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— —
6 Days, 7 Hours, 14 Minutes, 3 Seconds Remaining
— —
The crowd ran past Nice as Wreck approached.
Three… Nice breathes in. The air tastes like static, like anticipation. Like the quiet before a scream.
Two… His fingers twitch to his sides. Muscles tight. Breath caught. He forces stillness, forces control.
One. He plasters on the grin as the news stream starts. The cameras catch it—his signature smile, all charm and bite. He tosses out the finger guns like always, winking at the front row of onlookers through the reinforced glass. “Don’t blink!” he says, like the line hasn’t felt stale for months. Like it still means something.
He springs into motion. Wreck is already there.
Metal crashes against energy, movement fluid and practiced. The crowd cheers. Sparks fly. But Nice barely feels any of it. It’s all smoke and mirrors, echo and noise.
He used to live for this. He and Wreck would train until the sun came up, breathless and giddy, already talking strategy for the next battle. They’d eat ramen on the roof afterward, slurping through laughter, arguing about who landed the coolest move. Wreck used to light up when he talked about “how cool you looked when you countered me mid-flip like that.”
Now? Now Wreck’s eyes are dark behind his mask. Hardened. Hurt. Unreachable. Now every attack he throws feels like a question. Are you still in there?
Nice blocks out the thought. He dodges left, twists, lands a strike that knocks Wreck back just enough to be flashy but not enough to hurt. He hears the crowd again—chanting his name. A hollow echo. An old song with no soul left in it.
He used to mean it. Used to fight for something. Used to believe in the weight of it.
Now he’s just tired. Deep in the bones, behind the eyes, all the way down tired. Like something sacred burned out and left only ash.
And Wreck isn’t letting up. He’s faster than last time. Sharper. Like he’s trying to make him feel something. Like he’s trying to remind him of who he used to be.
Nice rolls with a blow, lands on his feet, skids backward. He flicks up his signature grin again—sharp, empty, polished.
“Sloppy as ever, Wreck,” he calls, and the audience laughs right on cue.
Wreck says nothing.
They exchange blows again—perfect choreography. They’ve done this dance so many times it’s muscle memory. But there’s no thrill. No spark. No joy.
Nice doesn’t want to be here. Doesn’t want to win. Doesn’t even know what that means anymore.
He catches Wreck’s eyes behind the visor for just a moment. There's a crack in the glass. Maybe metaphorical. Maybe not.
And in that heartbeat—Wreck hesitates. Just slightly.
Nice could end it. Could land the blow and wrap the show, signal victory, give the fans what they came for.
But he lowers his hand. Just for a second.
And Wreck doesn’t take the opening. He just looks at him. Long. Like he’s searching. Searching for the friend he used to know.
Nice looks away. The fight resumes. The show must go on. The hesitation vanishes.
Wreck lunges forward again, but there’s something different in his movement—more restrained than before. Less like he’s trying to win and more like he’s just trying to reach him. Like he’s reaching through smoke.
Nice doesn’t let himself feel it. He spins, pivots, drives his heel into Wreck’s side and follows it with a radiant burst from his gauntlet—bright enough to paint the sky. It slams Wreck to the ground, cracking the fake stone arena beneath them. He doesn’t get up.
The reporter’s voice blares in Nice’s ears, adding to his already pounding headache. “And victory once again goes to The Perfect Hero, Nice!”
The crowd erupts. Cheers bounce off every wall of the street. Fans scream his name. A flurry of confetti cannons explode above their stage, glittering rain coming down like gold and he thinks, I don’t want to be here anymore.
Nice stands in the centre of it all, chest rising and falling, fists clenched. His mouth twitches into the trademark smile—the one they’ve all come to expect. He raises a hand and does the finger guns again, just like he always does.
But his arms feel like lead. His smile is a paper mask. Inside, there’s no triumph. No relief. No pride.
Just a dull, aching silence in his chest, like something important has been buried so long it stopped struggling.
Wreck is still lying there, groaning quietly as med-drones hover toward him. For one stupid second, Nice wants to rush over. To grab his hand. To say, “I didn’t want to win like this.”
But he doesn’t move. He just stands there, applause crashing around him like waves, utterly alone.
"Nice! Nice! Nice!" The crowd chants, louder and louder. And all he can think is: Then why do I feel like the villain?
— —
Hero Tower Apartment, 11:46 PM
The elevator doors hiss closed behind him. Locks engage automatically. Silence swallows the room.
Nice slips off his cape and lines it up perfectly on the glass table. Left bottom corner was just a little off, sticking out from the square. He adjusts it. And again. And again. Three times. Then three more—just in case.
The floor is spotless. Every surface gleams under cool white lights. No clutter. No warmth. No photographs. Just order. Just function. Just what a hero’s apartment is supposed to look like. The only decoration being a statue of The Perfect Hero, that was placed in the centre of the room to remind him of what he needs to be.
He walks to the sink. Washes his hands. Soap, rinse, scrub, rinse again. Once more. Once more. Once more. The water runs so long the tap auto-warns him about conservation limits. He ignores it. Keeps scrubbing.
He looks down. Red marks across his knuckles. Doesn’t stop. He’s shaking. Not from the cold. Not from the fight. From everything he can’t control anymore. From the silence. From the emptiness he can’t fix.
The moment he sees his reflection in the dark mirror across the room, it hits him. The smile is still there. His face. His stupid, frozen face is still locked in the same public-ready grin he wore on the battlefield. His eyes wide. His jaw tense. A mask.
It cracks.
His knees hit the floor before he knows what’s happening. Breath comes shallow, fast, wrong. He tries to count them. Four in, seven hold, eight out. Repeat. Repeat. He messes up the second count. Has to start over. He tries again. And again. And again.
Eventually, he stops trying. His hands grip the edge of the table so tight his fingertips go numb. He wants to scream. He wants to shatter something, anything, but everything in this place is too clean. Too sharp. Too organized.
So he folds instead. Face pressed into the crook of his elbow, curled on the cold floor, whispering apologies to no one. To Wreck. To himself. To the version of him that used to laugh, used to feel, used to believe this all meant something.
But there’s nothing left. No pride in victory. No strength in routine. No comfort in control.
Just silence. Just the sound of the faucet still running in the background. Just a hero with shaking hands and red-rimmed eyes, too scared to be imperfect and too exhausted to keep pretending he’s not already broken.
— —
5 Days, 13 Hours, 35 Minutes, 9 Seconds Remaining
— —
Hero Tower Apartment, 5:57 AM
Nice wakes up before the alarm. Of course he does. Heroes don’t sleep in.
He sits up, stiff and sore from where he curled on the floor the night before. The bed behind him is still perfectly made. He didn’t touch it and Moon was granted freedom to stay at her friend’s last night.
The city outside glows blue and gold through his spotless windows. He’s supposed to admire it. The view. The peace. The privilege. But all he can think about is how he and Wreck used to sleep through entire mornings. How they’d stay up sparring past midnight, hyped up on adrenaline and instant noodles. How they’d crash on the couch, arms flung over each other like dogs in a pile, and not wake up till noon.
Nice rubs his eyes, already tired. He heads to the bathroom. Washes his face—twice. Brushes his teeth in perfect, symmetrical strokes. Stares into the mirror at the face that’s become his brand. Perfect skin. No dark circles—hidden by the fact that The Perfect Hero would never be tired. Flawless jawline. Empty eyes.
He picks up the razor. Stares at it for a long time. Then sets it back down. He doesn’t need it anymore. Somewhere along the line, his body just stopped. No one would believe that Perfect Hero Nice had stubble anyway.
He steps into the kitchen. Everything is labeled. Organized. Measured. A weekly meal plan blink-blinks at him from the digital counter: high protein, low carb, clean fats.
He used to love breakfast. Used to sneak extra syrup when Wreck wasn’t looking. Used to hoard chocolate protein bars in their shared dorm until Wreck finally found his stash and blackmailed him for one per day. Used to joke that if he ever went pro, he’d build a cereal fort in his hero suite.
Now? Now he stares at a pristine apple and a glass of nutrient water. He bites into the apple. It tastes like nothing.
He chews anyway. Swallows. Smiles. Because the cameras in the mirror next to the elevator will catch him when he leaves.
The Perfect Hero Nice always starts his day right. He always looks rested. He always eats clean. He never grows facial hair. He’s always fine.
Nice straightens his posture. Smooths his collar. Steps out into the elevator like nothing inside him is breaking.
— —
4 Days, 20 Hours, 2 Minutes, 18 Seconds Remaining
— —
Wreck’s Apartment – 11:30 PM
“You’re cheating,” Nice accused, tapping furiously at the controller in his hands. “There’s no way you’re winning this hard.”
Wreck, lounging beside him on the couch with one leg tucked under him, grinned like the cat that stole the entire canary population. “I’m just better than you, Pretty Boy. Admit it.”
Nice scoffed, jamming the buttons harder as his in-game character took another devastating hit. “I literally have a higher in-game ranking than you.”
“Doesn’t matter if you can’t beat me, ” Wreck said, leaning over slightly just to bump his shoulder against Nice’s. “Which you can’t.”
Nice shoved him back, laughing despite himself. “You’re insufferable.”
“You love it.”
Nice hesitated. Just for a second. Barely even noticeable. But Wreck saw it.
Nice covered it quickly, rolling his eyes and tossing the controller onto the couch. “I quit. You obviously installed some villainous cheat codes or something.”
Wreck stretched, arms over his head, cracking his back. “Aw, c’mon, one more match. You gonna let your nemesis win that easy?”
Nice tilted his head, considering. “Mm. Yeah.”
Wreck frowned slightly, scanning him. “You’re really quitting? That’s not like you.”
