The alarm clock shrieked loudly, violently shattering the morning silence. Beneath a heap of tangled blankets, a middle-aged man jolted awake, as if just returned from an invisible war.
His eyes were still heavy, half-closed. His hair was messy, as though it hadn't made peace with a comb. His shirt was wrinkled, some buttons still undone. He stared blankly ahead, drawing a deep breath from the remnants of a night that hadn't quite ended.
His name was Arnold Pompeii. A bank teller, according to the employee database. But there was another side to him, one not recorded in financial reports. Behind the service desk and standard smile, he carried something that couldn't be explained in a risk management report—a force he called Dedication.
He wore no costume. Needed no alias. Just himself, standing as he was—tired, yet resolute.
From his bed, he dragged his body to the bathroom. Cold water splashed his face, washing away the remnants of sleep and forgotten dreams. After dressing in neater clothes, he left his apartment, stepping out with steady steps.
An hour's journey brought him to a grand bank—the symbol of financial dominance in the city. There, he served clients, counted bill after bill, responded politely, and offered faint smiles. A routine many would find dull, but for Arnold, it was a tangible expression of meaning.
He believed—as long as he could bring a bit of order, he was helping to balance a world slowly cracking.
The city he lived in was unforgiving. Crime sprouted like wild weeds in the rainy season. Armed muggings, gang wars, vandalism of public property—these had become part of the daily rhythm. But night was the peak. The sun would set, and the boundary between man and beast would blur.
Arnold did not come as a glorified savior. He only wanted to restore what was slowly vanishing from this city, norms and values.
Night fell, and he changed. Misleidend—a name he only used when darkness replaced light. To his neighbors, he was just a strange but polite and hardworking man. No one suspected a thing. No one asked too many questions.
Tonight, he walked the streets that were usually busy. Now, they were quiet. Street lamps stood like old, weary sentinels. The cold air bit, but his stride remained steady.
At the end of the road, a scene froze in his vision. Four masked men had surrounded a woman—likely an office worker. Her bag was snatched, her sobs stifled. There was no mercy from them, only coarse laughter and the threat of blades.
Misleidend said nothing. He ran. A single punch landed square on one of the assailants' cheeks. The man was thrown, hit the asphalt, twitched once, then went still.
Three pairs of eyes widened. They hadn't even processed what was happening when a deep voice rang from behind the masked hero, "That's far enough."
"Shit!" one of them cursed, launching a punch. But Misleidend merely tilted his body, letting the air pass, then countered with full force, pushing the attacker into his partner.
Two down. One left. But this one was different—he pulled something from his pocket. A small glint of metal. A firearm.
A shot rang out—but it was blocked. Misleidend had already lifted a manhole cover from the roadside. The iron gaped like a modern-day shield. The bullet ricocheted, and without pause, the metal plate flew, slamming into the last thug and sending him crashing to the ground, motionless.
He dropped the metal plate. It clanged heavily against the asphalt, then rolled slowly, bouncing once or twice before falling still. Its echo rang down the night corridor, like the sound of a decision that could never be undone.
Misleidend turned around. His steps were light, almost casual. He smiled—not the smug smile of a hero, but a gentle one, meant to reassure.
"Are you… alright?" he asked softly, far removed from the strength he had just displayed.
The woman nodded slowly, her eyes fixed on the masked man's face. She didn't know who stood before her, but she knew one thing: tonight, she was safe.
…
Misleidend. An alias not recorded on any birth certificate, yet etched in the memories of many citizens of Jogjawn—a city that never truly slept. He wasn't part of some great legend, nor a name hailed by national media. But in the city's corners, among narrow alleys and dangerous backstreets, he was a light that shone without a stage.
He didn't save the world. But he saved someone.
One by one. Year after year. Ten years passed in a blur.
People didn't recognize him for his costume, nor for his strength or heroic drama. They knew him for his courage—to always be the first to arrive, even knowing he was the most likely to be hurt. And though the wounds came again and again, he never backed down, never left anyone behind.
Tonight's act wasn't his first. And it wouldn't be his last.
A local news broadcast featured footage of the incident—grainy clips from a shop's CCTV. A masked man, and a rescued woman. No identity. No official statement. Only one growing narrative: the hero had returned.
And on the next night, as the city began to sink into a silence never truly peaceful, one figure walked once again.
He knew—someone out there… still needed saving.
"When a man chooses to become a bridge for others—rather than a tower that stands alone—that is where he finds the meaning of life."