— I understand you want me as the Golden Sentinel's partner to clean up his image… and maybe help him become a better human being. — Lumén spoke with a contained voice, his eyes fixed on the contract. The pages trembled slightly in his hands, more from the breeze of the half-open window than from hesitation. Still, there was a subtle, constant discomfort — like a flickering fluorescent light in the back of his mind.
— "Live together" might be too strong a term — replied Joy, calm, as if explaining the same clause for the tenth time with impeccable elegance. — It's a reserved housing space, a neutral zone. Safe. Away from the media, cameras, leaks. It's where heroes like the Sentinel stay… accessible, but invisible. A symbolic bunker, let's put it that way.
Valentine didn't reply right away. His eyes went back to the contract, where confidentiality clauses piled up like impenetrable walls. He had already signed three agreements before even stepping into the room — all to ensure no one, absolutely no one, would dare question the purity of the Earth's most beloved hero.
The manufactured hero.
A silent sigh.
That was what bothered him — the suffocating artificiality of perfection. Now that he was inside, seeing the international idol's backstage, everything felt even more staged. Achilles wasn't just a symbol… he was a product. Calculated, sculpted, packaged for consumption. Handsome enough to look carved from marble: proportional muscles, chiseled jaw, green eyes like advertising promises. A living statue. Too flawless to be real.
And yet… as empty as the campaigns he fronted.
Lumén glanced at him sideways, studying him like a suspicious work of art. Yes, he was handsome. But there was something unsettling about beauty that never cracks — it always demands sacrifices from others.
He knew he'd have to give up a lot to be here. His morning rehearsals, his community work, even his political freedom, would all be compromised. But he also knew that by stepping onto this stage, he could destabilize the very system from within.
Do you want to be more of a hero? — he asked himself silently.
Maybe. But not like them.
Like himself.
— Well… you know I work in communities, right? And my political opinions aren't exactly discreet. — Lumén said with a soft, almost sweet smile as he flipped through the last pages of the contract. — Instagram, Twitter, TikTok videos — it's all there, plain as day. And that… is not something I'm going to give up.
Henrique kept a serene expression, but the muscle in his jaw tightened slightly.
— I also know the amount you're offering is generous. I won't lie — it caught my attention. — Lumén continued, looking up, direct and firm. He didn't earn money as a hero; it was something he did in his spare time. Dance still paid the bills. Even so, his life was simple — he had never gone without, but he had never lived lavishly either. Now… maybe he could invest this money into bigger projects. Into something that went beyond himself.
He wasn't here for vanity. He was here for strategy.
— Oh… and my costume? It stays pink. And white. Maybe with gold accents. But the pink stays. That's non-negotiable.
He had read in the contract's appendix a proposed redesign — more neutral, more "in line with the team's aesthetic." He didn't like it. He didn't need to please those who wanted him less visible.
— And I will keep criticizing any politician, brand, or institution that messes up. If I'm going to be the face of inclusion, then I'll speak — with voice, with presence, with truth. I'm not here to be your puppet.
He paused. Then smiled again — this time with a hint of irony in his eyes.
— But, in return, I promise I'll be the Sentinel's best friend. Friendly, approachable, engaged. The perfect token. I'll defend him, promote him, say how much he's a hero of the people. But only if you let me be a real hero too.
Joy remained silent, watching with quiet admiration. Henrique, on the other hand, knew they were walking on glass shards.
Lumén wasn't someone you could mold. And they knew it. Still, he was a piece they needed. For now.
Henrique knew exactly what to do with people like him.
They started out like light — intense, restless, illuminating where they shouldn't.
And over time, they were trimmed back. Like ivy growing across the tracks of the system, until they stopped being a threat. Just decoration.
But Lumén was different.
He didn't seem to be here to be tamed.
He seemed to be here to… see how far they'd dare try.
They signed the contract with the dry sound of pens sealing far more than clauses — sealing pacts and strategies.
The Golden Sentinel hadn't said a word. From the start of the meeting until the final stroke on the paper, he remained motionless, wrapped in a stillness that wasn't peace — but restraint.
Why can he say whatever he wants… and I can't?
The question burned in his mind like fire beneath golden skin. He felt envy grow inside his chest — a warm but constant poison. Not for popularity, not for charisma — but for freedom. Lumén was everything he couldn't be: outspoken, political, authentic… real.
Achilles was a living statue — perfect, but unchanging.
