The Elites, the people that are born with supernatural abilities. So far, more then 55% of the population possesses these powers. Most of them work in professions like firefighting or law enforcement. However, some believe their abilities make them invincible—that they have the power to rule the world or that with such power, they shouldn't have to work hard for a living. These individuals have chosen the path of villainy. And where there is evil, there is also its counterpart: the Heroes.
As for those who aren't Awakened—well, they're left with the lower-class jobs. It's unfair, even discriminatory if you ask me, but that's just how it is.
Let's take Bob for example:
Bob was sleeping soundly, his black hair long enough to cover more than half his face. He looked peaceful, like an angel—until a loud BEEEPshattered the silence, jolting him awake.
"Ugh…" he groaned, barely managing to open his eyes. He pushed his hair out of his face, revealing scarlet eyes still half-closed.
Getting up was a struggle, but after a few moments, he managed. Barely visible in the dark, he shuffled to the bathroom and flipped on the light. The sudden brightness made him shield his eyes with his hand. His forearm was broad and marked with numerous scars. In fact, his entire body was practically covered in them.
After a long pause, he lowered his hand and looked into the mirror. His gaze swept over his toned, muscular frame before he stepped closer to the sink. He splashed water on his face—once, twice, then a third time. When he looked up again, he stared at his sharp features. A faint smirk appeared.
"Looking good, handsome," he said, pointing at his reflection.
He brushed his teeth and returned to his room. Opening the closet, he picked out an outfit for work. Grabbing the backpack he'd packed the night before, he got dressed, slipped on his shoes, and headed out the door.
As he opened it, a guy flew overhead—soaring right above his house. Bob didn't even flinch.
"Ugh, it's too early for this," he muttered, slipping his earbuds in. He pulled out his phone, queued up his favorite playlist by Roses & Guns, and cranked the volume.
…
Twenty minutes later, Bob arrived at his workplace—a construction site. It was a five-story apartment complex built in the nineties, now in desperate need of 'renovation'. The walls were practically falling apart.
The gate creaked as Bob entered the construction site. The smell of sawdust, sweat, and rusted steel hit him like a punch to the face. Most of the crew was already there, some setting up scaffolding, others halfheartedly sipping coffee from dented thermoses.
"Yo, Bob!" a voice called from behind a stack of plywood.
Bob turned to see Jared, a wiry guy with grease-stained gloves and a permanently smudged face, jogging over.
"You're late," Jared said, grinning.
Bob yawned, then pulled out one earbud. "Barely. Chill."
Jared shook his head. "You're lucky old man Grier's not here yet. Anyway, did you hear what happened last night?"
Bob raised a brow. "Nah, you know i don't watch the news. What happened?"
"Villain hit downtown. Real nasty one. Called himself Voltage. Dude fried half a block before the Heroes could even get there."
Bob blinked. "Voltage?"
"Yeah. Some new guy, apparently. Rumor is, he escaped from one of the detainment zones in Sector 3. Lit up a grocery store like a fireworks show. Whole place's just… gone."
Bob's eyes narrowed. "And the Heroes?"
Jared shrugged. "Took 'em a while to respond. Only two showed up—some rookie flier and that guy with the flame tattoos. Didn't stand a chance. Voltage got away."
Bob didn't say anything. He just stared at the ground.
Jared nudged him. "Hey, you good?"
Bob nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just… thinking."
"Well, don't think too hard. We've got bricks to haul," Jared said with a laugh, slapping him on the back before heading off toward the scaffolding.
Bob stood there for a moment longer, then quietly put his earbud back in and turned the volume down just a notch.
After changing Bob shoved his hands into his gloves and headed over to the pallet of bricks Jared had left behind. The sky was overcast now, with gray clouds dragging themselves across the horizon. Perfect weather for backbreaking labor.
He hoisted a stack of bricks onto the lift, the rough edges biting into his palms through the thin gloves. His muscles moved like clockwork—precise, practiced. The others struggled with the weight, but Bob made it look easy. Too easy.
He caught Jared watching him out of the corner of his eye.
"You ever think you're too strong for this job?" Jared asked with a chuckle, sweat dripping down his temple.
Bob didn't look up. "I get paid by the hour. Not by the ego."
Jared laughed and walked off, leaving Bob to his rhythm—lift, carry, drop. Lift, carry, drop. It was mindless, almost meditative. And that's exactly how he liked it.
Still, Voltage's name stuck in his head like a splinter.
He'd never heard of the guy before. New blood, probably. Hungry and reckless.
A breeze blew across the site. Bob paused, hand on a cinder block. His head turned slightly, eyes scanning the distance.
Nothing.
Just nerves.
"Stop it," he muttered under his breath.
He shook it off and went back to work. The only thing he cared about now was making it through the day. Get paid. Go home.
Because in a world obsessed with power and justice, Bob had only one rule left:
Don't get noticed.
…
After eight hours of hard labor and a single 20-minute break, Bob was finally ready to leave. The sun was almost down, casting long shadows across the site, and the moon was already peeking out from behind the clouds.
As he walked toward the gate, he heard someone shouting behind him.
"Yo, wait!"
Bob turned to see Jared, gasping for air and stumbling after him, clearly out of breath after running only a few feet.
"Dude, you really need to go back to the gym," Bob said, not bothering to hide his chuckle.
Jared just flipped him off, then said, "Fuck you. Also, me and some of the guys are getting drinks. You in?"
Bob paused, one hand resting on the gate. For a second, he considered it. A cold drink didn't sound bad after a day like this, but he already had other plans—nothing special, just the usual. Go home, maybe shoot a message to Sofia or Melissa—see if either of them felt like coming over. If not, he'd throw something mindless on the TV, probably reruns of that old crime show he never finished, and call it a night. Quiet, predictable, and most importantly, alone.