Nice smiled, but it wasn’t the same as before. Smaller. Dimmer. “I’m just tired.”
Wreck leaned back, crossing his arms. “You’ve been saying that a lot lately.”
“Yeah, well,” Nice stretched his legs out, letting his foot nudge against Wreck’s. “It’s been a long few weeks.”
Wreck didn’t respond right away. He just studied him, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in that way Wreck always did when he was seeing something Nice didn’t want him to see.
“You been eating?” Wreck finally asked, like he already knew the answer.
Nice chuckled, light and careless. “Obviously. I have so much money. It’d be a crime not to eat well.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Nice reached over and stole the beer bottle from Wreck’s hand, taking a sip before Wreck could stop him. Wreck made a half-hearted grab for it but let him get away with it.
“That’s gross,” Nice commented, wrinkling his nose.
“You literally stole it from me. ”
Nice just grinned and took another sip, then leaned his head against the back of the couch, eyes closing. He exhaled, long and slow.
The room went quiet for a while. Not an awkward silence. Just one of those soft, late-night lulls, where neither of them needed to say anything.
After a moment, Wreck reached out, flicking the side of Nice’s wrist, just barely catching the edge of his pulse.
Nice cracked one eye open. “What.”
“You know what.”
Nice turned his head away slightly, looking at the dark ceiling instead.
Wreck sighed. “Look, man. You can’t lie to me. You can lie to Moon, and Miss J, and all those corporate execs, but I actually know you. And I know something’s wrong. ”
Nice let out a small hum, closing his eyes again. “You worry too much.”
Wreck huffed, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “And you pretend too much.”
Nice opened his eyes, looking at him this time, his gaze softer, more tired. He smiled, but it was that small, unreadable kind of smile—the one Wreck had started hating.
“I like when you worry about me, though,” Nice said, quiet but sure.
Wreck swallowed. Looked away. “Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta do it.”
Nice reached out, knocking their knees together playfully. “You’re a good nemesis , Wreck.”
Wreck rolled his eyes. “You’re the worst.” But his voice was softer too.
Nice exhaled again, like he wanted to say something else. Something real. But instead, he just let his head roll back against the couch again.
“Can I crash here?” he asked.
Wreck didn’t even hesitate. “Obviously.”
Nice would be gone by three in the morning anyway.
— —
4 Days, 14 Hours, 49 Minutes, 18 Seconds Remaining
— —
Hero Tower Apartment, 4:43 AM
The city hadn’t stirred yet.
Even the billboards were quiet.
Nice sat on the windowsill in full uniform—polished, perfect, like he’d just come from a photoshoot. He hadn’t, he just got back from Wreck's. He just always looked like this now. That was the point.
His legs dangled out the open window, a hundred stories up. No wind. No sound. Just him and the stillness of a world he didn’t belong to anymore. Moon slept on peacefully, but she didn’t quite care or like Nice anyway, so she remained outside of his bubble.
The sky was starting to pale.
He tapped his fingers lightly against his thigh. Four counts. A pause. Then again. And again. A rhythm, strict and reassuring. His therapist used to call it “a grounding technique.” That was before he'd been promoted out of needing therapy.
Nice tilted his head back and let the pre-dawn light bleed over his face.
“You know,” he said softly to no one, “I used to think I’d grow old.”
He laughed a little. It didn’t reach his eyes. Not even close.
“Get a weird little dog. Move somewhere warm. Maybe… I don’t know. Run a cute little shop with Wreck once the Hero stuff was over.”
He glanced down at the few pedestrians far below. Tiny dots. Moving without meaning.
“Do you think they’d still line up for autographs if I was bald and wrinkly?” he murmured. “If I got fat? If I messed up once?”
No answer. Of course.
He pulled his leg back inside the window, stood, and crossed to the wall of his apartment. It had once been covered in post-its.
Dozens. Hundreds.
Color-coded. Perfect angles. Straight lines.
Each one was marked with a quote, a time, a weight goal, a smile style, a phrase the public loved. His signature catchphrases in red. Public-approved jokes in yellow. Words Wreck once said to him in blue—just a few, tucked in the corner. He kept the now fading notes in an envelope that lived in the bottom of his drawer.
Nice pulled the stark white envelope out and reached in to gently touch one of the blue notes. The one that said:
“You don’t need to be perfect to be worth something, idiot.”
His finger hesitated.
Then pulled away.
He returned the envelope to its designated spot. He headed back to the kitchen, took a bottle of vitamin water from the fridge, and didn’t drink it.
There were unopened packages on the counter. Fan letters. One was shaped like a heart.
He looked at them like they were addressed to someone else.
And then he picked up a small notepad from the desk.
On the top page, written in mechanical, perfect handwriting:
XX/XX/XXXX
-Practice smile for press event (eyes should squint slightly, don’t overdo teeth, look confident, but not arrogant)
-Practice victory pose.
-Hero Rankings live interview at 9:00.
-See Wreck once more. Say goodbye.
He stared at the last line.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t cross it out.
Just tore off the page, folded it precisely, and slipped it into his sleeve.
Then he went to the couch, pulling his blanket up around him like armor. He stared at the ceiling for the next hour.
By the time the sun rose, he was already up again.
Already smiling.
Already The Perfect Hero Nice .
And no one noticed anything was wrong.
— —
Studio Set, Broadcast Hall 7B, Network HQ
Nice’s smile didn’t flicker.
Not when the crowd screamed his name. Not when the host introduced him as “The Golden Smile of Justice.” Not when they announced he’d climbed to #15 in the National Hero Rankings.
His uniform was crisp, colours tailored to reflect his brand identity: trust, warmth, calm. His boots gleamed. His gloves were spotless.
His eyes had been treated and covered in four layers of concealer to hide the redness. He had no dark circles, despite his inability to fall asleep. The public would never think that The Perfect Hero could be tired. There was no room for “human flaws.”
He sat down on the white leather couch like he’d practiced in the mirror: graceful, casual, perfect.
The host leaned forward with a grin. “Nice to have you here, Nice!”
“Glad to be here,” he replied, adding a soft chuckle and finger guns. Pew pew.
Cue laughter. Cue applause.
The segment opened with the usual: rankings, upcoming campaigns, and the importance of public trust. He answered with elegance and pre-approved sincerity. But then—
“So… we’ve got to ask…” the host said with a playful twinkle. “How’s everything going with Moon? The two of you are basically the poster couple for the future of hero love!”
Nice’s smile didn’t twitch.
“We’re doing great,” he said smoothly. “Moon’s incredible. I’m really lucky.”
“Aww! So sweet. Do you see the two of you taking the next step soon? You already live together so… Wedding bells in the future?”
Nice laughed lightly. Exactly 1.7 seconds. The ideal amount during an interview.
“We’re both really focused on our careers right now. But when the time’s right—we’ll see.”
He didn’t mention how Moon liked her privacy too much to even look at him. Or how they hadn't kissed in weeks, and only ever did so in front of the cameras. Or how he couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a real conversation without a script telling him what to say.
The host beamed. “You heard it here first, folks—Perfect Hero Nice might become Perfect Husband Nice!”
Another round of applause. Nice felt it like static on his skin.
“What about long-term plans?” the host asked. “What do you see in your future, Nice? Five, ten years from now?”
He opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
For half a second.
Just half.
The smile almost slipped.
Wreck. Say goodbye.
He blinked. Rebooted.
“As long as I can keep helping people,” he said, voice warm, steady, “and being the kind of hero kids can look up to—that’s the only future I want.”
The crowd loved it.
He gave them a wave and his signature double-finger guns as the segment wrapped. Perfect Hero Nice , bright and smiling as ever, faded into the transition graphic.
The cameras cut.
The lights cooled.
And Nice sat there for just a moment too long.
He could still feel the folded note inside his sleeve.
— —
Nice walked with poise.
Every staff member he passed smiled, waved, gave him a thumbs up. The ones who didn’t speak just stared, like being in his presence meant something. Meant they felt they were closer to greatness.
“Congrats on #15, Nice!”
“Looking flawless as always, man.”
“Moon must be lucky, huh?”
“You’re seriously an inspiration.”
He smiled at every one of them.
Nodded at the right pace.
Laughed softly once or twice, just so it didn’t feel rehearsed.
Pew pew. Finger guns.
They loved that.
They always loved that.
He reached the corner of the hallway, turned left into the executive wing, and slipped into the staff bathroom with practiced ease. No cameras here. No noise. Just tile, mirror, and the sound of vents humming above his head.
As soon as the door closed, the mask collapsed.
Nice stumbled into the nearest stall, locked it, and dropped to the floor.
His breaths were too shallow.
One-two-three-four. Inhale. Hold.
One-two-three-four. Exhale. Stop.
Too fast. Too loud. Too much.
He ripped his cape off. Peeled the stuffy top away from his skin like it was suffocating him. His fingers trembled as he reached up and wiped under his eyes, even though there were no tears yet. He just needed to feel like he was stopping something from showing.
“You can’t cry,” he whispered. “Not now. Not here.”
He hated how it sounded. Weak. Pathetic. Real.
He pressed his forehead against the wall of the stall.
“They think you’re perfect.”
“You don’t even flinch anymore when they call you that.”
His chest convulsed. One sob escaped before he caught it with the back of his hand.
There were no mirrors in here, but he didn’t need one.
He knew exactly what face he was making.
Tired. Ugly. Weak.
Not a hero.
Not anymore.
His thoughts spiraled. Loud. Tangled.
He remembered Wreck, years ago, laughing as they tossed energy blasts at each other in the canyon behind the Academy.
“C’mon, Pretty Boy, you’re supposed to be fast!”
“I’m graceful, jackass.”
