think." Cheng's eyes narrowed. "Do you understand your position here, Lin Ling? You're an intern. Not a creative director. Not even a full-time employee."

"Heroes don't need to be relatable," he stated coldly. "People don't want to see heroes struggling or uncertain or vulnerable. They want to see beings who have transcended ordinary limitations."

He turned to the room. "If heroes have the same doubts and weaknesses as everyone else," he asked rhetorically, "then why should anyone look up to them? Why should anyone trust them to solve problems ordinary people can't?"

The other team members avoided eye contact, not wanting to be associated with a rejected concept. Lin Ling stood alone at the front, his passion project methodically destroyed before his eyes.

Cheng paused, studying Lin Ling with a penetrating gaze. "Don't think just because you need to see vulnerability in strength that you can project your insecurities onto heroes. They are not mirrors for your weaknesses, Lin Ling."

"Heroes must remain aspirational," Cheng continued, his voice dropping even lower. "Your job isn't to humanize them—it's to elevate them beyond the reach of ordinary existence."

He moved closer to Lin Ling. "If you wanted these ideas to work, you should've been born five decades earlier." He gestured toward the window where hero billboards dominated the skyline. "But this is how the world is now, and this is how heroes are now. The machinery is built. The formula is established."

Lin Ling felt the full weight of his miscalculation crushing down on him, the realization that his idealism wasn't just naive—it was obsolete.

"The formula works because it aligns with what people actually respond to, not what we wish they would respond to," Cheng continued. His voice took on a patronizing tone, as if speaking to a child. "So let me drill this into you, intern: 'Use what works.'"

He returned to his seat, fixing Lin Ling with a final, pointed stare. "Your evaluation for full-time conversion is coming up. If you expect to have any chance at a permanent position here, you'd better wake up quickly. Understand your place in the hierarchy before you try to change a system you barely comprehend."

…

Later, on the office rooftop during his break, Lin Ling stood looking out over the city, hero billboards dotting the skyline like beacons among the ordinary buildings.

Footsteps behind him announced Huang Ming's arrival. "I heard about what happened," he said quietly.

"Is he always like that?"

Huang Ming considered this. "Not often." He clicked his pen thoughtfully. "But that’s what you see if you do things the ‘wrong’ way."

Wrong. The word twisted into his gut like a dagger. As if his own worldview was wrong, as if what he’d been taught was wrong. If what he knew was wrong, did he even want to be right?

Huang Ming observed the look of distress on Lin Ling’s face. "You're a good guy, Lin Ling. Most people arrive indifferent or become cynical quickly. They don't bring idealism like yours into these walls."

As Lin Ling looked back at the cityscape, hero faces smiling down from every direction as millions looked up to them with ignorant faith.

“Don’t beat yourself up over it.” Huang Ming said, patting his shoulder. “There are just some battles you can’t win.”

"So what now?" he asked, more to himself than to Huang Ming.

"Now you decide," Huang Ming replied simply. "Whether you can live with making the compromises this job requires, or find a new path."

Lin Ling thought of his grandmother, of her medical bills, of her unwavering belief in everyday heroism—and of Cheng's cutting assessment of his ordinary nature. The weight of these contradictions settled over him like a physical burden.

"I don't have much choice, do I?" He thought to himself.

…

That night, he returned home later than usual, mentally exhausted from earlier afternoon. The apartment was unusually quiet. No television, no soft clicking of knitting needles.

"Grandma?" he called, setting down his bag.

The sound of labored breathing led him to her bedroom, where he found her sitting on the edge of her bed, oxygen mask pressed to her face, eyes closed in concentration as she fought for each breath.

"I'm calling an ambulance," he said immediately, already pulling out his phone. She raised a trembling hand to stop him, but the blue tint to her lips and the desperation in her eyes told him everything he needed to know.

This was different from her usual episodes.

The paramedics arrived within minutes, filling their small apartment with efficient movement and medical terminology. They checked her vitals, placed her on a stretcher, and explained they needed to take her to the hospital immediately.

He rode with her in the ambulance, watching as they administered treatments and adjusted equipment. At the hospital, a doctor met them immediately, speaking in the measured tones medical professionals use when they're delivering serious news.

"Her condition has deteriorated significantly," he told Lin Ling after the initial examination. "I'd like to discuss treatment options with you both tomorrow, after we've stabilized her condition."

As weeks passed, his grandmother's condition worsened. Lin Ling found himself frequently checking his phone for updates during meetings, as if holding onto hope she would miraculously recover. But the doctors' carefully neutral expressions had gradually shifted to gentle sympathy, and he knew the days were drawing to a close.

He remained at the hospital as often as possible, sleeping in uncomfortable chairs rather than returning to an empty apartment. The thought of going home to silence, to rooms still filled with her presence but not her, felt unbearable.

At the office, he found himself appreciating the mindless routine of the work—the templates, the formulas, the proven strategies. As long as he didn't resist them, didn't question their purpose, they provided a strange comfort. Turn off your brain, follow the pattern, produce results. No authenticity required. 

It was almost a relief to have something so straightforward when everything else in his life was collapsing.

"Your latest campaign tested extremely well with focus groups," Wang Jie had mentioned in passing, sliding the results across his desk. "You have a gift for this when you stay on message."

But the compliment had meant nothing. His grandmother's approval had been the only validation that ever truly mattered.

Entering the hospital room one evening, he knew something had changed. The nurses moved with that careful efficiency reserved for the most critical patients. The doctor had left him a message about "discussing options." 

Lin Ling recognized the signs with dread. This would be the last night.

The hospital room was quiet except for the steady beeping of monitors and the rhythmic hiss of the ventilator. Lin Ling sat beside the bed, holding his grandmother's hand, watching her chest rise and fall with mechanical precision.

"She's a fighter," the night nurse had said, adjusting the IV line. "Most patients in her condition wouldn't have lasted this long."

Lin Ling knew it wasn't just physical strength keeping her here. His grandmother had never done anything before she was ready—she was waiting for something, or someone.

He leaned forward, stroking the paper-thin skin on the back of her hand. "I'm here, Grandma," he whispered. "I'm not going anywhere."

Her eyelids fluttered but didn't open. The doctors had warned that the sedation would keep her mostly unconscious. Still, he talked to her, hoping his voice might reach whatever part of her remained aware.

"I’ve been doing well at work recently," he said, voice shaking. "They really liked my campaigns. I think I might be able to get a full time position.'" 

His admission felt hollow. He tried to convey happiness, hoping to reach her—to reassure her that he’d be all right. But all he felt was shame.

A soft knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. The doctor entered, chart in hand, expression grave.

"Mr. Lin," she began, "we need to discuss your grandmother's care plan."

The conversation that followed was clinical but gentle. Terms like "quality of life" and "compassionate withdrawal" punctuated by longer explanations of organ function and deterioration. 

But the message was clear: it was time to let go.

"She's suffering," the doctor said gently. "The ventilator is prolonging the inevitable, not changing the outcome."

Lin Ling nodded mutely, the weight of the decision settling on him like a physical burden.

"Would you like some time to think about it?" the doctor asked.

"No," he said, his voice steadier than he expected. "She wouldn't want this. She was always clear about that."

And so the arrangements were made with quiet efficiency. Forms signed, procedures explained. The staff would remove the ventilator, administer medication to ensure she wasn't in pain, and allow nature to take its course. They would give him privacy, checking in periodically but staying out of the way unless needed.

When they left, Lin Ling returned to his grandmother's bedside, taking her hand once more. His fingers shook as they closed around hers.

"I'm doing what you wanted," he whispered, his vision blurring as tears welled up and spilled over. "I hope that's okay."

The nurse returned with another staff member, their movements gentle and respectful as they prepared to remove the ventilator. They explained each step, giving Lin Ling time to absorb what was happening.

Then it was done. The mechanical breathing stopped, replaced by her own shallow, labored breaths. The nurse adjusted the medication, then quietly left the room.

Lin Ling sat in silence, watching his grandmother's face. Without the ventilator mask, she looked more like herself again. Peaceful, despite the struggle evident in each breath.

"You can let go," he told her, stroking her silver hair back from her forehead. His voice caught, and he had to stop as fresh tears came. "I'll be fine."

Hours passed, each breath growing shallower, the pauses between them lengthening. Lin Ling didn't move from her side. He tried to speak about memories they shared, but kept stopping mid-sentence when his voice cracked. Each time, he'd wipe his face, clear his throat, and start again, determined that she would hear him.

Just before dawn, her breathing changed. Lin Ling knew, without being told, that the end was near. He held her hand tighter, as if he could anchor her to the world through sheer force of will.

"Thank you," he whispered, his voice breaking. "For everything."

Her final breath was so subtle he almost missed it—a gentle exhale followed by a stillness more profound than any he'd known. The sudden absence hit him like a physical blow. His shoulders hunched forward, his hand pressed against his mouth to hold back the sound that threatened to escape.

But it wasn't enough. A sob escaped him, then another. He pressed his forehead against their joined hands, as he finally stopped fighting the sounds of his grief.

The nurse came in minutes later, alerted by the monitors. She checked for vital signs, her movements gentle and practiced. Then she looked at Lin Ling with quiet compassion.

She spoke some words of condolences. But all he heard was a muffled voice–not fully comprehending what she said, yet still nodding robotically.

When the nurse left, the room felt suddenly vast and empty, despite his grandmother’s body still lying there. But whatever essence that had made her his grandmother had departed, leaving only the shell behind.

He remained seated, still holding his grandmother's cooling hand. The city was waking up outside, the sky lightening to dawn, the world continuing as if nothing had changed. 

But everything had changed. The last person who had known him completely, who had loved him unconditionally, was gone.

37 AC, December - One Year after Meeting Yuwei

A month had passed since the funeral. Lin Ling sat alone in his apartment, surrounded by his grandmother's belongings. Medical bills stacked on one side, her knitting needles and half-finished projects on the other. He still hadn't found the strength to properly sort through everything.

He'd started small—just organizing her medications for disposal. Her clothes still hung in the closet. Her favorite teacup sat unwashed by the sink. The half-knitted blanket she'd been working on was still draped across her chair, needles positioned as if she might return at any moment to continue the pattern.

One day, Lin Ling found himself drawn to the storage closet where she'd kept the things she considered most precious. On the middle shelf sat a cardboard box labeled "Lin Ling" in her careful handwriting. He'd forgotten about this collection, this archive of his younger self.

Inside were report cards, certificates, and childhood mementos she'd kept with meticulous care. At the bottom, carefully folded, lay a piece of faded fabric that made his throat tighten as soon as he touched it.

His hero cape.

The memory flooded back with vivid clarity as Lin Ling held the small blue cape, his fingers tracing the gold stitching his grandmother had added with such care.

…

He was ten years old again, sitting at the kitchen table while afternoon sunlight streamed through the windows. Sketches of hero costumes were spread before him— each annotated with potential powers and abilities.

His grandmother sat nearby, watching him with amusement whenever he talked about heroes.

"What's this one?" she asked, nodding toward his latest drawing—a muscular figure with lightning bolts and a flowing cape.

"Thunderbolt," Lin Ling answered, adding more detail to the costume. "He can control electricity and fly and has super strength."

"Impressive," she said with a small smile. "And what does Thunderbolt do with all those powers?"

Lin Ling looked up, considering the question. "He fights villains. Saves people from disasters. Makes a lot of money."

She raised an eyebrow but continued stitching. "Money, hmm?"

"Yeah." Lin Ling set down his pencil. "When I become a hero, I'll make enough to get us a bigger apartment. One where you don't have to climb all those stairs. And I'll pay for the best doctors so you won't be sick anymore."

The concern in his voice made her pause. She set her sewing aside and looked at him. "Is that why you've been drawing these every day? To become a hero who can take care of me?"

Lin Ling nodded. "The top heroes make tons of money. And they get the best Trust-powered abilities. If I can just get noticed, get enough people to believe in me..."

She moved to sit beside him, her chair scraping gently across the floor. "Xiao Ling, look at me."

He met her eyes reluctantly, worried she'd dismiss his plans as childish fantasy.

"What you're describing isn't becoming a hero," she said gently. "It's becoming famous. They're not the same thing."

"But the best heroes are famous," he argued. "That's how they get their powers—from people trusting them."

"And why do people trust them?" she asked.

"Because they're strong? Because they win?"

She shook her head. "People trust those who prove themselves trustworthy. Not because of costumes or special effects, but because of what they do when no one's watching. Because they choose to act even when it's difficult."

Lin Ling frowned, not fully understanding. "But I need powers to help people. To help you."

"You already help me," she said softly. "Every day. When you make tea for me without being asked. When you help with groceries even though your friends are waiting. When you sit and read to me on days my eyes hurt too much." Her hand covered his. "That's heroism. Not the capes or the lightning bolts."

"But it's not enough," he insisted, voice cracking slightly. "I can't fix what's wrong with you by carrying groceries."

Her eyes softened. "Oh, my sweet boy. True heroes don't only fight the battles they can win. They fight the ones that need fighting, even knowing they might lose."

"If having a cape would make you happy, we can make one together. I'll show you how to sew it properly. But remember, the cape doesn't make the hero."

"What does, then?" Lin Ling asked.

"Kindness," she said simply. "Courage. Doing what's right even when it costs you something."

She smiled, helping him thread a needle. "Powers like that, everyone already has. So everyone can be a hero in their own way."

Lin Ling considered this, before tilting his head. "Grandma, if you know so much about heroes, why didn't you become one?"

Her laugh was gentle. "Who says I didn't? Not all heroes get their pictures on billboards, you know."

…

The cape felt small in his adult hands, designed for the shoulders of a child. A child who thought he could make a difference simply by caring enough, by trying hard enough.

Lin Ling carefully refolded the cape, smoothing the wrinkles with gentle hands. The boy who had worn it was gone, just as the grandmother who had made it was gone. In their place was a young man who understood too much about how the world really worked.

He would return to the agency tomorrow. He would create more campaigns that sold the illusion of heroism without its substance. He would advance in his career, make enough money to pay off the medical bills, eventually move to a better apartment. He would do what was necessary to survive in a system he now understood too well to believe in.

"There are no real heroes," he whispered to the empty room, the words bitter on his tongue. "Just manufactured images selling products. Carefully crafted illusions maintained by people like me."

He looked around at the scattered evidence of the present—unpaid bills, a half-finished campaign on his laptop, his grandmother's belongings still waiting to be sorted. 

All the things he'd once believed in felt hollow now. The world she'd described, where everyday kindness mattered more than spectacular powers, seemed impossibly naive in the face of what he now knew.

"I don’t know what to do anymore," he murmured, "I have no dreams to protect."

He closed the box of mementos and pushed it aside. Tomorrow he'd return to the office, write more scripts for heroes who weren't heroic, create more campaigns to make people forget uncomfortable truths. The path forward was clear, even if it led nowhere worth going.

The cape remained folded on the table, a relic of beliefs he could no longer afford to keep.

Chapter Text

38 AC, March - Three Months after the Funeral

Three months after his grandmother's funeral, Lin Ling had been perfectly molded into compliance. He crafted campaigns with mechanical efficiency, stripped of the heart he once strived for. Cheng had even promoted him. 

Now as an official employee, he told himself this was what success looked like. That he could safely coast through his mind numbing job for a few years until he found a better opportunity.

But he had been wrong.

It was Friday, 5 PM exactly when Lin Ling noticed movement at the far end of the long shared table where their department worked. He glanced up from his monitor to see Huang Ming's screen go dark as the older man began packing his personal items into a cardboard box, methodically emptying his drawers. 

Nobody else seemed to be paying attention, too absorbed in their deadlines to care about someone leaving exactly at the end of the official workday—something he noted that almost never happened in their department.

Lin Ling observed the man with mild curiosity before returning back to his work. A few minutes later a shadow fell across his keyboard.

“Hey,” Huang Ming said quietly, a cardboard box tucked beneath one arm. “You got a minute?”

Lin Ling looked up, surprised to see Huang Ming standing by his desk. “Sure? Are you leaving early?”

Huang Ming set his box onto the edge of Lin Ling’s desk, a small smile rising at the corner of his mouth. "Leaving for good. Today's my last day."

Lin Ling stared in shock. There had been no announcement, no farewell preparations, no warning at all. "Just like that? Where are you going?"

"Design firm in District 8. Better hours, comparable pay." Huang Ming shrugged, adjusting his glasses. "Nothing glamorous, but the work is... less compromising."

He glanced around to ensure no one was listening too closely, then leaned in slightly. "By the way, you'll be inheriting the TREEMAN clients." 

"What!?" Lin Ling said a little too loud, before lowering his tone to a whisper. "TREEMAN? But aren’t they our biggest client? Shouldn't someone more senior—"

"I recommended you specifically." Huang Ming's expression turned serious. "The Nice and Moon campaigns, the joint commercial initiatives, the whole TREEMAN ecosystem—it's all yours now."

"But why me?" Lin Ling asked, trying to mask his growing alarm. "I'm barely past my internship."

Huang Ming rested a hand on his desk. "Because you're the right fit. You have the technical skills, the creativity, but more importantly..." He paused to meet his eyes. "You’ve got a strong tenacity even if nothing goes your way."

Lin Ling wasn't sure if he should feel flattered or warned. "Is that why you're leaving? Because the work is difficult?"

"Let's just say maintaining Nice's perfection comes at a cost. One I'm no longer willing to pay." He tapped his temple. "Mental health. Physical health. Integrity. The TREEMAN account demands sacrifices you don't fully understand yet."

"You're not exactly selling me on this inheritance," Lin Ling said nervously.

"It won't be an easy thing to accept. But I'm confident you'll do better with it than most." Huang Ming straightened and extended his hand. "Good luck. You'll need it." 

Lin Ling hesitantly shook his hand, still processing the abrupt change. "...Any advice for handling TREEMAN?"

