His shoulder throbbed. Mark Grayson sat on the roof of his house, gazing up at the night sky. No stars were visible. Thick clouds covered the entire sky, and Chicago's city lights stained the underside of the clouds a pale orange. He rested his right elbow on his knee and tilted his head. The wind was cold. Autumn had truly arrived in full force. His black short hair clung to his forehead, and Mark brushed it back carelessly. His slender 170-centimeter frame bore bruises scattered across it today as well. Around his left shoulder, beneath his white shirt, a dull ache lingered inward, and each movement brought a creaking sensation from deep within. The bone should be fine, he thought. His body, carrying Viltrumite blood, was built more durable than an ordinary human's. But. (Pain is pain, no matter what.) Mark exhaled slowly. Below stretched the residential neighborhoods of Upland. A typical suburb of Chicago. Single-family homes lined the streets, streetlights stood at regular intervals along the roads, and most house windows were already dark. This town of just over seventy thousand people went to sleep early. Roughly 35 kilometers to the southwest, beyond the horizon, Chicago's lights blurred faintly. That was the direction Mark always flew. To get there, it took about four minutes of flight. Faster if he pushed it. His smartphone was in his shirt pocket. He didn't want to take it out. But he did anyway. When he turned on the screen, there was a message. From Amber. "I'm looking forward to it 💕" A message from two hours ago. He still hadn't replied. Mark tapped the input field. "Sorry, again" He typed that much, then stopped. Deleted it. "Today I—" He deleted that too. Whatever he wrote would be a lie. He couldn't write that he'd been fighting today. Couldn't write that he'd injured his shoulder. Unable to give a reason, words just kept piling up—"I'll be late," "I'm not sure if I can make it"—hollow excuses stacked on top of each other. Mark closed the screen. The roof tiles were cold, and that coldness seeped through his jeans. Somewhere, a dog was barking. Far away. (I wonder if Amber actually got to eat.) The thought came from nowhere. It didn't matter. And yet, somehow it bothered him. --- Saturday morning at Upland High School, despite it being the weekend, had a decent number of students around for makeup classes, club activities, and committee work. The three-story hallway let in outside air and felt slightly chilly. Mark wore a hoodie over his white shirt. It was Jack who called out to him in the hallway. "[excited]Mark! Did you see the news last night!?" Jack rushed over with an excited expression. Liam was beside him. "[excited]It was Invincible! He was fighting in Chicago again! Three buildings, dude!" Mark forced a smile. "[serious]Yeah, that was crazy" "[excited]Crazy? More like, isn't he being way too reckless? Three buildings, man? Half-destroyed?" "[serious]Yeah" "[serious]But the opponent must've been seriously dangerous. He probably had to go that far to take them down" Jack and Liam continued talking, saying things like "True" and "But still—" Mark listened to their conversation while quietly pressing his left shoulder. (Half-destroyed, huh.) The sensation of dust hitting his face when the building collapsed still lingered somewhere. It had happened last night. But the two of them were talking happily. He should just keep smiling like this. That was enough. "[serious]Oh, by the way, did you already check the math material for today?" When he forcefully changed the subject, Jack started panicking. "Oh, I didn't! That's bad!" Mark felt relieved. He hated that he felt relieved. --- After school. Mark entered a stall in the first-floor boys' bathroom and locked the door. He didn't have any particular reason to be there. It was just that places like this were the most calming. No one watching. Alone. He sat on the toilet, stretched his legs, and looked up at the ceiling. A crack ran diagonally across one of the tiles. Something he'd noticed before. Someone's footsteps passed through the hallway. Then silence. GDA—Global Defense Agency, the federal government's metahuman management organization—he'd been registered with them for almost a year now. A tiny receiver embedded deep in his right ear. A chip smaller than a grain of rice that would activate when deployment requests came in. Usually he felt nothing. But when it rang, he knew. That electronic sound just rang. Sharp. Brief. Mark closed his eyes. One second. Then he stood up. The stall was cramped. But he was used to it. His costume was folded at the bottom of his backpack. As he spread out the bright blue and red fabric, information organized itself in his mind. South Chicago. Metahuman rampage. Arrive at scene within 15 minutes. GDA rules. Registered heroes had to arrive within 15 minutes. (Four minutes to Chicago. Easy.) Easy, wasn't it. He'd fought last night too. His shoulder hurt. But he'd go. That's what heroes did. Or rather—the real reason was that someone would get hurt if he didn't. Changed and ready, Mark climbed to the school's roof. The lock on the off-limits door had been broken for a while, and no one had fixed it. He was grateful. Upland spread out beneath his feet. Toward Chicago, he flew. --- The scene was bad. Part of an apartment building had collapsed. The road was cordoned