His voice broke again. This time the sob hit harder.
He pressed both palms flat to the wall now, trying to ground himself.
But there was nothing solid left.
Nice exited the stall.
His eyes were dry.
His face was put back on.
His hair was perfect.
He smiled once in the mirror—just once.
Pew pew.
Then he walked out like nothing happened.
Like he hadn’t just lost another piece of himself.
— —
2 Days, 23 Hours, 32 Minutes, 5 Seconds Remaining
— —
One last visit. One last mercy.
The sky was soft with the last traces of orange, like the city was winding down with a sigh. For once, Nice wasn’t rushing. Wasn’t late. Wasn’t needed anywhere.
8:00 PM.
An early end. A quiet blessing. Maybe divine pity.
He flew high through the city’s corridors, cautious not to be seen, fully in costume but his face remained in the shadows. Not a hero tonight. Not a symbol. Just someone who needed to see Wreck.
He slowed as the apartment building came into view. Fifth floor. North-facing. Still had the neon ‘noodle girl’ sign flickering next door. Still had the fire escape with the loose bar on the second landing. Still had the open window, even in April.
He never did get curtains.
Nice landed on the ledge silently, peeking in.
The living room lights were off, but the TV played an old space opera on mute. A cold glow painted the furniture in pale blue. On the couch, Wreck sat with his feet up, bottle in hand, head leaned back.
Another bottle on the table. Half-empty.
Nice felt a small, strange ache—not quite jealousy. Just… distance.
He stepped onto the floor quietly.
Wreck didn’t look up.
“If you’re breaking in,” Wreck muttered, “you’re a little too polite about it.”
Nice gave a soft huff through his nose. He didn't laugh—couldn’t. But he smiled faintly.
“Didn’t think you’d be awake yet,” he said, voice low.
Wreck finally turned.
His eyes flicked up and down, reading the tension in Nice’s shoulders. Always so good at reading him. Always better at not saying it out loud.
“Long day, huh?” Wreck asked, pushing himself up a little straighter.
“Long year.”
They sat in the quiet for a minute.
Just the hum of the fridge. The soft, bright hiss of passing cars. The fizz of the beer in Wreck’s bottle.
“You’re in uniform,” Wreck said after a while. “Thought you hated showing up in that.”
Nice looked down at the suit. It still glowed faintly at the seams.
“Didn’t have time to change.”
“You’re early.”
“Yeah.”
“That a good sign or a bad one?”
Nice didn’t answer.
He walked over and sank into the armchair beside the couch, hands resting between his knees, fingers wound together so tight they ached. Wreck leaned forward, offering the bottle.
The beer was warm.
Nice didn’t care.
He took a sip anyway, ignoring the way the carbonation bit at his throat. He wasn’t used to drinking—not anymore. Not since the campaign started. Not since the Perfect Hero had to exist 24/7.
But tonight?
Tonight, he wasn’t on camera. Wasn’t trending.
Just tired.
Wreck watched him with a kind of quiet disbelief, like he wasn’t sure if he should laugh or look concerned.
“Thought you said you don’t drink anymore.”
Nice shrugged, lips against the rim of the bottle. “Guess I lied.”
Wreck raised an eyebrow but didn’t press.
Nice took another sip. Then a bigger one. Then he sighed and leaned back against the arm of the couch, one leg tucked under the other.
“I used to hate the taste,” he said. “Still kinda do.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“Hell no.”
They sat like that for a while—Nice curled into himself, bottle cradled loosely in one hand. Wreck half-watching the muted TV, half-watching him.
There was a tightness in Nice’s jaw he couldn’t unclench.
“Do you remember,” Nice said suddenly, “when we were sixteen? That weekend after the power grid collapsed?”
Wreck blinked. “When we camped out on the school roof?”
Nice smiled faintly, not looking at him. “Yeah. You brought that cheap stuff from your brother’s stash. The one with the cartoon skull on it.”
“That crap could strip paint.”
“You said it was ‘an acquired taste.’ I threw up on your boots.”
“Still got ‘em,” Wreck said with a grin. “Stain never came out.”
Nice laughed. Actually laughed.
But it cracked halfway through. He brought a hand up to his mouth, like that might stop the rest of it from spilling out. The laugh turned into a breath. Then a tremble. Then—
He leaned forward, elbows on knees, bottle held tight in both hands like it might anchor him.
“I miss that,” he said quietly. “I miss being able to do something stupid without it meaning anything.”
Wreck didn’t say anything.
He didn’t need to.
Nice took another long drink. Felt it settle in his chest like something bitter and burning and real.
“They’d lose it if they saw me like this,” he murmured. “Not just the drinking. The—everything. My eyes. The real Nice. The silence.”
He finally looked up, eyes bloodshot.
“You don’t think I’m perfect, right?”
Wreck looked right at him. No smile. No softness.
“Not even a little.”
Nice let out a shaky breath. A smile tugged at his lips again.
“Good.”
He drained the bottle.
And for the first time all day, all week, maybe all year—
He felt human again.
The empty bottle sat on the floor beside Nice’s foot, rolling slightly with each small movement. He didn’t reach for another.
Wreck hadn’t looked away.
Still sitting with his weight slouched into the couch, beer in hand, legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle—he looked too relaxed for how sharp his eyes had become. The way they softened only when they looked at Nice made something deep in Nice’s chest twist.
“You’ve gotten skinnier,” Wreck said finally, voice low. Not mocking. Just… noticing. “And your laugh sounds fake.”
Nice blinked. Stared down at his hands. “You’re not supposed to say that.”
“Who’s gonna stop me?”
The room was quiet again.
Nice leaned his head back against the couch cushion. He closed his eyes and let the noise of the city drift in through the window. Somewhere below, a siren howled. Somewhere closer, Wreck breathed—steady, even.
God, he missed him.
No.
He loved him.
Always had, in some way. From the first time they’d snuck out of class together. From the time Wreck made him dinner when he was sick. From the nights they used to fall asleep talking shit about the hero system they were now tangled in like vines.
And now…
Nice opened his eyes and looked at Wreck.
Just looked.
Let himself take him in—his messed-up hair, the tired half-smile, the beer bottle hanging off his knee. The way his brows knit just a little when he thought Nice wasn’t noticing.
“You still care about me,” Nice said suddenly.
Wreck turned his head, caught in the act of worrying.
“Obviously.”
Nice smiled. It didn’t reach his eyes.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t make it harder.”
Wreck sat up a bit straighter. “Nice—”
“I’m not saying anything,” Nice cut in gently, raising a hand like he could press the words back into his mouth. “I’m not. I can’t.”
He looked down again.
“If I say it, I won’t be able to come back tomorrow. I’ll mess everything up. The public, the sponsors, our friendship… Moon…”
He didn’t finish.
Wreck didn’t move. But his voice was steadier when he said:
“You could have all of it. The rankings, the public, Moon. And you’d still be here.”
Nice laughed—quiet, bitter.
“Would I?”
He looked up, eyes glassy.
“I don’t think I could survive you not loving me back.”
Wreck’s mouth opened slightly. Then closed.
They sat like that for a long moment—too long, too short—before Nice stood. Gently. Slowly. Like moving too fast might make him stay.
“Thanks for the beer,” he said softly.
He walked to the window, placed a hand on the sill. The cool air bit at his skin.
“I’m glad you’re still here.”
Wreck stood up behind him. But he didn’t come closer. Didn’t stop him.
“Nice—”
“Don’t,” he whispered.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
— —
2 Days, 9 Hours, 37 Minutes, 50 Seconds Remaining
— —
The lights were too bright. They always were.
Nice stood in front of a sleek silver backdrop, muscles flexed just so, one hand slung low on his hip. Shirtless, glossed, perfect. Airbrushed sweat dotted his collarbones. His smile was practiced—half-cocky, half-charming, all fake.
“That’s it, Nice. Give me intensity. You’re hungry. You’re unstoppable. You’re the dream, baby!”
The photographer’s voice bounced around the studio like shrapnel. Assistants darted around him, brushing his skin with powder, adjusting the waistband of his designer pants, placing a strategic fake scar near his ribs.
He kept his gaze slightly off-camera, just like they’d told him. A little wild, a little mysterious. That was the brand now.
But his phone buzzed again on the makeup table.
Again.
Again.
He didn’t need to look. He already knew.
Wreck.
Every few minutes. A new message. A missed call. A voicemail left just long enough to mean something.
He clenched his jaw, eyes drifting toward the back of the studio, where Miss J stood like a statue made of steel and irritation. Her voice was low but sharp as a whip.
“He’s working, Wreck. Working. You think this is some kind of game? You think he can just pick up the phone in the middle of a campaign shoot because you decided to spiral for a week?”
Nice’s chest tightened, but he didn’t move. Didn’t react. Just angled his jaw like they’d taught him and blinked slowly at the camera.
“He’s already doing you a favour by not dropping you from his narrative completely. Don’t push your luck.”
Nice exhaled softly through his nose, like that might settle the growing pulse behind his eyes.
He couldn’t afford to flinch. Couldn’t afford to break formation.
So he just stood there, shirtless under the white-hot lights, as the flashbulbs snapped and someone shouted for him to “turn a little more to the left, babe.”
He thought about turning his phone off.
He thought about smashing it.
He thought about Wreck’s voice, a little hoarse at 2AM in that last message:
“Please. Just talk to me.”
He didn’t respond.
He smiled for the next shot.
And it looked perfect.
— —
Nice sat in the back of the transport car, legs crossed neatly, a bottle of electrolyte water cradled in his lap. The stylist beside him was already fiddling with a new earpiece and whispering about outfit changes for the dusk rooftop shoot. He nodded when he needed to, smiled when expected.
His phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.
Again.
Again.
He didn’t move for a while.
Just stared out the tinted window at the city slipping by—too fast, too bright, too much . The buildings blurred into a smooth smear of steel and glass. Everything looked polished from here. Like nothing could fall apart.
When the stylist finally took a call and turned away, Nice slipped his phone out.
12 New Messages — Wreck 💥
He tapped the thread.
[Wreck 💥 9:03 AM]
"Pick up. I know you're getting these."
[Wreck 💥 9:24 AM]
"I’m sorry if I messed up. I just want to talk."
[Wreck 💥 10:17 AM]
"Please just tell me you’re okay. You don’t have to explain anything."
[Wreck 💥 10:31 AM]
"I miss you."
[Wreck 💥 11:06 AM]
"Are you ghosting me or is Miss J doing it for you?"
[Wreck 💥 11:15 AM]
"This isn’t like you. It’s not."
[Wreck 💥 12:48 PM]
"You looked tired in that last post. I mean it. You can’t fake your eyes, you know."
[Wreck 💥 1:03 PM]
"Is this about what I said? About caring about you?"
[Wreck 💥 1:04 PM]
"I take it back if it helps."
[Wreck 💥 1:05 PM]
"I don’t. But I’ll lie if that makes this easier for you."
[Wreck 💥 2:10 PM]
"…You’re really not gonna answer me, huh?"
[Wreck 💥 2:12 PM]
"Okay."
Nice’s fingers hovered over the screen.
For one fleeting second, his thumb moved toward the keyboard. Toward a response. A single word, maybe. Anything.
But then his other hand found the edge of the window, pressed hard against the cold glass. He shut his eyes.
Things were better this way.
He told himself that again. And again. And again.
Wreck deserved someone who could stay. Someone who didn’t carry this monstrous version of "perfect" like lead weight in his lungs. Someone who didn’t have to fake his smiles or trim the parts of himself that weren’t palatable to the public.
Nice put his phone face-down on the seat beside him.
Didn’t mute it. Didn’t turn it off.
But he didn’t pick it up again either.
Outside, the city kept shining.
And Nice told himself one last lie.
— —
1 Day, 1 Hour, 12 Minutes, 7 Seconds Remaining
— —
The dining hall echoed with too much nothing.
Forks clinked. Glasses settled. The lights were sterile—too bright, too exacting. Nice sat at the far end of the white marble table, hands moving mechanically.
Cut. Rotate. Cut again.
He diced the meat into tiny, symmetrical cubes. Twelve millimeters on each side. He knew this, because he measured it once. Just to make sure.
Moon sat across from him, fingers scrolling absentmindedly through her phone with a sigh every few swipes. Her long white sleeves had picked up a sticky orange stain from the juice she’d spilled earlier. She hadn’t noticed—or hadn’t cared. The juice had crawled across the table toward him like a slow disaster, and he’d recoiled too hard. Too fast.
“It’s juice, not acid,” Moon had snapped. “You’re such a freak about messes lately.”
He didn’t argue. Just got up to wipe the edge of the spill over and over until there was nothing left to wipe. Now the table was so clean it almost shimmered.
She sighed again, louder this time.
“You’re not gonna eat that?”
He didn’t look up. Just pressed his fork against one of the perfect cubes and tilted his head slightly.
“Not hungry,” he said. His voice came out distant and flat, like a pre-recorded answer.
Moon clicked her tongue.
“Whatever. You’ve been more strange all week. Ever since you started dodging Wreck’s calls. You always get like this when you feel guilty.”
He didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure he even had enough left in him to fake concern.
Instead, he cut another cube in half, then that half in half again. Even smaller now. Even cleaner.
She watched him for a few seconds before rolling her eyes.
“Fine. Sulk, or self-destruct, or whatever this is. Just don’t drag me into it.”
She grabbed her phone and stood, her chair screeching back a little too loudly on the polished floor.
He didn’t watch her leave. He just stared down at the geometric pile of untouched food and realized he wasn’t even hungry anymore—not in any real way. Maybe he hadn't been for a long time.
A slow thought curled at the edges of his mind, soft and cruel:
"Two days. Just hold it together for two more days."
He breathed in—then out. Measured, perfect.
And began cutting again.
— —
The apartment was all open space. No doors. No walls. Just seamless transitions from the dining area to the living space, to the sleeping quarters, to the glass-walled shower glowing faint blue behind a panel of frosted light.
It was modern. It was expensive.
It was hell.
Nice stood in the center of the living room, still in his pressed Hero uniform. The empty plate from dinner was already in the washer—scrubbed, sanitized, double-checked. But he could feel it. The juice stain from earlier. It had been there. It could still be there.
His eyes darted to the table. He had already wiped it five times. He wasn’t supposed to go for six.
But maybe…
He turned slowly, walked back with careful steps, and ran his fingers along the surface. Still smooth. Still spotless. But something inside him itched like a scab.
Just one more wipe. One last one.
Seven. Seven is safer.
He reached for the cloth again.
Moon’s voice snapped from behind him. “Seriously?”
Nice turned, expression unreadable.
She sat on the far couch with her legs folded, holding her phone like a shield. Her face was lit only by its glow. “You’ve been cleaning the same table for thirty minutes. I can’t even pretend I’m okay with this anymore.”
Nice didn’t answer. He wiped anyway. Slowly. Evenly. Right to left. Then he folded the cloth just so and placed it back under the sink—lined up perfectly with the edge of the tray.
Moon stood and walked toward the bed in the corner, muttering. “I get that this whole Perfect Hero thing is making you nuts, but I didn’t sign up to live in a museum. ”
Nice’s hands twitched once at the word nuts , but he didn’t say anything.
She flopped onto the bed with a huff. “You reorganized the sock drawer by thread count , Nice. That’s not okay. You alphabetized and grouped my hair products.”
“It was out of order,” he said quietly.
“No. It was fine. ”
She glanced around the open apartment, as if it could suddenly offer privacy, an escape hatch, anything. Her voice softened, but it didn’t get any less tired. “You don’t sleep. You don’t eat. You barely talk unless there’s a camera in your face.”
Nice remained standing, unmoving, watching the angles of the room like they might shift behind his back.
Moon sighed. “I’m not asking you to change. I just… I don’t want to live like this.”
His throat tightened. He nodded once, as if that would make it all disappear.
Soon, she wouldn’t have to. She’ll be free once I’m gone. The thought comforts him, strangely enough.
Then, still in his uniform, he walked toward the shower.
Behind the thin glowing panel, the sound of water masked the quiet sound of him brushing his teeth.
Eight times. Front. Back. Tongue. Again.
He didn’t even notice he was bleeding.
The steam coiled around the mirror, warping his reflection until he couldn’t even tell if he looked like himself anymore.
Nice turned the water off.
He didn’t step out right away. Just stood there, dripping, staring at the foggy glass as if some version of him might still be visible. One that smiled without thinking. One that used to call Wreck late at night and argue over dumb moves from training matches. One that used to fall asleep on the couch beside him while some awful superhero drama played on the background screen.
He stepped out eventually. Toweled off. Clothed himself in the silken gray sleepwear laid out for him hours earlier.
The bed was already dimmed to sleep mode. Moon faced away from him under the sheets, her shoulders stiff. A single light by her side of the bed pulsed softly with unread messages.
His side of the bed was cold.
Nice didn’t get under the covers. He sat on the edge, still too upright, still too aware of the air out of place in the room.
His hand moved to his nightstand drawer. Not for his journal. Not tonight.
He pulled out the phone he’d hidden underneath the photo of them—him and Wreck, sweaty and grinning from a charity event two years ago, their arms around each other like nothing in the world could make them let go.
The screen flickered on.
28 missed calls.
41 unread messages.
He opened them. Slowly. One by one.
[Wreck 💥 7:21 PM]
“Are you okay?”
[Wreck 💥 7:24 PM]
“i know you’re not answering but please just let me know”
[Wreck 💥 8:01 PM]
“ I saw you on the news. you look down. can I help?”
[Wreck 💥 9:02 PM]
“Moon told you off again? She told me to call you
[Wreck 💥 9:10 PM]
“I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry I told Miss J off. i just wanted to talk to you”
[Wreck 💥 9:52 PM]
“you looked so alone”
[Wreck 💥 10:21 PM]
“i miss you”
[Wreck 💥 10:44 PM]
“Nice. please. just come over again. one more time. I'll say everything right this time.”
Nice stared at the last message until the screen dimmed and faded to black.
He didn’t cry. He just held the phone tighter as he typed his reply.
It was too late to go back.
Too early to say goodbye.
Instead, he leaned back against the headboard and let his eyes close, phone pressed to his chest, the way Wreck used to press their foreheads together after long, stupid sparring matches.
His last thought before slipping into a dreamless sleep was soft. Barely even there.
“- ---- ---.”
But he never hit send.
— —
0 Days, 16 Hours, 1 Minute, 49 Seconds Remaining
— —
3:30 AM was never a kind time to Nice. It was when his mind usually spiraled—racing thoughts, phantom itches under his skin, guilt like a film he couldn’t scrub clean. It was when the world was quiet enough for the noise in his head to be unbearable.
But tonight, it was different.
He sat on the wide sill of the Hero Tower window, knees tucked up to his chest. His breath fogged faint patterns on the reinforced glass, and the city below shimmered like it had something to offer him for the first time in a long while.
He wasn’t afraid.
The usual dread and exhaustion were absent—washed away, replaced by something like clarity. He felt sharp. More alive than he had in weeks. Months. Maybe years.
He would be free.
