Years passed.
The world changed, but it didn't heal—not fully. Nations rebuilt. Flags were raised. Stories were rewritten. But Maxwell Marvelo remained a shadow across all of it. Not as a weapon. Not even as a symbol.
As a man.
He lived far from the spotlight, tucked away in a remote cabin tucked into the cliffs above Lake Biwa. No cape. No boots. No visitors. Just an old television set, dust collecting over its frame, its antenna crooked from storms long past.
He watched the world unfold in gray static and broadcast smiles.
The Adventures of Marvelo-Man, the announcer declared.
Maxwell sat motionless as George Reeves, playing a bright, smiling version of him, soared across black-and-white skies, wrestled foam-padded villains, and smiled for the American family.
He didn't smile.
The fake version of him was everything the government wanted the world to remember: wholesome, controlled, uncomplicated. The Maxwell Marvelo of reality—the man who had snapped Elijah's neck, who had watched Hiroshima burn, who had seen gods and monsters die in trenches—was forgotten.
The screen flickered. Static buzzed.
He changed the channel.
Another news broadcast: missile tests. Iron curtains. New heroes in loud colors with slick codenames and tight suits. Powers rising across the globe.
A new era was beginning.
One built on spectacle. Branding. Profit.
He flipped back to the Marvelo-Man show. The theme song was playing again. Children were clapping. George Reeves stood on a rooftop, hands on hips, chest puffed like a parade balloon.
Maxwell leaned forward. His eyes were unreadable.
Outside, a red sun dipped behind the clouds.
He turned the TV off.
And just sat there.
Still breathing.
Still watching.
Still waiting.
Somewhere in the static, the Cold War simmered.
And so did he.
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End of Chapter 43
End of Book One: Marvelo-Man