He knew the plan was to save his image. To pose alongside Lumén as if they were brothers in cause, symbols of a new era. But it was hard — almost impossible — to accept that his shine now needed reinforcement.
To accept that someone else could be the light in the people's eyes.
The World Justice organization would announce it all the next day: a flawlessly written statement, full of words like inclusion, renewal, strategic alliance. Social media would flood with images of the two heroes side by side — gold and pink, tradition and new, myth and icon.
Achilles took a deep breath, swallowing his pride like swallowing a thorn.
He was about to be outshined by the light they swore only he carried.
And deep down… he felt fear.
🐦 TWITTER / X
@viviemchoque:Guys???? Lumén AND the Golden Sentinel??? Is this real? It's like… the sun and the moon becoming best friends? I'm shocked and excited.
@dramaqueertv:World Justice trying to clean up Sentinel's mess with pink glitter, but they have no idea Lumén is like sulfuric acid with sparkles. Good luck lol
@felipinno:Just waiting for the first press conference — Sentinel sweating while Lumén in pink gloss answers for him 😂
@sapatonika:Is this tokenization or revolution? I'm torn. But if Lumén shows up in a crop top
Guys, this isn't just diversity. It's image control.
Sentinel has fallen. They knew they needed a respected public figure. Lumén is perfect: activist, charismatic, attractive, with a young fan base.
I'd bet they offered him limited freedom in exchange for the spotlight.
The question is: will Lumén actually manage to keep his autonomy, or will he turn into just another hologram for white, wealthy, controlling justice?
I'm watching closely.
— "For the most part, the comments are positive." Henrique tapped his fingers on the glass table as if trying to speed up the algorithm. "But that's not enough. We need to put them on missions. Together. Visibility, interaction, headlines."
Joy stood, elegant as always, tablet in one hand, phone in the other. While talking to the president, she was also arranging the logistics of the shared housing, replying to the image team's reports, and discreetly tracking hashtags climbing the trending topics. She was the kind of woman who operated on multiple fronts — with the calm of someone drafting documents.
"Yes," she answered, her voice as soft as velvet, though her eyes were sharp. "We're already setting up a medium-risk mission. Something with heavy media coverage. But before that… we need more content. Posts, videos, behind-the-scenes. The public loves everyday life. Relatability. Glances exchanged. Small gestures."
Henrique exhaled deeply, not hiding his boredom. He knew timing was key, but he was far too impatient to respect the process. What bothered him most, deep down, was Lumén's unpredictability.
That kid shone… but he was also dangerous.
Too many opinions, too much charisma, too much freedom. A ticking time bomb wrapped in glitter and activism. Henrique knew he'd have to get rid of him eventually — the plan was already drafted. Tucked away, but ready. It would only be used as a last resort.
For now, he'd let them play at being the "perfect duo." As if this were just a grand public reconciliation campaign.
"As long as Sentinel cooperates," he muttered darkly.
Joy smiled without turning her head.
"He'll cooperate."
— "Why are you wearing makeup?" Aquiles asked without even looking directly, leaning against the kitchen pillar, sipping his energy drink like someone trying to stay awake… or calm.
The question hung in the air like an irritating wisp of smoke. It didn't come as an outright attack — but neither was it free of judgment.
Valentine didn't react immediately. He kept arranging his belongings with a steady hand, as if the comment were just a passing breeze, never touching him for real.
He wasn't in uniform. Here, he was simply Valentine — not Lumén. A young Black man, 23, short hair dyed silver, with brown roots still visible, wearing the contrast like a statement of both style and memory. Eyes blue like a storm sky ready to break. Skin luminous, with a natural glow only heightened by the gloss on his lips. A touch of foundation, a light shade on his eyelids, and a blush that seemed to embrace his face.
He wore a white cropped top with pink accents, and high-waisted trousers that carried elegance in their cut. He looked good. Whole.
"Because I like it," he replied simply. As if saying he liked breathing, or dancing.
There was no defense in his tone. No aggression. Just truth.
Aquiles studied him from a distance, body tense as ever — as though something about him was more unsettling than it should be. Maybe it was the shine. Maybe it was the fact that Valentine wasn't trying to hide anything.
He had never known how to deal with people who weren't ashamed of themselves.
Valentine went back to what he was doing, taking his time. Too tired for morning conflicts. He wasn't about to argue with a statue dressed as a hero. Not before coffee, anyway.
But he knew that question wasn't just about makeup.
It was about control. About what could or could not exist under the same roof as the Golden Sentinel.
