"The Golden Sentinel's Shine Begins to Dull"— The New York Times
"Hero or Threat? The World Reacts to the Golden Sentinel's Statements"— Le Monde, France
"Icon of Hope or Symbol of Backlash?"— El País, Spain
"Global Shock: Golden Sentinel Makes Homophobic Remarks"— BBC News, United Kingdom
— What's going on in your head? — Henrique's voice cracked the air like a thunderclap. The tablet slammed down on the table with such force that the screen cracked with a dry, almost stifled sigh. In less than an hour, the world watched in disbelief the fall of an icon. Headlines exploded one after another, all staining the name that, until then, had represented hope. The Golden Sentinel had spoken — and with just a few words, he brought down the altar on which he had been placed.
He was the hero on school posters, the face of peace campaigns, the symbol of a new generation. Young, handsome, almost celestial — now crumbling under the weight of his own convictions.
— Seriously? — Aquiles raised the tablet with disdain, his fingers firm as if it were just another disposable accessory in the world that revered him. He was 27, with a body sculpted like Carrara marble. Broad shoulders, defined muscles beneath a uniform that blended white and gold like an Olympian god wrapped in light.
His blond hair shimmered like threads of gold under any light. His green, deep eyes held the exact shade of the rarest sapphire — shining not with tenderness, but with pride. Aquiles — his real name — had never been trained to be human. From an early age, he learned that his strength was enormous, his shine inevitable. And that others... others were just shadows before his light.
That was why he never doubted his own image. To him, he was more than a man: he was an ideal carved to be admired, feared, never questioned.
And perhaps for that very reason, he couldn't understand what was so wrong about saying what he thought.
— Don't you understand the seriousness of this? — Henrique's voice echoed through the room, a mix of frustration and disbelief. He dropped heavily into the presidential chair in the headquarters of the World Justice — a place where decisions shaped humanity's future. And there, at the epicenter of power, the greatest threat was not a villain... it was a hero.
The Golden Sentinel was the crown jewel, the emblem of perfection. Adored by the masses, worshiped in ad campaigns, emblazoned on cereal boxes, posters, school backpacks, and action figures. Three unshakable years at the top. Three years of worshiping an immaculate image. Until now.
— Brands are canceling contracts. — Henrique massaged his temples, feeling the weight of the world crashing down on his hands. — You know what that means? No missions. No public appearances. No movies, interviews, or serious commercials. You're going down, kid. And all because of a damn tweet.
The reality finally seemed to crash down from the golden pedestal.
Aquiles — or the Sentinel, as the world called him — let out a heavy sigh. The sound echoed like a dry snap in the silent room. His cape moved slowly as he sat on the luxurious sofa, embroidered with the World Justice emblem in high relief. There, in that marble and glass space, overlooking the watchtowers and ceremonial gardens, the golden hero seemed, for the first time, ordinary. Almost... vulnerable.
Henrique watched him with narrowed eyes. His name was an institution among image agents and public relations experts. He shaped heroes like sculptures — and he would never lose his masterpieces. Not now. Not like this.
They needed a plan. And fast.
— Call the marketing team. And Joy. — Henrique's voice was firm, leaving no room for debate as he spoke on the phone with his secretary.
— Oh no, man... Not Joy. — Aquiles flinched, as if the name itself summoned a nightmare. Joy was his manager, yes — but in practice, she acted more like a luxury warden. She directed his life like a ruthless director: parties? Forbidden. Fun? Strictly monitored. Drugs? Not even in thought. Alcohol? Only in closed, discreet environments, without cameras — and preferably, no witnesses.
It was like living inside a shiny, suffocating dome. Every word, every smile, every step... choreographed. And he was tired. Tired of having to measure even his own sighs.
— I just posted... — he murmured, lowering the tablet. — It shouldn't have been that serious. I just wanted to say what I thought. Joy's always controlling me...
— And the one moment she's not controlling you, you post an atrocity. — Henrique didn't yell. His cutting calm hurt more than any scream. — Did you forget the president is openly gay? That his daughter is a lesbian? That we have trans, queer, and bi heroes, and that rights are more equal than ever? You dropped an ideological bomb in the heart of everything we've built.
A brief silence fell, like the pause between lightning and thunder.
— That's why we don't let you out of supervision, Aquiles. Because you don't know the world you live in.
Aquiles closed his expression, his jaw clenched as if carrying the weight of centuries on his temples. He crossed his arms, irritated — not with Henrique, nor with Joy. But with the world.