Huang Ming picked up his box, pursing his lips in thought. "Don't let Miss J intimidate you. Document everything. And most importantly—stay cautious. Otherwise, the work will consume you completely."

With that, Huang Ming picked up his box and turned to leave. He paused after a few steps and looked back. 

"Oh, and Lin Ling?" His voice was just loud enough for Lin Ling alone to hear. "Remember—Nice isn't real. No matter how perfect they make him appear, no matter how much Trust he generates, he's just carefully constructed fiction. Don't forget that." 

Then Huang Ming was gone, leaving behind nothing but a clean desk and the weight of an inheritance Lin Ling hadn't asked for.

…

Monday morning, Lin Ling found a copy of the TREEMAN contract and client history on his desk, along with a note from Manager Cheng: "Meeting, 10 AM. Be prepared."

As he entered Cheng's office precisely at ten, Lin Ling felt a familiar tension settle between his shoulder blades.

"Huang Ming left. You're taking over Nice and Moon's joint commercials." Cheng said matter-of-fact. "TREEMAN wants to expand their cross-platform presence. More co-branded product endorsements."

He slid a thick folder across the desk. "Make their relationship sell products naturally. Concepts by Friday."

Lin Ling reached for the folder, hesitating briefly. "For Nice, should I coordinate with—" he began.

"Did I ask for coordination plans?" Cheng's red pen stopped moving. He looked up, and Lin Ling felt the temperature in the room drop. The same expression Cheng had worn when tearing apart his "Heroes Unmasked" presentation now settled on his face—a familiar disdain and impatience reserved for those who hadn't learned their place.

"I asked for concepts. By Friday. If you need me to break down every step of your job, maybe Huang Ming should have taken you with him."

The message couldn't be clearer—Cheng hadn't changed since his first day. Questions weren't welcome. Clarification wasn't offered. You either understood immediately or you failed.

"No, sir. Friday. I understand," Lin Ling said.

Cheng returned to his work, the dismissal absolute.

Lin Ling left the office, folder in hand, the weight of it a reminder of the lesson he should have remembered from the beginning. Some things in this agency never changed, no matter how many promotions or salary increases came. The expectation remained the same: conform, comply, create. Nothing more, nothing less.

38 AC, May - Two Months after Huang Ming Quit

By now it was clear. Whatever burden that Huang Ming had gifted him was nothing less than a curse–a dark force slowly and methodically sapping his strength. 

The only thoughts that crossed his mind nowadays were of Nice. Nice’s perfect smile. Nice’s immaculate white hair. Nice’s cheeky signature pose.

He was confident that he knew what Nice looked like more than his own parents did. It was like being forced to memorize every brushstroke of a painting he'd grown to despise, or learning the exact notes of a song he never wanted to hear again. The exhaustive knowledge of something he increasingly resented felt like its own unique form of torture. 

Lin Ling sat at his desk, writing dialogue for an energy drink commercial. Nice would surprise Moon during her vlog filming. They'd share a drink, laugh about something cute, the camera would linger on the logo. The usual formula.

His fingers moved across the keyboard with mechanical efficiency. The words flowed easily now, each line crafted to sell the product through their manufactured intimacy:

NICE: "Thought you could use a pick-me-up."

MOON: "You always know exactly what I need."

They share a smile. Nice hands her the energy drink. Moon takes a sip, her face lighting up.

MOON: "Perfect. Just like you."

Next was a sportswear commercial. Moon would portal to Nice's training session, admire his new gear, make a flirty comment about how good he looked. Cut to them training together, the brand logo prominent on their matching outfits.

He gave a resigned sigh as he leaned back in his seat, glancing around at the dark and empty office. The only light came from the monitor in front of him and the city that streamed through the window.

The hardest part of Nice's commercials weren't the concepts–a year of writing ads taught him how to do those with ease. It was the expectation that what he'd started with wouldn't be enough.

His email pinged with the latest revision notes from Miss J–though it was more accurate to call them a list of grievances. He read the first line from Miss J's comments: "Lower the overall saturation and increase Nice's. Nice should be immediately visible to even a blind man." 

This was the fifth adjustment request so far. 

Nice was entirely different from anything he had worked on as an intern. Those Moon commercials he helped write seemed like child's play compared to Huang Ming's tasks.

Thinking of the man before him gave an initial feeling of sympathy–now understanding what he'd had to deal with. But soon that feeling of pity transformed into frustration. Lin Ling didn't know what kind of paragon Huang Ming took him for, but even he had his limits.

…

By his third month handling TREEMAN's campaigns, Lin Ling had memorized the rhythm:

Draft. Internal review. Send to Miss J. Wait.

Her revisions arrive—always direct, always demanding, always sent straight to his inbox as if the layers of approval above him didn't exist.

Revise. Internal review again. Send updated proposal back to Miss J. Wait.

More revisions. The cycle continues.

The inefficiency of it grated on him—Miss J treating him like a direct report while Wang Jie and Cheng maintained their gatekeeping authority over every word he sent back to her. He was the intermediary with none of the power, fielding demands from both sides.

One week, a watch commercial for their six-month anniversary. Matching timepieces exchanged with scripted sentiment about their time together meaning everything. The watches would catch the light just right, the close-up shot lingering on the brand name engraved on the back.

Lin Ling had written it, received Wang Jie's feedback, gotten Cheng's approval, and sent the proposal to Miss J on a Monday.

By Tuesday afternoon, her response sat in his inbox: "Nice's dialogue in scene 3 lacks conviction. Moon's reaction timing needs adjustment. Resubmit with corrections."

He revised. Wednesday morning: Wang Jie's review meeting. Wednesday afternoon: waiting outside Cheng's office for final sign-off. Wednesday evening: sending the updated proposal back to Miss J.

Thursday morning: "Better. But the watch close-up in scene 5 should be 2 seconds longer. Brand visibility is insufficient."

Another week, a housing commercial featuring Nice and Moon. Nice would fly her around to inspect different houses that they might move in, with Moon rejecting each one for various levels of inefficiencies. They'd run through all of them before settling on the final perfect TREEMAN owned housing that had all the essentials they needed.

He coordinated proposal timelines with Wang Jie, adjusted scripts based on feedback from Miss J that always pushed for more obvious branding, more explicit product focus. TREEMAN's production team handled the actual shoots—Lin Ling's just had to make sure the scripts survived the approval gauntlet.

One evening, he found himself on the third revision of a scene where Moon surprised Nice with breakfast. TREEMAN wanted their new meal replacement shakes featured prominently—Miss J's latest email had been direct: "Product integration feels forced. Make it natural."

Lin Ling had already passed two versions through Wang Jie and Cheng. Each round of internal review took half a day minimum. Each resubmission to Miss J came back with new demands.

Lin Ling's email pinged again just as he was preparing to save his work. Another message from Miss J. "Camera angle at 00:14 captures Nice at 37.8° instead of optimal 42.5° perspective, this creates a reduction in perceived authority. Moon's reaction timing was delayed by 1 second."

He checked his watch—1:17 AM—then pulled up Wang Jie's calendar. Her first available slot was 8 AM. Then, if the revisions passed her review, he'd need Cheng's approval—another meeting, another wait. Only then could Lin Ling send the corrections back to Miss J, who would likely have new demands waiting by the afternoon.

Was it even worth going home at this point? 

Lin Ling stared at the frozen image of Nice on his screen, the perfect hero with his mathematically precise smile and scientifically optimized charisma. 

It occurred to him, not for the first time, that Nice had never lost a night's sleep over anything. Never rubbed burning eyes at one in the morning. Never felt his hands shake from caffeine overdose and sleep deprivation.

Perhaps that was the true difference between heroes and the people who created them—heroes existed in perfect moments, while their makers toiled beneath it all. 

His gaze drifted to his apartment keys sitting beside his keyboard. The prospect of the cold night air, the empty apartment, the alarm set for 6 AM—only to return and do it all again—suddenly seemed pointless. The office couch in the break room had seen him through three nights this month already. One more wouldn't matter. 

Tomorrow would be the same. And the day after. And the day after that. Until something finally broke—the system, or him.

38 AC, July – One Month before the 18th Heroes Tournament 

The evening downpour caught Lin Ling by surprise. He'd left the agency building without checking the weather forecast, too exhausted after another late night of revisions to think about anything beyond getting home for the weekend. Now he hurried toward the nearest bus shelter, briefcase held over his head in a futile attempt to stay dry.

By the time he reached the shelter, rain had soaked through his shirt collar and plastered his hair against his forehead. He shook off what water he could, taking refuge under the small overhang where another figure already stood–a man in business attire, his back to Lin Ling as he gazed out at the street.

They stood in silence, two strangers sharing the small dry space as water drummed against the plastic roof. Lin Ling pulled out his phone, scrolling through work emails without really reading them. Anything to avoid the awkward proximity of a stranger in the confined space.

The man checked his watch and sighed. "Looks like another twenty minutes until the next bus."

Lin Ling glanced up, acknowledging the comment with a small nod before returning to his phone.

"Overtime?" the man asked.

The direct question surprised Lin Ling enough to respond. "Yeah."

"Same here." The man offered a hint of wry humor. "The only people out this late are either working too much or having too much fun. We're clearly not the second group."

Lin Ling couldn't help but give a small, tired smile. "Clearly."

"Five days straight this week," the man continued. "Overtime every single night. The concept of work-life balance seems increasingly theoretical."

Lin Ling looked up with mild relief that someone seemed to relate to his situation. "Yeah. My boss doesn't seem to understand that humans require sleep."

"What industry keeps you up so late?" the stranger asked.

Lin Ling hesitated briefly. "Hero marketing. Advertising agency."

"Ah." The man nodded with subtle interest. "I'm at FOMO. Infrastructure team."

"The social media platform?" Lin Ling was mildly surprised. "You're probably even busier than I am."

The man shrugged. "Different kind of busy. Building systems instead of campaigns. But with the 19th Heroes Tournament coming up, we're scaling everything to handle the traffic surge. Everyone's pulling doubles to stress-test the servers."

Lin Ling nodded in understanding. The tournament was the biggest hero event of the year–of course social platforms would be preparing for unprecedented engagement. "Our agency's swamped with tournament campaigns too. Every hero wants maximum visibility before the rankings lock."

A brief silence fell between them, punctuated by the sound of rain hitting the pavement. Lin Ling glanced at the stranger, now that they'd exchanged a few words. He was nothing remarkable–just another tired office worker caught in the rain.

"Do you enjoy it?" the man asked after a pause. "The marketing work?"

Lin Ling opened his mouth, almost giving his default response about "gaining valuable experience"–the one he'd used with everyone else. Instead, something about the anonymity of the moment, the rain isolating them from the world, made him answer honestly.

"No. Not at all."

The firmness of his own answer surprised himself. It was the first time he'd said it aloud.

"What makes you stay?" the stranger asked.

Lin Ling considered the question for a moment. "The pay. My grandma’s medical bills." He looked down at the wet pavement. "Though she passed away last year."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Thanks... She always believed I'd do something meaningful. Help people somehow." Lin Ling stared out at the rain.

"And hero marketing isn't that?" the man asked quietly.

Lin Ling laughed bitterly. "Far from it. The only thing I’m helping are their images, there’s nothing meaningful for anyone else." He glanced at the stranger. "I wanted to believe in heroes once. I had this idea that I could make campaigns showing authentic heroism. How stupid is that?"

"Dunno. Doesn’t sound stupid to me."

"Try pitching it to agency executives. I've never been shot down faster." Lin Ling shook his head. "Turns out people don't want authentic heroes. They want perfect ones."

“I see, and what is authentic to you?”

Lin Ling sighed. “I don’t know anymore. I used to think that meant being inspiring and helping other people, but…” He shrugged, “I guess you can still do that with a good enough PR team.”

He paused, searching for the words. “Or well… What I’m trying to say is… I just wish heroes were less like celebrities and more like ordinary people.”

”That’s intriguing. What makes you think that?”

Lin Ling frowned. “Because if all it takes to be a hero is just money and power, then not anyone can really be a hero, can they?”

He continued with a bitter smile. "I used to think that I could be a hero. But now..." He trailed off, suddenly aware of how much he'd revealed to a complete stranger.

"Now?" the man prompted.

"Now I'm not sure real heroes exist anymore." Lin Ling met the stranger's gaze. "I'm just a cog in the machine that makes people trust the wrong people for the wrong reasons."

The man nodded his head slightly, considering Lin Ling's words. "Systems only work because everyone plays their assigned roles."

"And mine is to keep the illusion going," Lin Ling said with resignation.

"Have you ever snuck something authentic into a campaign?" the stranger asked. "Something true instead of manufactured?"

Lin Ling's expression hardened, a flash of bitter memory crossing his face. "I already tried that route. Had a whole presentation on authentic heroism that got rejected. I don't think I can handle getting humiliated like that again."

"No, not a whole presentation," the man clarified. "Just... a small piece. Something most wouldn't notice, but those who need to see it would."

Lin Ling let out a humorless laugh. "What good would that even do? So I slip in some tiny truth and then what? The system keeps grinding on. Nothing changes."

The stranger didn't answer. Instead, he looked out at the rain, seemingly lost in thought for a moment.

"Small changes can spread in unexpected ways," he said after a pause. "The people writing the stories aren't supposed to question the narratives they create. That's the role they're assigned."

Lin Ling studied the stranger. "And what? I'm supposed to just... deviate from my role?"

"I'm not suggesting anything," the man said with the hint of a smile. "Just making an observation about how systems work." He glanced toward the approaching headlights of their bus. "Most people accept their assigned roles. Following the path laid out for them."

"And those who don't?" Lin Ling asked.

"They rewrite the rules."

The bus pulled up, doors opening with a hiss. The rain had slowed to a drizzle.

"Looks like our ride is here," the stranger said.

As they boarded the bus, Lin Ling finally took a proper look at the man under the shelter lights. He wore a plain black suit, slightly rumpled from a long day at the office. His black hair was styled in a simple bowl cut, and circular wire-rimmed glasses framed his eyes. There was nothing remarkable about him–just another tired salaryman heading home.

They took seats apart from each other, the brief connection of their conversation already fading into the quiet of the late-night bus. Lin Ling stared out the window, mind turning over the stranger's words about small changes and assigned roles.

Several stops later, Lin Ling glanced up to see the man still sitting quietly, his attention on something in his hand. Between his fingers, he was absently rolling what looked like a coin, the motion subtle and practiced. The man's reflection in the window showed a contemplative expression as the coin moved with impossible fluidity across his knuckles.

The bus hit a pothole, jolting Lin Ling's attention away. When he looked back, the man was simply gazing out the window, hands empty, nothing to indicate the fleeting glimpse of unusual dexterity.

38 AC, December - One Year After His Grandmother's Passing

The cemetery was quiet on weekday evenings, which was why Lin Ling preferred visiting after work. He followed the familiar path, the frozen ground crunching beneath his shoes, a small bunch of flowers in hand—the kind sold at the corner store near the bus stop.

His grandmother's grave was exactly as he'd left it last month—simple headstone, small ceramic pot for flowers, the silver-framed photo he'd placed there in summer now slightly tarnished by the weather. Snow covered the top of the stone, which he brushed away with his gloved hand.

"Hey, Grandma, sorry I'm later than usual. Work's been busy."

He adjusted the photo frame, making sure it was centered properly.

"The apartment heater is making that knocking sound again," he continued, kneeling to remove the withered stems from his last visit, replacing them with fresh flowers. "Remember how you used to hit it with the broom handle? I tried that, but I don't have your magic touch."

A distant car horn honked beyond the cemetery walls. Lin Ling glanced around, but he was alone among the rows of stones.

"Manager Cheng is off on a business trip this week. It feels like the office can finally breathe again. Everyone is a lot less on edge when there’s no risk of him catching you slacking off."

He pulled a tissue from his pocket to wipe a smudge from the photo frame.

"Oh, and that convenience store I used to work at—the one where I did all those night shifts—finally closed down. Becoming another coffee shop, I think. You'd probably have something to say about that." He smiled faintly, thinking about one customer in particular. "I still wonder about some of the regulars sometimes. Hope they found somewhere else to go."

The mundane updates continued as he tidied the small space—comments about a new restaurant in the neighborhood, how the landlord finally fixed the building's front door, the winter forecast predicting more snow than last year.

He checked his watch. The last bus would be coming soon.

"I should go. I'll be back next year to bring you those almond cookies you liked." He touched the top of the headstone briefly. "Don't worry about me too much, okay? I'm managing."

As he walked back toward the cemetery entrance, his footsteps left fresh marks in the light snow. Another evidence to an ordinary ritual, of a maintaining of connection across the divide of time and loss.

39 AC - One Month after the Ruins Incident 

The office had emptied for lunch, but Lin Ling remained at his desk, a container of instant noodles steaming beside his keyboard. 

He pulled out his phone and scrolled through news feeds mindlessly. Hero rankings updates. Product launches. Another shopping mall opening with a celebrity hero appearance. The usual noise designed to keep people distracted.

His thumb moved automatically, tapping through headlines he wouldn't remember five seconds later. 

A thumbnail caught his eye. Queen in an interview setting. He almost scrolled past it, but something made him pause. Maybe it was the headline: "Queen Discusses Heroism After Ruins Incident." Or maybe it was just that his grandmother had always respected Queen, said she was different from the other heroes.

"Let's see what corporate approved messaging looks like for a comeback tour," he thought, tapping play. Another perfectly crafted narrative, no doubt. But it would fill the silence of his empty desk.

The video opened with a polished studio setup. Queen sat across from the interviewer, her white hair catching the studio lights. Lin Ling cataloged it with professional detachment. Good composition. Flattering angles. Standard hero PR package.

The interviewer asked about her comeback after the Ruins Incident, about whether she still believed she could become X despite her setbacks.

"Yes," Queen said simply.

Lin Ling's chopsticks paused halfway to his mouth. "That's it? Where's the inspirational monologue? The carefully workshopped speech about perseverance?" A single word answer wasn't what marketing would approve. Too abrupt. Too honest.

