All chapters in The Heroes are works of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All events, dialogue, and actions, including depictions of violence, threats, or moral conflict, are fictional representations created for storytelling purposes only.
I do not condone or encourage any harmful, violent, or unethical behavior outside of this story.
This story should be taken seriously. It is neither satire and not comedy. The Heroes is a realistic fictional series that explores moral, emotional, and ethical struggles. It seeks to promote good, expose evil, and reflect the truth of the world raw, uncensored, and unfiltered.
Every moral and ethical issue addressed in this story exists to raise awareness, not to mock or glorify it. As you read, please keep an open mind and understand that the intent behind every chapter is to inspire thought, empathy, and change.
This chapter contains violence, strong language, emotional trauma, and references to alcohol and vaping. Reader discretion is advised. Suitable for ages 14 and up.
WORLD BUILDING The Heroes
In 2003, under the Bush administration, the world witnessed something it had only ever dreamed of: the first official superheroes.
The Saviors.
Six enhanced beings. Each one is a living piece of a perfect puzzle. The world had never seen power like this. And for a brief, shining moment, it felt like anything was possible.
Wiplash, the unstoppable attacker. She never lost a sparring match. Her eyes were quiet storms, her presence a warning. When she moved, silence followed, then fear. Enemies didn't just fall; they trembled.
Blink the transporter. One moment here, the next vanished into thin air. Messages, weapons, and even people could appear and disappear at her whim. She moved like a living shadow across continents, unseen and untouchable.
Bull all strength, no subtlety. When the world needed smashing, he delivered. Cities trembled under his fists, walls buckled, and yet there was a strange, almost artistic rhythm to his destruction.
Mastermind has no muscle, only genius. Every battlefield was his canvas. Every plan, every route, every manipulation executed with precision. He controlled chaos as if it were a chessboard, seeing ten moves ahead when others barely saw one.
Goast, the shadow. Silent. Invisible. She slipped past locked doors, tight corridors, and even the prying eyes of cameras. A ghost in every sense, leaving nothing but whispers and unease behind her.
Christ, the leader. Calm, measured, righteous. He was the heart of the team, the glue that bound them all. Where others hesitated, he acted. Where others faltered, he stood firm.
Together, they were untouchable. Humanity's first line of defense against a world that kept getting darker. They saved lives. Stopped wars. Foiled global threats. People didn't just admire, they worshipped them. They were gods among mortals.
And then… Project VX.
A new experiment. A prototype chip, whispered about in secret labs, is said to enhance humans beyond comprehension. Something better.
It didn't fail. It mutated.
The subject became a creature so horrific that no photograph survived. Cities were reduced to ash in minutes. Smoke rose like black fingers into a burning sky. Sirens wailed endlessly. Screams echoed, swallowed by chaos. The Saviors did what they swore they never would: they killed.
And it broke them.
One by one, their minds cracked. Some fell into despair, ending their own lives. Others went mad, unable to reconcile what they'd seen or what they'd done. By 2006, the last of the Saviors was gone.
Project VX was buried. Hidden in secret facilities. Mutated further. Twisted beyond imagination. Forgotten… except by those who still feared it.
After every tragedy, society mourns. And in that mourning… crime rises. Greed festers. Fear spreads.
When the Saviors fell, humanity lost more than protection. It lost purpose. Hope. Faith that someone, somewhere, could hold the line.
By 2007, the world began to heal, not through faith, not through leadership, but through celebrity. Heroes were out. Idols were in. People wanted faces they could admire, names they could chant, brands they could buy. Gods were too distant. Idols were tangible. Real. Human.
And then… Inferno appeared.
No one knew where he came from. Some whispered about strange storms and fire that danced across the skyline. Others claimed he appeared without warning, like a living conflagration. He didn't just fight crime, he redefined it. He formed the most powerful superhero team the world had ever seen. A new era had begun. A new superhuman administration.
They were called The 9.
More powers. More heroes. Smaller teams. Government oversight is increasing with every passing year. The world shifted beneath their feet.
Mr. American—the arsenal. Every weapon, every combat style, every strategy of war at his command. Patriotic face. Twisted motives.
Sentro—the carrier. Lift tons. Fly at Mach 40. An unstoppable force of physics and will.
Roadrunner—the fastest alive. 10% the speed of light. Unseen. Untouchable. A blur, a flash, a legend.
