My body feels like it's been used as a crash test dummy.
Every muscle screams when I roll out of bed. My ribs ache like I took a crowbar to them. My hands shake when I reach for the kettle, and the bruises across my arms bloom in sick yellows and purples.
But none of that scares me as much as the phone.
It's been buzzing since dawn. Group chats, news alerts, the intern message board. Everyone's sharing grainy clips from last night.
Golden light in the street.A falling scaffold bouncing like it hit a wall.A figure you cant quite make out bracing under the weight of the sky.
Me.
The videos are shaky, the angles terrible, but they're clear enough. People already have names for me. The Golden Ghost. The Lightbringer. Some say mutant. Some say alien. One genius on the forums is convinced I'm a Stark Industries prototype.
The whispers don't deny any of it. They hum, steady and low, like a current in deep water.
At Stark Industries, the air is a minefield. Every conversation dies when I walk by. Eyes flick up from screens and flick away again. I can almost hear their thoughts: could it be him?
I keep my head down, badge out, footsteps steady.
In the cafeteria, a pair of execs whisper at their table. "We can't ignore it. If it's tech, it's a liability. If it's not…" Their voices drop too low to catch.
The whispers in my chest tighten.
I dump my tray before I've eaten and drift down toward the labs, trying to look like I belong.
Tony's there, hunched over a glowing model. He looks up, squints. "Hey. Light show on Fifth Avenue last night. You see that?"
My stomach knots.
"Crazy," I say. "Must've been tech."
"Mm." He tilts his head, eyes sharp even when he pretends they aren't. "Not my tech."
The whispers surge warm, almost amused.
Obadiah arrives before I can answer. He claps Tony's shoulder like he owns it. "Investors are thrilled you're working again." Then he turns that smile on me. "Jordan. You hear about the hero in the streets?"
"Yeah," I mutter. "Wild."
"Wild," he repeats, and the smile stretches. The whispers spike sharp, slicing behind my eyes.
I excuse myself before I choke on the static.
That night, the city hums louder than the labs. I can't stay inside. The whispers won't let me.
But the pull isn't as sharp as before. It's not dragging me to a fire or a mugging. It's leading me to the aftermath.
A mural is already sprayed on a brick wall downtown. Rough lines, but you can see it, a figure with their hand raised, light flooding out. Underneath, someone scrawled: WE ARE NOT ALONE.
Kids gather there, laughing, pointing, daring each other to touch the painted hand. A man in a coat mutters about angels. A woman argues it was a hoax. Phones flash.
I slip into the crowd, hood low, heart in my throat. They're talking about me like I'm not standing right here.
The whispers coil under my ribs. They don't feel like approval this time. They feel like pressure. Like expectation.
The boy from the deli fire is there, the one I dragged out from under falling steel. He's telling his friends about the light, his voice climbing with each retelling. He doesn't call me a freak. He doesn't call me a hero. He just says: "He saved me."
Something in my chest twists.
I leave before anyone notices my face.
Back at my apartment, I collapse into the chair and drag my notebook close. The tree sprawls across the page, roots spreading, branches stretching into margins I didn't remember writing. The words are there too, over and over, my hand even when I don't remember.
Balance.Choice.Tree.Remembered.Cost.Seen.
I add another, scrawled hard enough to tear the paper.
Hunted.
The whispers shift like shadows around the word. Not denial. Not comfort. Just acknowledgment.
I slam the notebook shut and lean back, staring at the ceiling until the plaster turns into stars again. I can hear the city outside, horns, sirens, shouts, laughter. A million lives carrying on like nothing cracked open last night.
But something did.
They saw me. They named me. They painted me on a wall.
And now the world is watching.
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Mural in one day is kinda crazy though.