Deep down, his mind still carried the echoes of a childhood forcibly shaped. He grew up in the countryside, in a place where silence was the official language and beliefs were unquestionable. Everything was covertly religious, strictly macho, brutally traditionalist. There, he learned early that desires should not bloom — they should be buried. He swallowed his own thoughts like poison, learning to smile when his father spoke of "shame" or "deviation," and to stay silent when violence wore the cloak of authority.
That was his first prison. An invisible ideological cell made of fear and obedience.
When his powers awakened, everything changed. That repressed boy became the Golden Sentinel, adored, acclaimed, revered. A demigod of golden flesh. But even at his peak, on the podium, in parades and headlines, he remained imprisoned — now behind a perfect mask, pretending acceptance, pretending empathy. He was everyone's hero... as long as he didn't have to mingle with the "mortals."
Deep down, he believed that freedom of expression — his freedom — was being suffocated by a world he no longer recognized. He thought certain rights, expanded too far, stained the reputation of a country that, to him, had already gone too far with the idea of "freedom."
And where was his?
The truth is that, despite looking like an Adonis descended to Earth, Aquiles was still, inside, a boy shaped by fear. A man who never knew what it meant to be free — neither to love, nor to allow himself. He only knew how to obey, first his father, then the scripts, and now the image everyone expected him to be.
And maybe that's why he shouted wrong — trying to break free at the most destructive moment possible.
The team didn't take long to gather in the large conference room at headquarters. The mirrored windows reflected the distant city, indifferent to the chaos unfolding inside. Henrique positioned himself at the head of the oval table with the rigidity of a general in times of crisis.
Joy sat beside Aquiles. Her face was a mask of serenity — impeccable, unbreakable. But he knew her well enough to sense the fury hidden beneath that icy surface. She didn't need to shout. The tension radiating from her silence spoke louder than any reprimand.
The room was filled with contained murmurs until Genevive, the team leader, raised her voice with her usual softness.
— What if we bet on a duo? — she suggested, flipping through a dossier with images of possible partners. — That old story of "I even have friends who are." We can promote a strategic alliance between the Golden Sentinel and an openly queer hero. Friendship, companionship, a joint campaign. Show that you respect, that you're willing to learn.
A second of silence hung in the air before the explosion.
— What? No way! — Aquiles leaned forward, his tone sharp and defensive. His wounded pride spoke louder than his reason.
All eyes turned to him — and in that moment, it was clear: he had the least say in the room.
Joy then slowly turned to face him. The smile that formed on her lips was as sharp as a blade wrapped in silk.
— Darling, — she said, sweet as poison — you're not in a position to refuse anything.
Aquiles looked away and sank deeper into the chair, crossing his arms like a sulking child. The pose was defiant, but the silence revealed everything: for the first time, he wasn't in control of the narrative. And that was eating him alive.
— We've brought some suggestions. — Genevive's voice broke the silence with measured firmness. She stood, folders in hand, and walked to the president with the composure of someone well versed in the backstage of power. — The most promising has been gaining followers at a meteoric pace. An authentic, strong voice. One that won't be silenced.
Aquiles crossed his arms even tighter — if that was even possible. The grip on himself revealed more than irritation: it was wounded pride, the anger of no longer being at the center of decisions.
Henrique flipped through the pages, evaluating each name, until he stopped at an image that seemed to capture his attention with a peculiar glow.
— I like the team's suggestion. — he murmured, eyes fixed on the file. — White uniform with pink and gold details. "Lumén"? That's quite a name. Light, healing, flames, flight, resilience. A combo of powers... and presence. He looked up. — Why isn't he on the team yet?
The silence was immediate. Some exchanged uncomfortable glances.
— He declined the invitation at first... — Genevive replied cautiously. — He thought he would lose his identity by joining the corporation. And at the time, he was too new, not very expressive. The team didn't think it was worth the investment.
Henrique let out a long sigh, as if realizing the strategic mistake that now haunted his profits.
— I see. — His gaze returned to the image. — He probably demanded too many perks. And now... we have a big fish growing outside our aquarium.
Lumén was exactly that: light itself. His dark skin gleamed under the white uniform, with vibrant pink and gold touches — colors that didn't ask for permission. His silver hair, soft lipstick, beauty sharp as an arrow. He was a rising star, and not just because of his powers. He was openly gay, engaged, active in social causes, present at protests, plebiscites, demonstrations. His political presence was as strong as his physical strength — and that made him incompatible with the rigid World Justice regulations, which banned any declared involvement with politicians or parties.
But Lumén grew precisely because of that. Because he refused to erase who he was.
Henrique closed the folder carefully, as if sealing an inevitable decision.
— Make a new offer. Give him everything he asks for. — he said, voice low and sharp as polished steel. — Everything.
