With a few days of hindsight, slumped in my desk chair, I’ve finally been able to take stock of the situation.
The verdict?
I was right all along.
The world of Supers is deeply, thoroughly rotten.
Far more, in fact, than anything my cynical teenage mind could have ever anticipated.
But let’s get back to the point.
Regarding Lily, logic dictates she should be a total wreck.
I mean, if a psychopath who looks like a cross between a grizzly bear and a nightmare threatens your life and crushes your school principal under his knuckles right in front of you, you’re traumatized for life, right?
I know I am.
I’ve been having nightmares every single night since.
But Lily?
Not at all.
Within forty-eight hours, she fell right back into her daily routine and headed off to primary school as if nothing had happened.
And that’s exactly where my theory about this rotten world was confirmed in the most chilling way possible: her memories had been tampered with.
There was no miracle therapy or child resilience at play.
Her mind had been purely and simply remodeled.
The S.R.B. must have sent a Medium.
When she talks about the event at the dinner table in her little-girl vocabulary, there is absolutely no mention of a bloodthirsty monster crushing skulls.
No mention of me being there, either.
In her version of the story, a bad guy barged in, they got really scared, and then Zenith came flying down from the sky with his big cape and his “caring heart” to save them all in the blink of an eye.
Hearing my little sister sing the praises of the piece of garbage who had paid to have her slaughtered sent a violent shiver down the back of my neck.
A feeling of absolute dread, mixed with deep disgust, instantly made me sick to my stomach.
The heroes are just actors.
The villains are just independent contractors.
And the citizens?
Thinking back on it, Nova’s face flashed in my mind.
The beautiful Nova, who had caught me mid-fall with her protective older sister smile.
Her too… she had to be just like them.
A hollow shell, a brand image managed by PR reps.
My world had collapsed.
Unlike my family, who managed to move on at lightning speed thanks to the bliss of ignorance, I completely failed to turn the page.
I spent the rest of the week cooped up inside the house under the pretext of recovering from my “assault.” I geeked out from morning till night, playing video games until my retinas burned.
I felt like I had uncovered a heavy secret—far too heavy for my frail shoulders to carry.
The outside world suddenly felt excruciatingly fake and alien.
Of course, I reassured my friends on social media from my computer, claiming my phone had been pulverized in the scuffle.
And speaking of which, I made a firm resolution today: crawl out of my cave and go look for it.
Physically, my injuries are doing much better.
The symbiote must have kept working in silence.
Let’s just say I no longer look like a guy who got run over by a semi-truck.
I just look like a guy who took a massive tumble down the stairs.
The swelling in my face has gone down, and the bruises have faded from a corpse-like purple to a sickly greenish-yellow.
I walked to the high school, my hoodie pulled low over my head to avoid any stares.
I slipped into the filthy alleyway behind the sports complex—the exact spot where my life had flipped upside down a few days earlier.
I rummaged behind the dumpsters, and to my absolute surprise… my backpack was right there.
Intact.
Opening it up, I found my old phone—its screen a bit more fractured than before, but still powered on.
I felt almost emotional.
Miracles still exist.
The local thieves clearly have standards too high to steal my junk.
Ready to head back and lock myself away to finish my current gaming session, I turned around.
The voice snapped through the alley.
A shiver ran straight down my spine.
Damn it.
I really didn’t want to be seen today.
The voice belonged to—you guessed it—our local luxury slacker: Maya.
She was leaning against the brick wall at the entrance of the alley, a juice box in hand, staring me down with wide eyes.
“Holy shit,” she let out as she approached, inspecting my battered face with all the delicacy of a forensic pathologist.
“The last time I saw you, you were running like you were about to crap your pants. You were supposed to be sick, not doing rounds with a pro MMA fighter.”
I sighed, tightening my backpack straps.
“It’s a long story. I just had a bad fall.”
“A fall?” she repeated, raising an eyebrow and pointing her index finger at my face.
“Your face fell on what? A wrestler’s fist? Last week, you picked a fight with a cat and survived. Now, you look like you lost against a gang.”
“I was… mugged,” I lied, sticking to the official story I fed my mom.
“On my way to check on my sister.”
Maya’s cynical gaze softened imperceptibly.
The smirk vanished from her face as she scanned my evasive eyes and slouched shoulders.
She saw right through me—saw that I was completely spaced out, exhausted, and utterly detached from reality.
For once, she put her sarcasm away.
“You look like a corpse, Frey,” she decreed, showing a monumental amount of generosity for her standards.
“Come on. I’m walking you home.”
“Don’t you have class right now?” I asked weakly.
Maya waved it off, tossing her empty juice box into a trash can.
“It’s not like I was going back anyway. The periodic table of elements can wait. Walking next to a guy who looks like a zombie will count as my good deed for the year.”
I didn’t have the energy to argue.
In silence, I fell into step behind her, fleeing once more from the outside world that terrified me.