Not yet, but soon. He could taste it. It danced at the edge of his tongue like sugar he hadn’t allowed himself in ages. He could feel it humming in his fingertips, coursing like electricity down his arms. A current stronger than any villain’s attack.
He was going to be free of expectations. Of perfection. Of the cold spotlight and synthetic smile.
No more waking up for public workouts.
No more cutting meat into cubes while Moon scrolled through her phone and ignored him.
No more answering to rankings or reporters or that stupid line— “Have no fear.”
He’d carved himself into a mask. And soon, he could set it down.
Nice closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cool glass.
In another world, maybe Wreck would be asleep beside him right now, both of them tangled under the covers, safe and selfish and quiet. In another world, maybe he would’ve answered those messages. Maybe Wreck would’ve talked him down.
But this world didn’t want him.
It wanted Perfect Hero Nice™, and he was so tired of pretending they were the same person.
The adrenaline kicked again. A jittery, secret joy.
The corners of his mouth quirked upwards.
Almost there.
— —
0 Days, 13 Hours, 2 Minutes, 5 Seconds Remaining
— —
Moon woke up at her usual time, the faint sunlight filtering through the sleek blinds of the apartment. She stretched and groaned, rubbing her eyes as she rolled over to check the time. It was 6:30 AM on the dot. The silence of the morning was calm—until she noticed it.
Nice was already awake, sitting at the small kitchen island, a mug of coffee in front of him. His posture was different—looser, more relaxed. There was an unmistakable glint in his eyes.
She blinked, unsure if she was seeing things. The same Nice who had been anxious and exhausted, the one who barely spoke unless it was for work, was now sitting there with a genuine, almost carefree smile, sipping his coffee like it was any other morning.
Moon couldn’t help herself. She raised an eyebrow. “Okay, what’s going on?”
Nice looked up, startled for a moment, but then that grin stretched wider. He shrugged, casually stirring the coffee like it was the most normal thing in the world. “What do you mean?”
She walked over to him, folding her arms, watching the way he bounced lightly in his seat, the easy calm that replaced his usual tension. “What’s with the sudden shift? You look… actually happy. ”
“Maybe I just got a good night’s sleep,” he said, his tone light, but his eyes betrayed just a flicker of something deeper. It was a laughable excuse, and they both knew it.
“Or maybe someone cheered you up.” Moon’s voice was teasing, but there was a strange softness behind her words. She wasn’t sure if she liked the idea of him getting so much better from from just a phone call.
Nice let out a small, airy laugh, and it sounded a little more genuine than it had in weeks. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping the edge of his coffee mug. “I guess Wreck finally got through to me, huh?”
Moon tilted her head, examining him more closely. She could see the change in his demeanor—something lighter, something different —but she didn’t push it. If Wreck made Nice smile, maybe it was the best thing for him.
She snorted, then grinned. “I knew it! I was wondering what magic he had to pull to get you to actually crack a smile. I swear, I almost never see you like this. ”
Nice laughed along with her, nodding in agreement. “Guess he’s got a few tricks up his sleeve.” He shot her a wink, a playful, harmless gesture to keep the conversation moving. Inside, his heart twisted at the lie.
But the truth of it, of Wreck’s real impact on him, felt so much more dangerous than anything he could admit. Wreck had always been there, a constant, his rock, his aching, raw truth—but now he was the one who needed to be left behind.
“Wreck finally broke through your superhero armor, huh?” Moon said with a sly grin, hopping onto a stool beside him. She tried to read him, but there was something still off about the way he was holding himself.
Nice forced another laugh, a little louder this time, his eyes flitting to the counter. “Yeah. He did. I guess I finally realized... I don’t have to be perfect all the time.”
But his mind wasn’t on his words.
His mind was on the clock ticking down.
He was running out of time.
— —
0 Days, 10 Hours, 15 Minutes, 22 Seconds Remaining
— —
Nice sat in front of the large mirror, a makeup artist gently patting at his face, blending foundation into his skin with practiced motions. The soft hum of quiet chatter filled the room around him, the familiar buzz of a shoot. Hero Magazine had been pushing him for their latest cover story, and today was no exception.
He was perched on a high-backed chair, legs crossed, his arms carefully folded in his lap. He had the perfect posture for a hero—every inch of him curated to look flawless. But today, it was easier than usual. Maybe it was the thrill of what was coming. Maybe it was the sweet taste of freedom that lingered in the back of his throat.
One of the stylists passed by, eyes glancing at him curiously.
“You’re in a good mood today, huh? Got some good news?” she remarked with a teasing smile, a sparkle in her eyes.
Nice blinked, his lips twisting into a smile that didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Good news? Maybe. Just feeling better today, I guess.” He said it like it was nothing, like the emptiness creeping under his skin wasn’t there at all.
“Hmm, well you look different. Almost... lighter. ” Another voice from across the room piped up, one of the photographers adjusting his camera. He grinned, snapping a few shots. “Whatever it is, keep it coming. You’ve got the right vibe for this cover.”
Nice forced a chuckle, but he didn’t really feel it. The words were hollow, a mask to cover up the growing excitement gnawing at the back of his mind.
“Thanks,” he said, his voice smooth, controlled.
But as they moved around him, adjusting lighting and positioning, he couldn’t stop the sense of disconnection that was settling in. It was all a performance, wasn’t it?
The world thought this was the real him. This smiling, perfect, polished Nice. The one who could take on the world’s expectations and wear them like a perfectly tailored suit. But deep inside, in the quietest corners of his soul, he was falling apart.
And yet, this performance? It wasn’t so hard today.
“Perfect as always, Nice,” the stylist said, placing the finishing touches on his suit, brushing off invisible lint from the fabric. She smiled brightly, looking for confirmation from the others, and they all nodded in approval.
“Thank you,” he replied softly, the words almost automatic, like he was still learning how to say them properly.
They couldn’t see it, though. They couldn’t see what was happening behind the perfect façade. No one ever did.
But Wreck would.
A pang of guilt shot through him at the thought. Wreck, who always saw through his armor. Who understood the cracks beneath the surface. Who had always been there... But today, that felt like it was a lifetime ago.
His smile softened, a little too much for the magazine’s standards, but the crew didn’t seem to notice.
“Alright, let’s go again,” the photographer called, and the pace picked up once more.
The lights flashed brightly, the clicking of cameras a constant buzz in the background. Nice shifted into position again, the familiar smile returning as though it was second nature. He posed effortlessly, striking the perfect balance between strength and grace. He’d been trained for moments like this.
But this time, it felt... wrong.
With each click of the camera, he felt more disconnected. He had become so accustomed to playing the role, to molding himself into the perfect image, that he couldn’t remember the last time it had felt real. He shifted his weight slightly, trying to ignore the sudden weight in his chest, the anxiety that clawed at him from the inside.
“Looking great, Nice!” The stylist praised from the side, adjusting his collar.
But his gaze drifted toward the window, the view of the city outside taunting him with the knowledge that soon, it would all be over. He wasn’t just pretending for the cameras today—he was pretending for himself.
“Thanks,” he replied automatically, but the words felt empty, as if they were being pulled from someone else’s mouth. His fingers tightened on the edge of his suit jacket, but it wasn’t a grip of confidence. It was the grip of someone who was losing control .
His thoughts kept drifting.
Wreck...
His heart twisted at the thought of him. Wreck was the only one who had ever truly seen him, who understood the cracks in his perfect exterior. The only one who had ever made him feel like he wasn’t just a product, a hero, a faceless symbol . He was... he was someone to Wreck.
But the truth, the reality of what he was about to do, made his stomach turn.
Wreck had already reached out. He had already been there for him. But now, there was nothing left.
“Alright, Nice, let’s change it up a bit. Give us something a little more intense!” The photographer’s voice snapped him back to reality.
He straightened, trying to mask the panic rising inside him. He needed to focus. He needed to finish this shoot, get through the rest of the day.
The camera flashed again. The bright light stung his eyes.
He couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the night before. The image of Wreck’s face, blurry through the lens of his phone, his voice soft with concern.
“I’m here for you, you know that, right?”
The words had meant something then. They still did. But there was nothing more Wreck could do for him now.
Not when he had already made his choice.
The shoot continued, the seconds bleeding into minutes. Each shot was a reminder that he was just playing his part, pretending for the world, all while his insides screamed to do something, anything, to stop the inevitable.
When it was over, the crew began packing up, congratulating him on another “successful shoot.” His smile was automatic again, this time even more forced than before. He thanked them, exchanged pleasantries, but the moment he was alone, he felt the weight of it all come crashing down.
He had been perfect all morning, but now that the cameras were gone, the emptiness was back in full force.
And it was all so much heavier than before.
— —
0 Days, 8 Hours, 42 Minutes, 57 Seconds Remaining
— —
The bustle of the photoshoot was over, the crew packing up and heading to lunch. Nice was left alone in his dressing room, the door closed behind him with a soft click. His reflection in the mirror stared back at him—perfectly put together, pristine. His hair was styled exactly as they wanted, his suit impeccably tailored. He looked every bit the hero the public adored.
But inside, he felt like an imposter.
He sat on the edge of the cushioned chair, one hand running through his hair, his fingers coming away with the faintest tremor. He hated how it felt. He hated how fragile he’d become.
For a moment, he closed his eyes, leaning back into the chair, trying to block out the noise of the world. But even with his eyes shut, it was impossible to stop his mind from racing.
What now? he thought, the question echoing in his mind like a hollow drumbeat. He had nothing left to do but wait for his next shoot—an agonizing stretch of empty hours. No more people to put on a smile for, no more flashes of cameras to hide behind. It was just him and the suffocating quiet.
The rest of the day felt like it was dragging on forever. He couldn’t shake the gnawing sense of anxiety that curled around his stomach.
