"The world has one question," A reporter's voice carried through the air, crisp against the backdrop of flashing cameras and sirens. "Where is Firstborn—the first superhero?"
Her words cut through the noise of the city like a blade. The crowd that had gathered after the fight shifted, murmurs spreading like sparks across dry grass.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the broken pavement, past the wreck of overturned cars and the fading smoke of battle. Ahead of her stood a hero—cape torn, shoulder bruised, but still standing. The man who had just put down the latest threat: a supervillain who called himself Ironclaw, now cuffed and dragged into a waiting armored van.
The reporter adjusted her mic, her eyes steady on him. "You've just saved dozens of lives, maybe more. But there's something the world still wants to know. What's it like being a hero… in a world without Firstborn? His disappearance is… strange. People are worried. What do you think?"
The hero exhaled slowly, wiping sweat from his brow. The cameras leaned closer. He didn't answer right away. His gaze flicked to the side, toward the civilians being guided away by medics, toward the broken skyline glowing in the late afternoon sun.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, a little rough, but clear.
"…Being a hero now? It's heavier than it used to be. Back when Firstborn was here, it felt like there was always someone above us. Someone stronger, someone who'd catch the world if it slipped through our hands. We fought, sure, but he carried the weight."
He looked back at the reporter, his eyes dark, tired, but honest.
"And now he's gone. And every villain we face, every disaster that shows up… there's no one else coming. It's just us. Heroes trying to fill shoes that don't fit."
The crowd had gone quiet. Even the reporters stopped shouting questions.
He gave a small shrug, almost helpless. "People ask where Firstborn is. Truth is… we ask the same thing every day. We don't know. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he walked away. Maybe he's out there, watching. But until he shows himself again—" He paused, the faint sound of sirens cutting into the silence. "—we just have to keep standing where he left off."
The reporter lowered her mic slowly, the weight of his words sinking in. Behind them, the last trace of smoke curled into the crimson sky, and for a moment, the whole city seemed to be listening.
Elsewhere…
The conference room was quiet except for the hum of the screen on the far wall. Maps, red lines, and scattered files lay across the table, the weight of them matched only by the tension in the air.
Marcus Hale leaned back in his chair, one arm resting lazily across the table, the other nursing a half-empty coffee cup. His hair, black streaked with gray at the temples, clung to his forehead with sweat from the last fight. To the world, he was Aegis, leader of the Heroes League. To the team in this room, he was just Marcus—tired, sharp-eyed, always two steps ahead, and carrying a bitterness that no one bothered to challenge.
"What the hell is the big deal with Firstborn anyway?" Marcus broke the silence. His voice was flat, but his words cut enough to make the younger ones shift in their seats. "Yeah, he was strong. Stronger than anyone we've ever seen. Doesn't mean we're weak. We fight, we bleed, we win. Let the man catch a break."
Across from him, Naomi Torres nearly jumped out of her chair. She was all energy, all spark—brown curls bouncing as she leaned over the table with that mischievous grin no one could ignore. She was Solstice, fire-bright both in her powers and her personality, a woman in her early thirties who never seemed to have lost her teenage energy.
"You're talking like you know where he is," Naomi teased, circling Marcus like an impatient kid. "Come on, tell me! You know, don't you?"
Marcus didn't flinch. He watched her bounce around, eyes half-lidded, unimpressed. "Trust me, you don't want to know." He took another sip of his coffee, slow and deliberate. "And for the record, I don't know."
Naomi stopped in front of him, hands on her hips, pouting like a scolded child. "You're such a douche, Marcus. No wonder people say you hate Firstborn."
That made the room stir. A couple of chuckles broke out. One or two shook their heads, trying not to smile. Even in her worst moods, Naomi had a way of cracking the tension.
Marcus only sighed. "At least act your age. And your status." He turned his chair back toward the big screen, letting the weight of leadership settle back on his shoulders. His voice shifted, sharper now. "Forget Firstborn. What matters is the recent spike in supervillains. Numbers are climbing. Too fast. The sub-teams under us are stretched thin. Some already dissolved. If this keeps up, the League can't hold."
The room went silent again. The Heroes League wasn't just a team. It was the team—born from Firstborn's hand, built as the first real alliance of heroes when the world was still figuring out what superhumans even meant. Over the years, they'd become the center, the symbol. Sub-teams branched out under their banner, patrolling cities and regions the main League couldn't reach. And now, those branches were dying one by one.
Marcus tapped the table, the screen flickering to the schematics of a sprawling campus. "Our best bet is the Hero Academy. We'll start funneling resources into it. Draw in the new generation. Kids with powers need training, discipline, control—because if we don't raise them, the villains will."
Naomi leaned over the table, eyes narrowing at the image. "So we're babysitters now?"
"You call it babysitting," Marcus muttered. "I call it survival. Those kids are our future, whether they're ready or not."
In the back, a voice finally spoke. Deep, calm, steady—like stone shifting. It belonged to Elijah Ward, Bastion. Broad-shouldered, scarred across his jaw, a man who barely spoke unless it mattered. "Then we train them until they are ready. No shortcuts."
Heads nodded around the room.
Marcus let out a slow breath, eyes lingering on the map of the academy. His jaw tightened. "Firstborn wanted the League to be a shield for this world. Fine. But if he's not here to hold it up, then we'll do it our way."
For a moment, no one spoke. The screen bathed their faces in pale blue light, the silence heavy with unspoken thoughts—memories of the man who built this League, the shadow he left behind, and the storm that was clearly on the horizon.
Naomi crossed her arms, her pout gone, her usual fire dimmed just a little. "Then let's hope the kids grow fast. Because villains aren't slowing down."
The room fell into quiet agreement. Outside the glass walls, the city lights burned, and somewhere far beyond, the world still whispered the same question: Where is Firstborn?