Lingling's chest heaved as he raced down the stairwell, shoes pounding against the concrete. His mind was blank, nothing but the image burned into his skull, Nice the Perfect Hero smiling at him before stepping off the rooftop and falling to his death.
His body exploded onto the alley below, rain falling down. His eyes locked onto the body lying on the pavement. Nice's gleaming white and gold costume was already stained red, the shine of it dim under the flickering streetlight.
Lingling froze. His stomach lurched. He wanted to turn and run, to convince himself this wasn't real. But his legs betrayed him, dragging him forward step by step.
Up close, Nice didn't look human. His eyes were closed, lips curled faintly in that same impossible smile, like even death couldn't wipe away his perfection.
Lingling's throat tightened."Why… why would you do that?"
His words were a whisper, drowned by the rain.
Then panic rushed in like a flood. His mind spun with images: the news, the headlines, the riots, villains laughing as the city burned because the Perfect Hero was gone.
If people found out, if the city knew Nice had just killed himself, everything would collapse.
Lingling's hands shook as he crouched, reaching for the costume. The fabric was heavier than it looked, wet with blood and rain. He peeled it off with his clumsy fingers, stuffing it into a plastic bag he yanked from a trash bin.
He couldn't look at Nice's face again, not if he wanted to keep moving.
Minutes later, he staggered into his tiny apartment, dripping water across the floor. The smell of mildew and instant noodles filled the room.
He shoved the costume deep into his closet, burying it beneath dirty laundry and old blankets. His chest heaved as he collapsed onto the couch, head in his hands.
"This is insane. I'm insane. What the hell am I doing…?"
He didn't sleep.
The clock blinked past 2 a.m., then 3, then 4, while Lingling sat hunched on his couch, clutching his knees like a child. Every time he blinked, he saw Nice's body lying twisted in the alley. He saw himself crouched over it, tugging at the white and gold costume with shaking hands. He saw cameras, the crowd screaming, his neighbor pointing at him like he was some maniac supervillain.
And one thought kept coming back, gnawing at him like a rat in the walls.
They'll think I killed him.
He whispered it once, then again, then louder until his own voice filled the room."They'll think I killed him. They'll think I killed the Perfect Hero. They'll lock me up. They'll…"
He slapped his hands over his face, dragging them down until his skin burned."Shit, shit, shit."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By morning, he couldn't take it anymore.
Lingling stuffed his few belongings into a backpack, half a pack of instant noodles, some socks, and a toothbrush. The plastic bag holding Nice's costume went in last, crammed to the very bottom like a buried body. He stood there for a long moment, staring at the closet he'd emptied, before finally slinging the bag over his shoulder.
The hallway outside smelled of stale beer. Sure enough, his drunk neighbor was passed out on the stairwell, a cigarette dangling from his lip. As Lingling tiptoed past, the man stirred, mumbling, "Told you… Lingling would jump… knew it all along…" before slipping back into his snore.
Lingling froze. His heart skipped. For a second, he considered shaking the man awake, screaming to tell him what he meant. But what good would it do? Nobody would believe him.
He shook his head and pushed open the building's front door. The morning Boston air hit him sharp and cold.
One step. Then another. Then another.
Lingling didn't know where he was going, but he had to keep moving.
Because staying meant answers. Staying meant questions. Staying meant somebody, somewhere, eventually finding the truth.
And right now, the truth was the one thing he couldn't afford.
People brushed past him without a second glance. Vendors were setting up food stalls, the smell of fried dough mixing with exhaust fumes. Kids with plastic umbrellas splashed in the puddles left by last night's rain. Above it all, the billboards glared down shiny new advertisements for cologne, soft drinks, and of course Nice.
There he was again. That perfect white smile, plastered twenty feet high. Arms crossed. Chin up. A tagline in bold letters: "HOPE NEVER FALLS."
Lingling's stomach turned. He yanked his hood up and kept walking.
Hope never falls. Tell that to the rooftop.
He didn't know how long he'd wandered before he found himself on the edge of the industrial district. The smell hit first, chemicals, the kind of stench that made your eyes water. A line of warehouses stretched out before him, most of them rusting and silent except for the occasional sound of machinery.
He almost turned back. He should have turned back. But something about the emptiness of it appealed to him. No gawking crowds, no billboards, no accusing eyes. Just silence.
At least, until the silence broke.
The first explosion came from the middle of the row, a thunderclap that rattled Lingling's teeth. The ground trembled beneath his feet, and a jet of fire shot out of a cracked window. He stumbled backward, nearly falling into a puddle as a plume of black smoke rolled skyward.
Then came the screaming.
Voices carried through the smoke, cries for help. A woman's scream cut through the chaos. "Someone please! They're trapped inside!"
Lingling's gut twisted. He could walk away. He should walk away. Heroes ran into burning buildings, idiots died in them.
But his legs betrayed him again, dragging him toward the flames.
The paint factory was a nightmare. Barrels were stacked like dominos, some already rolling, bursting into bright, toxic flames as chemicals spilled. The air was thick and sour, making every breath feel like swallowing knives.
Lingling staggered inside, coughing. "Hello?! Anybody in here?!"
A voice answered, a man, weak and strained. "H-help!"
He found them huddled at the far end of the warehouse. Two men pinned under a collapsed beam, a woman trying and failing to shift it. Her hands were raw and bleeding. The flames crept closer with every second.
Lingling's chest seized. I can't do this. I'm nobody. I'm not-
Then something shifted inside him, a surge he never felt before. Heat licked at his skin, but it didn't burn. His muscles screamed with strength he didn't know he had.