MAD—unstoppable. Rage and precision intertwined. Strength, speed, and fury beyond comprehension.
Warrior Girl (Valkyrie)—tactical. Fearless. Devastating. Every strike measured, every move calculated, yet executed with fluid grace.
Vortex—wind goddess. Unpredictable, deadly, and alluring. Control over the air itself, bending reality with motion.
Electric Strike—reckless, fast-talking, chaotic… stronger than he looks. Lightning incarnate.
Winthrop (Black Assassin)—ghost. Silent. Lethal. Always watching. Invisible predator.
Inferno—god among them. Fire. King. Leader. Heart, soul, and fury wrapped into one unstoppable force.
By 2015, The 9 had generated over 2 trillion dollars for the United States. By 2026, crime had fallen 45%. National debt? Gone. World peace? Almost real.
But peace… is just a thin veil stretched over the darkness waiting to strike.
And what comes next… no hero can stop.
OPENING MONTAGE: THE HEROES
[Faint orchestral hum fades in low brass, slow drums.]
Voice-Over: They were once our protectors. Symbols of light in a world that kept getting darker. But even legends fade… and sometimes, they burn.
[A blinding flare fills the screen, then clears to reveal Inferno.]
Inferno
The camera circles slowly through crimson smoke and drifting ash. Inferno stands tall atop a crumbling monument, his enhanced carbon-fiber gray armor gleaming under the dying sun. A red ribbon crosses his chest, etched in Greek: "Inferno, God of Fire."Golden shoulder plates catch the light as his cape ripples like a living flame. Heat distortion warps the air around him; red sparks dance across his gloves and boots. Beneath the intensity, his brown eyes hold both sorrow and authority. The embodiment of power is restrained.
Warrior Girl
Cut to a battlefield of dust and silence. Warrior Girl kneels amid broken shields, her dark-gray breastplate carved with a crimson line running down her center like a wound that never healed. On her back, a sword and a round shield rest, battered yet unyielding. Steel shoulder plates and long forearm guards shimmer faintly in the overcast light. She raises her belt of throwing blades, clinking softly as she turns, wind catching strands of her brownish-red hair. Her brown eyes burn not with fury, but with duty, the calm before every storm.
Vortex
The scene fractures into motion. A dark tunnel pulses with red energy as Vortex steps forward, her black carbon-fiber suit adjusting seamlessly to her stance. Steel pads armor her shoulders and legs; a glowing red "V" ignites across her chest like a heartbeat. She spins the red aura flares, leaving streaks of light in the air. Short blonde hair and a reflective visor conceal her gaze, but her smirk reveals confidence. Static energy hums in her wake, the world bending ever so slightly to her will.
Road Runner
A streak of gold blurs through a desert highway. Sand erupts in his trail as Road Runner comes to a stop, time seeming to catch up with him. His red nanotech carbon-fiber suit, trimmed with gold, ripples with kinetic light. Gold-plated shins, red running shoes, and light-red gloves glint in motion. He tilts his head, smirking beneath the wind, black hair streaked with gray, brown eyes flashing like headlights at dawn. The camera pans up to show him vanish again, leaving only a faint echo of laughter.
Electric Strike (Strike)
The lights go out. A single red flash cuts through the darkness, lightning arcing across a figure's mask.Strike steps into view, his dark-blue mask split by a red lightning bolt.Black shoulder pads, gloves, and boots fade into the shadows, only the red glint of his eyes visible beneath the storm. Rain falls. The camera lingers, but his face remains unseen. When the next flash hits, he's gone.
MAD
Sparks and holograms flicker through a tech lab. MAD stands before a transparent console, typing faster than sight. Her medium-dark-blue uniform glows faintly beneath the lab lights, the clear chest plate revealing inner circuitry that syncs with her heartbeat. Black pants outlined in purple and matching gloves and boots complete the design. Her braided hair buns are precise, controlled, just like her expression. She glances toward the camera and for a moment, it's unclear if she's watching us or calculating how long we'll last.
Sentro
A hum of machinery. Sparks. The whine of hydraulics. Sentro stands on a platform surrounded by green light. His carbon-fiber armor gleams emerald, one arm pure golden alloy, the other forged from titanium fused with ADNR, carbyne, and tungsten. Energy ripples between them, binding flesh to metal. His golden chest plate pulses faintly; gold shoes gleam against the steel floor. Black hair, brown eyes, and no expression. Only the perfection of balance: human will within machine precision.
