BAM BAM BAM
His fist made hollow thuds as they landed on the punching bag, each impact sending tremors up his forearms. Mateo's knuckles had gone from pink to angry red, the skin split in places despite the worn hand wraps. Sweat pooled beneath him on the cracked rubber floor mats, his chest heaving with each labored breath. The punching bag—patched in multiple places with duct tape—swung violently with each strike, threatening to tear free from its rusted chain.
Heroes do one thing, and one thing only. They save people.
Alec's voice echoed in his head with every punch. Two years, and he still heard it clear as day.
"What did that punching bag ever do to deserve this?" Arx Goldein's voice boomed from across the dim gym. The burly owner crossed arms the size of small tree trunks across his chest, his shadow stretching long under the flickering fluorescent lights.
Mateo didn't answer. He simply exhaled once, shifted his weight, and transitioned into kicks. Rising onto the ball of one foot, he arched his back and twisted, sending a barrage of precise strikes against the abused bag. The chain creaked ominously with each impact. He maintained the ruthless rhythm until his legs burned and trembled, muscles screaming in protest.
Pain was good. Pain meant he wasn't thinking about—
The moonlight gleaming off Alec's horns. The way his brother's eyes lit up when he talked about Atlas Academy. "I want to save people too, Mat. All I want is to keep people from danger."
The memory hit him like a physical blow. His next kick went wide, nearly sending him sprawling.
"I know I said I'd let you work out here as payment for cleaning this dump," Arx leaned against a weight rack that had seen better decades, "but why the hell are you so obsessed with it? Got someone you want to beat up?"
The question hung in the stale air between them. Outside, a distant boom shook the building just enough to make the weights rattle. Neither acknowledged it directly, but Mateo noticed how Arx's eyes flicked toward the covered windows. Just another Tuesday night in what the government still called a "stable zone."
Mateo stood straighter, his blue hoodie so soaked with sweat it appeared almost black under the sputtering lights. He rarely spoke about his motivations. Had never gotten close enough to anyone to share them. But something about the late hour and empty gym loosened his tongue.
"You promise you won't laugh?"
"Uh, sure?" Arx said, a deep chuckle already rumbling in his chest. "I've had guys come here to look good for their grandma's funeral. Trust me, yours can't be worse."
Mateo looked down at his fists, clenching them until the knuckles turned white. "I want to be a hero."
Arx's bushy eyebrows furrowed. "Don't you need some sort of overpowered ability for that? What's your quirk anyway?"
"My ability is my body," Mateo replied, his voice quiet but firm. "I'll train it to perfection so I can fight any enemy."
For a second, Arx stood still. Then he burst out laughing, slamming his palm against the countertop with such force that the ancient register jumped. The sound echoed through the empty gym.
"Now I know you're joking. Villains out there can blow up entire city blocks with one finger. That woman in Sector 7 last week turned solar beams into deadly lasers—melted through six feet of reinforced concrete like butter." He gestured broadly. "You want to tell me you plan to jump in there without powers and take them down? You're no Zero, kid."
The fictional character reference stung. Zero was every powerless person's wet dream—genius intellect, unlimited resources, perfect strategy. Mat had neither the brains nor the bankroll for that fantasy.
But he had something else. Something that burned in his chest every time he remembered finding that horn in the rubble.
"What about you?" Mateo asked suddenly. "What's your quirk?"
Arx shrugged, his expression closing off slightly. "Nothing important. Not worth talking about."
Mateo didn't push. He didn't really care about anyone else's abilities anyway. Only his own drive mattered now.
"I knew you'd just laugh," Mateo sighed, grabbing his frayed backpack.
"Of course I would. And please tell me you're joking." Arx's expression shifted, concern creeping in. "You're a strong kid, could probably handle three people in a fight. But you wouldn't stand a chance in an actual super-fight."
The gym owner's expression darkened. "Then again, Atlas Academy's desperate these days. Most of the top heroes were wiped out in the first waves. They've shortened training from four years to one. Word is the ceasefires are crumbling."
As if on cue, another boom echoed, this one barely perceptible but enough to make the lights flicker. Arx crossed to the window and peered through the blinds.
On the horizon, beyond the jagged skyline, an unnatural flash of purple light pulsed briefly, followed by what looked like a miniature sun rising and fading. They were supposed to be hundreds of kilometers from battle zones, but everyone knew the lines shifted daily.
"Maybe you should join the armed forces instead," Arx suggested, scratching his stubble. "Civilian protection, evacuation protocols. That would be... safer."
Safer. The word tasted like ash. Safety hadn't saved Alec. Heroes hadn't saved Alec.
"Thanks, Arx. I'll be back tomorrow." Mateo raised a hand in farewell.
The night air hit him—cold and carrying the faint scent of smoke that never quite disappeared. Wind tousled his brown hair and instantly transported him back to that night. Everything reminded him of that night. Coffee conjured his mother's face. Children with action figures brought back Alec, who'd proudly displayed his hero collection even at seventeen.
"That's why you'd never make it as a hero."
Mateo's steps faltered. He'd mocked Alec the same way Arx had just mocked him. The memory tasted like coal.
He couldn't tell Arx the real reason. The man would probably laugh again and warn him that following the wishes of the dead never led anywhere good.
