The boy walked like a ghost.
Bare feet scraping over cracked pavement, arms stiff at his sides, sleeves stiff with blood. His shirt hung unevenly from one shoulder, soaked to the threads. Every step left a smudge. A memory. A breadcrumb trail in red.
No one stopped him.
People glanced and looked away. The kind of look adults give to roadkill or lost dogs — that automatic flinch of guilt mixed with discomfort. He didn't belong on this side of the barrier. He didn't belong out here at all.
The sun had risen too brightly for a day like this.
Heat baked off the stonewalks of District 8. Banners flapped weakly from lampposts — recruitment posters for the Hero Academy, all brilliant colors and smiling faces. One showed Captain Virex, hand outstretched, eyes noble.
Hernan walked past it without blinking.
The city didn't recognize him.
Didn't remember the address where gods bled and mothers screamed.
Everything felt muffled. Distant.
Even the sirens in the background were fading.
He stopped walking only when he reached the overpass — a bridge overlooking the metro line, rusted and tagged with chalk-drawn graffiti. There, he just… stood. Watching trains blur past.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
A voice called out behind him.
"Hey. Kid."
He didn't turn.
Footsteps approached — soft ones, not armored. A woman stepped into view, blocking the sun for a moment. She crouched low, arms resting on her knees.
"Where are your parents?" she asked gently.
Hernan stared past her, eyes glassy. He didn't answer.
She followed his gaze — then shifted her weight, uneasy.
"You alright? You hurt?"
Still no answer.
She glanced around. No patrols. No crowds. Just her and this boy who looked like something had exploded inside him.
"Okay," she said after a breath. "Let's try a different question."
She knelt. Not just crouched — knelt, like someone lowering herself to the truth.
"My name's Reina. I run an orphanage about four blocks south. I don't have much, but I've got clean clothes, food, and water."
His eyes flicked to hers — the first real movement.
She held the look, didn't blink.
"You wanna come with me?" she asked.
A long silence.
Then, finally, a nod. Small. Barely perceptible.
Reina stood, extended a hand. "What's your name?"
Hernan looked at her hand. Thought about his father's face.
"…Rook," he said.
The word came out hoarse, but clear.
She raised a brow. "Rook? Like the chess piece?"
He gave no reaction.
"…Alright, Rook," she said softly. "Let's get you cleaned up."
The orphanage was nothing like Hernan expected.
No locks on the doors. No screaming kids. No moldy floors or shouting orderlies. Just a small two-story home tucked between a pawn shop and a run-down bakery. The sign was hand-painted: Voss Home for Displaced Youth.
Reina didn't ask questions when he flinched at the sound of clanking pipes.
She didn't react when he bolted upright after a floorboard creaked behind him.
She just showed him the bathroom, handed him a towel and a clean shirt, and said, "Take your time."
The mirror above the sink was too tall for him to see his face properly.
He stood on his toes and stared anyway.
Eyes red-rimmed. Lips pale. Dried blood under one nostril. A smear across his jaw he hadn't noticed until now.
He didn't look like a hero's son. He didn't look like anyone worth saving.
He washed slowly, methodically — until the water in the sink turned rust-red and the soap refused to foam.
When he emerged, Reina had a sandwich waiting for him. Nothing fancy — just warm bread and thin-cut ham, wrapped in a napkin.
He sat on the edge of the couch and stared at it.
She sat across from him, legs crossed, pretending to scroll through her wristscreen but watching him out of the corner of her eye.
After ten minutes, he finally picked it up and ate.
That was the only sound in the room.
Later, when the police arrived, she didn't leave his side.
She answered questions when he couldn't. Deflected when he stared blankly. Her tone had a quiet strength to it — not defiance, but something firmer than submission.
He let her hold his hand when they walked back out.
The paramedics offered to take him to a trauma center. Reina refused.
"He's already with me," she said.
The officer in charge — a pale man with a chevron badge — nodded with a tired sort of acceptance. He handed her a small data drive.
"Footage from the neighbor's surveillance drone. We're still scrubbing it, but… it looks like villains. No IDs yet."
Reina's eyes narrowed. "And you're sure about that?"
He shrugged. "There was plasma damage. Civilian casualties. The usual."
No mention of Zodiac crests.
No mention of the five who'd walked away untouched.
Hernan listened without reacting.
The officer turned to him.
"You're a lucky kid," he said, awkward. "To survive something like that."
Hernan looked up at him with a blank expression.
"I didn't survive," he said quietly. "I just stayed hidden."
That night, Reina sat with him in the common room, lit only by the flicker of the wall screen. The news anchor wore a black tie and a hollow expression.
"…beloved national hero Solaris was killed today in what officials are calling a coordinated villain ambush in the outskirts of District 8…"
"…Zodiac 13 members are expected to speak at tomorrow's memorial…"
"…Solaris is survived by no immediate family…"
The lie landed like a fist in his chest.
No family.
No child.
No witnesses.
Reina leaned forward, remote in hand, about to switch the feed.
But Hernan shook his head.
"Leave it."
His voice was quiet, but firm.
She hesitated, then leaned back and let it play.
The broadcast cut to a podium. Cameras flashing. Microphones extended. The image sharpened.
A hero stood at the center — tall, broad-shouldered, hair like polished bronze. The symbol of Leo marked his chest: a golden sun cradled by roaring lion jaws.
He spoke with conviction. With pride.
"Today, the world lost one of its greatest. Solaris died fighting to protect us from the villainy that continues to threaten peace. His sacrifice was not in vain."
Hernan didn't blink.
The voice matched.
The face.
The cold expression from behind the visor, now softened for the cameras.
Reina noticed his stare.
"Do you… know him?" she asked carefully.
Hernan's lips pressed into a thin line.
"No," he said.
But inside, the voice whispered something else.
That's the man who killed your father.
And one day, he'll die screaming.