Chapter Text
His life would have been boring!
Not the dramatic kind of boring that came with luxury and excess, but the quiet, suffocating sort—the kind where days blurred together in a small, dim apartment, where the walls felt like they were slowly inching closer, and the silence was loud enough to drive a man mad.
Nobody wanted to rot away like that, alone and forgotten. And that, perhaps more than anything else, was why he had consciously taken the leap into the unknown.
There were many things he regretted in his life. Missed chances. Burned bridges. People he had hurt without meaning to—and some he had hurt on purpose. But this decision? No. This one didn’t haunt him. Maybe one day he would look back and see it as a mistake, something reckless and short-sighted. But today, in this moment, he was alive in a way he had never been before, fueled by adrenaline and the intoxicating thrill of danger.
Evbo sat on the edge of a rooftop, his legs dangling freely over the side. Far below him, the city stretched out in every direction, bathed in the warm glow of the evening sun. Glass towers reflected gold and orange light, while narrow streets began to fill with shadows. The city was loud, chaotic, alive—and it felt like it belonged to him, at least for now.
He had brought food with him, tucked safely into his inventory, and now he pulled it out and took a bite. He ate with a clear conscience. He had earned this. The hours of work, the sleepless nights, the constant paranoia—hunger was a small price to pay for the truth. And besides, he was starving.
Out of the corner of his eye, a translucent screen hovered in the air. It displayed the article he had published less than an hour ago. Comments were already pouring in—some furious, some praising him as a hero of transparency (He wanted to laugh, he was anything but a hero. ), others threatening him with all manner of creative violence. Evbo snorted softly.
Yes, he was a journalist.
And no, not the kind of journalist who was a unknown nobody typing conspiracy theories into the void.
Evbo owned one of the most well-known information platforms in the city. Everyone came to his site. Ordinary citizens hungry for the truth. Heroes desperate to control the narrative. Mafia members watching for leaks. Villains searching for weaknesses. Vigilantes looking for justification. If it mattered—if it caused drama, fear, or outrage—it passed through his hands first.
He controlled the media and therefore the people. Because everyone knew that knowledge was the cruelest kind of power.
The platform was his pride and joy. He had risked everything to build it up, risking his safety, his anonymity, and his life every single day.
He had uncovered secrets that were meant to stay buried forever. Names erased from official records. Crimes quietly blamed on someone else. Entire operations wiped clean by those who believed themselves untouchable.
At this point, he had probably angered every major organization in the city.
But hey—it wasn’t his fault people were so terrible at hiding things.
Evbo had a gift. A knack for noticing patterns, following trails that others overlooked, connecting dots that weren’t meant to be connected. He always found things he wasn’t supposed to know. And once he knew them, there was no stopping him from sharing them.
And thank Admin! At least his website was secure. Very secure.
More than a few people had tried to take it down. Hackers, corporate watchdogs, government “inspectors,” even so-called heroes had taken a swing at it. They wanted his identity. They wanted his sources. Or they wanted certain articles erased as if they had never existed.
And jet every single one of them had failed miserably.
Evbo couldn’t help but laugh quietly to himself as he remembered some of the attempts. and jet Some of them had been impressive.
But most had been laughably pathetic. Even better were the bribes. People offering obscene amounts of money for information—or to make information disappear again.
As if truth were something you could buy and sell without consequence.
He openly chuckled now, imagining the collective outrage brewing among the city’s heroes. They would not be pleased with his latest post. Exposing a cover-up was one thing. Exposing murders that heroes themselves were responsible for? That was going to sting.
Served them right.
He was angry at the pathetic portrayal of heroes that could be found in this city.
They had really believed they could hide it forever.
Evbo glanced at another floating screen and raised an eyebrow. Nine o’clock, displayed in large glowing numbers.
Perfect.
If his calculations were correct—and they usually were—that meant the hero Prince would be arriving any moment now.
He sighed, put his food back into his inventory, and sat up properly. His muscles protested at first, stiff from sitting too long, but he rolled his shoulders and shook his head, forcing the drowsiness away. He needed to be alert. Tonight wasn’t about comfort.
Today was going to be fun.
And oh, how right he was.
Almost exactly on cue, something whistled through the air. A trident shot past his cheek, close enough that he felt the wind of it, before embedding itself deep into the wall of the building across from him with a violent crack. Evbo froze for half a second, then reached up and touched his face.