He should be fine, right? He was a hero . The world saw him as the perfect image of strength and grace. They had no idea that the person behind that mask was slowly cracking, piece by piece. He’d built this perfect version of himself, and now it was too late to undo it.
His thoughts drifted to Wreck again.
What’s the point now? he asked himself. It’s already over.
But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? It couldn’t be.
He needed to see Wreck again, to speak to him. He couldn’t keep pretending like everything was okay when he was about to crumble into nothing. He was barely holding it together. Wreck was the only one who might understand, who might—no, would —see the real him.
But there was no way he could let him see the mess he’d become. No way he could drag Wreck into this chaos.
“I’m sorry,” Nice whispered under his breath. The words were heavy on his tongue, but they felt like a betrayal.
He reached for his phone, his fingers hovering over the screen. The same flood of texts from Wreck flashed across his screen. Each message felt like a weight on his chest, suffocating him, reminding him of the connection he was about to sever.
He’d told himself that today would be the last time. But looking at the messages now, it felt impossible.
Maybe one last time, he thought, his finger hovering over the text.
“- ---- ---.” The words felt empty, a hollow promise he didn’t know if he could keep.
But he had to pretend, didn’t he?
His thumb hovered over the send button, uncertainty gnawing at his insides. Was this really the best thing to do? Was there any way out of this cycle, or was he already too far gone?
The thought of calling it all off, of ending this masquerade, made his heart pound in his chest.
But just for now... He closed his eyes and tried to push the ache down. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it hidden.
There was still time. He could do this.
But for how much longer?
He pressed his thumb down on the power button instead. The only way out for Nice, was through.
— —
0 Days, 7 Hours, 12 Minutes, 31 Seconds Remaining
— —
The city shined just outside the apartment windows, afternoon light casting long, cold shadows across the pristine white flooring. Nice stood in the middle of it, hands at his sides, eyes blank. The space around him was spotless—of course it was. Moon had gone out. A public appearance or maybe a brand luncheon. He hadn’t asked.
Silence had weight here. It pressed against his ribs, pooled around his ankles. The faint hum of traffic so far below might as well have been the roar of a distant sea. He walked slowly to the mirror in the hallway, straightening his collar out of habit. His reflection didn’t smile, didn’t flinch. It just stood there, as perfectly composed as ever.
He’d already dealt with everything that mattered. Which was almost nothing at all.
Nice leaned against the countertop, the corner edge digging into his palm until the sting felt sharp enough to focus on. He’d always had a high tolerance for pain—it came with the job—but this was different. This was real.
He wasn’t afraid. He felt... calm. Not peaceful, exactly. But focused. Clear.
The phone on the marble island buzzed again. Probably Wreck. Or Miss J. Or someone else who would never really see him. He didn’t check it.
He moved to the living area, where his schedule binder lay open like a holy book. Every hour logged. Every event perfectly aligned. Nothing out of place. Until tonight.
He ran a finger down the timeline. Press interview. An ad to shoot. Post-shoot dinner. Brief greeting at the Hero Gala. That last one was fake. A placeholder to keep the system from flagging his absence. No one would notice until the show went on without him.
Miss J would be there tonight to bring him. Of course she would. She had to be. That was part of the plan. She needed to see it with her own eyes—needed to believe it. Otherwise, she’d just dig her claws into what was left of him and twist.
He stepped into the shower. Water poured over him in silence. He pressed his forehead to the tile. Steam curled against the glass, blurred the edges of the world.
There was still time, and he wanted to look perfect during Nice’s final moments.
— —
0 Days, 6 Hours, 6 Minutes, 24 Seconds Remaining
— —
Nice sat in the middle of the floor, knees drawn up, arms loose around them, like a child waiting for punishment or permission—he couldn’t tell the difference anymore. The light through the apartment windows had shifted to gold, cutting across the white walls in long, syrupy streaks. It almost made things feel warm. Almost.
His hair was still damp from the shower. His hero uniform was laid out on the edge of the couch, spotless and crisp. Pressed to perfection, just like he always was.
He hadn’t put it on yet.
There was no music. No background newsfeed. No Moon bustling around, no Wreck texting over and over again. Just stillness. His mind was… oddly quiet too. For once. The noise, the fear, the spiraling thoughts, the counting, the scanning, the wiping down surfaces—it had all gone quiet, like a machine finally powering off.
His phone was flipped face-down on the kitchen counter, still buzzing intermittently. He didn’t check who it was. He knew.
The funny part was—he wasn’t thinking about Moon. Or Miss J. Or the Hero Ranking or the fans. Or even the shoot he was supposed to be preparing for. His mind had narrowed down to one face. One voice.
Wreck.
He exhaled slowly, letting his eyes flutter shut.
They’d stayed up until 4AM practicing a stupid combo move back in training once, barely able to stand by the time they nailed it. Wreck had tackled him to the ground and called him a genius and they’d both laughed so hard they forgot to breathe. He remembered that laugh. The exact tone. How Wreck’s nose scrunched slightly when he lost control of it.
Nice smiled.
The uniform on the couch caught the light like glass.
He would wear it, of course. One last time. The public deserved a performance. He could give them that.
Then maybe—finally—he could rest.
He stood up slowly, and the numbers in his head started counting again. But this time, he didn’t resist.
— —
0 Days, 5 Hours, 52 Minutes, 10 Seconds Remaining
— —
The car was sleek, black, and soundproofed to the point where the city felt like a memory outside its tinted windows. Nice sat in the back, legs crossed neatly at the ankles, arms resting on either side like he’d practiced. He wore the uniform. Of course he did. The lapel pin gleamed under the soft glow of the ceiling light. His gloves were immaculate.
Miss J sat beside him, talking into her earpiece, one hand tapping furiously against her tablet. She didn’t look at him much. Just a few glances every now and then, like a producer checking the lead before going live.
“You’ll step out at the curb and wave. Smile. Wait for the music cue. Then straight to set.” She barely paused. “We’ve had three networks confirm coverage. You’ll be trending by the time you’re halfway through the interview. That’s good. That’s what we want.”
Nice nodded. “Of course.”
Miss J finally looked at him then, her dark eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re being cooperative.”
“I’m always cooperative.”
“Hm.” She didn’t believe that. Maybe she never really had. “Something’s different.”
He turned to look out the window, chin resting lightly on his gloved fingers. “Can’t someone just have a good day?”
Miss J tilted her head. “With you, a good day usually means one of three things: a successful campaign, Moon behaving, or…” She trailed off, tapping the end of her stylus to her lips. “Something I don’t know about.”
He laughed softly, a sound too gentle to raise suspicion. “Guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
They stopped at a red light. For a second, their faces reflected side-by-side in the dark glass of the window. Perfect hero. Perfect handler. A packaged dream.
Nice’s hand curled slightly on the seat beside him. He resisted the urge to count the buttons on her coat. He resisted the urge to tell her goodbye.
Outside, the streetlights were starting to blink on one by one.
He could already see the studio lights in his mind. Hear the opening theme. Feel the floor under his boots when the camera focused in on him, as it always did.
He imagined Wreck’s voice, quiet in his ear.
Don’t smile if you don’t mean it.
Too late.
He always smiled.
— —
The lights were too bright. But then again, they always were.
The stage was trimmed in silver and Hero Magazine’s signature red. Studio staff moved around like ghosts in the glow—adjusting mics, brushing lint off his shoulders, double-checking the powder on his face even though his skin already looked like porcelain.
Nice sat in the center chair, posture flawless. The host was already grinning ear to ear, teeth too white to be real. The audience applauded like they were on cue—because they were. A woman behind the camera held up a card that said CHEER! in bold block letters.
And they did.
Because they loved him.
Because he was perfect.
“Nice!” the host’s voice boomed, sickeningly enthusiastic. “Back again and looking better than ever! You’ve cracked the Top 15 —tell us, how does it feel?”
Nice tilted his head, gave the camera his signature smile, and pointed both index fingers toward the lens. Click. Click.
“Feels like I’m doing my job,” he said brightly, and the audience laughed. Not because it was funny. But because they were told to.
The host leaned forward. “And tell us—rumours are swirling about you soon reaching the top ten. Do you have any plans as to how you will do it?”
Nice grinned, trying to look confident yet charming. But the corner of his eye twitched ever so lightly. He hoped the camera didn’t catch it, or his last conversation with Miss J would be a scolding.
“If I do, I certainly don’t know about it yet.” he replied with ease, “Moon and I both are focused on our roles as Heros right now. But who knows? Maybe someday in the future I could make the top ten.”
You’re a liar.
You don’t even like her touch.
You have no future.
“And what does the future hold for Nice, huh? You're young, beloved, immaculate —what's next?”
He paused, smile still fixed in place, hands folded neatly on his lap. For a second—just a split second—he imagined telling the truth.
He imagined saying:
I’m tired. I hate this. I don’t want to be here anymore. The person I love doesn’t even know it. I’ve washed my hands raw every day for the past three years and I still feel dirty. My smile is fake. My future? It ends tonight.
Instead, he said:
“I just want to keep doing what I do best, and be a hero that the public can believe in.”
The audience roared with approval.
The host clapped, beaming. “There you have it, folks! The icon, the one and only, the unbeatable—Nice!”
The cameras panned out. The theme music played.
The light stayed on his face.
And inside, where the cheers couldn’t reach—
He felt nothing at all.
— —
0 Days, 4 Hours, 17 Minutes, 12 Seconds Remaining
— —
Nice stood on the pristine white set, the branding for Vita Glow Energy Bars gleaming on every surface like the walls of a too-clean hospital. The director barked orders softly through a megaphone, but no one raised their voice too high. You didn’t shout around Nice. You didn’t need to.