When the interviewer pushed about being attacked by another hero, Lin Ling mentally drafted the expected response: deflect, talk about community, express disappointment without accusation, pivot to forward-looking optimism.

Instead, Queen leaned forward slightly. "Especially because of that," she said, a sharpness entering her voice. "The first time I lost, I thought it meant I wasn't strong enough. The second time, another hero decided I was a threat that needed to be eliminated."

Lin Ling's breath caught slightly. No media training would approve direct criticism of other heroes.

"Think about that," Queen continued. "Heroes, people meant to protect others, turning on each other over accusations and paranoia. That's not justice—that is self-interest. That is exactly what's wrong with this system."

As the interview continued, Queen spoke about the problems with hero competition, how it undermined their purpose as protectors. She effortlessly criticized the very foundation that Lin Ling spent his days propping up through advertising.

"Now comes the pivot," he thought. "This is where she'll soften it, walk it back to something safe and marketable."

Instead, Queen doubled down, her golden eyes intense as she described her evolving understanding of what it meant to be X. Not about power or rankings, but about being "someone worth following," someone who stands up "because people need you to."

Lin Ling felt a strange warmth spreading through his chest, his cynicism momentarily halted by her unexpected sincerity. Something about her struck him as familiar—not just her words, but her mannerisms, the particular way she tilted her head when considering a question.

It reminded him of someone, though he couldn't place who. He dismissed the thought; heroes likely had similar media training.

Then she said something that intensified the strange sense of familiarity.

"I've learned something important about what real heroism looks like," Queen said, her expression softening slightly. "It's not about grand gestures or perfect victories." She paused, a quiet warmth entering her eyes. "Sometimes it's as simple as sharing a meal with someone who's struggling or creating something beautiful when the world feels dark."

Lin Ling's breathing slowed. He leaned closer to the screen, studying Queen's features more intently.

"There are social workers who fight for forgotten children, paramedics who hold strangers' lives in their hands, and..." she paused, her eyes reflecting a private memory, "...even heroes in convenience stores who offer kindness on cold nights."

Lin Ling paused the video, his finger hovering over the screen. 

"Heroes in convenience stores…?" he repeated slowly. The phrase seemed oddly specific—almost out of place next to social workers and paramedics.

She must’ve wanted the most ordinary example—something approachable that anyone could see themselves in.

Right?

The nagging feeling intensified. Queen's eyes in the frozen frame seemed to look directly at him, as if she were speaking to him personally. It was ridiculous, of course. Just his imagination.

And yet...

He rewound the video, watching again as she spoke about everyday heroism. This time, he paid closer attention to her expressions, the way her features softened when mentioning convenience stores, the subtle shift in her tone.

Fragments of memory surfaced. Snow falling outside the convenience store windows. A woman with her hood pulled tight, buying alcohol night after night. White hair peeking out when her hood slipped back. Golden eyes catching the light.

"No," he thought to himself firmly, "you're making connections that aren't there." 

It was absurd to think that Queen—the Queen—would have been frequenting his convenience store during her absence from the public eye.

But the thought, once formed, refused to be dismissed. The timing aligned perfectly with Queen's disappearance after the tournament. The physical details matched. Even her philosophy sounded eerily similar to conversations he'd had with the hooded woman during those late-night shifts.

He tried to focus on the interview, but his mind kept overlaying Queen's image with memories of Yuwei—the quiet customer who had shared music with him at 3 AM, who had listened to his naive dreams of heroism.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to himself. "Next you'll be imagining you're best friends with X."

And yet there was the way she held herself. Her precise manner of speaking. That rare, fleeting smile.

Finally, unable to resist the urge to disprove this absurd theory, he opened a browser and typed: "Hero Queen real name."

The search results loaded instantly–the top result announced in bold text. He stared at the name, his rationalizations crumbling. 

"Liu... Yuwei," he breathed, the final pieces clicking into place.

Every interaction between them suddenly exploded in a chaotic storm of emotions: 

All those nights at the convenience store. The woman with her hood pulled tight, buying alcohol to numb her pain. Her snow white hair and radiant golden eyes.

Pride mixed with embarrassment. Awe tangled with disbelief. Warmth collided with a sudden ache of distance. The emotions tumbled through him too quickly to process, each memory recontextualized. 

Queen. She had been Queen all along.

"You'll be a good hero someday," she had told him that night, her golden eyes glowing with intent. Her final words before they parted ways. "Maybe our paths will cross again—when you're a hero." 

The realization hit him. Not just that Queen had been Yuwei—but that she had seen something in him worth believing in. That she, one of the strongest heroes in the world, had trusted that he could become a hero.

The thought ignited something he'd thought long dead. A yearning. A desire. A selfish, burning hope that he could be more than he was.

He wanted that. Wanted it with an intensity that surprised him. Wanted to prove her faith wasn't misplaced. Wanted to become someone worth remembering. Wanted to save people with his own hands.

He wanted to see her again.

Lin Ling leaned back in his chair, the video still frozen on Queen's face. His heart was racing, palms pressed flat against his desk as if to steady himself against the force of this sudden, overwhelming want.

For a moment—just a moment—he let himself imagine it. Standing beside her. Not in a convenience store at 3 AM, but in the light. As someone who mattered. As someone who could help carry the weight she'd been bearing alone.

But reality crashed back like a cold wave.

What chance did he have? He was just an office worker with no powers, no platform. Heroes now were manufactured products, not genuine saviors. The system wasn't designed for people like him.

He'd tried once, hadn't he? That presentation about authentic heroism. Cheng had torn it apart in minutes. "Heroes must remain aspirational." The words still stung.

So what could someone like him possibly do against a system that had rejected him so thoroughly?

His breath caught. The system...

His eyes drifted to his computer screen where the Moon commercial draft sat waiting for revisions. Moon, with her millions of followers. Moon, whose words were crafted by people like him.

By him.

The scripts he wrote weren't his voice—they were Moon's. And Moon's voice reached millions. People trusted her. Believed in her. Bought products because she endorsed them, adopted philosophies because she spoke them.

Something clicked in his mind. The system itself was the barrier—the very system he helped maintain. As long as heroes were just marketing tools, there would never be room for someone like him. But if that changed...

What if the tools could be turned toward something real?

Yuwei was fighting to transform the hero system from above. She was powerful—but even strength alone couldn't defeat an entrenched system. She needed allies. Support. People working alongside her to create cracks in the foundation.

He might not be able to stand beside Yuwei now. But he could support her fight from here—from this desk—through the very system that kept him out. He could use Moon's voice to plant seeds of authentic heroism, to spread the philosophy that might eventually reshape what being a hero meant.

That heroes could be defined by courage rather than marketing. That being a hero might become a possibility for anyone with the will to try.

That someday, it might be possible for him.

Lin Ling's vision blurred. He glanced around quickly—the office was still empty, everyone at lunch. He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to hold it back, but the tears came anyway—hot and sudden and overwhelming.

His shoulders shook as the weight of everything cycled through him: His grandmother's death. The months of corporate machinery grinding him down. The cynicism that had nearly destroyed every dream he'd ever held. And now this—the revelation that someone the world respected, someone powerful and genuine, had seen worth in him when nobody else would.

She had believed in him. Queen herself had believed in him.

The convenience store clerk who'd chased after a stranger with snacks. The naive kid who'd rambled about heroism at 3 AM. She'd looked at that person and seen a future hero.

He let himself break, just for a moment, in the quiet of the empty office. Let himself feel the full force of having been seen, having been valued, by someone who had every reason to dismiss him as nobody.

He wasn't nobody to her.

The sound of voices in the hallway—coworkers returning from lunch—made him straighten quickly. Lin Ling wiped his eyes roughly with his sleeve, taking shaky breaths as he tried to compose himself. His face felt hot, his chest tight, but something had loosened inside him—some knot of despair that had been choking him for months.

He shut off his phone as footsteps approached, turning his attention to the Moon commercial draft as if he'd been working on it the whole time. But his hand trembled slightly on the mouse.

When the office settled back into its normal rhythm of keyboard clicks and muted conversations, Lin Ling looked at his reflection in his darkened monitor. Red eyes, blotchy face. He'd need a few minutes before anyone looked at him too closely.

But beneath the physical evidence of his breakdown, something had changed. The path to her side would be long and uncertain, but at least now he had direction. A purpose both selfless and selfish—to support her fight against a broken system, and to carve out his own place within it.

This Moon campaign wouldn't just be another assignment—it would be his first step toward becoming someone who could stand beside Yuwei as an equal. To ensure she wasn't standing alone.

The world hadn't changed. But his heart had. For the first time in months, Lin Ling felt something stir inside him—not just purpose, but longing. A yearning to cross the distance that now separated them, to keep the promise hidden in her parting words.

The path wasn't clear yet, but the destination was:

Become a hero. By her side.

Wang Jie appeared at his desk the next morning, tablet in hand. Lin Ling's stomach clenched. The first test of his approach had arrived sooner than expected.

"The Moon script," Wang Jie said, scanning her tablet. Lin Ling kept his expression neutral, waiting for the inevitable corrections.

"Good work. The inspirational angle tests well with her demographic." She sounded mildly surprised, as if the data contradicted her expectations. "Different from our usual luxury focus, but the focus group metrics show higher engagement than our standard approach."

Lin Ling straightened in his chair. "Really?"

Wang Jie studied the numbers on her tablet, her expression analytical rather than approving. "The client metrics justified the approach this time. We'll see if it holds for future campaigns."

She walked away, leaving Lin Ling sitting there, processing what had just happened.

It had slipped through. Not because Wang Jie or TREEMAN suddenly believed in his philosophy, but because the metrics happened to align with his message.

He had found an opening.

Lin Ling opened his project folder with a new perspective. Moon's summer apparel campaign. The fitness supplement endorsement. The international tourism partnership. Each would require its own careful calibration, its own delicate balance between corporate requirements and authentic messaging. Each would need to justify itself through metrics and market research.

There was no guarantee the next attempt would succeed. He acknowledged that this particular execution had worked based on the numbers. He would need to fight for every inch of ground, justify every deviation, make each authentic message seem like good business rather than subversion.

But now he knew it was possible. A first step on an uncertain path, fraught with potential rejection and setbacks.

He began drafting concepts for the next campaign, this wouldn't be easy—the system was designed to resist the very changes he wanted to make. But for once, the challenge felt worth the effort.

…

Over the following weeks, Lin Ling dedicated as much effort as possible to every Moon commercial assignment. Cheng seemed pleased with his productivity and commitment. He had no idea what he was actually doing.

He stayed late at the office, perfecting commercial scripts with meticulous care, calibrating each message to pass review while carrying deeper meaning.

A skincare commercial that would have focused on "Moon's secret to glowing skin" became:

MOON (applying product to her face with elegant motions): "People often ask about my skincare routine." 

The product's packaging catches the light as she demonstrates its application, brand clearly visible.

MOON: "This formula helps me recover after long days." 

Close-up of the product texture being absorbed.

MOON (warm smile): "Because taking care of yourself isn't just about appearance—it's about recognizing your value."

A drink bottle commercial that should have emphasized "Train like a hero" transformed into:

MOON (taking a long drink from the branded bottle, clearly between destinations): "People think heroism is about the big moments."

The camera highlights the bottle's sleek design and temperature control features.

MOON: "But it's the small things. Staying hydrated. Getting rest. Taking care of yourself."

Product shot showing condensation on the cold bottle, logo visible.

MOON: "You can't show up for others if you don't show up for yourself first."

Each script went through the internal approval process. Each one eventually passed because the product remained center stage, while the inspirational elements served to enhance rather than overshadow the commercial message.

To casual viewers, these were simply effective product endorsements with Moon's characteristic warmth. But woven between the product shots and benefit statements were seeds of a different message—one that valued ordinary courage, that suggested heroism existed in everyday choices, that gently encouraged rather than dangled hope.

One evening, Wang Jie stopped by his desk as he was finishing another Moon script. "You've really found your niche with Moon's brand," she said, scanning his latest work. "Her commercial engagement numbers are way up. Whatever you're doing, keep doing it."

Lin Ling nodded, feeling pride spread through his chest. Genuine pride for the first time in months.

He'd found his purpose again, not as the hero he'd wanted to be, but as the invisible hand shaping the hero others would see.

39 AC – Three Months after the Ruins Incident

Since the interview, Lin Ling developed a new weekly habit: spending a lunch break at the hero merchandise shop near the office. It was almost funny—he spent his days crafting the narratives that were supposed to drive people here, and now he was studying whether those narratives actually worked.

The merchandise didn't lie. Empty shelves meant genuine popularity. Clearance racks meant even the industry's best efforts had failed to make people care. The mysterious X had an entire empty section despite no one knowing his identity, a testament to the power of a single dramatic victory. 

Lin Ling noted how quickly the market responded to success, how eager people were to claim connection to rising stars.

He paused at Moon's display, noticing something that sent a small spark of validation through him. Her section had expanded significantly since his last visit—and more importantly, it was half-empty, shelves bearing the telltale gaps of products that couldn't stay in stock.

"Excuse me," he asked a passing employee. "Are you restocking Moon's merchandise soon?"

The young woman nodded. "Third time this week. Ever since those new inspirational commercials started running, we can't keep her stuff on the shelves."

Lin Ling's heart quickened. Those were his words. His concepts. His vision of heroism made accessible to everyone.

"Her demographic has shifted too," the employee continued, adjusting a display. "Used to be mostly young women. Now we're seeing all kinds—parents buying for kids, older folks, people who never bought hero merch before."

Lin Ling nodded, trying to mask his excitement. The inclusive messaging was working exactly as he'd hoped. His words, through Moon's voice, were reaching people who'd never felt included in hero culture before.

He drifted toward the clearance section in the back, where forgotten heroes and outdated merchandise gathered dust. Heroes who'd fallen in rankings or retired. This was the fate he'd helped Moon avoid through careful message crafting.

Lin Ling moved back to the main floor, where current top-ranking heroes had prominent displays. And there, in a position of prominence befitting her rank 2 status, he saw Queen's merchandise section.

The display was impressive: premium placement, well-stocked with action figures, posters, collectibles, all bearing her image and the confidence she projected. Unlike Moon's section, Queen's merchandise wasn't flying off shelves quite as quickly—her image was more challenging, less easily commodified.

He picked up a Queen figurine, detailed and well-crafted. Every aspect of her costume was captured accurately, her posture commanding. He turned it over in his hands, examining the craftsmanship with a professional eye—the kind of quality control he'd learned to notice from reviewing product samples at the agency.

The weight of it was satisfying. Solid. The white hair had a slight pearlescent sheen that caught the store's fluorescent lighting. He traced the edge of her spear with his thumb—the detail work was impressive, each element precisely sculpted.

Then he saw the price tag.

Lin Ling glanced back at the Moon section he'd just passed—her figurines were half this price. Even Nice's merchandise, despite being TREEMAN's flagship hero, cost less than this. He could buy three or four mid-tier hero collectibles for the same amount.

He turned the figurine again, studying the way her cape flowed mid-motion, frozen in a moment of forward momentum. The golden eyes seemed to catch the light differently depending on the angle. There was a slight asymmetry to her stance, weight shifted like she was actually moving rather than posing.

He set it back on the shelf and looked at the other options. A Queen poster, significantly cheaper. A keychain. A set of collectible cards.

His hand reached for the figurine again.

The pose was what kept drawing him back—that forward momentum, the way she held her spear not raised for attack but angled down, grounded. Ready but not aggressive.

He looked at the price tag one more time, did the mental math of what this would mean for his budget this month, then carried it to the checkout counter before he could talk himself out of it.

His card was already in his hand.

…

Back at the office, Lin Ling cleared a small space on his desk between his monitor and keyboard. He unwrapped the Queen figurine and placed it there carefully, adjusting it until she faced him while he worked.

"Queen fan, huh?" a voice said behind him.

Lin Ling turned to see one of his middle-aged coworkers looking at the figurine with analytical interest. The man scratched his beard thoughtfully.

"Oh, uh— Yeah," Lin Ling said, abashed.

"Cool. She's rank 2 now, merchandise sales are probably through the roof." The coworker nodded approvingly, like he was discussing quarterly earnings. "She's capitalizing on that comeback narrative. People love a redemption arc."

Lin Ling made a noncommittal sound, his attention already drifting back to the figurine on his desk. The coworker continued talking—something about appeal, leveraging the Ruins Incident for maximum visibility, calculated public appearances to boost Trust metrics.

"...partnership opportunities alone must be worth millions. Premium tier sponsorships..."

Lin Ling adjusted the figurine slightly, angling it better toward his monitor.

"...classic case study in reputation management. Her value as a marketable asset is..."

The words became background noise, industry jargon that meant nothing.

"Can't blame you for buying in. She's got good marketing." The coworker walked away, leaving Lin Ling alone at his desk.

Lin Ling looked at the figurine. The way her spear was angled, grounded. The quiet determination in her expression.

Marketing. Brand value. Strategic positioning.

That's all they saw. That's all they would ever see.

But Lin Ling knew Yuwei. Had heard her real voice, seen her real struggle, understood what she was actually fighting for beneath all the corporate packaging. They would keep turning her into metrics, but he would help the world actually hear her.

…

Weeks later, late at night in the empty office, Lin Ling sat alone at his desk. By now "Queen" had become a permanent fixture beside his keyboard, her steady presence a quiet anchor through the grinding work. She had witnessed every revision, every frustrated deletion, every small victory since he'd placed it beside his keyboard. The figurine had become more than decoration—it was a promise he kept in sight. 

Tonight she kept watch over another Moon commercial script for an athletic apparel line.

He scrolled through what he'd written:

MOON (mid-workout, wearing the branded gear): "Being a hero isn't about powers."

She completes another rep, breathing hard but steady.