Mr. American
Cut to a parade ground under twilight. Mr. American stands firm, the flag cape flowing behind him in the wind. His dark-blue armor bears a golden star across the chest and an eagle insignia spreading across his right shoulder. Gold trim lines his belt and shoulder plate, while crimson thigh and shin guards mark the cost of every battle fought in his country's name. He salutes the camera tightens on his brown eyes, calm and unwavering. In his reflection, the city burns behind him.
Winthrop
Fade to black. Then movement.The faint sound of metal scraping. A shadow walks through smoke. Winthrop's black carbon-fiber hood and titanium-reinforced armor swallow every trace of light. The air seems colder around him. Hidden compartments open along his arms and legs, glimpses of weapons that should not exist. Only the faint purple glow of his gloves breaks the darkness. When he looks up, the world goes silent.
Voice-Over They were heroes once. Protectors. Gods among us. But even gods can fall…
[Title fades in through fog and light:]
THE HEROES
THE LAST DAYS OF FALL
The sun hung low over New York, a molten orb bleeding gold and orange across the city's cracked backroads. Asphalt shimmered faintly in the late afternoon light, damp from a passing drizzle that smelled faintly of wet concrete and the ghost of long-forgotten rain. Leaves, crisp and brittle, crunched underfoot, releasing a faint piney tang that mingled with the sharp metallic tang of a lawnmower abandoned somewhere in the distance. Somewhere beneath it all, cinnamon wafted, maybe from a nearby bakery, maybe from the ghosts of Halloween yet to come.
Four figures moved down the narrow street, bikes scraping over uneven asphalt, helmets bouncing in chaotic rhythm against handlebars. Wind whipped hair into faces, tousled by reckless speed and teenage carelessness. Sneakers scuffed the road as fingers flexed around grips, knuckles whitening, bodies leaning and tilting in anticipation of the unknown chaos the day would inevitably deliver.
It was supposed to be a calm afternoon.
It wasn't.
Zack led them, skateboard tucked under one arm, hoodie hanging off his shoulders like it was daring gravity to interfere. His grin was permanent, predatory, a signal flare for trouble. Every flick of his wrist, every tilt of his head screamed, "I'm about to do something spectacularly stupid." Dark tufts of hair stuck up from his last crash at the skate park, and gravel dust clung stubbornly to the corner of his shirt. He rocked slightly on the balls of his feet, knees flexing, like a coiled spring itching for release.
Behind him, Alex moved with a languid grace, bike at her side. Sunlight caught the gold strands of her hair, turning them into liquid fire. Her shoulders relaxed, yet every muscle beneath her hoodie was alert. She watched Zack with a mixture of exasperation and affection, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as though daring him to fail. Her hands flexed around the handlebars, fingers brushing over chipped paint like a pianist testing keys before a stormy concerto.
Mark, in the middle, moved with calculated casualness. Athletic limbs, balanced posture, the casual swagger of someone who knew exactly what he could get away with and would. He kicked stones aside with precise, lazy arcs of his foot, a small grin playing on his lips. His hoodie hung open, sunlight catching the team logo on his chest, the subtle sheen of sweat tracing lines along his dark skin. Every glance, every tilt of his head, every step was choreographed instinctively to charm, to intimidate, to draw eyes without a word.
Connor brought up the rear, a quiet, immovable presence. Journal clutched tightly in hand, pen poised like a soldier ready to record battle movements. Eyes flicking, scanning, memorizing, cataloging, always cataloging. Even his breathing had a rhythm, slow and controlled, grounding him amidst the chaos swirling around him.
Together, they were chaos and order intertwined. Brashness and calculation entwined like a braid of fire and steel.
Zack dragged his board across the asphalt, a harsh screech ripping through the lazy hum of autumn afternoon. Alex flinched, biting the inside of her cheek, eyebrows knitting together as though physically restraining herself from yelling.
"If we played another round, I would've mopped the floor with those high schoolers," Zack said, voice booming, chest puffing with pride.
Alex's eyebrow arched. "Zack… they've been playing laser tag since before you stopped wetting the bed."