He stood tall in the center, posed in his sleeveless Hero Uniform, hair styled flawlessly, not a single strand out of place. The bar in his hand looked like plastic. Everything did. Even him.
“Camera rolling in five,” the director called out. “Let’s get that million-dollar smile, hero.”
Nice obliged.
He smiled.
The red light blinked on.
“Even when I’m saving the city,” he said, voice bright and crisp, “I make time to recharge. That’s why I choose Vita Glow—packed with protein, nutrients, and no added sugar!”
He took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Every movement perfect.
Because that’s what they wanted.
Because that’s all he had left to give.
A beat.
Then his hand raised—signature finger guns, aimed straight at the camera.
“Vita Glow,” he said, winking, “because you deserve to shine.”
Click. Click.
“Cut!” the director called, clapping. “Perfect. Always perfect. Thank you, Nice!”
Nice lowered his hand, handed the barely-eaten bar to an assistant, and gave a little bow. “Happy to help.”
“Seriously,” someone else murmured, watching him walk off set, “he’s glowing today. He must’ve gotten good news or something.”
Nice smiled as he passed, even softer than usual.
In a way, they were right.
He would be free soon.
And he had only two more stops to make.
— —
The building hadn't changed. Not the creaky steps leading to the third floor, not the bulletin board full of faded posters and hopeful beginner flyers, not even the chipped gold letters that still read STUDIO LUXE .
He pressed the buzzer and leaned in, keeping his voice low. “Hi. Um, do you have a room available?”
The girl at the front desk peeked out, eyes widening. “Oh my god, you’re—”
“I just want a room,” Nice interrupted gently. “Please.”
She blinked, nodded fast, and handed him a key without charging. “Studio B is open.”
He smiled, a real one this time. “Thanks.”
He stepped into the room alone. No cameras. No lighting crew. No Miss J. No Moon. No script.
Just mirrors. Just himself.
The music was already in his head. No need to queue anything up. He kicked off his shoes and pulled his shirt over his head, folding it with practiced precision before placing it neatly by the wall. His socks slid on the hardwood as he took his stance—arms raised, head tilted, back long, chest open.
And he moved.
Slow. Grieving. Graceful.
His body told the story his voice never could. It was a funeral in motion, an elegy in muscle and breath. Every plié felt like a memory being mourned. Every spin a wound reopening. He danced like someone who knew his time was up and was finally ready to feel it.
A small crowd began to gather outside the glass windows. Phones were raised. Whispers passed between them. But no one dared enter.
They watched a ghost say goodbye.
Nice didn’t mind. Let them film. Let them see . For once, they were seeing him —the real one, the boy who used to dance barefoot beside Wreck until the sun came up, the boy who used to laugh without checking the mirror first.
A leap, a turn, a fall to his knees. His chest rose and fell, sweat dotting his skin like constellations.
He didn't cry. Not here. Not now.
He rose again. Again. Again.
And for two of his remaining hours, Nice danced the life he was never allowed to live.
— —
0 Days, 2 Hours, 15 Minutes, 46 Seconds Remaining
— —
Nice changed in the washroom of the dance studio, wiping the sweat from his neck with a damp paper towel. His movements were sharp, robotic, precise—his clothes folded tightly under one arm, his boots pulled on in slow silence. He’d left his body in that studio and was just borrowing it now.
The car was waiting. Miss J sat in the front seat, legs crossed, phone in one hand, cigarette in the other despite the no-smoking sign plastered on the window. She barely looked up when he slipped into the back.
“You’re not early,” she muttered, exhaling a soft stream of smoke. “Unusual for you.”
“I had a good practice,” he said simply, buckling in.
She raised her head and squinted as she studied him. “Don’t give me that angelic crap. You’re glowing. Something’s up.”
He smiled faintly, resting his cheek against the cool window. “Maybe I’m just happy.”
That shut her up.
The dinner was held at a luxury restaurant with sky-high windows and glossy, black floors that reflected the evening light like water. Round tables gleamed with silverware that had never been touched, and the staff was perfectly trained—always smiling, always moving just fast enough.
It was a celebration for his most recent rank—Top 15. A curated gathering of shareholders, executives, designers, brand managers, and Moon.
She greeted him with a kiss to the cheek and a chirped, “You’re late,” even though he wasn’t. She looked good in red. She always did.
But he barely noticed.
They were seated at a table near the center. Plates of food arrived like artwork—microgreens, meat too tender to need a knife, wine poured with a practiced wrist. People leaned over to speak to him, shake his hand, and offer toasts. Moon linked her fingers with his under the table and smiled wide for the cameras.
He played his part well. He was charming, polite, and poised. But he didn’t eat. Just kept slicing his salmon into symmetrical squares, spacing them evenly on his plate like tiles on a floor.
Moon elbowed him gently. “You okay, Perfect Hero?”
He blinked, glanced at her, then at the wine in his glass. “I’m great.”
It was the truth, for once.
Outside, the sky was darkening into something soft. Streetlights were flickering to life. He watched his reflection in the window and tilted his head slightly. If you looked closely, you could see it:
The boy behind the glass was getting ready to say goodbye.
— —
A toast was being made in his honor—again. Something about his influence, his rising rank, his partnership with Moon and how they were becoming the “face of Heroism’s New Era.” People clinked glasses and smiled like sharks.
Nice nodded, raised his own glass politely, and even gave a small bow of his head. His smile was perfect. His posture was perfect. He looked exactly the way they wanted him to.
But inside, the silence was deafening.
Moon leaned over as the table applauded and whispered, “They love you. You know that, right?”
He turned to her slowly. Her eyes were warm, the way they always were when she wanted him to believe she was on his side. But her grip on his thigh beneath the table tightened just slightly—like she was claiming something. Like she knew he didn’t belong to her but was trying to hold onto the illusion.
He smiled again. “Of course.”
Another clink. Another cheer.
A waiter arrived with the main course, placing the food in front of him with a soft, “Bon appétit, sir.” Nice looked down. It was a beautiful dish—delicate, colorful, expensive.
He didn’t touch it.
Instead, he stared at his wine glass. The red shimmered, catching the candlelight in soft, dancing ribbons. A reflection of the party, of everything he was leaving behind.
A man beside him—one of the head image consultants—laughed too loud and smacked him on the back.
“You’re killing it, kid! Just keep doing what you’re doing, and you’ll be in the Top Ten in no time.”
Nice nodded, took a sip of wine to cover the bitter twist in his stomach.
Top Ten. What a joke.
He’d be a headline by morning.
He let his gaze drift to the far wall, where the mirrored panel reflected the entire table. He saw Moon, radiant and laughing. He saw the executives—drunk, flushed, content. He saw himself.
Alone.
He excused himself a few minutes later, citing a phone call. No one really noticed.
Except Moon. She turned just slightly as he walked past and said, “Don’t be long.”
He smiled without turning back.
“I won’t.”
— —
The air outside the restaurant was gentle, the sky soaked in golden tones as the sun dipped beneath the skyline. Nice stood near the valet station, pretending to scroll through his phone. In truth, he was watching the light fade—how it clung to the buildings like it didn’t want to let go. How the world kept turning even when people disappeared.
A couple recognized him first. They rushed over, excited, stammering compliments. He smiled for their photos, wrote something silly on a napkin for their nephew, and gave his best “finger guns” pose on request. His grin didn’t even tremble.
A few others followed, but none lingered long—until her.
She was small, maybe fourteen, maybe younger. Her dark hair was pulled back into a simple braid, and she wore a worn backpack with hand-drawn patches. She didn’t say anything at first—just stood there, watching him with eyes too old for her face.
“You wanna take a photo?” he asked gently.
She shook her head.
“I just…” Her voice cracked. “I just wanted to say thank you.”
He blinked, smile faltering for half a second.
“I watch you on HeroTV,” she went on. “And… everyone says you're so perfect. That you’re what we should all want to be. But I know how it feels to pretend.” Her hands clenched the strap of her bag. “I know how it feels to be so tired you don’t want to wake up. But you do. Anyway.”
Nice stared at her, the ache in his chest blooming so suddenly he forgot how to breathe. She looked up at him like she could see it—see all of him. Not just the mask.
“I’m giving up,” he whispered before he could stop himself.
She didn’t flinch. She nodded.
“That’s okay.”
He knelt down in front of her, leveling their eyes. His heart felt too big for his body.
“It’s okay?” he asked, like it mattered more than all the rankings, more than the interviews, more than the world.
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. “You tried really hard. You did everything they asked you to and always gave your best. I’m proud of you either way.”
His lip trembled, and he had to look away for a second. “What’s your name?”
“Mei.”
He pulled a pen from his pocket and took her hand gently. On her palm, he wrote:
Don’t disappear, Mei. Not yet. I believe in you.
—Nice
He gave her a final, tired smile. One not for cameras. Not for fans. Not for Moon. One that belonged only to this moment.
“Promise?” he asked.
She nodded. “I promise.”
Nice glanced at Mei again, noticing the frayed hem of her sleeves and the way her fingers kept twitching, like she wasn’t sure whether to hold on or let go.
“You’re really brave,” he said softly.
Mei looked away, her cheeks coloring. “I don’t feel brave. I just… didn’t want you to think no one saw you.”
His throat tightened. “You saw me?”
She nodded. “Not the Perfect Hero. I mean you-you. The one who always looked a little sad even when he smiled. I thought… maybe he’d understand me too.”
“I do,” he said instantly. It surprised him how quickly the words came. “I know what it’s like to feel like everyone wants something from you but none of it is really you . Just a picture they can pin on a wall.”
“That’s exactly it,” she whispered, her eyes glistening.