MOON: "It's about showing up. Fighting for yourself. For others. Even when—especially when—it's hard."

Product shot of the apparel's performance features.

MOON: "That courage? Anyone can have it."

He frowned, reading it again. Too direct.

"The 'anyone can have it' line," he muttered to the Queen figurine. "Manager Cheng would flag that immediately, wouldn't he? Too accessible. Not aspirational enough."

He deleted the last two lines and stared at the blinking cursor.

"Okay, so what if I..." He typed again:

MOON (slight smile): "The moments when you could quit, but don't. When no one's watching, but you keep going."

Lin Ling leaned back, studying it. "...Now it's too generic." He glanced at the figurine. "It could be selling anything like running shoes or coffee"

He deleted that too.

MOON: "Nobody sees the quiet victories. The days you show up when it would be easier not to."

Product shot emphasizing fabric technology.

MOON: "Those unseen choices—they shape us more than any applause."

He read it through, then looked at the figurine skeptically. "Too philosophical, right? Manager Cheng’s going to ask why we're talking about being unseen in an athletic wear commercial."

The figurine offered no response, just that steady forward-facing determination.

Lin Ling rubbed his eyes. The monitor cast harsh shadows across his workspace, the office silent except for the hum of his computer.

His gaze drifted to the figurine. He thought about Yuwei standing back up after her tournament loss. How long that must have taken. How many private moments of doubt no one ever saw.

Lin Ling pulled the script back up and tried once more:

MOON (mid-workout, performing an exercise in the branded gear): "Nobody sees the quiet victories."

The camera highlights the performance features of the apparel as she completes another rep.

MOON (slight smile): "The moments when you could quit, but choose not to. When the spotlight's off, but you keep going anyway."

Product shot emphasizing breathable fabric technology.

MOON: "Those unseen choices—they're what truly shape us. Not the applause."

He read it through three times, then looked at the figurine. "What do you think? Product's there—check. Athletic context—check. Message is..." He paused. "Diluted, but there. Manager Cheng won't love it, but he won't kill it either."

Not perfect. Not as direct as his first attempt. But it would survive review.

"Good enough?" he asked the figurine.

The golden eyes caught the light from his screen, seeming almost to shift in the shadows. He saved the document and checked the time. 1:47 AM. He should go home. 

Instead, he opened the next assignment. A limited edition watch collaboration. Luxury products were always trickier—harder to align with authentic messaging without the dissonance becoming obvious. He'd already drafted two versions earlier this week, both too heavy-handed.

The cursor blinked on the empty script page. He started typing, working through the problem out loud. "So Moon receives this watch as a gift. Or maybe– What if she's choosing it herself? Shows agency. But then it looks materialistic..."

The figurine stood silent, patient, as Lin Ling talked himself through another revision.

Some nights the words came easier than others, where the authentic message survived multiple revisions. Most nights, like tonight, he’d have to dilute and compromise on the messaging to make it pass.

"This is so surreal isn’t it?" he said to the figurine as he deleted another failed attempt at the watch script. "I'm sitting here talking to a plastic hero trying to inspire real heroism in fake advertisements." He gave a tired laugh. "Grandma must find this either very sad or very funny. Probably both."

"Queen" didn't answer, but something about her presence made it easier to start the next draft.

He typed, paused, deleted. Talked through the logic with the figurine then tried again.

"Later today I'll probably hate all of this," he told the figurine as he saved his latest draft. "But tonight, it's the best I've got."

She stood steady on his desk, golden eyes reflecting his screen's glow, a silent companion through another late night.

Chapter Text

41 AC - 6 Months before the 21st Heroes Tournament

Lin Ling looked on proudly at his inbox filled with approvals. TREEMAN had greenlit another batch of Moon campaigns. All that he'd pitched, developed, and refined using the formula he'd perfected over two years. Inspirational messaging carefully embedded within commercial packaging, tested until it generated consistent results. 

The Queen figurine stood between his monitor and keyboard, exactly where he'd placed it two years ago. A silent witness to hundreds of scripts, dozens of successful campaigns, the careful strategy that had kept him employed and purposeful.

"Lin Ling." Manager Cheng's voice cut across the office from his doorway, causing him to jump. "My office. Now."

He locked his computer and stood up in trepidation. Direct summons from Cheng were rare. The fact it was happening could only mean one of two things: that he’d severely messed up, or something big was about to happen. 

…

"The Hero Tournament is in six months," Cheng said, not looking up from the documents he was marking with his red pen. "Nice needs a campaign."

Lin Ling straightened slightly–his suspicions had been right.

"TREEMAN is concerned about Nice's ranking trajectory," Cheng continued, sliding a thin folder across the desk. "He's currently ranked 15. Tournament qualification requires top 10. That's a five-rank climb in less than six months."

Lin Ling held his breath. Rank 15. Despite all the months of careful reviews and meticulous ads, all the staged heroic acts–Nice still wasn’t safely qualified. 

A quiet sense of dread settled in his stomach. He didn’t particularly care where Nice placed–he’d long grown apathetic to the hero’s plight–but he knew that this looming campaign would push him beyond his limits. If mere real estate ads could take over a dozen revisions, he could only imagine what ads designed for tournament qualification could entail.

"Rankings lock two weeks before the tournament starts," Cheng said, his red pen tapping against the desk with each point. "That gives us about twenty-six weeks to build enough Trust to move Nice from rank 15 into the top 10. If he doesn't make it, TREEMAN loses their flagship hero's tournament presence."

"Five ranks..." Lin Ling opened the folder, scanning the brief. It was extensive: multimedia campaign, sustained engagement strategy, multiple touchpoints designed to maximize Trust accumulation.

"Powers are derived from Trust," Cheng said, as if Lin Ling needed the reminder. "The more public recognition Nice has, the higher he ranks and the stronger he becomes. Right now, he's been invisible for weeks. No media presence, no public appearances, nothing building Trust while his competitors are launching major campaigns."

He leaned forward. "We have heroes ranked 11 through 14 actively campaigning right now. Every day Nice stays quiet is a day they're pulling ahead. TREEMAN wants Nice dominating the conversation starting immediately. Press coverage, social media saturation, public events, everything that drives Trust numbers up."

"When does the campaign launch need to happen?"

"This week." Cheng's tone left no room for negotiation. "It all needs to be live by week's end or Nice starts falling further in the rankings instead of climbing."

It was ambitious, this kind of campaign normally took weeks to develop, not hours. But the stakes were clear: help Nice climb five ranks or watch TREEMAN's investment in their flagship hero become worthless.

"Any questions?" Cheng asked, his expression making it clear what the correct answer was.

"No, sir. Tonight. I understand."

"Good." Cheng returned to his documents. "This is high-priority. TREEMAN is our biggest client, and they're counting on us to make Nice tournament-relevant. Don't overthink it. Just deliver something that builds Trust."

With his dismissal, Lin Ling stood–folder in hand–and left the office.

…

Back at his desk, he opened the brief and began reading through TREEMAN's requirements. Tournament positioning, Trust-building messaging, commercial integration. But underneath the corporate language was a simple, urgent question: how do you make a rank 15 hero matter enough to crack the top 10?

He began to brainstorm in his head. He'd written for Nice before. Dozens of scripts for the couple campaigns with Moon. But those were maintenance campaigns for an established hero. This was different. This was about building momentum, creating public connection, and driving genuine engagement.

Rankings for the top 20 were an inhospitable battleground. The higher the ranking, the greater the disparity in Trust values. Yet he’d seen the volatility of Trust. A single event could overtake a handful of heroes at once–or plummet the hero out of the spotlight. There was no guarantee that his ad would have any impact, but he couldn’t quite brush it off either.

He referenced his Moon campaign templates, studying the framework that had generated two years of success. He’d established a strong pattern: embed authentic messaging within commercial structure, make heroism feel accessible, create emotional connection that translated to Trust.

But there was a major issue with that.

Throughout the last few years, Lin Ling had steered clear of tampering with Nice’s campaigns. Nice was different from Moon in every way—presentation, audience, ability. He represented a more traditional heroic archetype, one that wouldn’t work with the Moon formula.

He'd proved how authentic messaging resonated with audiences, how it built genuine Trust. But Nice's “perfect hero” image left no room for this kind of messaging. He needed a different kind of authenticity, something that could work within Nice's polished persona while still connecting emotionally with people. 

Lin Ling tapped his finger idly against the keyboard, he needed something new. 

He looked at the Queen figurine in thought. She'd be in that tournament. Trying for a third time despite two failures. Still trying to prove she could become X.

A spark of inspiration struck him–he could frame this a different way, with the tournament as the answer. He wouldn’t write about vulnerability, but aspiration. Not relatability, but inspiration. A hero fighting against the odds, refusing to give up despite the challenge ahead—that was something audiences could rally behind without compromising Nice's perfect image. 

He opened a blank document and began typing.

…

By 9 PM, Lin Ling had something he was confident in.

The campaign concept was clean: "To Be Hero X." Not because Nice would win—everyone knew that was impossible—but because the title represented aspiration itself. 

The strategy was clear: position Nice not as a guaranteed winner, but as someone fighting to earn his place. Show his training, his determination, his journey to rank 15 and beyond. Make the public invested in his climb. Turn his underdog status into his greatest asset.

"In this era where heroes are forged by trust, everyone creates heroes… And everyone can become heroes!"

It was bolder than his Moon work, more direct, less hidden. But Nice's situation demanded it. You didn't build Trust by playing it safe. You built Trust by creating genuine connection and making people believe in someone's journey.

He saved the file and leaned back in his chair. The office had mostly emptied, just a few account managers finishing late projects in distant cubicles. The Queen figurine caught the desk lamp's light, her determined expression seeming almost approving.

This would work. This would build Trust. This would move Nice up the rankings because it would make people care about whether he qualified.

Through the glass wall of Cheng's office, Lin Ling could see his manager still at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, clearly dealing with multiple crises. The lights were harsh against the night-dark windows.

Lin Ling checked the company scheduling system again—Cheng's calendar showed back-to-back meetings for the entire next day. With Wang Jie out for the week, there was no clear path for the usual review process. He glanced at the campaign materials on his desk, then back at Cheng's office. The manager had said he needed everything completed tonight.

As he deliberated over how to proceed, Cheng emerged from his office, briefcase in hand, preparing to leave.

Cheng spotted him at his desk. "The Nice campaign—where are we with that?"

"I've just finished the materials," Lin Ling said, gesturing to his screen. "Everything's ready."

Cheng glanced at his watch. "Good. I'm heading to a dinner with the executive team, then I have meetings all day tomorrow." 

He started toward the elevator, still talking. "TREEMAN needs to begin their review process as soon as possible. Nice dropped to rank 16 this morning, and every day of delay is another rank lost."

"Should I leave the materials on your desk for review in the morning?" Lin Ling called after him.

Cheng paused briefly at the elevator, already checking messages on his phone. "No time for that. Just send it over first and we'll figure it out tomorrow." He stepped into the elevator, still focused on his phone.

The doors shut, leaving Lin Ling alone with the ambiguous instruction. He sat back down at his desk and closed his eyes, debating over Cheng's words in his mind.

"Send it over first." That could mean different things. Send it to Cheng first for review? Or send it to TREEMAN first to get their review process started?

With Cheng's calendar completely booked for tomorrow and his emphasis on TREEMAN needing to begin their review as soon as possible, the instruction seemed clear enough. "Send it over first" must mean to TREEMAN, and "we'll figure it out tomorrow" meant they'd deal with any feedback or adjustments after the client had begun their review.

It made sense. TREEMAN's review process was notoriously lengthy—multiple rounds of feedback and approvals that could stretch for weeks. If they were going to hit their timeline, getting the first round of review started immediately was crucial.

Lin Ling opened his email and typed up an email to Miss J. He attached the campaign materials to an email: concept boards, script, creative brief, timeline, everything TREEMAN would need to begin their review process. Familiar steps that he’d done hundreds of times.

His finger hovered over the send button for just a moment, second-guessing himself as he always did. But the situation was unprecedented and the deadline was closing in with each passing minute, this was the only way to expedite the timeline.

He hit send.

The email sent away into the night. Delivered to TREEMAN at 10:52 PM, materials ready for their review to begin first thing tomorrow morning, exactly as Cheng had specified.

Lin Ling closed his laptop and gathered his things. Tomorrow, they’d probably have some initial feedback, and the approval process would be underway. Once approved, Nice's Trust numbers would start climbing. The campaign would launch sooner rather than later.

…

The next day passed in a blur of meetings and project work. Lin Ling had been checking his email obsessively all morning, hoping for some indication that the campaign had been well-received. He hadn’t received any confirmation that TREEMAN had seen the campaign yet , but that wasn’t unusual for the first day of review. 

At 3:17 PM, his desk phone rang.

"Lin Ling." Cheng's voice was clipped. "My office. Now."

Lin Ling frowned at the phone. According to the scheduling system, Cheng should be in a quarterly review meeting with senior management right now—a meeting that had been blocked out for weeks. Perhaps he wanted an update on TREEMAN's feedback before his next meeting?

He grabbed his laptop and the printed concept boards, assuming this was a quick check-in. TREEMAN must have sent some initial reaction, and Cheng wanted to discuss the next steps.

As he approached Cheng's office, he noticed the conference room that should have held the quarterly review was empty. Through the glass walls of his manager’s office, he could see the man in question standing by the window, phone pressed to his ear.

"Yes, I understand the importance of the quarterly review. We'll reschedule for tomorrow morning." Cheng's voice carried through the partially open door. "Something more urgent has come up. I appreciate your flexibility."

Lin Ling felt a slight unease. Cheng had canceled a meeting with senior management? That was unusual. Cheng ended the call and gestured for Lin Ling to enter.

"I haven't seen the campaign yet." Cheng said, sitting down at his desk with an unreadable expression. "Show me."

Lin Ling nodded as he connected his laptop to the display screen. "Of course. I have everything ready."

As he pulled up the presentation, Lin Ling felt confident. This was his best work, carefully crafted to build Trust while maintaining Nice's image. Cheng was just getting up to speed before TREEMAN's feedback came in.

Lin Ling started the presentation, an orchestral arrangement swelling as the visuals began.

"What is a hero?" Lin Ling narrated alongside the animations. The screen remained black for a beat, then split with a jagged crack of menacing purple lightning that illuminated the figure of a hulking monster with glowing eyes–long hair billowing against the wind.

Sparks of light illuminated Nice in his signature white and gold costume, as the hero charged forward against the monster, its massive form dwarfing the frame. Nice's cape billowed behind him, catching the light as he moved with inhuman grace. "A beam of light in the midst of darkness."

The monster's fist struck forward, launching a barrage of rocks and boulders. Nice dodged all of it with the grace of a butterfly, his expression calm and focused. The camera zoomed in on his determined eyes. 

"A savior in the moment of crisis." The monster roared, as Nice launched himself forwards, fists flying with a blur as each collision created a shockwave of energy—raw power visualized in bright flashes of white and gold. 

The scene shifts to a low-angle shot of Nice hovering above a massive crowd, the sun positioned perfectly behind him as if bathing him in light. "That being of perfection in the hearts of the people! That is Nice!" His white cape flutters majestically in the wind, the sapphire orb on his chest catching the light. 

The crowd below reached upward with outstretched hands. As Nice descends, he extends his own hand to touch those in the crowd. The point of contact erupted with bright cyan light—Trust energy physically manifesting to empower the hero. 

"In this era where heroes are forged by trust—" The camera spiraled around Nice as the Trust energy continued to build, illuminating his perfect features from every angle. The music softened as Nice smoothly transitioned into his iconic pose: two finger guns extended toward the camera with that trademark smile that conveyed both confidence and approachability. 

"—everyone creates heroes… And everyone can become heroes!" 

"Stop! Stop!" Cheng interjected, his voice cutting through the music like a blade. 

Lin Ling's enthusiasm faltered as he paused the video, hands frozen mid-gesture as he turned to face his manager. He hadn’t expected to be interrupted a minute into the presentation.

"Lin Ling, are you sure you know who our client is right now?"

"The perfect hero, Nice," Lin Ling confirmed.

Cheng leaned forward in his seat, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the table.

"Then why are you spouting nonsense like, 'Everyone creates heroes, everyone is a hero?'" He punctuated his words with a sharp strike of his fist against the table, causing Lin Ling to flinch. "We're trying to highlight Nice, Nice, Nice!" He tapped the desk with each repetition of the name, his irritation building.

"Yes, but… Isn't this what you usually teach us?" Lin Ling said, trying to regain his footing. He straightened slightly, drawing on the lessons he'd absorbed during his time at the company. "To use whatever's popular. The Hero Tournament is returning this year, so the closing remarks of this video should be…"

He raised his arm with renewed enthusiasm.

"To Be Hero X!" Lin Ling announced, his voice echoing off the walls. "The 'X' here seems at first like the title for the number one hero, but its hidden meaning is that even nobodies like me can become heroes–"

The sound of Cheng's palm slamming against the table reverberated through the room. He rose from his chair, face twisted into a livid expression.

"Enough! How old are you? Are you still trying to pretend to be a hero?"

Lin Ling's confidence crumbled under the withering gaze. He shifted uncomfortably, his earlier bravado replaced by the uncertainty of someone realizing they'd misread the room entirely.

"Uh… Maybe–"

"No maybes! Look at you!" Cheng's finger shot out, pointing directly at Lin Ling with accusatory precision. "What is noteworthy about you? What abilities do you have? What special traits do you have?"

Each question struck viciously. Lin Ling's shoulders sagged slightly with every word, the weight of his manager's dismissal settling over him like a heavy blanket.

Cheng leaned forward across the table, bringing his face closer to Lin Ling's. "You're just an average, mediocre person. A normal person!" The emphasis on the last phrase carried the weight of absolute condemnation.

"Normal people like you shouldn’t be inserting meaningless aspirations into the destiny of a hero!"

"But…" Lin Ling started, his voice barely above a whisper.