Aquiles felt struck at the deepest core of his vanity. He took the image in his hands as if it were challenging him—and, in a way, it was. The white uniform with pink and gold details shimmered boldly. Lumén's silver hair, subtle lipstick, and piercing gaze. It was too much for him.
"Too much glitter. Too gay," he thought, jaw tense, teeth clenched behind a strategic silence. "Why did he have to shout his sexuality to the world?" — but he didn't dare say it out loud. Not here. Not anymore.
He knew he had already caused enough damage. Just one misplaced word, one leaked comment, and what remained of his reputation would be dragged into the concrete.
The Golden Sentinel was created to shine. To be worshiped. A golden Adonis, untouchable, unreachable. He wouldn't let a new hero — shimmering, politicized, loved by a new generation — outshine him. Not now. Not while there was still light to reflect.
If he needed to use Lumén as a stepping stone to climb back up, so be it. It would just be another role to play. Aquiles knew how to smile for the cameras.
— Meanwhile, — Henrique spoke with the urgency of someone handling a ticking time bomb — post on social media. An immediate retraction. And you will speak, Aquiles.
The hero said nothing. He only nodded almost imperceptibly.
The makeup team was summoned in seconds. The professionals entered with kits and brushes, soon erasing the fatigue under his eyes, polishing his face as if he were once again a living statue. An idol to be relaunched.
Aquiles looked at himself in the mirror as they lit him up. The image was still beautiful. Still strong. But behind the green eyes, something had changed.
He knew: this time, it wouldn't be enough to look perfect. He would have to act perfect.
And that, he would do gladly.
[The camera focuses on Aquiles, seated before a white background with the World Justice emblem watermarked. He wears his impeccable uniform. The lighting is soft. His face calm.]
— Good evening.I am the Golden Sentinel. And today, I'm here not as a hero — but as someone who needs, above all, to listen.
[Pause.]
— In recent days, words of mine were shared online. Words that hurt, that sounded excluding, that left people I should protect... silent, afraid. And for that, I apologize.
[His gaze is direct, his tone measured, almost robotic in its perfection.]
— As a public symbol, my mission has always been to unite, inspire, and defend everyone. Everyone. Without exceptions. But I understood — too late — that it's not enough to simply not attack. You have to take a stand. You have to learn. And you have to grow.
[He lowers his gaze for a second, as if touched by emotion — but just enough.]
— I grew up being seen as invincible. A role model. But even symbols need to review their own reflections. And I am doing that now. Listening to voices that have long been silenced. Questioning certainties that seemed unshakable.
[He lifts his chin, firmer.]
— From today forward, my actions will reflect the hero I want to be. Not just what's expected of me. It's time to rebuild bridges. To broaden horizons. To walk alongside, not above. The Golden Sentinel is not perfect. But he's willing to change.
[He closes with a serene, almost hopeful expression.]
— Thank you to those who called me to accountability. I listened. And now, I want to do better.
[Fade out. The World Justice logo appears in the background.]
— Haha. And who would believe that? — Valentine's dry laugh cut through the air like a blade of sarcasm. The dance studio was nearly empty at that hour, the mirrors still fogged from the last performance. He stood, sweaty and breathless, his elegant silhouette cast against the soft light streaming through tall windows. The calm voice of the Golden Sentinel echoed through the phone's speakers, paced, with the perfect intonation of someone used to choreographed speeches.
—I think he really regretted it... — said Lila, his dance partner, sitting on the floor nearby. She watched the video with hopeful eyes, leaning slightly toward the screen. — Seriously, listen to how well he speaks... He sounds sincere.
Valentine snorted and abruptly turned off the video.
— Oh, please. — he turned his back, running his hand through his still-damp silver hair. — A well-written script, a trained look, some dramatic pauses, and voilà — the whole country falls to its knees. But real regret isn't spoken. It's shown. And so far, he's only shown what he always was: a pose.
Before Lila could respond, a discreet alert flashed on the tablet screen on the table. An encrypted notification, sent to Valentine's private account — but not as a dancer. As a hero. As Lumén.
He furrowed his brow, approaching with an uneasy premonition. When he opened the email, the golden emblem of World Justice appeared at the top of the message, accompanied by a formal invitation.
An offer. A gesture.
Perhaps even... a test.
— I think I'll need to leave early today... — he murmured thoughtfully, eyes still fixed on the screen.
Because deep down, he knew what it meant. The chance he had refused years ago was back — and it came bearing the name of someone he despised, but who now perhaps needed him more than ever.