Mark snorted, nearly spewing cranberry juice from his bottle. "Facts."
"Bro!" Zack's face contorted in mock horror, eyes widening, mouth forming a perfect 'O'. "You're supposed to be on my side!"
"I am," Mark said, grin unwavering, "but… You kinda suck."
"Tactical!" Zack shouted, arms flailing, body jerking like a marionette. "I was tactical!"
"Running straight into their base screaming 'flank left!' isn't tactical. It's… creative suicide," Alex said, voice sharp as shattered glass.
"That's psychological warfare!" Zack countered, drawing invisible battle lines in the air, fingertips twitching as though conducting an orchestra of chaos.
Connor didn't even look up. "Yeah. It worked. They laughed so hard they forgot to miss."
Alex's shoulders shook as laughter finally broke through. Even Mark's usually composed grin widened, teeth flashing in sunlight. Zack's own chest heaved with exaggerated triumph, arms raising as if claiming victory over the universe itself.
Zack pulled a small vape pen from his pocket, juggling it in one hand with a half-drained bottle of juice in the other. "Watch this," he said, voice equal parts mischief and hubris.
Alex froze. "You're eleven." Her hands flexed over her handlebars, knuckles whitening.
"Yeah," Zack said, puffing faintly, a curl of smoke ghosting around his face. "Growing into a legend."
Mark tilted his head, juice sloshing dangerously near the rim. "Kyle gave you that line, didn't he?"
Zack shrugged, grin untouched by logic. "Barely nicotine. Mostly vibes."
Alex groaned, audible exasperation trembling in the air.
"Facts," Zack said proudly, and tipped backward onto his board, chugging the last of the juice while twisting mid-roll like some chaotic acrobat.
"Film this!" he yelled.
Mark's bike wheels spun, gravel spraying like fireworks as he chased him. Leaves whipped through the air, brushing bare arms and legs with sharp, brittle kisses of autumn. The air smelled of pine, asphalt, sweat, and adrenaline, electric, tangy, impossible to ignore.
Connor muttered under his breath, barely audible over the chaos, "Statistically… someone's going to survive."
Alex's breath caught as she gripped her bike like a lifeline, heart hammering against ribs. "You two are insane," she hissed.
Then came the honk.
A beat-up red pickup barreled down the road, engine thrumming, tires grinding against gravel like claws on bone. Music Two Moons by Boywithuke exploded from worn speakers. The driver jerked the wheel, his girlfriend screaming.
"LEO! MOVE!" the girl yelled, voice slicing through the chaotic orchestra of leaves, wheels, and adrenaline.
Zack and Mark screamed too, adrenaline spiking, muscles coiling, hearts lurching. Zack kicked the board, arched backward, arms flailing as juice splashed across his hoodie and leaves scattered in violent arcs. A stray branch snapped against his shoulder, hoodie tearing with a sharp rip, skin burning beneath.
"YEAH? GO BACK TO DRIVER'S ED, DICKHEAD!" Zack roared, voice cracking from adrenaline.
Mark laughed so hard it echoed against the trees, nearly tipping his bike. Connor remained stoic, journal clutched like armor, body rigid as a statue. Alex's legs trembled, heart lodged somewhere near her throat, hands gripping handlebars until fingers ached.
The truck swerved violently, gravel spraying like shrapnel. Tires squealed. The world blurred. Then, as suddenly as it had arrived, it vanished down the street, music fading into the distance.
Zack skidded to a stop, chest heaving, sweat matting hair to his forehead, eyes wild with triumph. Epic! Just like Nathan Apodaca, he gasped, a grin splitting his face.
Mark wiped sweat and juice from his brow. "Bro… that was
"Legendary," Zack finished, chest heaving with the thrill of survival.
Alex reached them last, cheeks flushed, hands trembling as adrenaline faded into shaky laughter. "You're actually going to die one day for content," she warned.
Connor tucked his pen neatly back into his journal, his shoulders relaxing. "Statistically… yes."
Zack slung an arm around him, clapping his friend's shoulder. "I'm a god. And you're documenting my greatness."
The four walked the final stretch of road, forest closing in around them, leaves crunching under sneakers, pine needles stabbing lightly into skin. Crisp autumn air burned their lungs pleasantly. Somewhere in the distance, faint laughter, distant engines, a bird taking flight—the world breathed, alive, chaotic, dangerous—but theirs.