"No buts!" Cheng's interruption was swift and final, cutting off any attempt at protest or explanation. "Start over!"

Lin Ling gathered what remained of his courage, drawing a shaky breath.

"But–"

The sudden buzzing of Cheng's phone cut through the tension like a knife. His expression shifted from fury to professional concern as he glanced at the caller ID. He held up a hand, leaving no room for argument.

"Stop talking! Turn off that music!"

Lin Ling moved quickly to comply, stumbling over to his laptop to silence the presentation as his manager answered the call.

"Hello Miss J. Yes, yes…" Manager Cheng's tone shifted to the carefully modulated politeness reserved for important clients. Then confusion crept into his voice. "Pardon? You've already received the proposal? Ah– Perhaps there was some mishap in the process, our internal operations haven't–"

"Hello? Miss J? Hello?"

The silence that followed was deafening. Manager Cheng stared at his phone screen, his face cycling through various emotions. From what it seemed, the call had ended abruptly.

Lin Ling watched his manager's expression change, realizing with growing dread what had happened. He stepped forward hesitantly, his voice small in the suddenly quiet office.

"Last night you said to 'send it over first,'" Lin Ling said, his voice tight. "You said TREEMAN needed to begin their review process as soon as possible." 

Manager Cheng turned slowly. When his eyes met Lin Ling's, they held a cold fury that made the earlier anger seem mild by comparison.

"I told you to have it READY." Cheng's voice rose with each word. "Ready for ME to review! Not for you to send directly to the client without approval!" 

"You said 'send it over first and we'll figure it out tomorrow'—" 

"I meant send it over to ME!" Cheng stepped toward him, his control slipping entirely. "It means finished on YOUR end so I can review it! How did you interpret that as permission to bypass every protocol?" 

Lin Ling felt the room tilting, the ambiguous instruction resolving exactly as he'd feared. Wrong, regardless of how he'd interpreted it. "With your schedule completely booked and Wang Jie out for the week, I thought—" 

"They need to HAVE it means we need to GET it to them! After review! After approval! After I've seen it!" Cheng's hands pressed flat against the table. "You've worked here for four years. You know the process. You don't just send unapproved materials directly to our most important client!" 

"I thought—" Lin Ling's voice broke slightly. "You were stressed about the rankings dropping, you said no time for the usual back-and-forth, I thought you meant—" 

"You didn't think. You took the interpretation that was easiest, that required the least effort on your part." Cheng gestured at the presentation, still frozen on screen. "This fantasy about everyone being heroes, sent directly to TREEMAN without any review, making us both look like amateurs who can't follow basic professional standards." 

"Manager Cheng, I can fix this—"

"Lin Ling." Cheng's voice dropped to something quiet and absolute. "Pack your stuff and get the hell out."

The words hung in the air, final and irreversible.

Lin Ling stood frozen, his mind struggling to process what had just happened. Four years of successful campaigns. Four years of careful navigation. Four years of proven results.

Gone in a single morning because he'd guessed wrong.

He gathered his laptop with trembling hands, disconnected the cables, and left the room without another word. The door closed behind him with a soft click that sounded like a cell locking.

…

The office continued its morning routine around him as if nothing had changed. Keyboards clicking, phones ringing, conversations about campaign deadlines and client feedback. Lin Ling walked to his desk in a daze. He pulled an empty cardboard box from the supply closet, and began packing his belongings.

All of his accumulated work life fit into a single box. Draft proposals that had never been approved. Office supplies he'd bought himself. A coffee mug with the company logo. The Queen figurine went in last, her determined expression now seemed like a cruel mockery of his own failure—her unwavering resolve highlighting exactly what he had lost.

Across the office, several colleagues continued their work, none willing to look in his direction. Four years. Hundreds of successful campaigns. Hundreds of hours working together. And not even a goodbye from anyone. Not even the courtesy of recognition that he'd existed.

There wasn't even the small comfort of a kind face like Huang Ming acknowledging what was happening. Just the silent collective agreement to pretend he'd never been there at all.

Lin Ling picked up the box and walked toward the elevator, past colleagues who suddenly became very interested in their computer screens. No one made eye contact. No one spoke.

The elevator doors closed, and the office disappeared from view.

Lin Ling stood on the rooftop of the building overlooking his office, the box of his belongings sitting beside him on the concrete ledge. Below, the city sprawled in all directions, indifferent to his catastrophe. Above, the sky was that perfect sunset that made everything feel surreal.

He'd ended up there without really deciding to. His feet had just carried him up stairs and elevators, through hallways that blurred together, until he stopped moving and found himself staring down at the city that suddenly held no place for him.

No job. No references, Cheng would make sure of that. No way to find new work in an industry where everyone knew everyone and word traveled fast. Blacklisted for a mistake that had no right answer.

He thought about his grandmother, about the promise he'd made that he'd survive, that he'd find meaning in the work somehow. He'd tried. He'd found a way to embed authentic messages in commercial packaging, to spread the ideals she'd taught him even while working in a corrupt system.

And it had ended here, on a rooftop, with a box of meaningless belongings and no path forward.

Six months until the tournament. Six months until Yuwei would try for a third time. Six months until Nice would need to climb from rank 16 to top 10 to even qualify.

And Lin Ling would see none of it.

"Hey, cheer up! Being alive means experiencing many challenges, but please don't lose faith!" Moon's cheerful voice rang out from a flying billboard, her image bright against the skyline. "Watch True Love Recipe! Discover the secret to our perfect love!"

Lin Ling looked up at the advertisement, recognizing his own work. He'd written that promotional video two months ago, crafted those exact lines to sound encouraging and warm. Now they mocked him from a hundred feet in the air.

"Remember to tune in to our show with your lover!" Billboard Moon continued with her scripted enthusiasm.

"Shit," Lin Ling muttered to himself. "Why’d I have to write these lines to hurt my own feelings?"

Another billboard activated from behind him, this one featuring Nice in his iconic white and gold suit, cape billowing dramatically. "Hey, have you got a house?"

"No!" Lin Ling whined to the empty rooftop.

"A lifelong companion is essential for a perfect family, but you also need a stable abode. TREEMAN Group, fulfilling the dreams of every one of you who worries."

The advertisement glitched, the audio skipping. "—you who worries— you who worries— you who worries—" The phrase repeated endlessly, Nice's perfect smile frozen on screen.

Something inside Lin Ling snapped.

"Shut up, Nice!" He shouted at the malfunctioning billboard, his voice raw with months of suppressed rage. "Everything about you is a fabrication! Your perfection, your smile, your whole existence! I hope that when I’m gone, your perfect image dies with me!"

He said it as a final act of defiance, knowing that Nice would continue to be recognized while Lin Ling would fade into complete obscurity with nothing to his name. The rank 16 hero would climb back toward qualification using someone else's work, someone else's ideas, while Lin Ling became forgotten by the corporate machine.

Yet it was as if he'd summoned the devil himself.

A figure descended from the sky with fluid grace, white and gold costume catching the afternoon light, cape flowing behind him like something out of a commercial. Nice landed on the rooftop with perfect heroic poise, looking more like an idol than a man.

Lin Ling froze, his anger instantly replaced by fear. Had Nice heard him? Was he going to be thrown off the ledge for insulting a top-ranked hero? He searched Nice's face for rage or judgment, but the hero's expression remained passive, almost blank, as he began walking forward.

The sound of flapping took him out of his trance. Wings and white feathers erupted around them as a flock of doves rushed past, summoned as if on command to herald Nice's entrance. 

Their eyes met for a brief moment. Nice never stopping his steady advance. Lin Ling nervously watched the perfect hero approach. There was the embodiment of everything he'd spent years marketing, everything he'd tried to believe in and everything that had failed him.

Nice's expression didn't change. He looked at Lin Ling with the same passive indifference he might show a statue or a piece of street furniture. Then he stepped up onto the ledge beside Lin Ling, turned toward him, and struck his signature pose: two finger guns and that practiced, perfect smile.

Lin Ling barely had time to process the gesture before Nice's feet left the ledge.

The hero dropped like a stone, cape twisting uselessly around his body as he fell. His form struck a lower ledge with a sickening crack that echoed up the building's face, then tumbled the rest of the way to the sidewalk below.

"C-Can't he fly?" Lin Ling gasped, his mind struggling to process what he'd just witnessed. "How did he just die?"

He stood frozen, staring over the edge at the crumpled form on the sidewalk far below. Nice's white and gold costume was visible against the gray concrete, cape spread around him like a funeral shroud. The perfect hero, broken and motionless.

The malfunctioning billboard continued its repetition in the background: "—the Perfect Hero Nice— the Perfect Hero Nice—"

This wasn't real. This couldn't be real. Heroes didn't just walk off buildings. Nice could fly, could manipulate air currents, could do a dozen things that should have prevented what Lin Ling had just seen.

The sound of rapid footsteps on concrete made him spin around, heart hammering against his ribs.

"Miss J! Over there!" A voice called out.

A blonde woman in glasses emerged leading a group of men in suits. They rushed toward him with grim, focused expressions.

"Wait! It wasn't me!" Lin Ling said, waving his arms frantically in front of him. "He just—I didn't—"

The woman–Miss J–who he realized with dawning horror was Nice's manager from TREEMAN, barely glanced at him as she surveyed the rooftop with professional efficiency.

"Where's Nice?" she demanded.

Lin Ling pointed meekly over the edge, his hand trembling. "H-He's down there! He jumped! He did it himself! It's got nothing to do with me!"

The group moved to the edge, looking down to confirm what he'd said. "He really did fall to his death!" One of them exclaimed, genuine shock breaking through his professional demeanor.

"It wasn't my fault!" Lin Ling's voice rose with panic. "He jumped off by himself!"

Miss J ignored his protests, her attention shifting to the men around her. She pointed at Lin Ling with decisive authority. "Secure him."

"Wait, no! I'm not—"

One of the suited men stepped forward, pulling something from his jacket. Lin Ling barely had time to register what it was before a burlap sack descended over his head, cutting off his protests and plunging him into suffocating darkness.

Strong hands grabbed his arms as Lin Ling's muffled shouts were lost beneath the fabric. Lost in the darkness, he felt himself being lifted as he was carried away to an unknown fate.

The sharp sound of a woman’s voice woke him. 

“Cancel all activities this week. Say that Nice is doing solitary training to come up with new combat techniques.”

With his cheek pressed against concrete, he opened his eyes to a Nice billboard–the irony of his face being the first thing he saw. Although this billboard was different from the one on the rooftop before–this Nice was older, the colors muted.

His eyes darted around, taking in the steel beams and construction cones strewn across the floor. An entire side had no walls, opening up completely to the air outside. It appeared he was holed up in some half-finished building, likely miles away from the office.

Two guards stood beside him–one of them flexed, which struck him as odd. They hadn’t seemed to notice he was awake. He tried slowing down his breathing, not wanting to find out what they’d do to him once he was awake.

“It’s not a dream? Did I really see Nice jump with my own eyes?”

He wondered whether Nice had planned to die from the beginning, or if his earlier words drove him towards it. But that didn’t make sense—he was a nobody. Some stranger’s emotional outburst should’ve meant nothing to a top 20 hero.

The sharp clicking of heels alerted him from his thoughts. His gaze lifted from the floor to meet the cold eyes of the woman who had ordered his capture.

“Oh, you’re finally awake. Someone pick him up,” Miss J commanded.

“Wait! I can get up by myself!” Lin Ling reached out in protest. “Miss J! I’m Lin Ling, the guy who sends you the advertisement proposals! Hero Ling!” He struggled against his captors.

She firmly grasped his face, silencing him. “Who you are is of no importance.” He grunted in surprise as she tilted his chin up. “Tell me everything you saw and heard.”

A million thoughts rushed through his head at once, but perplexingly none had an answer. “He just walked by me and jumped off. He didn’t say a word.” Lin Ling said, trying his best to summarize.

Seemingly unsatisfied by the response, Miss J asked him again, “Nothing else?”

“Nothing else,” Lin Ling confirmed, before a thought struck him that he thought was odd. “Oh yeah!”

“What is it?” Miss J asked urgently, the other suited men leaning forward in response.

“He also did his signature pose,” he gestured with finger guns.

A phone buzzed before she could comment. Miss J stepped away, one finger raised in a gesture that implied she wasn’t done with him yet. Overhearing her calmly explaining Nice’s disappearance to a man named “Mr. Shand,” Lin Ling couldn’t help but dwell on his present situation.

Was this it? He’d told her everything he knew—even if he knew nothing. Were they going to dispose of him as a loose end? Torture him out of a confession of a crime he didn’t commit? Would they silence the only witness to the death of a man he'd written years of ads for?

His breathing quickened. Everything he'd seen rushed back—the man's crumpled form, his lifeless body sprawled on the pavement.

It was real. Nice was actually—

“Nice is dead!” Lin Ling exclaimed in panic, while the startled handlers tried to silence him.

Struggling against his restraints, Lin Ling desperately tried to free himself as he yanked himself forward and backward. The violent rocking motion built momentum until— With one particularly forceful backward thrust, Lin Ling's head connected solidly with the man positioned behind him. The handler grunted and stumbled back, loosening his grip just enough for Lin Ling to break free and stumble forward a few unsteady steps.

Breaking into a sprint, Lin Ling didn’t make it far before a sharp pain exploded across the side of his head. Miss J had simply reached down, grabbed a paint bucket from the scattered construction materials, and hurled it at him. All without breaking stride in her phone conversation or even glancing in his direction.

When his vision returned, Lin Ling found himself crushed underneath the weight of the suited men. White paint began to drip from his face from where the bucket had struck. Grunting, he attempted to pull himself free. “Miss, capturing me won’t bring him back to life!”

His plea was desperate. TREEMAN was one of the most powerful corporations in the world. If they willed it, he’d be tied down to cinder blocks and then thrown somewhere in a river. So long as he wasn’t a hero, nobody would bat an eye.

“He’s dead, yes, but our brains are still alive.” Miss J said matter-of-fact, “We’ll come up with something.”

She narrowed her eyes before making a noise of realization, the suited men echoing back in confusion. She leaned forward, getting a closer look at his face. “Don’t you guys think he kind of looks like Nice?”

Still pinned against the ground, Lin Ling’s eyes darted around uneasily as he saw the figurative light bulb click for the suited men. He didn’t know what that meant, but he wasn’t sure if he liked the sound of it.

Over the next few days, Lin Ling's life unraveled like a fever dream he couldn't wake from.

The moment Miss J and her four guards realized they could avoid a scandal, everything moved with surgical precision. No paperwork, no official records, no corporate oversight. Within hours, Lin Ling found himself shoved into an unmarked sedan, watching the city lights blur past as they drove toward a TREEMAN owned building.

"No one else can know about this," Miss J had said as they processed him through a single security checkpoint. "As far as TREEMAN is concerned, Nice is on a private training retreat. As far as the world is concerned, you never existed."

And for the next few days, that was just how it was. Just Lin Ling, Miss J, and her handlers in an entire empty building. No other staff, no witnesses, no paper trail. The same faces, day after day, managing every aspect of his transformation in complete secrecy.

Before the training could begin, they had to remake his appearance. Hair dye that burned his scalp, blue contact lenses that made his brown eyes water and feel constantly irritated, even subtle makeup techniques to reshape his facial features. Each change in the mirror made Lin Ling look more like a stranger to himself, his reflection becoming an uncanny approximation of Nice's perfect features.

The worst part was memorizing Nice's lines with only Miss J's handler acting as his instructor. A single binder of Nice's most common responses served as his lessons, the bare minimum needed to fool the public in controlled situations.

"Giving my all to chase perfection has nothing to do with rankings," Lin Ling stammered into a borrowed microphone, his voice echoing in the empty conference room they'd converted into a practice studio. His face was uncertain, eyebrows furrowed in concentration rather than radiating Nice's practiced sincerity.

"Again," the handler said, glancing nervously at Miss J. Even he seemed uncomfortable with the weight of the secret they were carrying. "Nice doesn't hesitate. Nice believes he embodies the ideal."

Miss J watched from the corner, arms crossed, calculating every risk. 

A sinking feeling settled in his chest. How many people would they have to fool? How long could they maintain the deception? How much could he actually learn with such limited resources and time?

At night, they locked him in a repurposed office with a cot and basic amenities. A singular guard stood watch outside. 

But where could he run within the city? Just the knowledge that these five people held his life in their hands—that they knew the full truth—stopped him from trying.

One night, Lin Ling lay awake in the makeshift bedroom, staring at the ceiling tiles. In the silence, he began reflecting on everything he'd lost in those frantic moments on the rooftop. His box of belongings was probably still sitting there, a few pathetic office supplies and draft proposals that had seemed so important just days ago. Maybe the police had collected it as evidence. Maybe it had blown away in the wind.

Sometimes he wondered if anyone had even noticed he was missing. His apartment rent was probably overdue by now. His few possessions sitting lonely in rooms no one would ever visit again. Had they already replaced him at the advertising agency? Maybe they’d just unceremoniously passed the baton to the next unfortunate soul—doomed to handle the TREEMAN ads in his place.

The silence of the empty building pressed in around him, broken only by the distant murmur of Miss J's team planning tomorrow's training in another room. In this hollow place, with these five strangers, he was becoming someone else entirely.

"Nice maintains perfect posture at all times," the handler grunted, adjusting the weights on Lin Ling's shoulders. "Shoulders back, core engaged. Heroes don't slouch."

Lin Ling's muscles screamed as he held the position, sweat dripping onto the concrete floor of their makeshift gym. The handler had explained that Nice's physique wasn't just about strength—it was about looking effortlessly powerful, like someone who had never struggled with anything in his life.

"Again. And this time, smile while you do it. Nice makes everything look easy."

…

"Ballet builds the foundation of heroic movement," Miss J announced, setting up a portable barre in the empty conference room. "Nice doesn't walk, he glides. He doesn't gesture, he flows."