Valentine was a young hero, only 23, but with a quiet, steady record. A whole year devoted to regions where World Justice never extended its capes. There were no spotlights there. Just forgotten people. And he didn't need applause — just space to exist authentically.
But if he wanted to change the system from within... maybe this was the door.
Even if it meant dancing with the Golden Sentinel's ego.
He soared high, cutting through the night sky like a shooting star, reading carefully the proposal displayed on his visor interface. The city lights below twinkled like earthly constellations, but Valentine's eyes were fixed on something more urgent: carefully chosen words, strategic promises disguised as collaboration.
"A partnership, huh?" — he murmured to himself, feeling the wind hit his face like a reminder of who he was when no one was watching.
The email spoke of freedom. Freedom of expression. Of action. But Valentine knew the game. He could read between the lines, recognize the overly sweet tone of someone wanting to control without seeming controlling.
He wouldn't give up his voice. Never. Not for cameras, not for contracts, not in front of nervous shareholders. Much less in the presence of the one always seen as the pinnacle of perfection: the Golden Sentinel.
Yes, he knew what it was. He knew it was no more than a symbolic piece. A golden token to polish the image of someone who had stumbled over his own words. And as much as he tasted the bitterness of manipulation... he would accept.
Not for vanity. Not for status.
But because he had learned, far too early, that silence doesn't save lives. That marginalized bodies remain on the margins unless someone puts them at the center — even if with their own fists.
Valentine fought for those without capes. For those never invited to the table.
And if he had to use the Golden Sentinel's shine as a beacon to light other paths, so be it.
"Let's dance, then." — he thought, accelerating his flight.
Because if he was light... it would be a burning one.
He arrived at headquarters near midnight. The sky was clear, framed only by unmoving stars and the imposing silhouette of the World Justice building, shining like a monolith of glass and steel. Valentine landed softly on the exterior area, his uniform still radiating warmth from the energy he carried. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he was no longer Valentine the dancer — but Lumén, the spark that refused to go out.
Two faces awaited him on the platform, lit by the white light of the nighttime spotlights.
The first was a Black woman with an overwhelming presence. Her curly hair danced freely in the wind, dense enough to hide secrets — or swallow arrogance. She wore an elegant suit, sharp cuts, fine heels, and impeccable posture. But it was her smile that caught attention: sharp, confident, strategic. The smile of someone who understood the game and wouldn't settle for the edges.
Joy. The woman who handled egos like taming mythological beasts. Ambitious, respected, unbeatable in the public image game. She knew what the night meant — and even more, she knew he needed to know.
Beside her, a broad-shouldered man with a calm gaze. Marcos, head of security. No notable powers, no heroic pose. His ordinary face was his armor, his lack of striking features, his greatest advantage. He could move through crowds unnoticed — and eliminate threats without anyone ever knowing he'd been there.
— Lumén. — Joy greeted him with a soft, firm voice, absolutely in control. — Thank you for coming. Even at this inconvenient hour.
He lowered his hood, silver eyes fixed on her.
— I always work better at night.
Joy raised an eyebrow, amused.
— Perfect. You'll fit right in, then.
It was just the beginning. But everyone knew the first impression was a silent war.
They entered the building directly, crossing empty corridors to the top floor. The World Justice headquarters rested in solemn quiet, almost sacred. At that hour, the offices were empty, the lights dimmed to essentials. Justice, after all, didn't sleep — but those who roamed the nights weren't bureaucrats or executives, but the heroes who plunged into the city's chaos while the world dreamed in peace.
The presidential office door opened quietly.
Henrique awaited them, standing with hands crossed behind his back and an expression of carefully contained expectation. In the back of the room, seated with usual imposing presence, was the Golden Sentinel.
Aquiles stood as soon as Lumén entered.
It was automatic — as if something compelled him to rise. Perhaps protocol. Perhaps reflex. Perhaps... something else.
His eyes fixed on the figure crossing the room with firm steps and sharp elegance. The silver of the hair gleamed under artificial light, as if each strand carried electricity. The white and pink uniform seemed made to dazzle cameras and defy standards. And the eyes... the eyes were like beacons lit in the dead of night, alive, awake, unavoidable.
Aquiles would never admit what he felt in that moment.
But he felt it.
A faint, silent shock ran down his spine. As if he saw, for the first time, something that rivaled his own shine. Someone who didn't need others' light — because they already were raw light.
Was it the face? The bearing? The natural confidence? He wouldn't know. And he would never, ever dare to voice it. He'd keep it deep inside, locked behind the armor of his shining pride.
And, with a practiced smile, he stepped forward:
— Lumén, welcome. — he said, voice too polished to be natural.
But his eyes still burned in silence.