Zelpher jolted upright with a choking gasp, heart slamming against his ribs like a trapped bird.
For a moment, he didn't move. Just breathed.
Shallow. Fast. Alive.
His eyes scanned the floor — spotless. No glass shards. No glowing feather. No chemical spill eating through his uniform. Just him. Alone. On the cold lab tiles.
"What the hell…" he muttered, slowly rising to a crouch.
He flexed his fingers. No burns. No pain.
He checked his side where the vial had shattered in that… dream? Memory? It felt real. He could still taste the metal tang of adrenaline in his mouth.
But his skin was unmarked. His uniform intact.
He stood fully and looked around again. Nothing. No evidence. No damage.
Had he imagined it all?
"Must've passed out," he whispered, trying to convince himself. "Too much work. Not enough sleep. That's all."
It sounded reasonable. Logical. But some part of him — deep, quiet, suspicious — didn't believe it.
Still, there was nothing else to do.
He walked to the lab's exit panel and pressed the release. The door hissed open with its usual pneumatic sigh. The two guards outside straightened slightly but didn't reach for their weapons.
"You good?" one asked, not out of concern — just protocol.
Zelpher nodded. "Just took longer than I thought. Sorry."
They didn't press. Just waved him through.
He returned his cart to the janitor's closet, changed into his worn hoodie and jeans, and clocked out. The system beeped quietly — no alerts, no questions.
Everything was normal.
Or pretending to be.
By the time he stepped outside, the night had already swallowed the city whole. Streetlights flickered. His breath fogged faintly in the chill.
Then his phone buzzed.
[Incoming call: Jael]
He answered.
"Hey, man. You good?" Jael's voice was casual, but there was a note of concern underneath. "You sound weird."
Zelpher paused. "Just tired. Work stuff."
"Figured. You've been pushing it too hard lately. Come chill — rooftop spot. I brought drinks and... questionable snacks."
Zelpher cracked a faint smile. "What kind of questionable?"
"The kind that might kill us, or make us stronger. Fifty-fifty."
He laughed — short, tired, but real.
"Alright," he said. "I'm on my way."
***
The rooftop was quiet, high above the chaos of the city. A couple of crates acted as makeshift chairs, and a blanket had been tossed over one of them. Jael sat cross-legged, a half-eaten bag of chips between his knees and two cans of soda beside him.
"Thought you'd ghost me," Jael said with a grin, tossing Zelpher a drink.
Zelpher caught it with a grunt and sat beside him. The stars were faint, barely visible through the haze of the city lights. Still, something about the height made it easier to breathe.
They talked. About stupid things. School rumors. Crazy headlines. Even the newest underground arcade Jael swore he'd take Zelpher to—eventually.
But Zelpher barely heard it all.
He was worried about Jael. His parents never let him out at night, especially not this late. So why now? Were they finally relenting to teenage rebellion… or was it something else? Something to do with the SuperHeroes and how the world seemed more fractured every day?
He shook the thought away. No point dwelling on it.
Then Jael asked, again, "Why do you hate the SuperHeroes?"
Zelpher stiffened.
It wasn't the first time Jael had asked. In fact, it was probably the hundredth. But like always, Zelpher didn't answer right away. He just looked away, lips tightening, the quiet stretching between them.
"Really?" Jael said, annoyed. "You're still not going to talk? I've asked you this so many times. Every single time, you just go silent. I mean—what is it?"
Zelpher muttered something under his breath. Too low for Jael to catch.
He didn't hate the SuperHeroes just because they failed to save his parents. No. He hated them because of what they represented—false gods wrapped in arrogance. They strutted around with their capes and powers, judging the world from above, but never truly understanding the damage they left behind. The people they ignored.
"I'll answer you," Zelpher said suddenly. He stopped walking and turned toward Jael, eyes heavy with emotion.
"Just this once."
Jael blinked, caught off guard.
