In the comic books kids trade under the table, superheroes are born of tragedy or miracles.
In reality, they are born of a budget approval.
The world stares at the sky and prays, but it’s the S.R.B. that holds the leash.
Our role?
Simple on the surface, monstrous behind the scenes.
We sort the metahuman meat.
We classify genetic anomalies, manage their endorsement deals, cover up their bloody slipups, and transform unstable weapons of mass destruction into beloved influencers.
The S.R.B. doesn’t save lives; it manages risk and regulates catastrophe capitalism.
Without us, Northbridge wouldn’t be a modern metropolis; it would be an open-air graveyard paved with craters.
In short, your run-of-the-mill government agency.
And that morning, in Sector 4, risk management had just turned into a bureaucratic nightmare.
On the fortieth floor of the headquarters, the main conference room was plunged into a sterile gloom, illuminated only by the bluish glow of a giant holographic screen.
On a loop, a jerky, pixelated amateur video projected its flashing torment onto the tense faces of the agency’s top executives.
On screen, a white and gold streak tore through the Northbridge night, soaring toward the clouds after blasting an alleyway apart in a brutal shockwave.
The uproar around the mahogany table was deafening.
“The algorithms confirm the color profile at ninety-nine percent!” an executive gasped, nervously adjusting his tie.
“It’s Hope’s signature! That’s his cape, that’s his flight dynamics!”
“That’s impossible, the crisis unit sealed his file yesterday morning!” another shot back, his voice high with panic.
“If the public thinks Hope is alive and that we lied to them, there will be global riots! Aegis International’s stocks will plunge thirty points before noon!”
“Did the resurrection protocols leak?”
“Is it a clone? A shapeshifter?”
The voices tangled and rose, fueled by the terror of losing control of the national narrative.
It was a cacophony of bureaucrats facing a divine wildcard.
Tap.
Tap.
Two sharp raps, struck with the tip of a luxury pen against the table, cut the racket dead.
Silence fell instantly—heavy, almost painful.
At the head of the table, sitting perfectly upright, Director Evelyn Cross observed her subordinates through her thin glasses.
Her face, smooth and cold as the marble of a funerary monument, betrayed no emotion.
She took a slow breath, staring for a moment at the blurry silhouette of Owen awkwardly levitating on the screen, before placing her hands flat on the table.
“Enough,” she said in a low voice, yet one that rang out with the authority of a guillotine.
“You are acting like children before a magic trick. Hope is dead. His file is classified top-secret, and what happened within his perimeter is the sole business of executive management.”
She pointed to the hologram with a dismissive flick of her index finger.
“What you are looking at is nothing but a copycat. A crude plagiarism. Given the raw strength and kinetic thrust generated to leave the ground, this is most likely a registered Super, or one in the process of enrollment, who decided to have a teenage tantrum at the worst possible moment. An idiot who thinks borrowing the colors of a dead demigod will make him important.”
She turned to the head of tactical operations.
“Launch an in-depth search in our database immediately. I want a full scan of all cataloged individuals possessing the ability to fly or generate kinetic telekinesis within a fifty-kilometer radius of Northbridge. Scrub their alibis, their psychological profiles, their bank accounts. Find me this nobody.”
“And… and what about the media, Madam Director?” stammered the head of public relations, his throat dry.
“Social media is blowing up, the video has already been shared millions of times.”
Evelyn Cross’s gaze locked onto him, ice-cold.
“To the public, this video does not exist. Send an official directive to all partner networks. The script is simple: it’s a deepfake. A malicious AI-generated simulation orchestrated by an extremist group to exploit national grief and destabilize Northbridge. Deploy our bot farms to ridicule anyone supporting the contrary on the forums.”
She paused, slipping her pen into the inside pocket of her flawless tailored suit jacket.
“As for the teenager who filmed this footage… and the rare eyewitnesses who were hanging around that Northbridge alley at that hour…”
She stood up, towering over the table with her imposing stature, casting the room into the shadow of her silhouette.
“…I leave it to you to silence them. Cleanly. The S.R.B. has no time to deal with leaks. Dismissed.”