His fingers came away red.
A scratch. Just a scratch—but it drew a grin from his lips.
“Well hello, journalist.”
The voice was sharp, controlled, and brimming with anger. Prince's anger. Evbo could practically feel it radiating from behind him. The crowned hero never liked surprises—especially ones that made him look bad in front of the entire city.
Evbo straightened slowly, deliberately keeping his back turned. He wanted to savor this. From his off hand, he produced his mask and lifted it with theatrical flair before placing it over his face. The familiar weight settled in, grounding him, turning Evbo the man into Evbo the problem.
Then he turned just enough to glance over his shoulder.
“Well hello to you too, Prince,” he said lightly, voice dripping with amusement. “I hope you liked my last article. I put so much effort into it.”
He could almost hear the hero’s patience snapping.
The hero was practically trembling with rage.
It wasn’t the quiet, controlled anger of someone who had trained for years to master their emotions. No—this was raw, burning fury, barely restrained beneath clenched teeth and shaking hands. The kind of anger that fogged the mind and made reckless decisions feel justified.
And that could only mean one thing.
The fight had only now truly begun.
Evbo noticed it immediately. He always did. Rage was loud, even when it tried to hide. It showed in the tightening of shoulders, the sharp inhale before movement, the way the hero’s gaze locked onto him like a predator ready to pounce.
With a smooth, practiced motion, Evbo reached into his inventory and pulled out his diamond sword. The blade shimmered under the city lights as it materialized in his hand. He turned fully to face the hero, posture relaxed, almost casual—like they were about to debate politics instead of try to kill each other on a rooftop.
“Journalist!” the hero shouted, his voice echoing across the surrounding buildings. “You should rot in prison where you belong!”
Evbo blinked once.
Then he burst out laughing.
Not a nervous laugh. Not forced. A genuine, amused sound that rang out far too cheerfully for the situation. He even leaned back slightly, clutching his side like the words had physically wounded him—with humor.
“Aww, whyyyy?” he whined theatrically. “That wouldn’t be funny!”
He lifted his free hand and gestured broadly at the city around them, the rooftops stretching endlessly into the night, neon lights flickering below like a digital ocean.
“This world is my stage!” he declared. “A play I’m writing!”
The hero Prince snarled and summoned his trident back into his hand. The weapon tore itself free from the structure it had embedded itself into earlier, ripping chunks of concrete with it as it flew back through the air with a loud whoosh before slamming perfectly into his grip.
He lowered into a fighting stance, eyes never leaving Evbo.
Meanwhile, Evbo was… distracted.
New translucent screens appeared in front of him, floating in midair like holograms. He tapped at them, scribbled notes, erased entire panels, then summoned new ones. His brow furrowed as he muttered to himself.
“Uhhh!!” he groaned dramatically. “Would the people like a direct fight, or an escape attempt with Packur?!”
He leaned back, arms crossed, studying the invisible responses like a scholar examining ancient scripture. After a moment, he shrugged to answer his own question.
“Eh. We’ll see how it goes.”
He gave absolutely no attention to the hero standing ten meters away, weapon in hand, fury radiating off him in waves.
Of course, any sane person would think: Evbo, you idiot, there’s a hero who wants to kill you! You better watch out!
And to that, Evbo would reply—if asked—that he had, of course, kept the hero in sight.
He wasn’t stupid.
(At least sometimes.)
Satisfied, Evbo flicked his wrist and sent the last screen floating upward. It hovered above the rooftop, expanding into a full broadcast window as the familiar interface of his platform went live.
A red icon blinked.
Streaming.
“Hello my dear viewers!” Evbo called cheerfully, turning toward the camera and waving. “Today we will fight against the hero Prince! Who would win, who would lose? Watch until the end to find out!"
Behind him, the hero had already started running.
Boots slammed against concrete as Prince closed the distance in seconds, trident raised high, aiming straight for Evbo’s side. He didn’t intend to kill him—not yet. A public execution would be… inconvenient. But a wound? A reminder?
That would just be fine.
But he didn't let that happen at the last possible moment, Evbo pivoted.
Steel met enchanted metal with a sharp clang as Evbo’s sword intercepted the trident. The force sent sparks flying. Prince was forced to roll away, narrowly avoiding a follow-up slash that would have split his chest open.
Evbo grinned.
Taking advantage of the opening, he charged.