Lin Ling stumbled through basic positions, his legs shaking as he attempted what the instructor called a "simple" relevé. Every movement felt forced and awkward, nothing like Nice's effortless elegance in the promotional videos.

"Perfection requires discipline," the handler corrected, pushing Lin Ling's chin up. "Nice's body is always under complete control. No wasted motion, no uncertainty."

…

The piano had been wheeled in overnight, another piece of equipment quietly requisitioned from some other TREEMAN facility. Lin Ling stared at the keys, having never touched an instrument in his life.

"Nice plays piano at charity galas," one handler explained, pulling up sheet music on a tablet. "Simple pieces, nothing too complex. Just enough to seem cultured and accomplished."

Lin Ling's fingers fumbled over the keys, producing discordant notes that echoed harshly in the empty room. The handler winced.

"Nice would never hit a wrong note in public. Practice until muscle memory takes over. You don't need to feel the music, you just need to perform it flawlessly."

…

"Wine appreciation," Miss J said, setting down a bottle she'd brought from her personal collection. "Nice knows the difference between a Bordeaux and a Burgundy. He can discuss vintage years with corporate sponsors."

Lin Ling sipped the expensive wine, trying to detect the "notes of cherry and oak" the handler described. It all tasted like alcohol to him, but he nodded and repeated the approved descriptions.

"Art history. Nice can make intelligent conversation about classical painters without being pretentious." Flash cards appeared: Monet, Picasso, Van Gogh. Names and dates and artistic movements to memorize without understanding.

"Philosophy. Just the basics, enough to sound thoughtful in interviews. Plato's cave, Nietzsche's übermensch, concepts people recognize but don't expect deep analysis of."

…

By the end of the week, Lin Ling could perform a basic piano sonata with mechanical precision, maintain perfect posture while lifting weights that would have crushed him days earlier, and discuss Renaissance art with the vocabulary of someone who'd never stepped foot in a museum but had memorized the right words.

None of it felt real. Each skill was a hollow performance, knowledge without understanding, refinement without genuine cultivation. He was becoming a perfect simulation of sophistication, all surface with nothing underneath.

At night, exhausted and aching, Lin Ling would lie on his cot wondering who Nice really was underneath all this manufactured perfection. Had the real Nice learned these things naturally, over years of privileged upbringing? Or had he too been molded by corporate handlers, shaped into an ideal that never truly existed?

The most terrifying part wasn't the physical training or the memorization. It was how quickly his body was adapting, how easily the refined movements were becoming natural. Each day, a little more of Lin Ling disappeared behind layers of cultivated perfection that felt increasingly like a burial shroud for his authentic self.

"Today you graduate," Miss J announced, setting a garment bag on the conference table. "Nice has a charity gala appearance tonight. Simple meet-and-greet, minimal speaking required. Your first real test."

Lin Ling's hands trembled as he unzipped the bag, revealing Nice's iconic white and gold suit. The fabric felt expensive, pristine, nothing like the cheap corporate wear he'd worn at his old job. When he put it on, the transformation in the mirror was startling. He looked like Nice, moved like Nice, and yet he felt like a fraud wearing a dead man's clothes.

The gala was held at one of the city's most prestigious hotels. Lin Ling sat in the back of a white limousine, adjusting his contact lenses one more time as they approached the red carpet entrance. Through the tinted windows, he could see crowds of people already gathered, cameras flashing in anticipation.

"Remember, Nice is gracious but not overly familiar," Miss J said from the seat across from him. "Smile, thank them for their support, move to the next person. Don't improvise."

The limousine glided to a stop in front of the hotel's grand entrance. Lin Ling could see the crowd pressing against the barriers, phones and cameras raised, excitement building as they realized who was inside.

The driver opened his door, and suddenly Lin Ling was stepping out onto the red carpet, camera flashes erupting like lightning. The crowd erupted in cheers, "Nice! Nice!" Their voices carrying genuine excitement and adoration.

He stood for a moment, letting the cameras capture his arrival, then moved gracefully toward the hotel entrance with the practiced elegance they'd drilled into him. He made sure each step was measured, controlled, and above all, perfect.

The doors to the hotel opened, and suddenly he was thrust into a sea of faces, hands reaching out to shake his. The crowd pressed in around him, voices calling out to his borrowed name.

"Thank you for your support," he heard himself saying, the words automatic now. "It means everything to have believers like you."

A woman grabbed his hand, tears in her eyes. "You saved my daughter's school with that fundraiser last year. She wants to be a hero just like you."

Lin Ling's smile faltered for just a moment. He'd never saved anyone's school. He wasn’t confident that Nice himself had either.

"Heroes come in all forms," he managed, falling back on one of the scripted responses. "She already has everything she needs."

The woman beamed and walked away satisfied. Around him, more people pressed forward, each with their own story of how Nice had touched their lives, how he'd given them hope. Lin Ling nodded and smiled and delivered his lines, all while feeling like he was desecrating something sacred.

When the event ended, Miss J's assessment was brief: "Adequate. You'll need to work on eye contact. But you fooled them. That's what matters."

…

Lin Ling sat in the back of the limousine as it pulled away from the hotel, watching the city blur past through tinted windows. The white and gold suit felt heavy on his shoulders now, the weight of the deception settling in. Miss J occupied the seat across from him, scrolling through her tablet with clinical efficiency. The silence stretched for several blocks before Lin Ling finally spoke.

"Miss J," he said quietly. "It's already been a few days. Have we found out why Nice jumped?" 

Miss J didn't look up from her tablet. "Let me make this clear. Someone jumped because his boss put too much pressure on him." She held his gaze. "You. Nice never died. You did."

Lin Ling blinked. "What?"

Without a word, she handed him the tablet. A news article filled the screen, buried in the back pages of the local section:

EMPLOYEE DIES IN APPARENT FALL, WORKPLACE PRESSURE CITED

Lin Ling, 22, an employee at Three Axes Agency, died Tuesday evening after falling from a building in the downtown district. Police report no signs of foul play, though the incident is being investigated as a potential suicide.

Colleagues described the deceased as a quiet, dedicated worker who had been under considerable stress in recent weeks. Sources close to the agency indicate that Lin's supervisor, Manager Cheng Yaojin, was known for demanding work standards and an overbearing management style.

"The pressure was intense," said one anonymous coworker. "Lin was working late almost every night."

In response to the incident, Three Axes Agency has announced that Manager Cheng has been let go, effective immediately. The agency released a statement expressing condolences and emphasizing their commitment to employee mental health and workplace safety.

Lin Ling stared at the screen, “Wait a minute! I didn’t agree to this! I don’t want to be dead!”

"That doesn’t matter. This news article only has one view," Miss J said, gesturing at the tablet in her hands. "No one cares if you died or not. All they care about is Nice, and Nice is alive."

One view. That's all his death was worth. That's all Lin Ling had ever been worth. And now, Nice will continue to live on. 

How long would this last? A month? A year? Would he spend the rest of his life trapped in this borrowed identity, smiling for cameras and delivering scripted lines? Would he grow old wearing Nice's face, remembered by millions as someone he'd never been? 

And when he finally did die—truly die—would anyone even know? Would the world mourn a hero while Lin Ling disappeared twice, erased so completely that even his death as himself had been given to someone else? 

This was his life now. This was all his life would ever be. 

The limousine pulled up to the TREEMAN building, back to the empty facility where five people held his life in their hands. Miss J was already gathering her things, preparing for tomorrow's training schedule. 

"Get some rest," she said as the handler opened the door. "You have media training at eight tomorrow morning. We need to work on your smile—it's still too nervous." 

Lin Ling stepped out of the car, shoes clicking against the pavement. The building loomed above him, a hollow prison where he'd learn to perfect someone else's mannerisms, someone else's voice, someone else's entire existence. 

He walked through the doors and heard them lock behind him with a soft, final click.

Weeks blurred together. Lin Ling found himself slipping into Nice's mannerisms even when no one was watching—the way he stood, the tilt of his head, the practiced smile. The handlers noticed and seemed pleased.

He stopped resisting the transformation. What was the point? Fighting only made the days harder. But somewhere in that surrender, something unexpected happened.

The training continued, but it felt different now. Less like torture, more like... purpose. 

Nice's scripted responses came to his lips without thought, but some of them weren't so different from things he'd wanted to say himself. The elegant gestures flowed naturally. Even his handwriting had started to change, loops and flourishes matching the samples they'd given him.

At a children's hospital visit, a little girl asked him what makes someone a hero. "Believing in yourself," he heard himself say. "And never giving up, even when things seem impossible." She smiled, hanging on every word, and for a moment—it felt real. Like he was actually inspiring someone.

He was being adored. Loved. People looked at him with genuine hope in their eyes. Strangers thanked him for giving them courage. Children wanted to be like him.

It was wrong. He knew it was wrong. He was a fraud wearing a dead man's face.

But wasn't this what he'd always wanted? To be a hero? To inspire people the way Yuwei had inspired him? 

He'd spent years writing campaigns about heroism, dreaming of somehow mattering, of making a difference. And now people believed he was a hero. They trusted him. They found strength in his words.

The role itself wasn't bad. He was pretending—but he'd take this over the endless overtime in Cheng's office, over the soul-crushing revision cycles, over being nobody. At least here, his words meant something to someone, even if they thought he was someone else.

Occasionally, the guilt gnawed at him. He was lying to everyone. Desecrating Nice's memory. Living a life built on a corpse and a cover-up.

But when a young boy looked up at him with stars in his eyes and said "You make me want to be brave," Lin Ling couldn't help but feel something warm flicker in his chest. Something that felt dangerously close to hope.

Maybe he didn't deserve this. Maybe it was all built on a terrible foundation.

But for the first time in years, he felt like he was doing something that mattered.

Lin Ling woke up one morning and immediately knew something was wrong. The world looked different, sharper, more vivid. Colors seemed more saturated, details more crisp.

He stumbled to the bathroom mirror and froze.

His eyes were blue.

Not the artificial blue of the contact lenses, but a clear, natural blue that matched Nice's perfectly. He blinked hard, rubbed his eyes, splashed cold water on his face. The blue remained.

"The contacts," he whispered to himself, reaching up to remove them. His fingers found nothing. No thin plastic discs, no irritating foreign objects. 

They were just... his eyes now. 

Lin Ling stared at his reflection, something between wonder and disbelief settling in his chest. The Trust system had done this. The collective belief of thousands who saw him as Nice—it was real. It was working. He was actually becoming a hero.

He touched the mirror, watching his blue-eyed reflection move with him. After years of writing about the Trust system, of crafting campaigns about how belief creates power, he was finally experiencing it firsthand. The thing he'd spent so long analyzing from the outside was now happening to him.

In the distance, he could hear Miss J's voice calling for morning training. Lin Ling took a breath and turned away from the mirror, a strange lightness in his step. Another day of being Nice—except now it wasn't just pretending anymore. 

…

He walked to the conference room, barely containing the nervous energy buzzing through him. One of the guards glanced over with casual interest. 

"You seem different today, kid." 

Lin Ling gave a  smile, gesturing to himself. "I'm actually becoming Nice." 

The guard looked confused. "Uh... Right? That's not new?" 

Lin Ling didn't bother explaining. How could he? The guard had been watching him transform for weeks, but this—this was different. This was proof that it was working. That he wasn't just an imposter in borrowed clothes.

As he entered the room, everything seemed sharper, clearer. He could hear the quiet hum of the ventilation, the guards' muttered card game, even the muted sounds of traffic outside. His senses felt enhanced, heightened in ways he'd never experienced before. 

Miss J sat at the head of the table, eyes scanning her tablet. At his arrival, she glanced up, her blue eyes narrowing slightly at the expression on his face. 

"What's wrong?" 

He pointed to his eyes. "They're blue." 

"And?" 

"I'm not wearing contacts." Miss J's expression shifted from confusion to understanding. She set aside her tablet and approached him, her thumb and index finger prodding at his face to examine his eyes more closely. He stood still, barely breathing. 

She raised an eyebrow. "You're really not wearing contacts?" 

He shook his head. For a moment, Miss J's expression was unreadable. Then she released him with a satisfied hum, returning to her seat. "Good. This makes things more convenient. You've finally started to accept your role." 

"What does that mean?" 

"Trust works both ways," Miss J explained, picking up her tablet again. "The people believe in power, but the receiver has to believe it too. Without either, it's meaningless." She gestured toward him. "You believe you are Nice, and so now you are." 

Lin Ling swallowed hard, the reality of it settling over him like a revelation. He'd heard of the supernatural properties of the Trust system, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely. 

"As long as we continue like this, things will turn out just fine." Miss J's tone was matter-of-fact as she consulted her tablet. "Now that you're here, let's discuss today's schedule. Morning training until noon—combat drills, weight training, stage presence." He nodded. Standard routine, but somehow it felt different now. More purposeful. 

"Next, lunch with sponsors. We'll review each attendee's profile thirty minutes prior so your talking points stay concise but meaningful." Lin Ling found himself only half-listening to Miss J's steady recitation of his schedule. In the beginning, he'd tried to keep pace with every detail. But over time, he'd learned to let the routine carry him. The handlers would get him where he needed to be. 

"Afterwards we'll have a quick costume fitting," Miss J continued. "You're scheduled for a talk show later this evening. We'll have the script for you to review ahead of time. Make sure that—"

Lin Ling jolted to attention. "Talk show? Wait, you don't mean—" 

"That's right." Miss J turned the tablet to face him. A bright promo filled the screen—Nice and Moon, the world's most perfect couple, smiling back at him with their arms curved into the shape of a heart. 

"True Love Recipe." 

Lin Ling's stomach dropped.

He could pretend to be a hero. He understood what heroism meant—the hospital visits, the charity galas, the inspiring words. He could compromise when he needed to, adapt the role to fit something genuine.

But pretending to be a boyfriend?

Something about it felt wrong in a way he couldn't articulate. The thought of sitting across from Moon, holding her hand for cameras, delivering scripted affection—something in him recoiled.

He'd written hundreds of scripts about their perfect love story. He knew exactly how the narrative worked. It was just acting.

Yet why did it feel like crossing a line he hadn't known existed? For some reason, it felt like betraying someone. He just didn't know why.

Chapter Text

41 AC - 6 Months before the 21st Heroes Tournament

The little girl's hand was small and warm in hers as they walked through District 2's afternoon streets. Yuwei hadn't expected her patrol to include escorting a lost child back to school, but here she was.

"Hey, hey. Are you really Queen?" Yuwei glanced down at the little girl holding her hand—no more than six years old, brown hair tied into pigtails. Her backpack bounced as she hopped between cracks in the sidewalk.

Yuwei gave an amused hum. “Yes, I am.”

“What’s your last name?”

Yuwei laughed. “Queen isn’t my real name. That’s just my hero name.”

The girl immediately stopped in place. Her head snapped to attention as she looked up at the white haired woman. “Really!? Then what’s your real name?”

Leaning down, Yuwei brought herself down to the girl’s eye level. The girl’s deep brown eyes blinked in anticipation. “My name is Yuwei. Liu Yuwei.” 

The girl brought a hand to her mouth. "Your name sounds like mine! My name is Jiawei!" The girl bounced excitedly, pleased by the coincidence. "We both have Wei!"

Yuwei nodded. “You’re right. That does sound the same.”

“Does that mean we can be friends?” Jiawei looked at her expectantly. 

“She is way too adorable.” Yuwei thought as warmth spread through her chest. This level of sweetness couldn’t possibly be healthy for her.

Yuwei smiled, giving the girl’s head a gentle rub. “Of course, Jiawei.”

“Yay! I can’t wait to tell mommy! She watches you a lot.” Jiawei grabbed their hands together, shaking it happily. “She says you are the strongest girl in the world. Is it true? Are you really strong?”

Yuwei made a show of thinking deeply, a finger underneath her chin as she hummed in thought. “Hmm, I don’t know. I might be.”

“Can you lift up a car?”

“I can lift up a car.”

“Oh! What about that bus!” The girl said, pointing to a bus that passed by them.

Yuwei gave an amused chuckle. “That one might be trickier. But I can do it if I use two hands.”

Jiawei’s mouth fell open in awe, eyes wide at the idea of being able to lift something that could carry many people. Then, as if the silence couldn't possibly last, she immediately resumed her interrogation by pointing to increasingly larger objects.

"What about that billboard?" Jiawei pointed.

Yuwei squinted at it with exaggerated concentration. "I think... if I stuck out my pinky..."

Jiawei dissolved into giggles.

The game continued—each object requiring increasingly absurd solutions. The plane that flew overhead could be lifted if she grabbed the tail. The skyscraper in the distance could be done if she blew on it first before holding onto it. Each answer was more ridiculous than the last, each one making Jiawei laugh harder. 

They stopped at a crosswalk, waiting among the afternoon crowd. Men in suits checked their phones, young women chatted, elderly residents moved at their own unhurried pace. The district had grown busier—parents and guardians heading to pick up their children from school.

Most people didn’t spare her a glance. She’d patrolled these routes for years, circling through the districts that surrounded the Hero Tower. By then many had become accustomed to her presence, more concerned with their lives than hers. But occasionally someone would do a double take when they found themselves standing beside a fully armored hero at a crosswalk.

"What about you?" Yuwei asked. Jiawei's eyes lit up. "Are you strong too?"

“The strongest in my class!” Jiawei said with a toothy grin, “I can beat anyone in running!”

“Wow! That’s incredible!” Yuwei said happily. She hadn’t met the girl for long, but she was already growing quite fond of her. The girl’s cheerful demeanor was extremely contagious.

She’d found the girl wandering the streets during her usual patrol. In all her previous rounds through this area, she'd never seen the girl far from her parents, which had made it unusual to spot her unaccompanied during the hour when most children were heading home.

When she’d asked the little girl what she was doing, the girl had proudly proclaimed she was walking home: “It’s not far from here! Plus mom takes too long to pick me up!” The girl had insisted that she was big enough to finally start doing things by herself.