At the end of the dirt path, high among oaks, stood their fortress: the treehouse. Scavenged wood patched with graffiti, crooked flag fluttering, rungs groaning under weight. Home for children who survived scraped knees, broken bones, reckless ideas, and near-death streaks of laughter.
Mark dropped the kickstand, legs flexing as he landed, chest heaving. "Home sweet home."
Zack's eyes glinted with mischief. "I've got an idea."
Zack leaned toward Mark, conspiratorial. "When Alex and Connor come up, we scare the hell outta them. Classic."
Mark smirked, muscles coiled like a predator. "I'm in."
Zack and Mark crouched low behind a tangle of bushes, the branches scratching their arms as they leaned in toward each other. Leaves whispered in the wind above them, the golden afternoon light filtering through the canopy in sharp, jagged patterns on their hoodies. Zack's grin was stretched impossibly wide, eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief. "Dude," he whispered, voice almost cracking, "she's gonna freak. I swear, she's gonna jump three feet into the air. Classic Alex panic."
Mark chuckled, shoulders shaking as he tried to contain himself. "Yeah, like, she's gonna be all, 'You almost gave me a heart attack!' or 'Why would you do that?!'" He leaned closer, brushing a branch aside with one hand and tugging his hoodie further over his face like a ninja preparing for battle.
Zack's hand flew to his mouth to stifle a laugh, but it escaped anyway, a sharp snicker that seemed to rattle the very leaves above them. "Bro, it's gonna be legendary. I can already see her face. Priceless."
Connor and Alex walked a few steps ahead, oblivious to the chaos lurking behind the bush. Alex's hands fidgeted around the grips of her handlebars, fingers curling and uncurling as she stole glances at the trees above. The sunlight caught her hair, turning it into a living flame that swayed with every movement. "Connor," she began quietly, voice low, hesitant, almost shy, "have you ever… thought about the future? Like… high school… jobs… bills…" Her words stumbled out, soft but loaded with a strange weight, her eyes flicking to the ground as if the future itself were a storm cloud she could see hovering over them.
Connor's brow furrowed slightly, his gaze tracking her every movement without breaking stride. He noticed the tension coiled in her shoulders, the faint tremor in her hands despite her careful grip. He thought, She needs someone to ground her, to tell her it'll be okay, but he swallowed the words, content to let her voice carry the concern while he offered quiet presence.
Alex exhaled, a soft puff of air escaping her lips like she was releasing some tiny fraction of the anxiety weighing her down. "This world's… it's full of drama, Connor. Hardship everywhere. What if we… what if we just… left? Just went somewhere unknown? Somewhere we could… be free?" Her eyes flicked up, meeting his briefly, shimmering with hopeful curiosity.
Connor's mind raced, mapping a thousand potential futures and destinations. Where would she go? What could we find? Could we even leave? But all that hesitation stayed locked behind his teeth. He simply nodded, curiosity twining with his protective instinct. "Where would we go?" he asked softly, careful not to sound too practical.
Before she could answer, a movement in the bushes snapped their attention. Zack and Mark lunged from their hiding spot, arms flailing like cartoonish predators springing from a trap. Alex let out a sharp scream, heart lurching violently as adrenaline surged through her veins. "You almost gave me a heart attack!" she shrieked, stepping back until her sneakers skidded against gravel.
Zack and Mark doubled over with laughter, the sound echoing through the trees, and Zack's arm shot toward her in mock affection. "Sweetheart," he shouted gleefully, earning a sharp glare from Alex that only fueled his amusement.
Connor moved quickly, a hand brushing against Alex's shoulder to steady her, fingers digging just enough to ground her without hurting. "It's fine," he murmured, voice calm, eyes flicking to the mischievous duo sprinting ahead toward the treehouse. "They're idiots."
Alex huffed, still trembling from the scare, her hands tightening around the handlebars. "Idiots," she repeated, her voice a mixture of exasperation and lingering panic. Connor offered a half-smile, his gaze soft but steady, as they started walking together toward their wooden fortress.
The treehouse loomed above, a monument of chaos and careful construction. Thick branches supported the weight of scavenged planks patched meticulously with graffiti in every corner. A crooked flag fluttered lazily, catching the sunlight in a golden shimmer. The climb up the rickety ladder made Alex's stomach lurch pleasantly — the height, the risk, the thrill — until they finally reached the platform.