off. The voices of onlookers mixed with sirens echoing through the air. A "Meta-Alert" notification had probably been sent to the general public's phones, and indeed, most people in the area had already evacuated. The app had 180 million downloads across the nation. Chicago residents were used to it by now. He couldn't quite figure out the villain's ability. But they were strong. After the first exchange, Mark assessed the situation. No civilians trapped nearby. Part of the building still looked like it might collapse, and it was annoying to have to keep that in mind while fighting. On the second collision, he took a hit to his left shoulder. It resonated through his bone. (—!) A sound almost escaped him, but he bit it back hard. Last night's wound hadn't healed at all. Thanks to his Viltrumite blood, his recovery was faster than normal, but even that had limits. "Don't stop," he told himself. His left arm wouldn't move properly. Then he'd use his right. Keeping the direction of the civilians in his head, he maintained constant pressure from the front. As long as he didn't break before the opponent tired out, it was simple. When he finally slammed the villain into the ground with his remaining right arm, a faint cheer rose from somewhere nearby. Far away. Mark was on one knee on the ground. --- "[cold]Well done, Invincible" The voice over the comm was always emotionally flat. GDA Director Cecil Stedman. He couldn't see his face, but the voice alone was enough to know. A businesslike man. "[cold]However, there's another deployment request tomorrow. Be prepared" "[serious]...Understood" With just that, he cut the connection. Holding his aching shoulder with his right hand, Mark ascended into the sky. The way home. Upland's streets drew closer. The sunset had ended, and the sky was turning navy blue. Convenience store neon glowed. Someone was riding a bicycle home. A person was walking their dog. An ordinary evening. Only he was having a slightly strange evening. --- When Mark collapsed onto his bed back in his room, he couldn't move for a while. He stared at the ceiling. White ceiling. One stain. A water leak mark. It hadn't changed since last year. (Another deployment request tomorrow.) Tomorrow. Mark closed his eyes. He had a promise to go to the autumn festival with Amber. The one held every year in Upland Park. Amber had said she was looking forward to it. Last year they'd gone together. They'd eaten churros at a food stall, tried the shooting gallery and both missed every shot, and laughed about it. He'd thought he could go this year too. Until last week. Taking out his phone felt like a monumental effort, but his hand moved anyway. In the screen, there was a message from Amber. "[excited]I'm so excited for the autumn festival tomorrow!!" A sticker was attached. A heart one. Mark stared at the screen. He tried to reply. Tried to type a message. But what could he write? "I think I can make it" might be a lie. "I might not be able to make it" would require explanation, and he couldn't explain. "I'm feeling a bit under the weather" was a lie. His health wasn't the issue. His finger moved back to the home screen, and the phone's display went dark. His left shoulder throbbed with pain. It seemed to have eased a little since earlier, but it was still there. Lying down made it assert itself with a slow, steady ache, and the harder he tried to ignore it, the more his consciousness was pulled toward it. (I wonder if Amber got to eat.) He thought it again. The same thing he'd thought on the roof. Why did he keep thinking that? he wondered vaguely. He could picture Amber sitting alone at Burger Mart. Her reddish-blonde wavy hair looked dull under the fluorescent lights. Her bright green eyes fixed on a single point on the table. Her 165-centimeter frame with its straight posture, just slightly hunched. It worried him endlessly. Amber was a strong-willed girl. Excellent grades, active in volunteer work, not the type to complain to anyone. Mark sensed that she even saw crying as weakness. So it made him worry even more. Because she wouldn't show her pain. Because she'd try to swallow her anger. What kind of face was she making right now because he hadn't responded? He didn't want to think about it. But he couldn't get it out of his head. The phone screen remained dark as he stared at the ceiling stain. Outside the window, wind rustled the tree leaves. The sound of autumn. Cool and somehow a little lonely. (If only I could tell her everything.) He thought it. But thinking was all he could do. A hero's identity had to be kept secret. That's what they'd explained when he registered with the GDA. Disclosure to civilians was self-determined but strongly discouraged, the paperwork said. If a disclosed person was targeted by a villain, the protection procedures were complicated, and daily life could face restrictions. He didn't want Amber to go through that. That should have been the main reason, but tonight it felt different somehow. Maybe he was just scared. Scared of telling her everything and having her pull away. Scared of being thought of as "too heavy" because he was a hero's boyfriend. (...Either way, that's pathetic.) Mark closed his eyes. His shoulder's pain slowly, slowly dissolved into the night. But he couldn't sleep. Amber's message stayed in his head the whole time.