And Valentine… had never been someone easy to control.
The heroes' apartment wasn't just a home — it was a work of futuristic architecture, sculpted to impress. It occupied the parallel building to the World Justice headquarters, with tempered glass walls that framed the city like a living painting, always in motion. Neutral tones — white, pearl gray, soft gold — created an atmosphere of minimalist refinement, where every object seemed calculated, symmetrical, almost stage-like.
It was spacious, quiet, and impeccably organized. Like a temple for modern gods.
There were five main rooms: a large living room with a modular sofa, a holographic fireplace, and a plush rug made of imported synthetic fiber; an open kitchen with quartz countertops and voice-command cabinets; two private bedrooms with acoustic insulation; plus a shared office and a training room with shock-absorbing flooring, perfect for combat simulations or yoga — depending on the user's mood.
Environmental control was handled by IRIS, a serene-voiced AI that regulated lighting, temperature, smart windows, notifications, and ambient sound according to the residents' mood and behavioral patterns. Just say, "IRIS, night mode," or "IRIS, focus playlist," and everything shifted with robotic precision.
But the real one running the household was Hektor, the domestic android.
Hektor was more than an assistant: he was a butler programmed to take care of every detail of the residence—from meal schedules to changing the bed linens. His metallic body was covered in white ceramic plates with gold accents, simulating formal attire. His expressive face had digital blue eyes and a warm, almost human voice, with touches of programmed humor.
— Good morning, Master Achilles. Your energizing smoothie is at the ideal temperature, and I've scheduled five minutes of absolute silence for your morning meditation.— And good morning, Mr. Valentine. Would you like coffee, tea, or something more nutritious with an artistic touch?
Hektor was affable, reliable, absurdly efficient—and above all, loyal to Achilles.
Because that house belonged to him. It always had.
Achilles had lived there since he was fifteen, three years after his powers manifested in proportions impossible to ignore. His father, with a gaze more greedy than paternal, had sold him to the World Justice League in exchange for millions and political guarantees.
Since then, Achilles had lived in that glass palace. He grew up being molded, polished, prepared to be a symbol. The house had watched him become the Golden Sentinel. And so, every corner carried something of him—or perhaps, something he had been forced to become.
For Valentine, it was all too grand. Beautiful, but cold. Without the scent of a home. Without soul. As if every piece of furniture existed to sustain a performance. And even Hektor, as kind as he was, was a constant reminder that this place already had an owner.
And that owner was untouchable.
Valentine could be easily surprised—not out of naivety, but because he still carried the ability to marvel at the world, even if it was made of cold steel and artificial intelligence.
This house was another reality. A capsule of futuristic luxury, where each voice command produced miracles, and even the silence seemed engineered by some emotional architect.
He wasn't used to it. He came from a home where coffee was brewed fresh, where the fan made noise, and the only robots he knew were the cheap models in malls.
Would he really be able to get used to this?
— I'll have herbal tea and some toast with eggs, please. — he asked politely, sitting at the counter, his eyes still scanning the flawless textures of the space.
Hektor moved with grace. First, he handed the energy drink to Achilles—who took it without a thank-you, as he always did—and then turned to serve the "special guest" with the same care.
But Achilles made sure to remind him that such courtesy had an expiration date.
— Don't get too comfortable. — he said, with politeness barely masking the chill. — I don't think you'll be living here for long.
Valentine smiled—a sweet smile with an aftertaste of poison.
— Don't worry, darling. — he replied with theatrical ease. — I'm fully aware of that.
He rose from the chair with elegance, walking to the window where the morning light painted his silhouette in gold.
— And don't think we're actually friends! — Achilles snapped, more irritated than he intended to sound. — This is just for show. I don't want anything to do with your kind of person!
He wanted to hurt him. To see that light dim, even for a second. What bothered him most was seeing someone who didn't flinch in his presence. Who didn't worship him. Who simply… didn't care.
Valentine only raised an eyebrow, slowly turning to face him.
— Oh? — he let out a short, amused sound. — And here I thought this little play was supposed to look convincing, dear hero.
He took another step—pure provocation now—his gaze gleaming with playful defiance.
— Rest assured, I have no desire to blend in with someone like you. — he murmured, just loud enough to be heard. — If your fans knew who you really were… they'd cry.
Then, he winked—light and disarming, yet sharp enough to cut.
Achilles felt his stomach twist. He couldn't tell if it was anger, envy, or something even more unsettling.
But he knew Lumén wasn't just a threat to his image.