Inside, the space was alive with teenage ambition and cluttered comfort. A large TV dominated one wall, flanked by an Xbox and a PS4, wires crisscrossing like a chaotic map of their entertainment kingdom. A mini fridge hummed softly in the corner, occasionally opening with a faint click, while a couch sagged under past weights and a bean bag chair bulged invitingly in the center. A jar of coins sat on a low table, their PS5 fund, meticulously labeled, the coins stacked and rattling slightly with each movement.
Above the TV, a picture of The 9 hung like a throne, golden light from the window catching the edges of the frame. Beside it, a golden ticket glimmered faintly, the key to their upcoming adventure at Heroes Tower.
Zack collapsed onto the bean bag, popping open an Inferno energy drink with a loud hiss, and leaned back, eyes half-closed in self-satisfied exhaustion. "Man, next week is gonna be epic," he mumbled, taking a long sip and letting the cold burn trail down his throat.
Mark prowled the room, a restless energy that made the boards creak beneath him. "Celebrities will be everywhere," he said, voice brimming with anticipation, "Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift, Emma Stone, MrBeast… and Trey Parker and Matt Stone are special guests."
Alex groaned, collapsing onto the couch next to Connor, her legs curling under her. "The creators of South Park are awful. Horrible, crude, immature. I don't get why they're celebrated."
Zack snickered, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, but legends, Alex. Legends. They take the tiniest idea and blow it up into the biggest thing in comedy. Smallest, biggest doesn't matter."
Alex crossed her arms, glare sharpening. "It's not just about being clever. They mock religion, sex, race… it's immature and not funny. Hurts people more than it entertains."
Mark shrugged, spinning slightly on the balls of his feet. "Well, they're exercising their rights to free speech. Can't really blame them for that."
Connor, always the quiet observer, shifted on the couch. His fingers traced the fabric absentmindedly as he spoke, voice soft but deliberate. "The First Amendment… it wasn't meant to hurt others. It was made for expressing your thoughts and emotions to the government, without the government interfering. Sadly, now it's a protection for anyone without government interference."
The treehouse groaned under their weight as Zack leaned back, a laugh escaping him. His eyes widened dangerously, and the soda in his cup wobbled precariously. "Well… well, finally the quiet one speaks," he said, grinning. "You were always the teacher's pet, huh? Raising your hand, answering all the questions…"
Connor's lips pressed tight, eyes fixed on the floor. A soft sigh escaped him, barely audible over the wind brushing against the treehouse walls. "It's the… Bill… of Rights… Zack," he murmured.
Mark lowered his phone, a snicker escaping. "Bro… you never stop. At least he actually pays attention in school," Alex said quietly, rubbing her arms, trying to stay warm.
Zack tilted his cup back, finishing the last sip, shaking his head. "Schools are for losers. Teachers don't care. The system sucks. All that stuff we learn? Worthless in the real world."
His eyes flicked toward the framed photo of the Nine, Inferno staring down from above. Zack muttered, almost to himself, "That's what Inferno would say."
Alex's hands curled into fists at her sides. "Jesus Christ! Zack, that's not what Inferno would say! You've never met him! He'd want what's best for the system, not disrespect it!"
Zack's smirk widened. "Yeah, but you haven't met him… what makes you think he doesn't promote youth rights or try to better the education system?"
"Because he's a hero, Zack, not a politician!" Alex shot back, leaning forward, eyes sharp, brown hair falling across her face.
Mark paced slowly, not looking up from his phone. "Yeah… sadly, Alex is right. That's above his—"
"Mark!!" Zack snapped, sitting up. "You seriously agree with her again?!"
"It's because I don't just yap, Zack," Mark said evenly, meeting his gaze.
Zack rolled his eyes, turning back to the photo of the Nine. His grin grew mischievous. "Remember when we found out Connor had this massive crush on Warrior Girl?" He leaned closer, scanning Connor for a reaction.
Connor's head dipped lower, cheeks flushing. "That's… not… what… happened…"
Zack laughed, cutting him off. "Oh, don't even try. We watched you, weirdo."
Mark laughed, shaking his head. "Comedy gold, bruh."