"Nah," Bob said finally, shaking his head. "I've got stuff to do."
Jared gave him a look that landed somewhere between suspicion and amusement. "Right. Important stuff. Like sitting on your ass and messaging one of your exes who won't text you back?"
Bob smirked. "Exactly."
"Okay, have fun… I guess. Bye," Jared said, backing away with a shrug.
Bob just turned and raised two fingers in a lazy peace sign over his shoulder. No words, just a silent goodbye. Then he slipped through the gate and headed down the street, earbuds back in, the world already fading behind the music.
…
The route back was exactly the same as that morning—same cracked sidewalks, same flickering streetlamps, same lazy wind pushing at his back. Bob queued up his favorite playlist by Roses & Guns, cranked the volume to the max, and let the familiar guitar riffs drown out the world.
Ten miles. No stops. Just the steady rhythm of his boots hitting pavement, keeping pace with the drums in his ears.
By the time his house came into view, dusk had given way to full night. The neighborhood was quiet, tucked beneath the soft glow of streetlights and moonlight. Too quiet.
As Bob approached his front door, something shifted in the air—subtle, but unmistakable. A prickle at the back of his neck. The kind of feeling he hated. He clenched his jaw and reached for the key in his pocket, but didn't unlock the door right away. Instead, he waited. Listened.
Silence.
He opened the door slowly, stepping into the dark.
The house was still. No lights. No footsteps. Nothing out of place. But Bob knew better. He stepped into the center of the living room, scanning every corner, every shadow. His body tensed, muscles coiled tight.
Then—a soft click.
A breath.
He moved.
In an instant, Bob lunged toward the sound, arms shooting forward into the dark. His fingers closed around something solid—a barrel. Invisible to the eye, but not to him. With a growl, he twisted, snapping the weapon clean in half with nothing but raw strength. Before the attacker could react, Bob pulled him forward with both hands and drove a fist into his ribs. The man gasped and flickered into view—a soldier in light camo and tactical gear—just as Bob hauled him into the line of fire.
A muffled gunshot rang out. The second attacker, also invisible, had pulled the trigger a second too late. The first man slumped, lifeless, into Bob's arms.
The shooter hesitated.
Bob didn't.
He dropped the body, pivoted, and closed the distance in a blur. One brutal kick landed square on the attacker's ankle—a sickening crunch followed. The man screamed and dropped, flickering into visibility as he hit the floor.
Bob stood over him, breathing slow and controlled, fists still clenched. The music from his earbuds had stopped—somewhere during the fight, the cord had been torn loose.
Bob sighed, staring down at the now-visible soldier writhing on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Blood seeped from his shattered ankle, pooling on the hardwood. Bob's eyes, once calm and tired, now burned with a quiet fury.
"Why are you here?" he growled, his voice low and sharp.
The soldier tried to speak, but before he could manage more than a gasp, a new voice cut through the silence.
"That's about enough, don't you think?"
Bob froze.
The voice was deep, composed, and unmistakably authoritative. Calm in the way only someone with immense power and control could afford to be.
"Hard to believe you're still this sharp after all these years," the voice continued. "How's retirement, Rafael?"
Bob slowly turned toward the sound.
Standing in the doorway, hands in the pockets of a tailored black coat, was Jack Smith—director of the National Hero Bureau. A man known by name in every city, his face shown on broadcasts during national emergencies, his words treated like gospel by the Hero Corps. He was the man responsible for overseeing every Hero, every operation, every mission. The man behind the curtain.
And he was in Bob's house.
No—Rafael's house.
Bob's expression didn't change. Not visibly. But inside, something twisted. A knot of old memories and older regrets pulled tight in his gut.
Jack stepped forward, boots clicking softly against the floor. "Relax. If I wanted you dead, I'd have sent someone better."
Bob didn't respond. Not yet. He just stared at Jack, then slowly glanced at the injured soldier, now trying to crawl backward across the floor like a wounded dog.
Jack followed his gaze and sighed. "I told them not to engage. But you know how rookies are. Always eager to make a name for themselves. Especially when they think they've found the ghost of Rafael Azar."
Bob flinched slightly at the name.
Rafael Azar.
He hadn't heard it spoken aloud in years.
The truth is—I didn't lie to you.
Bob Dickson is an ordinary guy.
But Rafael Azar?
He was a legend. A nightmare. The greatest villain to ever walk the earth. Entire cities trembled at the whisper of his name. His power was almost unmatched. His mind, a terrifying blend of brilliance and brutality. He wasn't evil for the sake of chaos—he had reasons. Plans. And every time the Heroes thought they'd stopped him, he was already five steps ahead. Only one person could keep up with him, his adversary, his equal in strength, his greatest nemesis.
Until one day… he vanished—after a battle that shook the skies and scorched the earth.
His final clash with his greatest nemesis, the strongest Hero the world had ever known: Hope.
Witnesses said the fight lit up the horizon like a second sun. Mountains crumbled. Oceans trembled. And when the smoke finally cleared, Rafael Azar was gone.
No corpse. No remains. Just a crater where two gods had clashed—and only one walked away.
Hope.
The world moved on, convinced Rafael was dead. A relic of a darker time. A myth buried beneath peace treaties and Hero propaganda. New villains rose and fell, but none came close to the legend. His name faded into whispers, then into silence.
But here he was.
Standing in a dimly lit living room in a too-small house, wearing worn-out work gloves and mud-stained boots.
Not a warlord. Just a man. A ghost in the flesh.
Rafael didn't flinch. "What do you want, Jack?"
Jack smiled. "You—"