"You didn't answer my question. How's retirement, Rafael?" Mr. Smith continued, his tone measured, as if the name alone weren't a live wire waiting to snap.
Without flinching, Bob turned around.
The air shifted.
The relaxed, worn-out construction worker was gone.
What stood in his place now was something else—something colder, sharper. The intensity in Bob's eyes was so fierce it made the air feel heavier, as if even oxygen hesitated to breathe in his presence.
"I'm asking again," Bob said, his voice low but dangerous, "why are you here? I haven't done anything."
His gaze pierced straight through Mr. Smith's camouflage as if it were smoke and mirrors. "And drop the trickery. It's useless against me."
Jack hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. Then, with a subtle press of his wristband, the light-bending tech fizzled out, revealing twelve armed soldiers encircling the room—rifles raised, fingers twitching near triggers.
Bob didn't even glance at them.
His eyes stayed locked on Jack.
"We... need your help," Jack said, raising his hands slightly, not in surrender, but in transparency.
Bob blinked once, slowly, then let out a short, humorless breath.
"My help? What could the Hero Bureau possibly want from a retired 'average villain'?" His mouth curved into a faint smirk. "Unless you're here to ask me to redecorate another government building from the inside out."
A pause settled between them, long and heavy.
Then Jack spoke.
Two words.
Words that landed like a hammer on the chest.
"Hope is dead."
For a split second, time stopped.
Jack Smith—stoic, poised, emotionless Jack—stood with his jaw tight and eyes downcast. His blond hair was slicked back, his suit uncreased, his stance military-straight. But none of that could hide the devastation in his face.
Hope had been his best friend.
Bob's smirk faltered.
His entire body stilled. "Wh—sorry, wa—what do you mean Rick is dead?" The words stumbled out of him, raw and uncertain, like he couldn't believe they even needed to be said aloud.
His voice cracked.
His gaze darted, suddenly unsure. The room tilted around him.
No one in that room—not the soldiers, not the Bureau—knew Hope's true name. Rick Dunks. Only two people in that room knew the truth. Jack and Rafael.
The mask Bob wore every day shattered in an instant.
Gone was the apathy. Gone was the sarcasm. What remained was grief.
And behind that—rage.
"It's true… he's dead…" Mr. Smith said, his voice hollow. He stared at the floor like it might somehow give him the courage to finish the sentence. He couldn't meet Bob's eyes.
Silence stretched. Then—
"You mean to tell me that the strongest Hero was killed?" Bob shouted, disbelief exploding from his chest as he threw his hands up. "Rick? Dead?"
"Yes… he was…" Jack murmured. The words scraped out of his throat like they hurt to say. "He's gone."
Bob's breathing quickened. His fingers twitched. "Don't lie to me, Jack…" he growled, his voice rising like a tide. "I swear to God, if this is some twisted game—if you're trying to use me—I will—"
Twelve rifles clicked in unison, safety catches flipped off, but Bob didn't care. He didn't even flinch. His eyes burned holes into Jack, and he jabbed a finger at him like a blade.
Jack snapped.
"HE'S DEAD! OKAY?" he roared, the words tearing from his throat like shrapnel. "What don't you understand? Do you think I want to be here?! Do you think I want to crawl back to you of all people?"
His fists shook at his sides, clenched so tight his knuckles looked bloodless.
"I hate you," he spat. "More than anyone. For what you did five years ago. For what you took from all of us. For what you took from him…"
Bob's breath caught. Something in his eyes flickered—pain, maybe. Guilt.
Jack inhaled through his teeth, steadying himself. "And yet… here I am. Asking for your help. That's how bad things are."
The room was silent again.
Bob slowly lowered his hand, but the fire in his eyes remained.
Bob's shoulders slumped, the fire drained from his frame. He staggered slightly, clenching his jaw so tightly the muscle twitched. His eyes glossed over as he stumbled toward the worn-down couch and collapsed into it like the weight of the world had finally settled on his back.
"He's… dead?" he whispered, almost to himself. "No… no, no, no… He can't be." His voice cracked. "He visited me five days ago…"
Bob stared at the floor, eyes unfocused, mind spiraling. Both hands clawed through his tangled black hair as he fought back the surge of emotion rising in his throat. His chest heaved once, twice—but he refused to let the tears fall. Not in front of them.
The room was silent save for the faint hum of tension in the air. Guns were still trained on him, but the soldiers seemed unsure now—like they weren't entirely sure if the man in front of them was the monster they'd been briefed about, or just a broken relic of something lost.
But Bob wasn't looking at them.
He was listening.
And he heard it: the slight jump in Jack Smith's heartbeat.