They stood there in silence for a beat, as if the world had paused just for them.
“I wanted to be like you,” she said. “Before I knew how hard it was to pretend.”
Nice gave a tired laugh. “Don’t be like me. Be like you. Mei sounds way braver.”
She kicked at a crack in the pavement. “I write songs sometimes. But I never show anyone.”
“You should,” he said. “Not because they’ll like it. But because you made it. Because it’s real.”
Mei gave him a sad smile. “Are you leaving soon?”
He hesitated. “Yes.”
“That’s okay. You deserve to rest too.”
His eyes burned. He didn’t want to cry. Not now. Not in front of her. Not so close to the end.
She pulled something from her backpack. A cheap plastic bracelet—bright blue, with little silver beads.
“I made this at school,” she said, holding it out to him. “I was saving it for someone who felt like me. You don’t have to wear it. Just… have it.”
Nice took it carefully, like it was something sacred. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have to be perfect, you know,” she added. “You already matter.”
He looked at her then—really looked—and felt like he was seeing the world through the eyes of his younger self. The kid who used to stay up late with Wreck. The one who danced until his legs gave out. The one who laughed without cameras watching.
He gently wrapped the bracelet around his wrist.
“I’ll cherish it,” he promised.
Mei nodded and bowed. “I won't forget you, Nice. Thank you for your service.”
He couldn't stop the tears from falling as he watched her walk away.
His hand gripped the bracelet at his wrist like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. It was light, plastic, probably already fraying—but it felt heavier than anything he'd carried in years. He blinked up at the sky, letting the warm evening sun blur behind the water in his eyes.
“Thank you for your service.”
It echoed in his chest louder than it should’ve. He’d heard those words a hundred times—empty, polished, part of the script. But Mei’s voice cracked when she said it. She meant it. She saw him. Just once. That was all he’d ever wanted.
He stood outside the restaurant a little longer, the soft chatter and clinking plates from the patio washing over him. A fan walked by and recognized him. Then another. They asked for selfies. He gave them perfect smiles, wrote their names with flair on napkins and notebooks. They said he looked amazing. That he inspired them. That they loved him.
He thanked them with grace.
And inside, something had collapsed.
Because Mei had seen him for who he really was. Because he thought nobody ever would.
When the sidewalk finally cleared, he let out a long, unsteady breath and pulled out his phone. No new messages from Wreck.
But he scrolled back through the ones he'd ignored. There were dozens. Wreck had called, messaged, sent blurry photos of old takeout containers and their favorite junky energy drinks with captions like:
“Still tastes like battery acid. I miss it.”
“Remember this rooftop? You made me eat cold ramen in the snow.”
“I’m not mad. Just answer me. Please.”
Nice pressed the screen to his heart.
He whispered, “I miss you too.”
But the clock kept ticking.
And he had somewhere to be.
— —
0 Days, 0 Hours, 39 Minutes, 11 Seconds Remaining
— —
The restaurant door shut behind him with a soft click, and the filtered light of golden hour wrapped Nice in its soft, forgiving hue. He adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, the bracelet Mei gave him hidden under the cuff. Miss J waited beside the limo, her phone to her ear as always, barking directions to some poor intern. But she turned the moment she saw him.
“On time. For once. Miracles do happen,” she said, climbing in without waiting for him.
Nice gave a polite chuckle and followed her, the familiar leather of the limo seat cool beneath him.
“Last shoot of the day,” Miss J said, checking her tablet. “Hero Magazine wants another cover. Something elegant . You’ve got twenty-five minutes before we hit the set. You ready?”
He glanced out the tinted window at the city. His city. All that fake perfection, stretched like wallpaper over broken buildings and exhausted people.
“I’m always ready,” he said with a smile.
Miss J looked at him for a beat too long. “You’re weirdly calm today. Did Moon finally agree to go public with your engagement? Or—wait—did Wreck apologize for being a nuisance?”
He shook his head, still smiling. “Nope. No happy endings here.”
Miss J huffed. “You know, Nice, this… thing you’re doing. You’re burning too fast. The public can smell it. You I would never normally offer this, but if you need a break—”
“I don’t.”
She sighed, finally looking down at her tablet again. “Fine. But just know, if you crash, you’re taking a billion-dollar empire with you.”
Nice watched the buildings blur by as the limo pulled closer to the photoshoot location. He could already see the rooftop ahead, the massive white backdrop being set up, lights casting warm halos in the twilight. The camera crew waited.
He turned to her one last time and slid his phone out of his pocket.
“Thank you, Miss J.”
She blinked. “For what?”
“For everything. Really. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”
She furrowed her brow, suspicious. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
But he was already opening the door.
He floated just above the ground for a second—weightless, elegant, himself—and smiled at her through the open window.
“Bye, Miss J.”
Then he was gone, disappearing into the sky before she could get another word in.
— —
The city slipped away beneath him, light by light, billboard by billboard, the fading sun washing the skyline in molten gold. Nice didn’t fly fast. Not this time. He didn’t have to. The wind curled through his hair, sharp and cold this high up, and for once, it didn’t bother him.
His fingers trailed through the air like he was carving something invisible. He imagined himself painting one last picture across the sky. A stroke of white. A blur of gold. A smear of red from the setting sun.
He should’ve been afraid. Of the end. Of the fall.
But all he felt was… clarity.
This was the first time in years he didn’t feel tangled.
Not in expectation.
Not in perfection.
Not in the hungry silence of his own mind.
The wind howled past him and he heard it—faint, tucked into the memory of some summer long gone—Wreck’s laugh. That stupid, reckless laugh that cracked right through the armour Nice had always tried so hard to keep up.
God, how many times had he chased Wreck through these skies?
How many rooftop battles, how many fake punches and whispered promises of “Don’t hold back tonight”?
Nice exhaled. It turned to a ghostly ribbon in the air.
He missed him . He missed who they’d been. He missed being that boy who could laugh without a camera waiting. The one who stayed up too late eating snacks and perfecting spin-kicks with the boy who made everything feel lighter.
He thought of Mei’s bracelet tight against his wrist.
Of Moon’s cold silence in the apartment.
Of Miss J’s warnings.
Of the fans he smiled for.
Of the boy inside him screaming beneath it all.
And he thought:
“This is the last time I’ll fly like this.”
Free.
Real.
Untouched by the grip of public love and private ruin.
He dipped lower, the rooftops in sight now, and his heart beat faster with anticipation.
He could see the white limo not far behind him and stopped on top of a billboard. He waited for the limo to get closer and closer as he thought.
A brown haired man with a box of papers and trinkets steps on to the roof first. He was grumbling softly to himself about how horrible his boss was. Nice resisted the urge to laugh as the man made his way to the centre of the roof, complaining all the way there. He mirth faded as the man made his way to the same ledge that Nice would be stepping off of.
He checked the emergency stairs to see Miss J and her four security guards making their way up.
— —
0 Days, 0 Hours, 0 Minutes, 50 Seconds Remaining
— —
“Do you have a home? To start a family, you need more than love alone. You deserve a place to grow, and we can help. Dream Incorporation, have no fear.”
His voice was syrupy and warm, like a lullaby piped through static. The billboard had glitched again, warped red text bleeding into green, the synthetic Nice and Moon were holding hands while their faces pixelated in and out of existence.
The man stood still at the ledge of the rooftop below, his back to the broken screen, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His hair whipped in the cold wind.
“Have no fear,” the screen whispered again.
The man stiffened.
“No fear.”
“Fear. Fear. Fear.”
“Have no fear.”
“Have no—have no fear.”
The repetition became a pulse, something deeply wrong threading through it. The man turned on the voice, spitting venom into the dark. “You can shove it, Nice! You’re not gonna be perfect forever! As soon as you get old and ugly, they’ll find a new you!”
He didn’t see the real Nice above him as he stuck out his pinky.
Nice watched, standing silently on top of the billboard itself. His cape fluttered behind him, catching on the wind just enough to resemble wings.
He viewed the man’s tantrum without blinking. There was something almost soothing about it—watching someone scream freely, as if they still had the right to fall apart.
He didn’t.
His cue played on a loop in his head.
Have no fear.
He floated off the billboard and down to the rooftop, boots landing soundlessly. The man turned, eyes wide at the sight of him.
Nice smiled with a light tilt of his lips.
Not kindly. Not cruelly. Just… mechanically. Habitual. A thing he had built into his muscle memory. The corners of his mouth pulled upward into a soft curve like marionette strings attached to branding contracts.
The man stumbled slightly, but regained his balance.
Nice didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
He stepped forward. One step. Then another.
The rooftop’s edge called to him.
He walked toward it as though in a trance. Smooth, clean movements. Spine straight. Chin lifted. Every inch the hero they believed he was.
The wind tugged harder at his body now, playing with his uniform like it wanted to undress the myth of him.
He stepped up to the ledge.
And smiled wider. Like a reflex.
No fear.
Then, with the slow ease of someone slipping off a mask, he raised his hands—
And fired his stupid, signature finger guns.
Pew. Pew.
He twisted midair as he leaned forward and let himself fall.
It was almost funny.
He laughed—quietly at first, then more deeply, more freely, his voice echoing between buildings. He spread his arms wide, legs apart, like he was making a snow angel out of empty sky.
There was no fear in him anymore. Only relief.
He wondered, distantly, what the man on the ledge was thinking now.
He wondered, more painfully, if Wreck would be mad at him for this.
If Wreck would ever smile again.
If he'd even noticed how long it had been since Nice did.
The world spun.
The sky folded over itself.
And then—
Crunch.
— —
0 Days, 0 Hours, 0 Minutes, 0 Seconds Remaining
— —