He was a threat to the illusion that Achilles was the only one capable of shining.
Achilles didn't think—he moved like lightning striking from a storm—fast, impatient, proud.
Before any further words could leave Valentine's lips, Achilles grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall hard enough to crack the textured glass paneling. The impact echoed through the room like muffled thunder.
Valentine felt the hit. He wasn't fragile, but he didn't have the resilience of the golden hero—who seemed carved from every classic power in the heroic pantheon: super strength, flight, piercing gaze, sharpened senses… Everything about him was force. And vanity.
Achilles stepped closer, eyes blazing, fists clenched, chest heaving under his pristine uniform.
— Stop provoking me. — he growled, pinning Valentine against one of the pillars with restrained force.
And then—something shifted.
Valentine let out a low, unexpected sound. Achilles froze.
In that instant, he became acutely aware—of the nearness, the controlled breathing, the unblinking gaze meeting his own. A heat rose beneath the tension, unwelcome yet undeniable.
Their eyes locked—and for a heartbeat, something flared there. Something neither of them wanted to name.
Achilles' expression flickered. His hands trembled. And then, he let go.
— Don't make me lose control again. — he murmured, trying to sound firm, though his voice came out lower than intended.
Valentine straightened with composed ease, smoothing the creases from his collar.
— My bad. I thought the performance had to be convincing. — he said, the sweetness in his tone laced with something sharper.
But inside… he felt the tremor too.
The silence that followed was heavy. Valentine adjusted his clothes slowly, his eyes still locked on Achilles—who had already taken two steps back, as if retreating from his own reaction.
The air was heavy—thick like smoke after an emotional fire.
That was when the kitchen door slid open with a soft hiss — and Hektor entered, as elegant as ever.
His joints made no sound, his feet gliding with surgical precision over the white marble floor. He wore his personalized apron embroidered with the golden insignia of the World Justice League, carrying a small tray with two freshly prepared glasses of juice.
— What a dramatic scene, gentlemen. — his velvety voice was laden with politeness and a barely perceptible touch of irony. — Shall I prepare chamomile tea? Or perhaps something stronger… like common sense and emotional restraint?
Valentine couldn't help it — he let out a quick laugh and shook his head, still rubbing the spot on his shoulder where he'd been pressed.
— Chamomile's fine, Hektor. Maybe bring it with a side of dignity, if there's any left around here.
Achilles looked away, his face still faintly flushed.
Hektor set the tray down on the counter with elegance and gave a slight bow.
— Always some left for those in need, Mr. Valentine. And for you, Master Achilles… perhaps a guided breathing session?
Achilles frowned, annoyed.
— Hektor…
— Yes, yes, I know. "Be quiet, Hektor." But it is my duty to safeguard the emotional well-being of the household. It's in my protocol.
Valentine sat back down, crossing his legs with the same air of provocation as before, though calmer now.
— Good to know at least someone here has manners.
— And well-calibrated thermal sensors, too. — Hektor added, winking one of his digital eyes. — I detected an elevated heart rate in both of you. But don't worry. That stays between us.
Valentine laughed out loud.
Achilles wanted to disappear. Truly, he felt so exposed that he simply walked off to his room.
— Is he always like this? — Valentine asked, running his fingers through his hair with an absent elegance, as if smoothing out the tension still lingering in the air.
With the patience of someone who had seen more than most humans, Hektor continued inspecting the damage to the wall.
— No, sir. — he replied in his usual serene tone. — Normally, my master is more controlled and… quiet. But sometimes, even the sun has storms.
As he activated his repair protocols, microdrones emerged from an inner compartment and began reweaving the structural fibers of the cracked wall. He worked with the precision of an artist restoring a classical piece.
Valentine watched for a moment, then rose slowly. He walked toward the dimly lit hallway, where the air seemed heavier. His eyes were drawn instinctively to Achilles' closed door — shut like a fortress.
He sighed.
— Yeah… I think I get it. — he murmured to himself.
It wasn't just about appearances, or even arrogance. This was a gilded prison, and Achilles was the golden prisoner — kept under watch, tamed, sold. Someone who had never learned to handle feelings, because he'd never been allowed to have them.
Don't get too close, he thought.
He knew what happened to those who flew too near the sun.
They burned.
And despite all that light, Valentine wasn't here to be lost in golden flames. He had a purpose. And he wouldn't become just another shadow orbiting the Sentinel.
Even if, for the briefest moment… that flame had warmed something inside him.