The silence in the conference room lingered. The screen glowed pale, throwing their shadows long across the table. For a moment, no one moved. They didn't need to. The question hung heavy, unspoken but alive in every mind.
Where is Firstborn?
Marcus's eyes stayed fixed on the academy's blueprint, but his thoughts had already slipped elsewhere. Maybe it was the fatigue. Maybe the weight of the world is grinding down on him. Or maybe it was because, every time someone spoke Firstborn's name, the past came rushing back—loud and unrelenting.
And just like that, the present dissolved.
Twenty years earlier.
The world hadn't been ready for it. Nobody was.
It began small—like sparks in the dark. A boy in Tokyo lifts a car to save his brother. A girl in Chicago walking through fire and not burning. A soldier in Cairo is catching bullets with his bare hands. At first, people laughed. Called it fake. Tricks. Then there were too many to deny. People across the globe were awakening powers no one could explain.
And then the fear came. Governments scrambled. Scientists broke themselves trying to name it. Religion split in half overnight. Some called it divinity. Others said it was a curse.
But before anyone could make sense of what was happening, the first real nightmare appeared.
It was weeks later. A man whose name no one ever remembered—not his real one anyway. All anyone knew was the destruction he left behind. He was different from the others. Not just strong or fast. Reality itself bent in his hands like clay. Buildings folded in on themselves. Roads twisted into spirals. Fire rose from concrete as if the world answered only to his will.
Panic ripped through the city he appeared in. People ran, screamed, died. And right in the middle of it all… was him.
The man who would be called Firstborn.
No one knew his name then. He wasn't wearing any kind of uniform. Just a torn hoodie and bandaged fists, face hidden by a strip of cloth tied like a crude mask. He wasn't there to be a hero. He wasn't there for anyone at all. He just… stepped forward when everyone else stepped back.
The fight that followed was nothing the world had ever seen before. It was chaos made flesh.
The villain tore streets apart like paper, folding them upward into jagged spires. People swore they saw the sky ripple, colors bleeding like spilled paint. The air cracked, and gravity itself seemed to twist.
But the man in the mask didn't stop moving. He fought with his fists. Nothing more. Nothing less.
And it was enough.
He moved faster than the eye could follow, strength in every punch like steel breaking mountains. Endurance that defied reason. He was hit, cut, and thrown through walls, but he got up every time, like pain itself couldn't touch him. Every blow he landed sent shockwaves tearing across the ruined street.
To the world watching, it looked less like two men fighting and more like a clash of titans—one bending reality, the other breaking through it with raw, impossible power.
Somewhere in that chaos, the villain laughed. Blood dripping from his lip, madness in his eyes, he looked at the man standing against him and said one word:
"Firstborn."
Nobody knew why. Not then. Not ever.
But the name stuck.
The fight dragged on for hours. By the time the sun fell, the villain vanished as suddenly as he'd come, leaving behind a city broken and a man no one understood standing in the middle of it.
From that day forward, whenever the villain appeared again, Firstborn was there. It was as if the two were bound, their battles stretching across months, across continents. People whispered about it in awe and fear. Firstborn became a symbol, the first hero the world could cling to.
But he never asked for it.
He never gave his name. Never showed his face. The mask stayed. Always. He didn't speak to reporters. Didn't stand for crowds. He didn't save cats from trees or wave from rooftops. The only time people saw him was when the villain returned. And when he fought, the world remembered how small they were in the shadow of his strength.
Months passed, and the world changed around him. Others with powers stepped forward. Some tried to help. Others didn't. Firstborn became a myth, an anchor people pointed to whenever chaos surged. The ideal hero. The unshakable protector.
But the truth was simpler.
He was tired.
The spotlight burned him, though he never stood in it willingly. He hated the whispers, the eyes that begged him to be more than he was. He hated the weight of a title he never claimed. He hated the silence that followed him wherever he went.
The world adored him. Worshipped him even. But no one knew him. No one ever had.
And then, one day, the villain disappeared. Just… gone. No warnings. No battles. No return. For months, people waited, holding their breath for the clash they'd grown used to. But nothing came.
And not long after that, Firstborn vanished too.
No fight. No farewell. No reason.
One day he was there. The next, he wasn't.
Years rolled on. Ten of them. The world moved forward. New heroes rose. Villains spread. Cities changed. But the absence of Firstborn never stopped echoing.
Only a few—those sharp enough, cold enough—ever pieced it together. That maybe, just maybe, Firstborn wasn't here for the world at all. Maybe he wasn't fighting to protect humanity, or to save anyone. Maybe he was only here because of that villain.
And once the villain was gone, there was nothing left to keep him.
Back in the present, the glow of the conference screen flickered, pulling Marcus from the memory. The faces of his team stared back at him, waiting. Some of them are too young to have seen Firstborn with their own eyes. Some were old enough to remember exactly what he looked like standing in the ruins.
Marcus rubbed his jaw, rough with stubble, and muttered under his breath. "Firstborn… damn ghost."
Naomi tilted her head, catching it, but said nothing. Elijah stood silent as always. The room held its breath.
Outside, beyond the glass, the city spread wide—bright and restless, alive with both hope and fear.
Elsewhere
"You don't want to be late, come on down and have breakfast, kids."