But from what she’d seen, the girl was confidently lost. Rather than scare her or make her feel foolish, Yuwei had decided on a different approach: She asked the little girl for help, presenting it as her being the one lost. Yuwei claimed she was trying to find Jiawei’s school but forgot the directions.  Given the opportunity, Jiawei had enthusiastically accepted, more than happy to show her the way. 

The light of the crosswalk flashed green. As the pair crossed the street together, Yuwei looked at the child. "Jiawei, where do we go now?"

"Straight ahead! Then we turn at the store with the fish." Jiawei swung their joined hands as they walked. "Yuwei?"

"Yes?"

"Can I be a hero when I grow up?"

The question caught Yuwei off guard. "Do you want to be a hero?"

"Uh-huh! Then I can help people—just like you!" Jiawei hopped over a crack in the sidewalk. "And I can lift cars and—oh! Can you fly?"

"I can," Yuwei said. 

Jiawei's eyes went wide. "Really? Can you show me?" 

"Not right now. Someone's waiting for me at your school, and I don't want to be late." 

"Oh! Who is it?" 

"That's a secret," Yuwei said with a small smile. "But they're very important." 

"More important than flying?" Jiawei looked skeptical that anything could be more important than flying. 

"Much more important." 

"Oh! Is it another hero? Is it Lucky Cyan? I like her songs!"

"It's someone even more special than that." 

"Wow..." Jiawei's imagination began running wild with possibilities. She tugged on Yuwei's hand. "We better hurry then! I'll show you the fastest way!" She paused. "Well, the fastest way that doesn't go past the candy store. Because if we go that way I might get hungry."

Yuwei couldn't help but smile at the self-awareness. "That's very responsible of you." 

"I know!" Jiawei beamed, then her expression turned thoughtful. "So... Can I be a hero too? When I'm big?" 

Yuwei looked down at the girl's eager face. "I think you already are a hero, Jiawei. You're helping me find someone important, aren't you?" 

"That's not hero stuff. That's just being nice."

"Sometimes," Yuwei said quietly, "that's exactly what being a hero is."

"Really?" Jiawei tilted her head. "My friend Li Li says heroes have to have powers. She says her brother says so."

"Does Li Li's brother know a lot about heroes?"

"He's seven!" Jiawei said this as if seven year olds were the ultimate authority. Then she paused. "But he also says vegetables make you turn green, and that's not true because I eat vegetables and I'm not green."

Yuwei tried not to laugh. "So maybe he doesn't know everything about heroes either."

"Yeah..." Jiawei's face scrunched up in thought. Then she brightened suddenly. "Oh! I think my mom's a hero though!"

"No way, really?" Yuwei asked, playing along.

"Uh-huh! She doesn't have the flying or the strong stuff like you, but she makes the best dumplings, and she always knows when I'm sad even when I don't say anything." Jiawei's voice filled with pride. "She says that's her superpower—knowing when people need hugs."

Yuwei nodded thoughtfully. "That does sound like a superpower."

"So she's a hero too, right?"

"I think she might be."

Jiawei looked enormously pleased by this conclusion. They walked a bit further, then she pointed ahead excitedly. "Look! We're almost there!"

The school's red gates came into view at the end of the block. Even from this distance, Yuwei could see a small group gathered near the entrance—a teacher, a few staff members, and a woman who kept glancing up and down the street. 

"Hey look! There's my mommy!" Jiawei pointed, waving her free hand.

The woman turned at the sound of her daughter's voice. As soon as her eyes fell on the pair, the mother rushed forward to scoop the child up into her arms. Jiawei was pressed tightly against her body, as if afraid the wind would take her away. "Jiawei! Where have you been?" 

“I was going home,” Jiawei said, voice muffled. She twisted to free herself before tapping her mother's arm. “But mommy look! I’m friends with Yuwei now!”

Jiawei’s mother looked over nervously at the hero. Clasping her hands together, the mother turned to bow deeply. “I’m so sorry for the trouble, Miss Queen! Thank you for bringing her back!”

“It was nothing. Your daughter was wonderful.”

“Yuwei was lost trying to find the school. I had to show her the way.” Jiawei said with arms on her hips, chest puffed out. “I told you I was big enough.”

“Is that so? Why don’t you tell me more about it on the way home?” The mother gave one final bow, before leading the child away from the gates.

“Bye Yuwei!” The girl shouted back with a wave. Yuwei waved back in return, watching as the girl told the story of her adventure with the speed of a million words a second.

A warm feeling washed over her as she stood at the school gates a moment longer. Her patrols hadn’t always been like this. She’d spent the early parts of her hero years doing her duties with professional detachment, never bothering beyond basic courtesy and polite smiles. 

She told herself it was much more efficient that way, that it would be easier to concentrate on the real dangers at hand. She would focus on matters that required her powers, and leave everything else to ordinary people.

But over time that notion changed. Little by little, she’d started to pay closer attention to the people around her. Meeting Lin Ling had shifted her perspective. She'd gained a newfound appreciation for the people she protected—not as statistics or responsibilities, but as individuals with their own stories.

If she wasn't racing after rogue heroes or responding to emergencies, she was helping Mrs. Liu with her groceries, or checking in with Mr. Chen about his daughter's college applications, or making sure the morning vendors had what they needed. She’d found that these smaller moments had become equally rewarding as the big ones.

Her phone buzzed.

She pulled it out, expecting a report or an update from DOS. Instead, it was a message from Cyan.

Cyan: heyyyy you free tonight?? me and johnny wanna come over

Yuwei typed back quickly.

Yuwei: Sure. When?

Cyan: 7ish?

Yuwei: Works for me.

Cyan: ok i’ll tell johnny 👍

Cyan: and i’ll order food this time!

Yuwei: Sounds good.

She pocketed her phone and continued her loop back toward the Tower. The elevated highway came into view ahead, its white supports gleaming in the late afternoon light as traffic flowed steadily between District 1's island and the mainland—a constant stream of people leaving the administrative heart of the city to go home. 

Today was just another ordinary day.

...

The TV flickered with some celebrity interview show as Yuwei settled into her couch. Little Johnny sat on one side, while Lucky Cyan on the other. Big Johnny had already claimed his spot in her lap, purring contentedly.

Spread across the coffee table was an excessive amount of takeout containers—steaming dumplings, noodles in rich broth, several plates of stir-fried vegetables, skewers of grilled meat, spring rolls, and what looked like enough fried rice to feed twice their number.

Yuwei eyed the spread with a mix of amusement and concern.

"I think the Tower kitchen messed up our order," Cyan said, looking slightly overwhelmed. "This is way more than what I requested."

"Luck strikes again," Johnny said with a grin, reaching for another dumpling. "Not that I'm complaining."

Johnny gestured at the TV with his chopsticks. "Are we actually watching this? Because if we're doing interview shows, I'd rather queue up something with actual entertainment value."

"The remote's over there," Yuwei said, nodding toward the coffee table. "Choose whatever you want."

He picked it up and began scrolling through channels. News coverage of hero rankings. A documentary about Trust system economics. A cooking show featuring two guest heroes. More news. A drama that looked mildly interesting but had already started halfway through.

"Wait, go back," Cyan said suddenly. "That was True Love Recipe starting."

Johnny paused on a promotional screen showing Nice and Moon posed together, their hands forming a heart shape. The show's logo glittered beneath them in pink and gold.

"You actually want to watch this?" Johnny asked skeptically. "It's basically corporate romance propaganda. Two hours of manufactured couple content."

"I don't particularly care what we watch," Cyan admitted. "But it just started, and at least we won't be jumping into the middle of something."

Yuwei studied the promotional image with detachment. Nice and Moon, the city's supposed perfect couple. She'd seen enough hero programming to recognize the formula—carefully scripted romance designed to boost merchandise sales and Trust ratings. Not particularly interesting, but it would fill the silence well enough.

"Fine with me," she said. "Background noise is background noise."

Johnny shrugged and pressed play as the opening sequence began. The three of them settled in, attention divided between the food and whatever manufactured drama was about to unfold on screen.

The studio audience applauded as the announcer's voice boomed: "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to True Love Recipe!"

The theme music swelled, bright and syrupy. Yuwei paid minimal attention, more focused on passing Big Johnny a small piece of chicken he'd been eyeing hopefully.

Then came the countdown. "Five... four... three... two... one..."

The studio lighting shifted dramatically as a platform began rising from beneath the stage. Yuwei glanced up with mild curiosity.

A tall, thin figure emerged from the depths, pale skin seeming to glow under concentrated spotlight. Long black hair fell down to the small of his back, and rectangular half-frame glasses caught the light as sharp green eyes surveyed the audience.

"Welcome to True Love Recipe at our live venue," the figure announced in a measured voice. "I'm your substitute host for today, ranked 249th in the Association..."

He reached up to adjust his glasses with deliberate flair.

"Eye of Truth, Enlighter!"

"That's odd," Johnny muttered. "Why would they substitute hosts for the biggest relationship show of the year?"

"Maybe the regular host was sick," Cyan offered, though she sounded uncertain.

On screen, Enlighter settled into the host's chair. "This show is called True Love Recipe. As the name suggests, behind every romance lies hidden stories not known to outsiders. So today, we'll test just how much you understand each other."

"Oh, so like a couples' quiz," Johnny said. "That’s pretty standard."

But Enlighter's first question made all three of them pause.

"Let's start simple, Nice. How many commercials has Moon starred in total?"

Yuwei narrowed her eyes at the question, what kind of insight was that supposed to bring? "That's weirdly specific," Cyan said, voicing what Yuwei had been thinking. "How would he even know that?"

Nice hesitated on screen, the silence stretching. Enlighter leaned forward with mock concern. "Since your love is so perfect, I'm sure you wouldn't forget such details."

"Oh, that’s why he’s there," Little Johnny said, nodding. "He's trying to make Nice look like he doesn't actually pay attention to her."

"But why would anyone count that?"

Johnny shrugged. "Exactly. It's a trap question."

Unexpectedly, Nice answered with startling precision: "One hundred and thirty-four commercials. Total runtime: 285 minutes and 48 seconds."

The screen flashed BINGO in bright letters. The audience murmured appreciatively.

Yuwei sat forward slightly. That level of detail wasn't normal. Even devoted fans didn't track runtime down to the second. She wondered if it was a byproduct of the Trust system—whether the collective belief in their relationship had somehow granted Nice encyclopedic knowledge of his partner.

Moon turned to stare at Nice, genuinely puzzled. "You actually remember all that?"

"Of course."

"That's..." Cyan hesitated. "Kind of sweet? In a slightly obsessive way?"

"I don't know," Johnny said flatly. "If it wasn't for his face, you’d think that's stalker behavior. Who remembers someone's commercial runtime to the second?"

Enlighter's frown was visible even through the screen. He'd clearly expected Nice to fail.

Undeterred, the man took a moment to push up his glasses, his smile returning with a sharper edge. "Well then, let's move to something more... interesting. For the second stage, we'll play a game. Truth or Dare?"

“Wait, that's it?” Little Johnny threw a hand out in disbelief. “Don’t couples quizzes go back and forth?”

The studio lights dimmed. The air itself seemed to shimmer as something began to take form center stage. Purple energy crackled and twisted, coalescing into solid matter—a contraption of black metal and intricate patterns.

A bright string of light suddenly snaked its way from Nice’s chest connecting directly to the machine. There was a brief flash of surprise on Nice’s face as his eyes traced the line attached to him. The connection looked invasive, probing.

Yuwei frowned. Despite the menacing purple glow and dark metal, she recognized the form immediately. She'd seen their statues outside courthouses and government buildings throughout the city, stone guardians that legend claimed could sense lies and devour those who spoke them—a xiezhi.

"Honesty is one of the most important qualities in maintaining a romantic relationship," Enlighter continued, his voice taking on a darker tone. "Your perfection is just fake packaging, Nice. So your relationship with Moon is also fake. If you dare say yes, you'd be lying."

"Wait," Johnny said, sitting up straighter. "Is he actually accusing Nice of faking his relationship on live television?"

“He’s hooked up Nice to a lie detector.” Yuwei said, both pairs of eyes turning toward her. “He must know something, otherwise the assertion would be meaningless.”

"That's insane," Cyan breathed. "If Enlighter's right, Nice could lose everything. His ranking, his sponsors—"

"The scandal alone would destroy his Trust," Johnny finished.

Yuwei’s attention was now fully on the screen. Not out of particular concern for Nice, but because this was unprecedented. A rank 249 hero publicly challenging a top 20 hero on national television. Regardless of the outcome, somebody's career was at stake.

"So tell me, Nice," Enlighter said. "Is Moon really your girlfriend?"

The silence stretched on, each second heavy with anticipation. Nice stood frozen under the machine's invasive probe, the tendril of purple light pulsing rhythmically against his chest like a heartbeat.

"Why are you hesitating on such a simple question?" Enlighter pressed, his smile widening.

The machine's hum grew louder. Waiting.

Finally, Nice broke the silence. "Moon is..."

The purple energy brightened, drawing tighter.

"...Not my girlfriend."

The machine flashed, a single message displayed on its screen: TRUE.

The audience exploded into chaos. Gasps, shouts, people rising from their seats. On the couch, Little Johnny raised his eyebrows. "Well, that's going to be everywhere tomorrow." He popped a piece of food into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. "TREEMAN's PR team must be losing their minds right now."

Despite it all, Big Johnny continued purring contentedly on Yuwei’s lap, oblivious to the scandal unfolding on screen.

“As I expected!” Enlighter stood up from his chair, laughing victoriously. “The perfect hero is not perfect! Nice, you're actually—”

Nice’s voice cut through, steady and clear. "I don't see her as a girlfriend. Because 'girlfriend' doesn't capture what she is to me."

TRUE.

Enlighter's smile faltered. He hadn't expected Nice to continue.

“It’s hard to explain, but…” He paused, searching for words. "She has this way of touching people's hearts, inspiring them toward something better."

Nice looked firmly at the woman next to him. "She can reach people I never could. Make them listen, make them believe." 

TRUE.

"I tried to change things on my own—but I failed, over and over. But I found that by supporting her… By helping her voice reach as far as it can—I realized maybe together we could change the world. Give people hope when they need it most."

TRUE.

On screen, Nice fell silent. The studio watched with bated breath, awaiting his next words. 

Yuwei sat back with folded arms, observing the hero with professional detachment. It was clear he was deflecting, but she knew it wouldn’t be enough—all he was doing stating was the nature of who Moon was. 

Enlighter seemed to have the same idea, a smirk creeping onto his face. Whatever Nice said could easily be torn down with a follow up.

When Nice spoke again, something in his voice had changed—it was softer, almost hesitant. "But she gave me hope first."

TRUE.

"She believed in me when I'd given up on myself. Actually listened when no one else would." A slight smile touched his face. "Made me feel like the things I cared about weren't worthless."

TRUE.

The shift in tone was subtle, but noticeable. Johnny glanced at Cyan, both of them more alert now.

"When I was drowning, when I thought everything I'd tried to do had failed—she was there." He sat up straighter, as if the words were lifting him. "She made me believe the world could be better. That I could help make it better."

TRUE.

"She gave me strength to keep going. She's the reason I'm here."

TRUE.

The purple energy flared brighter with each truth. The studio was completely silent now, the audience transfixed. Enlighter looked on in horror, seemingly too shocked to interject.

Nice looked towards the camera, his voice rang out clear and certain. "She's my salvation." 

The word hung in the air.

TRUE.

For a long moment, no one spoke—not in the studio, not on the couch. Even Enlighter seemed stunned, his face alternating between surprise and confusion. His carefully constructed ambush had been dismantled by Nice's unflinching honesty.

Cyan exhaled slowly. "Okay, that was... I wasn't expecting that."

"Yeah," Johnny agreed, shaking his head in disbelief. "He actually feels all of this for Moon?"

Yuwei said nothing, her expression unchanged as she continued to pet Big Johnny. On screen, the camera cut to audience members giving a standing ovation. Some wiped their eyes, moved by his words.

Soon the crowd began chanting: "Together! Together!" 

Yuwei resisted the urge to smile at the absurdity of the whole situation. Nice had turned Enlighter’s weapon of truth against him.

Off to the side, Enlighter’s face contorted with rage, his calm demeanor shattered completely. Furious, he threw his coffee cup against the ground. The cup exploded against the floor, silencing the audience.

"Don't think this is over yet!" Enlighter snarled. "There is still a third stage you need to pass!"

A door opened as fog streamed out, revealing an armored figure. The three of them watched with raised eyebrows as the spectacle grew increasingly bizarre.

"Who even is that?" Johnny muttered.

"Nice, your entire hero persona is a product of his team's commercials," Enlighter announced. "And through your constant demands, your endless revisions, your perfect image built on the backs of overworked employees—you drove a young man named Lin Ling to his death!"

Yuwei's hand stilled on Big Johnny's fur.

Lin Ling. It was a common enough name. There had to be thousands of people with that name in the city alone.

"This man has confirmed it himself," Enlighter continued, gesturing at the armored man. "He was forced to take the fall for your commercial demands. His agency made him the scapegoat to protect their precious hero client. Lin Ling's blood is on your hands, Nice!"

Commercials. Agency.

The words settled into her chest like stones. Five years ago, he'd told her he was leaving the convenience store. Starting at an advertising agency downtown. It paid better, he'd said. He needed to pay his grandmother's medical bills.

No, the name was common. Coincidences happened. There was no way that he would have worked at the same place for the last five years.

But her hand was already moving, pulling out her phone. She told herself she was being irrational, that she just needed to confirm it wasn't him so she could keep watching the show without this gnawing feeling.

She unlocked her phone and opened a search. Slowly typing the name with hands that felt disconnected from her body.

She tapped on the first result. There below the headline was a photo. Messy brown hair, matching brown eyes—it was an ordinary face. The kind you might pass on the street and forget.

