"I'll do it," Bob said.
Smith nodded, his expression unreadable. "Good. The boy's name is Alex. He's staying at a safe house for now, but we need to move him soon. The Order's already tracking him."
Bob clenched his fists. The room felt colder now. The Order already knows. That meant time wasn't just short—it was bleeding out.
"Where is he now?" Bob asked, his voice quieter than before, but no less intense.
"A few miles outside the city," Smith replied, already heading for the door. "I'll take you there. We've already packed your bags, c'mon."
He gestured for the soldiers to stand down. Reluctantly, they lowered their weapons, though none of them relaxed. Their eyes still followed Bob like he was a coiled viper.
As the front door creaked open, the night air rushed in, sharp and biting. Bob stepped out slowly, his boots crunching against the gravel. He stopped on the porch and glanced sideways at Smith, the tension between them thick and sharp.
"What do you think about this, about Rick's decision?" Bob asked, voice strained. "After everything I've done, I'm sure you hate me."
Smith stopped beside him and turned. For a moment, the old guy just stared into the darkness.
"I don't think it's right. A piece of shit like you as a guardian is just... wrong," he said quietly. "I know I wouldn't have chosen you. If I had any other option—hell, anyone else—I would've taken it in a heartbeat." His gaze shifted to Bob, hard and cold. "But Rick trusted you. That letter was written weeks before he died. He knew something was coming. And he still chose you. So i have to put my feelings aside and work with you. Sadly."
Bob didn't answer. He couldn't. His chest ached in a way it hadn't in years.
Without another word, he climbed into the passenger seat of Smith's matte-black SUV. The door shut with a dull thud. The ride started slow, the silence pressing down on both of them like a weight. Bob stared out the window, the passing city lights nothing more than blurry echoes. His thoughts returned to the letter, every word carved into his memory.
"Prove yourself wrong."
Damn you, Rick.
….
The car turned off the highway after twenty minutes and onto a gravel road flanked by thick woods. Trees loomed like silent sentinels. Hidden cameras watched them from the shadows. Bob noticed every single one.
The vehicle stopped at a narrow clearing. A single cabin sat in the middle—small, weathered, but fortified beneath the humble exterior. Electric hums whispered in the air, betraying a high-tech energy field cloaked in visual silence.
Smith led the way to the front door. It unlocked with a faint beep.
Inside, the space was utilitarian. Wooden walls. Simple furniture. No pictures. Just function.
A woman in her thirties stood near the stairs, arms crossed. She had a sidearm at her hip and the permanent scowl of someone who hadn't slept in days.
"Where's Alex?" Smith asked.
"Upstairs," she said, barely looking at Bob. "He's been asking questions. A lot of them."
"Of course he has," Smith muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Come on."
They climbed the creaking stairs. At the top, a faint light spilled through a cracked door. Bob paused, something in his gut twisting. It felt… familiar. A kind of pressure in the air. Reality warping, just slightly. The kind of sensation that told him the boy wasn't just gifted—he was dangerous, even if he didn't know it yet.
Smith knocked gently and pushed the door open.
Inside was a simple bedroom. A few books on the shelf. A single bed.
Sitting on it was a boy no older than twelve. Blonde hair like sunlight. Blue eyes that almost glowed. And that shimmer—like the world around him couldn't quite decide what shape it was supposed to take.
"Alex," Smith said gently. "There's someone I want you to meet."
The boy turned.
His gaze landed on Bob and immediately narrowed. There was no fear—just fierce, guarded curiosity.
"Who's he?" Alex asked, his voice surprisingly steady for a kid.
Bob took a deep breath and stepped forward. He crouched a little, meeting the boy's eyes on his level.
"My name's Bob," he said. "I was… a friend of your dad's."
The boy tilted his head. "You're lying," he said flatly. "My dad didn't have friends. He was always alone."
Bob froze. The kid's words hit like a blade to the ribs.
"He wasn't always alone, kid," Bob said, his voice a little rougher. "I bet he just didn't talk about the past much."
There was a beat of silence. Then, without warning, Alex shot up from the bed and crossed his arms. "Okay. What's your favorite color? How old are you? Why are your eyes so red? Do you have a power? If yes, what is it? And how did you meet Dad?"
Bob blinked. "What?"
Alex stared him down. "You said you were his friend. So prove it. Answer."
Bob gave a short laugh, despite himself. "Alright, alright, calm down. One question at a time."
Smith rolled his eyes and turned toward the door. "I'll leave him to you for now. Come downstairs after. We still have… things to discuss."
Bob gave him a distracted nod, but never took his eyes off the kid.
The door closed behind Smith with a soft click, leaving the two alone.
For the first time in years, Bob wasn't sure if he was the most dangerous person in the room.
"Kiddo, calm down," Bob said, chuckling as he raised his hands in surrender. "My favorite color is red, and I'm… twenty-three."
Alex squinted suspiciously. "Mhm, mhm… Continue," he said, nodding with mock seriousness and tapping his chin like a tiny detective.
"I'm here to stay with you," Bob continued, crossing his arms and leaning casually against the dresser. "As your… babysitter."