Alex exhaled sharply, stepping closer to Connor. "Haven't you done… enough, Zack?" Her voice trembled. "You've hurt too many people, and you… don't care. We used to be good friends… now… we're…" Her voice broke, and she lowered her gaze. "…fallen apart."
Zack leaned back, placing the cup carefully on the floor. He gestured toward Connor with a flick of his hand. "I was just teasing… Besides, by now he should handle this. But no… he has to have a girl. Step up for him."
"Zack… Alex…" Connor murmured, voice barely above the creak of the wood. "Please… stop."
Zack groaned, rolling his eyes. "Fine… only this once."
Alex gave a small nod. "That's what he needs."
Mark's lips pressed together as he scrolled. "Yo… listen to this. Found it on the dark web. About Winthrop, Mr. American, and MAD."
Zack leaned forward, eyes narrowing at the name Winthrop. "The Black Assassin… my favorite. Read it."
Mark's fingers paused. "Okay… it says here, Winthrop, fighting Gazerbeam yesterday. Shots burned his arms, ruptured his ribs, even hit his heart… Still, he completed the mission. No civilians were hurt."
Alex's eyes went wide. "Oh… my god… impossible… like… inhuman."
Zack's stomach churned, his heartbeat picking up. He jumped slightly, soda sloshing. "Jesus… Winthrop?"
Mark shook his head. "No intel beyond this."
Alex's voice quivered. "What about MAD and Mr. American?"
"They went separate missions," Mark said slowly. "Both reached supersonic speed… rescued young hostages from the Russians."
Zack's stomach twisted. "Young hostages… how old?"
Mark pinched his lips. "Middle schoolers. Not safe to be walking alone at that age."
Alex's eyes widened, voice cracking. "Are the children… alive?"
Mark shook his head, expression grim. "I… rather not go further. There's a picture below that shows it." He shut his phone, leaving the room in near-darkness.
Silence settled over the treehouse. Only the wind through gaps in the planks, distant city hums, and the faint creak of wood filled the space. Each of them processed the article differently—Zack's jaw tight, Mark's fingers twitching, Alex trembling, Connor staring blankly at the floor.
Alex exhaled shakily and stood. "I… need to go. My dad… he'll be mad if I'm late."
Connor jumped up, eyes wide. "Wait… Alex… please… let me go with you."
Alex smiled faintly, brushing hair from her face. "Thanks… Connor. Gentleman."
They carefully descended the ladder, Alex's fingers brushing worn wood, Connor close behind. The treehouse felt emptier, the tension heavy in the air.
From above, Mark called, "Be safe, you two!"
Zack leaned back against the wall, smirking. "Try not to get kidnapped!"
Alex shook her head, muttering as she grabbed her bike. "What assholes."
The two wheeled down the path in near silence, leaves crunching beneath tires. Behind them, the treehouse sat in the fading sun, shadows stretching across its boards.
Zack exhaled, low and uneasy. "Some people… unreal."
Mark stayed silent, eyes fixed on the horizon. "We don't fully understand what they go through… and maybe we're not supposed to."
The air grew chillier as shadows deepened. Zack shifted, voice quieter. "Makes you scared to grow up in this world, huh?"
Mark's nod was slow. "Yeah… but it also makes you grateful. For the little we've got. For each other."
Zack shook his head, exhaling sharply. "Survive… somehow. Stay human… even when you see what they do."
The sun dipped lower, streaks of orange bleeding through the bare branches. The treehouse, silent and swaying slightly, seemed suspended between childhood and the violent reality of heroes and villains, between innocence and the truths the kids had just glimpsed.
The fog clung low to the forest floor, thick and unyielding, swallowing the gravel path beneath their wheels. Alex and Connor dragged their bikes forward, each step sounding unnaturally loud against the soft crunch of fallen leaves. The air smelled of spice and pumpkin, a faint comfort against the eerie tension creeping through the trees. Wind twisted the branches violently, leaves rattling like whispers of some unseen presence.
The full moon hung heavy above, pale and distant, casting long shadows that stretched unnaturally across their figures. In the distance, an owl hooted, its echo bouncing off the trunks and fading into the fog, followed by the sharp snap of a branch somewhere behind them. Alex flinched, tightening her grip on the handlebars.
"Thanks," she said softly, glancing sideways at Connor. Her fingers fumbled with the brake levers, twisting them nervously. "I… it's really good to have company. I looked… dark back there. I don't know… it's… nice."
