The room was dim. Not completely dark, but just dim. The windows were closed entirely as they vibrated a little from time to time. A clock ticked somewhere in the background, but it didn't matter much.
Ash sat in a chair across from the therapist, his back stiff against the cushion as if relaxing would make him vulnerable. The chair creaked a little as he shifted his weight. His hands were folded on his lap, fingers digging into each other. His eyes were fixed on a small crack in the floor tile, following it with a kind of desperate focus.
The therapist, a man in his late forties with thick-rimmed glasses and eyes that seemed to know more than he let on, broke the silence first.
"So, Ash… tell me about yourself."
Ash blinked. He exhaled, slow and flat. Then started with what he thought the man wanted to hear.
"I'm Ash. Son of Richard. I don't have a surname because… well, my parents got disowned. My mother passed away when I was little, and my older brother Richie…" his voice faltered, the name bitter on his tongue, "…he was once a member of the Wargods. Until he betrayed everyone. Turned against the hero association. He—"
The therapist raised a hand, gently but firmly cutting him off. "No, Ash. Not that. I don't want the summary. I want you." He lit a cigarette, slowly, without ceremony, and leaned back in his chair. "Tell me what's underneath all of that."
Ash laughed, but it wasn't a happy laugh. It was brittle. He shook his head. "You want me? There's not much there to tell."
The therapist didn't reply. Just waited.
Ash's gaze dropped to his lap. "I'm scared most of the time," he said at last, voice low and uneven. "Too scared to be alone. But also… too scared to really talk to people. It's like I never fit anywhere, and when I try, I just end up shrinking myself smaller and smaller until I disappear."
He looked up, his eyes glassy. "When I was a kid, I had a lot of friends at school. Not because of who I was, but because of who Richie was. Everyone wanted to be close to the golden brother. And by extension, they thought I had to be golden too. But it never felt real. None of it. It was like… I was standing in the center of a warm room, but I was still freezing."
He swallowed hard. "Only two people ever made me feel like I mattered. Ken and Blake. They didn't care about Richie. They liked me. At least I think they did. Then everything happened. The betrayal. The fallout. I was thirteen. I remember the day it hit the news. How I just sat there, watching it all collapse. My friendships, my name, my peace. Gone. Just like that."
He blinked rapidly and looked away. "I'd walk through hallways and people would stare. Some of them looked at me like I was contagious. Like betrayal was something I could pass on. Others just looked through me. Like I stopped being a person and turned into a shadow of someone else's mistake."
The therapist said nothing, just nodded slightly, encouraging him to go on.
"I got sympathy, sure. From some of the other Wargods. From the people in charge. But even that felt... transactional. Like they were giving me scraps of kindness and I had to repay it with loyalty. I became buried in this endless list of favors I never asked for. And somehow, I owed everyone. All the time."
His shoulders slumped as he rubbed the back of his neck. "My dad—he worked in starship engineering. After Richie's betrayal, his job didn't last long. He got cold-shouldered by every higher-up. He tried to pretend it didn't hurt, but I could see it. Every time he came home, he looked older. Not in his face. In his spirit."
There was a long silence. Ash took a breath and looked around the dim room again. The light hadn't changed, but something in him had.
"I joined the Hero Association when I was fifteen. I wanted to… fix something. I wanted to show people I wasn't him. That I was my own person. But it didn't matter. Everywhere I went, people saw me as Richie's little brother. The traitor's shadow. Even when I fought, even when I bled, I was still just a reminder of what he'd done."
He looked the therapist dead in the eye. "You want to know me? That's me. A scared kid trying to carry a name that was broken before I ever understood what it meant."
The therapist didn't offer clichés. Didn't say it would be okay or that time would heal it. He just tapped ash from his cigarette into a tray and said, "That's a start."
Ash laughed again. This time it didn't sound bitter. Just tired. "I guess."
The therapist leaned forward. "You said you're afraid to be alone. But also afraid to talk. Which one scares you more?"
Ash didn't answer right away. He looked down at his shoes. "Being alone," he whispered. "Because when I'm alone, the thoughts get louder. They start screaming. Telling me I'm a burden, a fraud. That no matter what I do, I'll always be Richie's brother. That I'll never be enough."
He closed his eyes. "But when I talk to people, I always feel like I'm lying. Like I'm acting. Smiling when I'm not okay. Laughing when I want to cry. I keep thinking—what if they find out who I really am? What if they see how broken I am and walk away?"
They sat in silence for a while. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because sometimes the quiet says more than words can.
"I used to dream about this," Ash finally said, not looking up. His voice was quiet, like he was afraid the walls might hear him. "When I was a kid. I wanted to grow up and be a hero."
He blinked once, hard. Then again, softer. He didn't look at her. He wasn't talking to him exactly—more like to something behind him, or beside him, or maybe just the version of himself he hadn't seen in years.
"I'd sit on the rooftop of our old house with my knees hugged to my chest. Richie would be inside, usually asleep or pretending to be. But I'd stay out there, under the stars, pretending I could already fly." He smiled for a second. Then it slipped. "I used to think being a hero would fix everything. That it would turn all the ugly things in me into something useful. That if I could just get strong enough, fast enough, good enough… then I wouldn't be afraid anymore."
The therapist nodded slowly, his voice soft when he spoke. "And now?"
Ash looked up at the ceiling like he was expecting to find the answer written there. His lips pressed together, jaw tightening. "Now I wish it all just stayed a dream."
He swallowed hard. "It's not what I thought. It's not saving people. Not really. It's bleeding for them and watching them bleed anyway. It's... it's showing up too late. Making promises you can't keep. Smiling when you're broken. Fighting for a world that chews through everything good, and spits it out like it never mattered."
He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, his voice turning rough around the edges. "And the worst part? I'm good at it. I'm good at being a hero. I know how to kill. I know how to stand up when I should fall down. I know how to lie to people's faces and tell them it's gonna be okay."
His shoulders trembled for just a second, not enough to look like weakness, but enough to be real. "But the kid I used to be—the one who wanted to help? He wouldn't even recognize me now. I don't think he'd like me. I think he'd be scared of me."
The therapist sat with that for a moment. He didn't rush to comfort him, didn't offer him the usual lines people gave when they didn't know what else to say. Then, gently, He asked, "Do you remember what that dream felt like? The original one?"
Ash blinked. That question almost knocked him over. His eyes stung, and he wasn't sure why. "It felt… safe. I guess. It felt good. Clean. Like maybe if I became that person, all the bad things would go away. I thought heroes didn't get scared. That they didn't lose people."
His breath caught for a second, but he didn't stop himself. He just kept going, slower now. "But they do. They lose people all the time."
The therapist tilted his head slightly, voice still calm but more direct now. "Did you lose someone?"
Ash's lips parted. He was quiet for a long time. Then he nodded. "...Blake."