His eyes narrowed.
"Who did it?" he asked quietly. There was no emotion in his voice now. Only ice.
Jack hesitated.
"…We don't know," he said.
Bob's head snapped up. His stare hit Jack like a blade pressed to the throat. That heartbeat—again, too fast. Too guilty.
"Ugh…" Jack sighed, looking away for a moment. His professional mask cracked. "It was… The Order."
Bob exhaled slowly, leaning back into the couch. "Of course it was, I fucking told him they were dangerous," he muttered bitterly.
He tilted his head, eyes dim. "So, what? You want me to go after them? You think I'm still that guy?" He scoffed. "If they killed Rick… what chance do I have?"
Jack stepped forward. "No, it's not that."
Bob raised an eyebrow, exhausted. "Then what the hell is it?"
"We need you to protect someone," Jack said.
Bob blinked. "Huh?" He looked up, confused. "Why would I protect—"
"We need you to protect his son," Jack interrupted.
The world stopped again.
"…Whose son?" Bob asked, slowly rising from the couch. His voice dropped low, warning—like a fuse had just been lit.
Jack reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph. A boy—maybe twelve, or thirteen. Bright blue eyes. Hair like spun gold. A gentle smile.
"Rick's."
Bob stared.
"No fucking way…" he muttered, snatching the photo and staring at it like it might burn in his hands. "He never told me he had a kid."
He swallowed hard. The kid was unmistakable. A younger Rick, practically copy-pasted, down to the jawline and that subtle spark behind the eyes.
"If you're lying…"
"I'm not," Jack said quickly. "Only a few people knew. He kept the boy hidden. For this very reason. Because he knew one day, someone would come for him."
Bob was silent. His hands trembled, gripping the photo. He hated how much it reminded him of Rick—of laughter shared, of battles fought back-to-back, of the strange, bond that had defined their unlikely friendship.
"…Why me?" Bob asked finally, voice soft.
"Because he inherited his father's power— the power to move the reality itself ," Smith said grimly, his voice like gravel under pressure. "And The Order is after him."
Bob's face barely moved, but his eyes sharpened.
Smith continued, "You're the only one even remotely close to Rick in strength. No one else is capable of protecting him… or training him."
Bob let out a bitter laugh, stepping back like he needed space just to process it. "Train him? Me?" His tone turned harsh, like each word physically hurt to say. "Are you kidding? I can't."
He pointed a finger at his own chest, his voice rising. "You know what I've done, Jack. You know what I am. The blood on my hands? It doesn't wash off. I'm not some storybook mentor. I'm not some retired hero hiding in a cabin. I'm a monster. And you think I'd be a good role model? Are you insane?"
Smith said nothing for a moment. The room felt heavier with silence than it ever had with weapons drawn.
Then, almost to himself, Smith looked up at the cracked ceiling and muttered, "You already knew how this conversation would go down… fucking brat…"
Bob blinked, confused. "What?"
Jack reached into his jacket again, this time more carefully. He pulled out a folded envelope, creased and weathered with time. "Read this," he said quietly.
Bob looked down and froze. His breath hitched the moment he saw the handwriting on the front.
It was unmistakable.
Rick's handwriting—loopy, rushed, confident.
His fingers trembled as he took the letter. For a moment, he just stared at it, unwilling to open it. Then, silently, he unfolded the paper.
Smith said nothing. The soldiers said nothing. Even the air seemed to stop moving.
Bob's eyes traced the words, line by line.
"Hey, Rick here, your movie buddy, or ex-enemy, really depends on the interpretation. Anyway, if you're reading this, it means I didn't make it…"
"…There's a boy. My boy. And he needs someone strong, someone who won't lie to him about the world. Someone who knows what monsters look like—because they used to be one, sorry but it's true, KInG oF DaRknEss, bleah, such a basic nickname"
"…You once told me you didn't believe in redemption. That it was just a pretty lie people told themselves. I never got to prove you wrong. Maybe you can prove yourself wrong now."
"…You're the only one I trust with him. Because no one understands what it means to carry the weight of power better than us. You always said you wanted to return the favor for what I did for you. This is your chance! Take care of my child, please. Well, that's all, I guess. Farewell, my greatest friend."
By the time Bob finished reading, his arms were shaking. A single tear rolled down his cheek, hot and unexpected. He wiped it away quickly, not really trying to hide it—but he didn't look away.
He met Jack Smith's gaze head-on. No more defiance. No more scoffing.
Just quiet resolve.
"I'll do it," he said.
And the moment those words left his mouth, something inside Bob Dickson—Rafael Azar—shifted. Not erased. Not redeemed.
But set into motion again.