His sword arced downward in a powerful strike, but this time the hero was ready. Prince brought his trident up defensively, blocking the blow and shoving Evbo back with a burst of strength that sent him skidding across the rooftop.
Evbo jumped back a few steps to regain his balance.
Oh, how he loved this.
The adrenaline. The chaos. The eyes watching from behind screens all across the city. The knowledge that every move mattered—not just for survival, but for the story.
The hero stepped back, clearly preparing to throw his trident again.
“Let me ask you a few questions while we fight,” Evbo said brightly. “You know, for the spectators!”
Prince snarled and hurled the weapon.
Evbo twisted aside at the last second, the trident slicing past him close enough to ruffle his jacket.
“Why are you using an oversized fork as a weapon?” Evbo asked, deadpan, just to be annoying.
The journalist was fully in his element now.
The Prince, however, was rapidly losing patience.
“Just shut up!”
Evbo giggled.
That giggle turned into laughter.
And while the Prince was distracted—just for a fraction of a second—Evbo moved.
He darted around the hero with surprising speed and drove his sword into Prince’s shoulder. The blade cut cleanly through armor and flesh.
Prince screamed and stumbled back, clutching the wound as blood seeped between his fingers.
The trident clattered to the rooftop, landing a meter away.
The advantage of this fight being live was obvious now.
The hero couldn’t kill him publicly.
The residents of the city wouldn’t react well to seeing a journalist murdered live on stream—no matter how much the government disliked him. And that was another funny thing, really.
Evbo wasn’t classified as a villain.
He wasn’t a hero, or a vigilante, or a mafia member either. And apparently, there was a huge debate within the government about what exactly he was supposed to be.
A nuisance, mostly.
Prince sank to one knee, still pressing his arm to the wound, breathing heavily. Evbo straightened, rolling his shoulder and admiring his own work.
“Ahhh, what a wonderful fight!” he said cheerfully. “Too bad it was over so quickly!”
He turned back to the floating screen and gave a little bow.
“And dear viewers, the journalist won! Goodbye, and see you next time!”
The stream cut.
Silence settled over the rooftop.
Evbo sighed contentedly and stretched. He really should head home. He still had an article to finish, after all.
He didn’t spare the injured hero another glance.
Prince couldn’t fight anymore. And Evbo didn’t want to kill him—because that would mean he couldn’t bother him again in the future.
...
He was just about to leave when he felt cold steel press against his throat.
“Broooo,” Evbo groaned. “Not again!”
The hero had stood up—but he wasn’t the one holding the blade.
Standing before him was Clownpierce.
The contract killer. Mafia boss. Villain.
Everything bad in this world, wrapped up in one man.
Evbo was so dead.
And if anyone claimed he let out a high-pitched scream, they were lying.
In contrast to Clownpierce’s jester mask, Evbo’s rabbit mask suddenly felt ridiculous. His own mask was sleek, digitally rendered, glowing faintly with green, black, and white—his trademark colors, designed to display emotions on-screen.
But next to Clownpierce?
He looked like an amateur.
“Haha!” Evbo said nervously. “What are you doing here, Clownpierce? I didn’t know you worked with the heroes!”
“I don’t,” Clownpierce replied calmly. “There just happens to be a big prize on your head.”
Well.
He was fucked.
“Oh? Really? And why’s that!” Evbo laughed weakly. “I’m just a journalist!”
“The journalist,” Clownpierce echoed. “An innocent person? Don’t make me laugh.”
Evbo’s eyes darted around.
There.
An opening.
He bolted.
“Sorry!” he shouted over his shoulder. “Can’t die today—I still have articles to publish!”
To his shock—
Clownpierce didn’t follow.
Evbo didn’t stop running until he reached his apartment. Were he collapsed onto the sofa, mask still on, and fell asleep almost instantly. To tired to even care.
POV Swap
Prince was furious.
He could have died.
It had cost him a lot to even hire Clownpierce—and the assassin hadn’t even finished the job. He hadn’t even tried.
The journalist was a thorn in the heroes’ side.
And now Clownpierce was too.
“Why are you just standing around like that?!” Prince snapped. “Follow him!”
Clownpierce stared at him with open contempt.
“And why should I?” he asked. “Just because you paid me doesn’t mean you can boss me around.”
Prince clenched his fists.
Oh, how Zam hated these two.