It was ten at night in the city of Guarly. Tyron left the police station with his mother, a cheerful woman with curly hair. Before hugging him, she gave him a gentle smack on the head.
"Don't ever get into trouble like that again, son. You were even on the news today. You may be a hero, but don't make me die of nerves."
She finally embraced him and walked toward the car. Tyron followed, protesting:
"Mom, I already told them inside. I didn't do anything. It was that guy—the one in the blue tracksuit, black pants, black-and-white sneakers, and yellow backpack."
She smiled.
"Son, the police and the doctor both said you must have imagined it all because of fear. But the one who really defeated those men was you. Even that father swore you fought them off with a tennis racket. What matters is you only have a minor chest injury. The pain will fade in a few days. I'm so lucky… my son, the hero."
She started the car and drove off.
All the way home, Tyron couldn't stop thinking of the man who had saved his life. Rage gnawed at him: everyone praised him, when the real credit belonged to another. At home, his younger brother tried to talk to him, but Tyron ignored him, heading straight to his room. He collapsed onto his bed, wishing he could forget the entire day.
The week dragged on, and Tyron learned what it was like to be "famous." Not a day at school passed without classmates bombarding him with questions. He barely listened. His mind clung to the image of his hero, longing to see him again and thank him properly.
By Saturday, fully recovered, he dressed in sportswear, cap, sunglasses, and a backpack. He was convinced the man lived in the city. With the first rays of dawn, he set out to find him.
But his search turned into misadventures: an old lady beat him with her blanket, thinking he was trying to steal it; he tumbled into a family's garden after mistaking a scarecrow dressed in blue for his hero; and he even climbed the tallest building in Guarly, only to discover a prankster's statue of a meditating man.
By sunset, Tyron felt utterly defeated. Not a single clue. Exhausted, he trudged home—until a hand grabbed his shoulder and shoved him into an alley. A man aimed a gun at his head.
"Why are you looking for him?" the man growled.
Tyron froze.
"I'm sorry! Please don't kill me! I'm not looking for anyone!" he stammered.
The man advanced, furious.
"Don't lie. I saw you all day, asking about him."
Fear mixed with a spark of joy in Tyron's chest.
"Wait—you're saying you know him? Finally, proof I'm not crazy. Before you shoot me… I only want to thank him properly."
The man laughed, holstered his weapon, and pulled back his hood, revealing long, light-brown hair.
"Well, aren't you a tough kid. Answering like that to someone pointing a gun at you… If you're wondering who I am: Detective Matías Surgiri. And the only reason you're not being tested right now to see if you're a psychopath."
Tyron blinked in confusion.
"What do you mean, tested to see if I'm a psychopath?"
Matías gestured for him to follow. They got into the car and left the city, driving deep into a forest road. At last, the detective explained:
"Of course, kid. If you had really done what happened on Monday, you'd be tested. Killing five grown men almost effortlessly? That would raise questions."
Neither spoke again until, a hundred kilometers later, they reached a lonely cabin in the woods.
Night had fallen. Matías leaned against the car. For some reason, Tyron felt he could trust him. He stepped out, dropped his backpack, and walked toward the cabin. Matías simply gestured: knock on the door.
Tyron swallowed hard and knocked.
The door opened.
There he was. The man who had saved him. He lowered his gaze, staring straight into Tyron's eyes, and spoke with a cold, cutting voice:
"Who the hell is this brat, Matías?"