Connor's eyes darted to the left, then right, tracing the shapes of trees through the fog. "Yeah… it's weird. How fast the weather just… changes." His voice was quiet, tentative, carrying an edge of unease that didn't need explanation.
He turned slowly toward her, his breath visible in the chilly night air. "At the treehouse… do you think… our relationship with Zack and Mark… are we… falling apart?"
Alex exhaled, letting a shiver run down her spine. The fog brushed her cheek like fingers reaching out to her. "I… I just… after all this time, I thought we'd be best friends. Now… it feels like we're strangers… or enemies. Maybe… peers. Not fully anything." Her eyes dropped to the misty ground, heart hammering as she pushed forward, legs tense.
Connor looked up at the moon, silver light spilling over the fog like liquid. Then he looked down, feet crunching over wet leaves. "Yeah… I wish it could be like before."
The path narrowed, gravel crunching under their tires. Connor's hands gripped his handlebars so tightly his knuckles went white. His heart thumped in his chest, an impatient drum in the still night. "Alex…" he began, voice barely above a whisper. "I… I wanted to ask you…"
Alex's head turned slightly, eyes catching a faint warm glow in the distance. "Oh… that's my house." She smiled faintly, a soft interruption to the tension coiling in the fog. "I… I have to go. Thanks, Connor… for walking me home."
Her legs pumped quickly, boots kicking up mist as she jogged the last stretch through the trees. The fog swallowed her in a haze of white and silver, leaving only the crunch of leaves in her wake.
Connor froze for a heartbeat, hand raising in a slow, awkward wave. He watched her figure disappear into the porch light, chest tight with words he hadn't dared to speak. One day… he thought, one day I'll find the courage.
The forest closed in around him, fog curling and twisting like living smoke. Shadows moved at the edges of his vision. Every snapping twig, every hiss of the wind, every distant call of an owl made his chest tighten. Yet even in the thick, creeping mist, he could feel the faint warmth of her presence lingering, as if the night itself refused to let her vanish entirely.
Connor exhaled slowly, lowering his hand. He mounted his bike, wheels crunching over the wet gravel. His gaze flicked back once more toward the glowing porch, a single thought echoing in his mind: Not yet… but someday.
The fog swallowed the path ahead, and Connor pedaled forward, silent and careful, every movement deliberate in the still, haunted night.
Alex's legs pumped through the thickening fog, each step muffled by damp leaves and the soft crunch of gravel beneath her sneakers. The forest seemed to close in around her, every tree a shadowed sentinel, every twisted branch a possible threat. Her breath came in sharp bursts, visible in the cold night air, and each inhale carried the sharp tang of pine… and something else. Something metallic, bitter, unsettling.
She froze mid-stride, nose flaring. Iron. Smoke. A faint, acrid whisper of fire. Her heartbeat hammered in her ears, drowning out the rustling of the wind, the distant hoot of an owl.
Ahead, a shape shifted in the mist. At first, it seemed like a fallen branch, then… wrong. Something more angular, too deliberate, too still. Alex's stomach dropped. She squinted, fog curling around her like smoke, obscuring the details, teasing her imagination.
Closer now, the glint of a badge caught the faint moonlight. A torn suit jacket, fabric ragged, flapping softly in the wind. The letters were familiar: a representative's insignia. Alex's chest tightened. Her breath hitched, shallow and rapid.
She took a cautious step forward. Then another. Her fingers curled around her hoodie, white-knuckled. Every sound exaggerated: the snap of a twig, the distant rush of wind, her own heartbeat like a drum in her skull.
From the mist, a figure stepped forward. Red suit. Half-silhouetted, movement precise, deliberate. Alex froze entirely, every muscle taut.
And then another — blue mask, silent, unmoving. Their presence pressed down on her chest, cold and unrelenting.
The red figure turned its head slightly. Moonlight glanced off something unnatural in its eyes. They glowed faintly, a predatory shimmer cutting through the fog. Alex's legs threatened to give way, a paralyzing pulse of fear surging through her.
Her throat tightened. She tried to scream. Sound lodged in her chest. Only a strangled gasp escaped as the world seemed to bend fog swirling faster, shadows reaching, heartbeat thunderous, every sense screaming danger.
Then darkness.