He spun his gaming chair around slowly—the kind of slow, dramatic turn that said I'm about to end this man's whole career—and fixed his butler with a look that could only be described as deeply, profoundly offended.
Robert stood in the doorway of the apartment, hands clasped behind his back in that perfect butler posture. He was wearing his usual getup—black vest, white shirt, tie perfectly straight despite it being 2 PM on a Wednesday. His dark hair was slicked back, not a strand out of place. He looked like he'd stepped out of a catalog for "Professional People Who Have Their Shit Together."
The guy in the gaming chair, by contrast, looked like he'd been put through a washing machine and forgotten in the dryer for three days.
His black hair stuck up at angles that defied both gravity and good sense. His hoodie—gray, oversized, with a stain on the sleeve that might have been pizza sauce or a cry for help—hung off one shoulder. Sweatpants that had seen better years. Socks that didn't match. The kind of appearance that screamed I've given up, and I'm comfortable with that decision.
"Sir," Robert said, his voice carrying that particular tone of someone who was trying to be patient, "being a hero is far more important than winning a trophy in some... digital game."
The response was immediate.
A blink.
Then a slow, deliberate turn toward the gaming setup.
It wasn't just a setup. It was a monument. Three curved monitors arranged in a perfect arc, each one displaying different stats, maps, and discord channels. RGB lighting pulsed beneath the desk in waves of color that probably violated several Geneva Convention rules about psychological warfare. The keyboard looked like it cost more than most people's rent. The mouse had more buttons than a spaceship cockpit. The chair—the one currently being occupied—had more ergonomic adjustments than a luxury car and probably cost about the same.
Action figures lined the top of the monitors. Limited edition. Still in boxes. Worth a collective fortune to the right collector.
Two empty energy drink cans sat on the desk. Okay, five. Maybe seven if you counted the ones that had rolled under the desk into the graveyard of forgotten beverages.
He looked at the setup.
Then back at Robert.
"You must be fucking joking right now."
Robert's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. That special look that said I am being paid to tolerate this. He straightened his already straight tie and took a breath that suggested he was mentally counting to ten.
"Your father," Robert began, his voice taking on that lecturing quality that had been honed over years of falling on deaf ears, "was—and is—a legendary hero. The best hero we have ever seen. He saved the world. Multiple times. It's your responsibility—"
"Is it your responsibility to kill all the morale in the room?"
Robert's jaw tightened. His hands clenched slightly behind his back. He opened his mouth—probably to deliver some carefully prepared speech about duty and legacy and all that inspirational garbage—
And then he broke.
"Hero—" It slipped out before he could stop it. His eyes widened slightly, realizing his mistake. "I mean, sir—"
A grin spread across the younger man's face. Slow. Delighted. The kind of smile that said gotcha.
"Oh?" He leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled like some kind of discount supervillain. "I'm gonna report you for calling me by my name. That's, what, the third time this week? Dad's gonna dock your pay."
Robert sighed.
It was the kind of sigh that carried the weight of every questionable life decision that had led to this moment. The kind of sigh that could fill volumes.
"With all due respect, Sir Hero," Robert said, emphasizing the title with just enough sarcasm to be noticeable but not enough to be officially insubordinate, "your father hired me specifically because I'm one of the few people who can tolerate your—" he gestured vaguely at the entirety of the situation, "—this."
Hero's grin widened. "Don't you think that naming your son Hero is a weird thing to do?"
Robert sighed. Again. This was becoming a pattern. "That's not the point of what I'm—"
"Like, is that not manipulation?" Hero continued, completely ignoring the attempt to redirect the conversation. "What happened to my right to choose my destiny or whatever? You know, free will? Basic human rights? The whole 'I'm my own person' thing?"
Robert opened his mouth—
"You know what? If I'm gonna be forced to go to the academy, I'm gonna have to change my name to like..." Hero looked down, thinking hard, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Victor."
He paused.
Blinked.
"Wait, no. That ruins the whole point."
His head snapped back up, eyes bright with the revelation of someone who'd just solved world hunger. "Oh! Bradley. Or Brad. Yeah, Brad has that 'I'm just a normal dude' energy. Or maybe Giovanni? That sounds sophisticated. Has that—"
"You mean the academy orientation?" Robert interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp. "The one you should be attending right now? As we speak?"
Hero's eyes went wide.
Comically wide.
He spun his chair slowly—creeeeeak—turning back toward his monitors like if he couldn't see Robert, the problem would cease to exist. His hand reached for his mouse. Maybe if he just loaded up another game, reality would forget about him—
Robert's hand shot out and grabbed the back of the chair.
He spun it back around.
The chair creaked in protest, but Robert's grip was iron. His expression had shifted from "patient butler" to "I am so done with this."
"You," Robert said, each word deliberate, "have to be there."
Hero looked up at him, his face a mask of pure innocence. "Define 'have to.'"
"Mandatory, sir. As in, not optional. As in, your father specifically called me this morning to ensure you attended."
"Dad called?" Hero's expression shifted to something between panic and betrayal. "That snitch."
"Snitch?" Robert's voice went up an octave. He pointed at Hero, leaning in close, his professional composure cracking like thin ice. "You motherfu—"
He caught himself.
Pulled back.
Started laughing.
It was nervous. Strained. The laugh of a man who'd almost committed career suicide and was now desperately backpedaling.
"Oh shit," Hero said, eyes widening as he watched his butler have a minor breakdown.
He stood up quickly—too quickly—and food wrappers cascaded off his lap like a garbage waterfall. Chip bags. Candy wrappers. What might have been a pizza box folded into origami. They hit the floor with the sad crinkle of poor life choices.
"Okay. Okay, I'll go. Sheesh." Hero raised his hands in surrender, stepping over the pile of shame at his feet.
He spread his arms slightly, looking down at himself, then back up at Robert with genuine curiosity.
"How do I look?"
Robert's hand shot up to cover his nose.
Hero's breath had hit him like a physical force. Like something had died in his mouth and was now staging a protest. It was hot. Humid. Weaponized.
"First of all," Robert said, his voice muffled behind his hand, taking a deliberate step back, "brush your teeth. And take a bath. A long bath. Then dress smart before you even think about coming out of that bathroom. The car is waiting for you."
Hero put a hand on his chest, his expression shifting to one of deep, profound offense.
"You saying I smell?"
Robert didn't hesitate.
Didn't even blink.
"Yes."
The silence that followed was almost sacred.
Hero's jaw dropped slightly. He stood there, frozen, processing the absolute audacity of his own butler.
Then he clicked his tongue—tsk—and turned on his heel, shuffling toward the bathroom.
"Unbelievable," he muttered, loud enough for Robert to hear. "I give you a job, a place to work, and this is the respect I get. 'Yes.' Just like that. No hesitation. No 'oh sir, you're fine.' Just yes."
The bathroom door opened.
"You know I'm reporting this too, right?" Hero called back.
"I'll add it to the list, sir," Robert replied, already pulling out his phone to text Atlas's assistant that the package was, miraculously, being delivered.
The bathroom door closed.
The sound of running water started.
Robert looked around the apartment—at the monitors still glowing, the pile of wrappers on the floor, the overall state of things—and sighed.
Again.
It was going to be a long day.