Alex recoiled as if insulted. "My babysitter?! I'm thirteen! I don't need—"
"Will you let me finish?" Bob cut in, raising an eyebrow.
Alex blinked, then flopped back onto the bed. "Sorry, sorry. Continue," he mumbled.
"My power is…" Bob paused, a playful glint in his crimson eyes. "A secret." He pressed a finger to his lips. "Shh."
Alex frowned. "That's not fair. If you're gonna protect me, I need to know what you can do."
Bob smirked. "And I need you not to freak out the second I show you. So we'll call it even."
Alex gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. And… how did you meet my dad?"
Bob went quiet. The question landed heavier than expected. He looked away, just for a second, his gaze falling on the far wall.
He remembered everything.
Seven years ago. Bob—no, Rafael—was fifteen. Fresh out of the facility. Half-mad from the endless experiments, the drugs, the noise in his head that never stopped. The power inside him was wild— raw, terrifying. He couldn't stop it. Two days on the run, and already a hundred people were dead, maybe more.
He didn't want to fight.
But Hope had found him. Gleaming white suit, golden trim, hovering in midair like a demigod.
He didn't speak. Just acted. He'd tried to contain Rafael with a nullifier field—standard for dangerous metas[1].
But Rafael had panicked.
He lunged, grabbed Hope by the cape midair, twisted, slammed him into the asphalt. The impact cracked three streets. When he got back up Rafael already disappeared.
But none of that was a story he could share with an thirteen year old grieving his dad.
So instead, Bob forced a smile and said, "We met at a… football game. Haha."
Alex's eyes narrowed instantly, cutting through the lie like a scalpel. "A football game? Really? Dad hated football. He said it was 'a waste of perfectly good time that could be spent saving the world.'"
Bob winced. "Alright, alright, you got me. No football game. The real story's… complicated."
Alex leaned forward. "Complicated how? Did you fight him? Is that why your eyes are red? Are you like… half-demon or something?"
Bob blinked. "What? No. Not a demon. My eyes have always been like this. They're just… part of who I am."
"But why are they like that?"
Bob hesitated. "Because… I was... made different. Long story short, I didn't get a normal childhood like you. I was built, not born."
Alex blinked slowly. "Built? Like… a robot?"
Bob laughed—this time, the sound was real. Not forced, not masked. Just genuine. "No, not a robot. Just… created. By people who thought they could make the perfect weapon."
Alex tilted his head, curiosity flickering behind his blue eyes. "Did Dad save you from them?"
Bob's smile faded. His eyes drifted to the floor for a moment, remembering that first encounter like a scar that never really faded. "Not at first," he said quietly. "At first, he tried to stop me. I was out of control. I didn't even know who I was yet. We didn't talk—we fought. Hard. He was trying to protect people. I was just trying to get revenge on the world that created me."
Alex didn't speak. He just watched him, wide-eyed, the weight of those words slowly sinking in.
"In the end," Bob continued, "he could've ended it. But he didn't. He gave me a chance to be something else. To change."
"So… you did fight," Alex said, like he needed to hear it confirmed aloud.
Bob nodded slowly, then cracked a half-smile. "We both walked away. I call that a draw."
Alex sat forward, eyes wide. "But… Dad was the strongest hero ever. He could do anything."
Bob let out a breath, leaning his head back against the wall. "Yeah, he was strong. Maybe the strongest. But even the strongest people get tired. Even they bleed." He paused. "Let's just say… we both surprised each other."
Alex frowned like he was solving a puzzle. "You're messing with me."
"Maybe," Bob said, grinning. "Or maybe I'm just that strong."
That earned him a small, reluctant smile from Alex, but it didn't last long. His face grew serious again, quieter. "He never told me about you. Why?"
Bob's grin faded. He looked down at his hands—hands that had done things he could never take back. "Because I was a part of a past he didn't want you to inherit," he said finally. "A part of himself he wished didn't exist. We both made mistakes, kid. Big ones. But your dad… he wanted you to have a chance to grow up clean. To be better than either of us."
Alex lay back on the bed, arms folded behind his head. "This is all so weird. Dad never talked about any of this. And now he's just… gone."
The last word cracked, barely held together by pride. Bob felt his chest tighten.
He walked over, slowly, and sat on the edge of the bed. He didn't crowd the kid—just close enough to be there.
"Hey," he said, gently. "Your dad loved you more than anything. He didn't tell you everything, not because he didn't care—but because he did. He wanted to protect you from the dark stuff. That's who he was. That's what made him a hero."
Alex stared at the ceiling, blinking hard. "Do you miss him?"
Bob's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Yeah."
A long silence stretched between them.
Then Alex turned his head to look at him, eyes glassy but steady. "Do you promise to stay? Everyone just leaves."
Bob looked straight into those eyes—the same clear blue ones he used to see filled with fire and determination. Eyes just like Rick's.
He nodded. "Yeah, kid. I promise."
Alex narrowed his eyes like he was weighing the truth in Bob's face. "You better not break it."
Bob chuckled and reached out, tousling the boy's hair. "Wouldn't dream of it."
[1] Metas are Elites that can't control their powers/ don't want to control their powers.