"Move!" he barked, and the woman scrambled aside.
He planted his feet, wrapped both arms around the beam, and heaved. For a heartbeat, nothing happened, then concrete started cracking, and the beam lifted like it weighed nothing at all. Lingling grunted, dragging it away as the men crawled free, coughing violently.
The ceiling groaned above them, sparks raining. Another barrel exploded nearby, splattering the floor with viscous white paint that covered everything in the area.
"Go! Get out!" Lingling shouted, shoving the survivors toward the exit. He scooped the weakest man under his arm and staggered after them, boots skidding across the slick floor.
The fire roared as if trying to swallow them whole, but they burst through the doorway just as the roof gave way behind them.
Outside, chaos reigned. Fire trucks screeched up to the curb. Workers were gathered in the street, crying, hugging, shouting names. The moment Lingling stumbled out of the smoke, covered in soot, clutching the half-conscious man in his arms, a hush fell over the crowd.
Then came the whisper.
"It's Nice."
Phones shot up. The whisper became a shout. "It's Nice! He saved them!"
Lingling froze, his chest heaving. He looked down at himself. His shirt was scorched black, streaked with soot and ash except across his chest and shoulders, where the splashed paint had dried into thick, gleaming streaks of white. Combined with the white paint covering his hair, he must've looked exactly like the man on the billboards.
"No, no, no, wait, I'm not—"
But they didn't hear him. They didn't want to.
Lingling didn't remember how he got away from the factory.
The moment the two men and woman were pulled into the ambulance, the crowd pressed in on him, cheering, grabbing at his arms, shouting questions he couldn't answer. He mumbled something about needing air, shoved through the bodies, and sprinted until his lungs gave out.
By the time he stopped, he was half a district away, hunched over at a bus stop. His chest heaved, his clothes reeked of smoke and paint, and his knees threatened to buckle under him.
The streets buzzed with life, neon signs glowing against the night drizzle. A row of mounted TVs above the stop flickered with the evening news.
Lingling slumped onto the bench, rubbing his temples, trying to force the world to make sense. But the anchor's voice cut sharp through the rain.
"Breaking news, reports confirm the Hero Nice, made a dramatic appearance earlier this evening saving trapped workers from fire in the Boston paint factory. Eyewitnesses describe him as unharmed, confident, and smiling despite the flames."
Lingling froze. His blood went cold.
The screen shifted to shaky footage of him, stumbling out of the factory, the rescued man clinging to him, paint splattered across his hoodie and hair like war paint. The crowd's cheers filled the clip, drowning out his own stammering protests.
Around the bus stop, people turned their heads, pointing up at the TVs. Smiles spread. Murmurs rose.
"He's back at it again!""Nice is so cool!""Knew he'd never abandon somebody in trouble."
Lingling's stomach twisted. He pulled his hood lower, sinking into the bench as if he could vanish.
The anchor's voice dropped solemnly.
"In other news, authorities have identified the body of a young man found near the alleyway of an apartment building. Officials believe the victim, Lingling Zhao, age twenty, took his own life."
Lingling's head snapped up. His throat closed.
The screen showed his photo, a grainy work ID with his awkward half-smile, his name printed in bold beneath.
"Witnesses report seeing Zhao fall from a rooftop late last night. His death is currently ruled a suicide. Our condolences go out to his family, if any."
The footage switched to Nice again—to him.
"But in times of despair," the anchor continued, "it's comforting to know that heroes still rise to protect us. Nice's reappearance reminds us all that hope never truly dies."
The crowd at the bus stop erupted in cheers. Strangers clapped, laughed, some even cried. One man shouted toward the sky, "We love you, Nice!"
And Lingling sat there, shrinking smaller and smaller on the bench, every breath rattling.
They think I'm dead.They think Nice is alive.
His pulse thundered in his ears. The world outside roared with joy, but inside, one very imperfect man whispered the only words he had left.
"What the fuck."
The cheers still rang in his ears long after he ducked away from the crowd. He needed to disappear before anyone looked too closely.
Lingling ducked into a convenience store, grabbed the cheapest baseball cap he could find, and yanked it low over his face. With the brim down and his hoodie zipped up, he almost passed for invisible. Almost.
Back outside, the city felt like it was closing in on him. Every screen blared Nice's smile, every passing stranger talked about the miracle rescue. The lie was snowballing so fast he couldn't even keep up.
He needed to run. Not far, not forever, just far enough to breathe.
At the bus stop, the first bus hissed to a halt in front of him, doors folding open. Lingling hesitated only a second before climbing aboard. He dropped the last of his change into the slot and shuffled toward the back, slumping into the seat like a man carrying a coffin on his shoulders.
The bus groaned back to life.
Streetlights smeared into blurs against the rain-streaked window. Lingling pulled the cap lower, leaned his head against the glass, and finally, finally let his eyelids sink shut. The rumble of the engine drowned out the city, lulled him into the first scraps of sleep he'd had since yesterday.
He drifted. His body ached. His mind wouldn't let him rest. Every time he almost slipped under, Nice's smile flickered in the dark, finger guns aimed right at him.
"Shit," he muttered, turning in his seat.
The bus intercom crackled. A tired driver's voice filled the cabin.
"Final destination: New York City. Please stay seated until we reach the terminal."
Lingling's eyes snapped open. His brain caught up half a beat later.
"New York?"
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 2 updated
made a longer chapter this time, and shoutout to my Glorious king Bleap writer of many fanfics such as fate/world etc.
I mostly hang around in his server, be warned they are incredibly edgy
https://discord.gg/vzx63Rud