Shoving his hands deep into his hoodie pockets, Mateo navigated the familiar warren of alleyways. Most streetlights had stopped working months ago—maintenance was low on the city's priority list—but his eyes had adjusted to darkness.
A cluster of teenagers huddled around the cherry-red glow of something that definitely wasn't a cigarette near one alley mouth. The pungent smell of synthetic cannabis made his nostrils flare. One of the taller boys looked up with eyes that reflected light like an animal's, scaled forearms catching the dim glow strangely.
"Hey, bro? Want to try?" The tall one called out, voice slurred. "It'll make you smell colors."
Mateo kept his gaze straight ahead and maintained pace. These days, picking fights with strangers was risky—you never knew who might have a quirk that could melt your face off.
As he passed, one muttered "stuck-up," but no one followed.
He reached into his pocket, counting money by touch. Twenty dollars. Arx, that cheapskate, barely paid him properly. Mateo made his real money at the arcade, and even that barely covered necessities.
Every spare cent went toward one thing: Atlas Academy admission.
Three hundred dollars now, probably more by the time he saved enough. But without that ticket, his impossible dream would remain just that—impossible.
The convenience store at his block's corner was one of the few still open past curfew. The proprietor, an elderly woman with six fingers on each hand, nodded from behind bulletproof glass. He grabbed instant noodles—the cheapest option—and slid money through the partition slot.
"Price went up," she said flatly. "Twenty-five now."
"It was eighteen yesterday."
She shrugged, extra fingers tapping an irregular rhythm. "Supply trucks got hit on the eastern highway. Take it or leave it."
He hesitated, then pushed the twenty through. "This is all I have."
The woman studied his face, then slid the noodles over with a sigh. "Tomorrow you bring the other five, yes?"
He nodded, grateful. She'd lost her grandson in an earlier attack—everyone knew the story—and had a soft spot for young men just trying to survive.
His building loomed ahead, a twelve-story monstrosity of crumbling concrete and exposed rebar. Housing was scarce when you lived on apocalypse's brink. The complex was "economical" the way prison cells were economical—designed to pack as many bodies into as little space as possible.
Room 216. Nine feet by six, just enough space for a bed, small table, and hot plate. The Cemetery, residents called it. For obvious reasons.
Mateo poured water into a dented pot and set it on the coil, which glowed orange as it heated. He tore open the noodle packet, dumped in the contents and spice mixture. The room had no private bathroom, so he cracked the single window to prevent the space from becoming saturated with artificial chicken smell.
Through the narrow opening, the moon grinned down at him, surrounded by impossibly bright stars against the polluted sky.
The moon reminded him of Alec. Moonlight gleaming off his brother's horns that final night, his voice pontificating about heroism.
And then that sound. That inhuman shriek during his fall—not Alec's voice, something else entirely. Something that still haunted his dreams with its rage and fury.
Mateo's hand trembled slightly as he reached for his plastic fork. Sometimes, at the corner of his vision, he caught phantom flashes of blinding light—the explosion replaying. Two years, but the memory remained fresh as minutes ago.
He inhaled the noodles more than ate them, barely tasting the artificial flavor. When finished, his eyes drifted to the glass jar partially hidden under dirty clothes.
Two hundred and eighty-five dollars. Fifteen more to go.
It would have been nothing in a normal home with average income. But with his abysmal pay, mounting expenses, and no family support, it had taken over six months to save this much.
He collapsed onto his narrow bed, springs digging into his back through the thin mattress. Tomorrow, skip breakfast. Work extra hard for tips. Maybe pick up overtime.
I don't even have nice clothes to go to Atlas with, he thought drowsily. His wardrobe consisted entirely of hoodies, sweatshirts, jeans, sweatpants—practical items that could withstand daily wear and multiple washings.
And he couldn't ignore what Arx had highlighted: he didn't have a combat-ready quirk. His power was useless in a fight. It had saved him once, but it wouldn't save others.
And saving others was what heroes did.
For a year, he'd broken his body at the gym, trained with Arx, even beaten the older man a few times. He'd done it partly for purpose—he couldn't imagine living day to day, working at the arcade, eating cheap noodles, sleeping, repeating endlessly. The thought made him physically ill.
He had vowed to avenge his brother. To become the hero Alec had dreamed of being.
But as fatigue washed over him, doubt crept in. The dopamine rush of his quest was wearing thin. He might waste his hard-earned money only to be rejected when they examined his quirk registration.
Another boom rattled his window. Closer this time. He didn't flinch anymore.
Was this what Alec would have wanted? The thought came unbidden, unwelcome. This obsession? This slow suicide by training and poverty?
Mateo's chest tightened. His breathing became shallow, rapid. For a moment, the walls seemed to close in, the cramped space suffocating. He pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.
No. Don't think about what Alec would want. Think about what those bastards deserved.
He closed his eyes, pushing the panic down where it belonged. That was a problem for tomorrow's Mateo.
As sleep claimed him, his last conscious thought was of something carefully wrapped and hidden in his backpack's bottom.
Alec's horn.
Severed. Charred. All that remained of his brother's dreams.
The only proof that heroes sometimes failed to save anyone at all.