"They lack responsibility," Zelpher began, voice low but sharp. "They don't protect us. Not really. They act like gods, worshipped by the media, hailed by the people—but they don't see us. They don't care. All they want is recognition. Fame. Power. Most of them don't even care who gets hurt along the way."
Zelpher's fists clenched as his voice tightened.
"I'm not sorry for thinking that. Not anymore."
He turned abruptly, walking away from Jael, who stood frozen—processing the flood of bitterness he hadn't expected to hear.
Pride? Responsibility?
The words echoed strangely in Jael's head as he headed off in a different direction, toward the spot where his uncle would pick him up. He couldn't quite understand what Zelpher had seen… or what had hurt him so deeply.
---
Zelpher walked for thirty minutes before he realized he'd taken a wrong turn.
The alley was one he usually avoided—lined with half-built buildings, dimly lit, and worse, crawling with street thugs. Tonight, they were alive and loud: arguing, laughing, shouting.
And he had walked right into them.
"Hey, newblood!" someone jeered from a darkened building to his left.
Zelpher didn't fully turn. Just kept his pace steady.
"Too scared to say hi?" another voice barked from behind.
He bit his lip. He remembered this place all too well. Two weeks ago, he'd walked this same path—and paid for it with bruises and blood.
"Isn't this the guy who didn't pay his dues last time?" a thug called out.
"Yeah, same guy. Same attitude."
Zelpher cursed silently.
Why did I come this way?
Why wasn't I paying attention?
"It's him! Let's deal with him!" one of them yelled, excitement in his voice.
Zelpher turned to run, but before he could escape, his face collided with someone's chest—hard. A sharp pain bloomed in his brow. He staggered back.
Two huge arms wrapped around him. He twisted, struggling, but the grip was too tight.
Desperation kicked in.
He drove his knee into the legs of the guy holding him, releasing him from the grip. The man grunted, but didn't fall. Zelpher then swung his fist, aiming for the other's jaw—only to end up cutting his own knuckle on a metal bat. Blood welled up from the wound.
Useless.
Weak.
"Look at this clown, hurting himself just trying to swing!" one thug sneered.
Laughter erupted. Cruel and echoing.
Zelpher looked around. Twenty—maybe twenty-five of them. All surrounding the unfinished building.
Then he saw him.
Kastone.
The street lord.
Green-haired. Inked with death symbols. A grin that promised violence.
Zelpher stopped struggling.
"Hello, young fellow," Kastone said smoothly, stopping a few feet away. "You got our money?"
Zelpher flinched at the voice, his insides coiling like a struck chord.
"I... I don't have any money," he said quietly.
WHACK.
A knee drove hard into his stomach. Zelpher doubled over, coughing up warm blood.
Kastone didn't blink. Just kept smiling.
"What was that?" he asked again, fake politeness dripping from every word.
"I said I don't ha—"
Another blow, this time a vicious kick to the face.
Pain exploded through Zelpher's cheek. His mouth filled with the copper taste of blood as he dropped to the floor, gasping.
And still, they just laughed.
Didn't even care if he died right there.
Zelpher coughed again, blood trickling from his lips as he struggled to even lift his head.
Kastone crouched beside him, resting an elbow on his knee.
"You think you're special?" he said softly. "You're not. Just another stray. Another loser who doesn't pay his debts."
He stood and turned to his crew.
"Leave him. He's too broken to walk, let alone talk."
The others backed away, some still laughing, others spitting near Zelpher's crumpled form. A final boot nudged his ribs — not hard, just enough to humiliate — and they dispersed into the night, boots scraping against gravel.
Kastone paused before disappearing into shadow.
"Next time we see you," he said without turning, "you better have cash. Or don't bother showing your face at all."
Then they were gone.
Zelpher lay there, cold concrete beneath him, stars swallowed by smog overhead.
Alone. Beaten. Barely conscious.
And yet, something deep inside him… pulsed.