Despite what they said on the news, the streets were never safe. The police, PASIT, and those so-called heroes didn’t keep anyone protected—they just preserved the order, crushed the insignificant, and buried the filth where no one could see it. I learned that the hard way. After seven years of wearing the badge, I wasn’t green anymore, the idealism long dead and buried. I signed up thinking I’d be fighting for something worth a damn, but these days? It’s just another day. Just another grind.
I go through the motions now. Muscle memory. Sometimes I don’t even recall the drive home, just bits of red lights and corners that mean I’m almost there. Then it’s the same old scene: a blur of headache and exhaustion, a night waiting to pounce with either mindless paperwork or bullets flying at my head. Every once in a while, it scares me—how much of my life is slipping away, like sand through a fist clenched too hard.
After saying goodbye to Roadman, I dragged myself back to the apartment. The elevator ride? Long and pointless, like it always is. I barely feel the weight of the leather jacket slipping off my shoulder as I step through the door, my boots tapping against the cold floor. I hang it up, take a breath. Home. Or something like it.
The gun comes off next, clattering on the counter like it’s just another piece of the scenery. A cold beer follows—a pop of the cap, a drink down the throat. My phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me back from that moment of peace I thought I had.
“Yeah, boss?” I answer, setting it on speaker, leaning against the counter.
“Chris, you home?” Anderson’s voice drones through the line.
“Yeah.”
“Good. Penrose came through on the Johnson case. You’ll have a report in your inbox in a few minutes. I want the suspects identified and your report ready by morning.”
“That fast?” I ask, thrown off. This kind of thing usually gets lost in miles of red tape.
“Yeah. Whatever they stole’s got the feds panicking. NDI is involved—no one wants to look bad. Oh, and don’t worry about Martinez’s stunt. We’re handling that.”
“Got it. Thanks.”
The call ends. I stare at the phone for a second, then at the bottle in my hand. After a moment, I toss it in the trash. I’ve got work to do. I rummage around the fridge, grab some jerky, and slap a couple of caffeine patches on my neck. The sting wakes me up just a little. Just enough.
The report takes time, but it’s routine now. Faces of suspects flash on the screen—colourful hair, European descent, parahumans. Names, ages, their Metahuman Designations. I type it all up, send it off. Anderson sends back an acknowledgement almost immediately. Good. That’s done.
Just as I close the laptop, my phone buzzes again, but this time it’s not an email. It’s a message from Evelyn.
Sup. I’m outside.
I sigh, rubbing my temples.
What do you mean, outside?
Come open the door, dumbass.
I stare at the screen for a beat longer than I should. But I get up and move to let her in.
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"Hey! Got any food in this place?" Evelyn’s voice calls from the kitchen.
“Chicken, beef, eggs,” I grumble.
“That’s it?”
“…Maybe some sauce and pasta in the cabinet.”
A minute later, her head pops out from the kitchen, shooting me a glare. “You promised me you could take care of yourself. This isn’t taking care of yourself, Chris.”
“I know.”
“Yeah, you know. But here you are, living off nothing but takeout. How is that—”
“I haven’t had takeout in two weeks.”
Her eyes narrow, and then she pulls out an old greasy bag with the deli logo still visible. I look at it, shrug.
“If I told you a cat dragged that in, would you believe me?”
“You don’t have a cat, Chris.”
“I know, Evelyn. I know.”
We go through the motions. She cooks, I review the report sent by Penrose. Eventually, I sit back down, laptop closed. She hands me a plate of spaghetti, and I eat because it’s what I should do, but it’s tasteless. Not because of her cooking—it’s just me. My appetite has shifted. Meat, mostly. It’s all I can stomach these days.
“Where’s the remote?” she asks. I toss it to her, and she flips through channels.
click.
"Breaking news from downtown Illinois, where a major traffic accident—"
click.
"We're reporting live from District 14, as tensions between protesters of the No More Superiorities Movement and the police reach an all-time—"
click.
"In today's gossip, the latest drama involving heroine, Celestia and her mundane lover, Tom has—"
click.
"Today, we're cooking up a delicious five-star meal with real, naturally-grown—"
click.
"'Deeply Concerned—Fed issues serious $570 billion crypto warning as price 'Death Cross' looms for—"
click.
"Earlier today, Bridgewater's north-eastern border nearly suffered a catastrophic breach in one of its outer walls. Thankfully, Tectonic was in the region and managed to plug the gaps before the megafauna swarm—"
click.
"Expect mild acid rain and thick smog throughout tomorrow with temperatures falling to around twenty degrees—"
click.
Nothing interesting. Eventually, she just turns it off, and we eat in silence. But then she drops her fork and stares at me. “How are you, Chris?”
“I’m fine.”
“Have you seen Amelia? Or Chloé?”
The question hangs heavy. I don’t answer.
“She came to see me, you know. Apologized for everything. She says Chloé wants to see you.”
“I’m filing for divorce,” I say, my voice flat.
She’s stunned. “What about your daughter?”
“She’s not my daughter.”
The silence is thick between us now. I can feel her disbelief.
“You… You haven’t even done a test, Chris.”
“I don’t need one to know she’s not mine.”
"Then how? Gosh, I thought you were smarter than this, bro! Just because she cheated, you suddenly assume—"
"The child is not mine!"
"...How exactly do you know, Chris?" Evelyn asks again.
The tension’s rising. I stand up, grab her phone, and mine too. My laptop, her watch, headphones. I bundle them all in a blanket, stuffing them away. The T.V. I switch off, unplugging it completely. Electronics are dangerous. They’re listening. Always listening.
“I triggered,” I say quietly, my voice barely a whisper.
Evelyn’s eyes widen. She’s frozen.
“What?”
"I triggered."