Except she'd never forgotten it.

Her thumb stopped moving. The phone grew heavy in her hands.

Everything else faded—the TV noise, Cyan shifting beside her, Big Johnny's warmth in her lap. There was only the photo and the crushing certainty that she'd known the answer before even looking. Known it the moment Enlighter said commercials and "Lin Ling."

She'd just wanted to be wrong.

From her right, Cyan shifted beside her, glancing over with idle curiosity. "Oh, is that the article about the guy Enlighter mentioned?"

Yuwei said nothing. Her eyes stayed fixed on the photo.

"'Employee Dies in Apparent Fall, Workplace Pressure Cited,'" Cyan read quietly. She leaned closer, reading more of the article. "Lin Ling, 22... Three Axes Agency. It says colleagues described him as quiet and dedicated, but he'd been under considerable stress." Her voice softened as she continued. "They mention his supervisor had demanding standards, an overbearing management style. Lin was working late almost every night."

She paused, then added, "The agency let the manager go immediately after. Said they were committed to employee mental health." There was skepticism in her tone. "Sounds like they just needed someone to blame."

Cyan shook her head, her expression troubled. "That's so unfair. He was working himself to death making advertisements for people like us. For heroes." Her voice dropped. "We benefit from people like him, and we never even know their names until..." She didn't finish the sentence.

Yuwei heard the words. Registered them as language. But they didn't connect to anything inside her. There was just the photo and the vast nothing spreading through her chest.

"Are you guys seeing this?" Johnny's voice cut through, unusually animated. "They're just duking it out on live television! Look at that—Nice just flipped in midair!"

On screen, Nice dodged a whip of dark energy. The crowd screamed. Furniture crashed. The set lights swung wildly as the cameramen scrambled to capture the action.

"Ugh, this guy is flashy as ever," Johnny continued, watching Nice strike a pose. "Look at that unnecessary spin. We get it, you're graceful."

Yuwei saw Nice move across the screen. Saw the dark whip arc through the air. Saw Moon's mouth open, probably calling out something. The images processed through her eyes like footage on a screen she wasn't really watching.

Cyan glanced between Yuwei and the TV, uncertain. "This is insane. How did a talk show turn into an actual hero fight?"

"Right? And on live broadcast!" Johnny added. "The fans must be loving it right now."

The audience screamed. Enlighter shouted something from offscreen. The man's armored form lunged forward with another attack. Nice sidestepped with perfect precision, his white cape billowing dramatically.

All of it was happening. All of it was real. Yuwei could see every detail with perfect clarity.

She felt nothing.

Big Johnny chirped softly in her lap, nuzzling against her hand. The warmth of his small body registered as sensation. Temperature. Pressure. Facts without emotional weight. Her friends' voices continued around her. Johnny making another comment about Nice's fighting style. Cyan expressing concern about the studio audience's safety. The TV blaring with chaos and destruction.

Yuwei sat perfectly still, phone screen still glowing with that ordinary face she'd never forgotten, while the world continued around her and some distant part of her watched it all happen from very far away.

...

Johnny and Cyan stayed for another hour, finishing the food with less enthusiasm than before. They tried to maintain the casual atmosphere, but it felt forced now, artificial.

Yuwei remained on the couch, contributing nothing. Big Johnny had shifted to Cyan's lap, sensing something was wrong.

"You've been quiet," Cyan said, her voice gentle with concern.

Yuwei looked up, as if only just remembering they were there. "I suddenly feel tired," she said. The words came out flat, lacking conviction.

Johnny and Cyan exchanged glances. Whatever they saw in her expression made them both stand almost simultaneously.

"We should probably head out anyway," Johnny said, already gathering containers. "Let you get some rest."

"Yeah," Cyan agreed quickly. "Early morning tomorrow."

They cleaned up with unusual efficiency, neither of them willing to voice what they were actually doing—giving her space before whatever was building behind her eyes came spilling out.

"Take care of yourself," Cyan said at the door, hesitating as if she wanted to say more.

Yuwei nodded. "I will."

The door closed with a soft click, and the silence that followed was absolute.

She sat on the couch for a long time, staring at nothing. The emptiness in her chest had taken on weight, a heaviness that made breathing feel like effort. The photo was still on her phone screen, staring back like someone on a missing persons poster.

She should get up. Go to bed. Tomorrow she had training. The tournament was in six months.

She continued sitting.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time felt meaningless in the stillness.

Eventually, just sitting there became unbearable. The walls of her apartment pressed in, the air too thick, the silence too loud with thoughts she didn't want to think.

She stood and grabbed her jacket. She needed to move. To walk. To do anything but sit in the stillness.

She took the elevator down to the lobby. Her footsteps echoed as she crossed the polished floor toward the exit. On the other side of the room, the doors opened. Parting to reveal a group that had entered from outside.

Nice was at the center, still in the white and gold suit. His white hair caught the lobby lights. Behind him came a woman in a gold and blue outfit—his handler, presumably—and several other figures who moved with the practiced efficiency of professional staff.

He looked up and saw her. Yuwei stopped walking.

His entire face lit up. The polite smile he'd been wearing shifted into something genuine, unguarded. Pure joy. His eyes widened slightly, glowing with recognition and something almost like wonder, as if seeing her here was the best possible thing that could have happened.

She didn’t understand why.

He took several steps forward from his group, his body language open and eager.

She knew she shouldn't. Knew that Enlighter's accusations were unverified, that Nice could be innocent, that she had no proof of anything. Her entire approach to heroism was built on facts, on evidence, on careful analysis before action.

But knowing that didn't stop the rage from hitting her anyway.

Because he was smiling. Standing there in his perfect costume with his perfect joy, completely untouched by what had happened on that stage. Whether he'd caused it or not didn't matter in this moment—he was here, alive and happy, while Lin Ling was gone.

The unfairness of it overwhelmed her logic.

Her expression twisted into something cold and furious. Her golden eyes locked onto him with an intensity that made him freeze mid-step.

The smile faltered on his face. Confusion flickered across his features as he registered her reaction.

She didn't say a word. Just held his gaze for one long, terrible moment, letting him see exactly what she thought of him. Then she walked past him toward the exit, her shoulder nearly brushing his as she continued without acknowledgment.

The suited figures behind him shifted uncomfortably. The woman in the sharp business attire watched the interaction with narrowed eyes, her expression calculating.

Nice stood there, watching Queen's retreating back, his hand still half-raised as if he'd been about to wave. The joy had drained from his expression, replaced by bewilderment.

He didn't understand what he'd done wrong.

But Yuwei was already through the doors, out into the night, leaving him behind in the bright lobby with his entourage and his confusion.

She kept walking.

The city was quieter at this hour. Streetlights cast pools of yellow on empty sidewalks. Occasional cars passed. Yuwei walked without destination, just moving because stillness hurt more.

Block after block, the anger burned through her and then faded, leaving only the hollow ache again. Her feet carried her through familiar streets, though she wasn't paying attention to where they led.

She turned down a side street. Then another. The neighborhoods changed, becoming quieter, more residential.

She passed a park, silent and empty in the darkness. In winter it had been full of snow. Now it was just empty benches and shadowed trees.

When she finally stopped and looked up, she understood where she'd gone.

The convenience store should have been right here. Down this street, this building. She remembered the exact location—the flickering sign, the automatic doors, the fluorescent lights visible through the windows at 3 AM.

But there was a coffee shop instead.

Modern and clean, with trendy minimalist signage. The windows were dark, the interior completely black. A small sign on the door listed business hours—7 AM to 8 PM.

It looked like it had been there for years. As if the convenience store had never existed at all. She stood on the sidewalk, staring.

All of their moments together. All the words they’d spoken. The smiles they shared. All of it erased, replaced by something that was meaningless to her.

During the day, people probably sat inside with their laptops and lattes, completely unaware that this corner had once held something else. Something warm. Now it stood empty and dark, as if nothing had ever lived here at all.

She was the only one who remembered. The only one who knew what this place had been. She stared at the empty space where he used to stand, behind the checkout counter.

Then she felt it. Something wet on her cheek.

She blinked, confused. Tentatively, she reached up slowly to touch her face.

Her fingers came away damp.

A tear. Just one, at first. Unexpected and unbidden, escaping before she could stop it.

But seeing the single tear was an acknowledgment. Of how much it hurt. Of the fact that he was gone and she would never see him again. 

She’d never get to thank him, to tell him the truth. Never get to tell him what his kindness had meant. Of how he had changed her view. And once that acknowledgment came, once she'd admitted the pain was real, something inside her broke open. 

The tears came easier after that. One became two, then more, streaming down her face in the quiet darkness. Her vision blurred. Her shoulders began to shake with the effort of staying silent.

"What..." She whispered, alarmed at how freely they were falling now. She couldn't make them stop. "Don't—I can't..."

She protested as much as she could, but the tears flowed steadily like a river. She mentally berated herself for looking so pathetic, for crying like a child in the middle of the street.

She hadn't cried since the 19th Hero Tournament. The day she'd been unable to participate. That time, she'd cried from the unfairness of it. Of having her chance stolen.

Now, she cried again, lamenting her complacency. Her failure in changing its course. She should have been able to prevent this.

She imagined him toiling alone, hurting from the pressure of his superiors. Working late nights that pushed himself past his limits. He was the kind of person who would suffer in silence if it meant not inconveniencing anyone.

She should have kept contact. Should have asked where he worked. Should have checked on him. Only then would she have known. She should’ve done a dozen other things, she should’ve—

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the empty air. "I should have done more—tried harder."

Should. Could. The words echoed in her mind. She could have saved him. She should have been more selfish. Why couldn't she?

The guilt crushed her, irrational though she knew it was. She couldn't save everyone. Couldn't prevent all tragedies. Tomorrow, she'd return to training, to the tournament. The machinery of heroism wouldn't pause.

But tonight, standing in front of a coffee shop that had completely replaced any trace of what came before, she let herself break.

She cried in silence. Not a sound escaped her—she wouldn't allow herself to sob into the night. Just tears streaming down her face while her shoulders shook with the effort of containing it.

She'd wanted to see him again. To thank him for his kindness. For helping her to remember what it felt like to be ordinary again.

But he was gone, and she was still here, and all her power and ranking meant nothing against the simple fact that she'd never get that chance.

The tears continued falling, silent and relentless, while the night drank in her sorrow.

She hadn't slept. 

Yuwei stared at the ceiling of her room until dawn broke, then forced herself upright. Changing into more comfortable athletic wear, she made her way to the training floor. The distraction of movement, at least, gave her somewhere to direct the restless energy that had been building since she'd seen his face on that screen. 

By the time The Johnnies arrived at their usual training slot, she was already working through forms with mechanical precision. He'd barely finished his stretches before she moved toward him with a look that said she was ready to start immediately. 

Their training sessions were a kind of conversation—her testing his defenses with measured attacks, him adapting and countering, both of them learning from the exchange. She'd call out corrections mid-spar, adjust her approach to target his weak points, give him space to think through his defensive choices. 

When they'd first started, he'd relied purely on instinct and Big Johnny's warnings to avoid getting hit. Now he could read her movements, anticipate her strikes, and find the rhythm in her combinations. She'd taught him to use his natural speed properly, and over time he’d developed his own evasive art form. 

For two years, their training had followed this rhythm—collaborative, measured, mutual growth. 

Today shattered that rhythm.

She came at him with relentless aggression—nothing like the measured attacks she usually used to test his defenses. He slipped under a jab, twisted away from a cross. She'd taught him to read her combinations over two years of training, but there was no combination here.

She pressed forward, cutting off his retreat. He ducked under a hook, rolled to create space—she closed it before he'd finished. Strike. Evasion. Immediate follow-up. The pattern repeated with suffocating consistency.

The training room echoed with a sharp crack as Yuwei's strike cut through the air. Little Johnny twisted sideways at the last second, narrowly avoiding the blow. 

The force of the missed attack continued past him towards the edge of the room. A training dummy behind where he'd been standing exploded into fragments, followed by a resounding crash as the reinforced wall behind it cracked and buckled.

Johnny landed in a crouch, staring at the destruction with wide eyes. He let out a nervous laugh. "Whoa! Okay, what did I do? Because I'm really sorry and I'd like to apologize before you actually kill me."

The joke came out light, but there was genuine concern underneath it. Every one of Yuwei's attacks had been like this since they'd started—fast, powerful, and far more aggressive than their usual sessions.

She froze mid-stance, realizing her emotions had been bleeding through into her movements. Her breathing was slightly elevated, not from exertion but from something else entirely.

She straightened, forcing her body to relax. Composed her expression into something neutral. "There's nothing wrong."

Johnny didn't look convinced. He studied her for a long moment, the usual playfulness gone from his eyes.

"You've been off since yesterday," he said carefully. "After we left. Something happened."

"I said I was tired."

Johnny's voice softened. "Does it have something to do with Nice? Or… Maybe that guy that died? Your mood changed after that show."

"Maybe," she said.

Johnny waited, unsure of which of the two she referred to. But she didn’t elaborate. She didn't know how to explain it—didn't know how to put into words the complicated mess of grief and rage and helplessness that had kept her awake all night.

Johnny looked at her for a long moment. She could see him weighing whether to push further, whether to call out the obvious lie.

Instead, he sighed softly. "Alright. But when you're ready to talk about it, I'm here. Okay?"

She nodded once, grateful that he wasn't pressing.

"Want to call it for today?" he offered. "You seem like you could use some rest."

"No." The word came out sharper than intended. "I need to train."

Because training was concrete. Training had purpose. Training kept her focused on something other than the helpless rage that threatened to consume her if she stayed still too long.

Johnny raised his hands in surrender. "Okay. But maybe dial it back to like... seventy percent? I'd like to survive until lunch."

The attempt at levity fell flat, but Yuwei appreciated it nonetheless. She settled back into her fighting stance, this time making a conscious effort to control her movements.

They continued sparring, her strength was measured now, controlled. But underneath it, Johnny could sense something darker. Something cold and calculating that hadn't been there before.

He didn't know what had happened to his friend. But he knew enough to be worried.

...

Later that night, Yuwei sat in the darkness of her room, the only light coming from her phone screen as she scrolled through social media.

Her feed was flooded with posts about True Love Recipe. Clips of Nice's confession had already gone viral, shared and reshared thousands of times. The comments were unanimous in their enthusiasm.

"I'm crying, this is the most romantic thing I've ever seen"

"Nice and Moon are PERFECT together, that lie detector scene proved it"

"Anyone else ugly crying right now? The way he said she's his salvation??? 😭😭😭"

"They need to get married already, I can't handle this"

Yuwei scrolled further. More clips. More commentary. Video essays were already being posted analyzing the "beautiful poetry" of Nice's words. Relationship experts weighing in on what made their love so genuine. Marketing companies celebrating the successful "authenticity" of the segment.

She searched for Enlighter's accusations. For any mention of what he'd said about Nice's commercials, about the overworked employee, about the death.

Nothing.

She refined her search. Added Lin Ling's name. Changed parameters. Tried different combinations of words.

A few posts mentioned Enlighter's "wild accusations," but only to mock him for being wrong. Only to celebrate how Nice had "proven the haters wrong" with his heartfelt confession. The fight that followed was mentioned only as an unfortunate disruption by a disgruntled former client, quickly dealt with by Nice's heroic intervention.

The narrative had already been set. Nice and Moon's love story was real and beautiful. Enlighter was a jealous, attention-seeking lower ranked hero. Cheng Yaojin was an unstable man lashing out at his betters.

And Lin Ling?

Nobody was talking about Lin Ling.

His name appeared in a handful of posts, always buried in threads, always dismissed as part of Enlighter's baseless conspiracy theories. 

"Some advertising employee who supposedly died" one post said, the dismissal making her hands clench around her phone. "Was that article even real? I wouldn’t put it past Enlighter to fake it for evidence. I mean this guy can’t even be found anywhere online."

Yuwei's phone screen cast harsh shadows across her face as she continued searching, scrolling, looking for anyone who cared. Anyone who'd questioned what Nice's perfection had cost.

Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

The world had moved on. Just like it always did.

Her gaze drifted from the phone to her nightstand, where a small shape sat in the shadows. She reached over and turned on the small lamp beside her bed.

The plush cat sat in its usual spot—never quite gathering dust because she'd move it every time she cleaned, adjusting its position, straightening the tiny golden bow. Black and white with careful stitching. The last thing Lin Ling had given her before they'd parted ways.

She picked it up slowly, holding it in both hands. The fabric was soft under her fingers, the familiar texture something she'd traced in quiet moments more times than she could count. A small reminder of kindness that meant so much. Of a kindness worth fighting for.

Now it was the only physical proof she had that he'd existed at all. The guilt crashed into her again, followed immediately by something else. Something colder.

A promise. To herself. To his memory.

Not the hot, explosive rage from earlier. This was different. It settled into her bones like ice, sharp and unforgiving.

She hugged the plush cat close to her chest, feeling its weight against her heart.

Enlighter had been rank 249. His accusations had been dismissed, buried under the spectacle of Nice's romantic confession. Whatever truth he'd tried to expose had been drowned out by the machinery he was trying to fight.

But she was different. She was ranked 2. If there was truth to find, she could find it. She would uncover every detail, trace every connection, follow every thread until she knew with absolute certainty what had happened.

And if Nice was responsible—even partially, even indirectly—she would make sure everyone knew. Not through dramatic spectacle like Enlighter had attempted. Hers would be thorough. Systematic. She would dismantle everything Nice had built, expose the machinery behind his smile, reveal the cost of his ranking.

She would erase him from the hero industry so thoroughly that it would be as if he'd never existed.

The same way the world had erased Lin Ling.

Yuwei's fingers tightened on the plush cat.

She would find the truth. And then she would deliver justice.

For the memory of someone who'd shown kindness, who'd believed the world could be better, who'd deserved so much more than what this broken system had given him.