The morning after Midtown feels like I've been put under a microscope.
Every channel chews on the same clip. A crane tilting, scaffolding ripping away, a rain of steel hammering into the street. Then a flare of gold—light swelling out of nowhere, catching metal, turning death aside.
The footage isn't just bad, it's broken. Cameras choke when the glow surges, pixels drowning white. Whenever the light peaks, faces vanish. Even mine. A blur in one frame, swallowed in the next.
Witnesses swear they saw me, swear they looked right at me. But when pressed, they shake their heads.
"I was there. He grabbed me, pulled me clear. I looked at him, I swear I did, but… it's gone. I can't remember his face. Just the light."
News anchors toss theories back and forth like poker chips. "Prototype tech." "Some government experiment." "Religious omen."
The tabloids don't hesitate.
Glowstick Man.
It's splashed across the Post in bold letters, a cartoon sketch of me shaking myself like a neon tube. Online, memes multiply—me edited into birthday parties, nightclubs, raves.
Every laugh lands like a bruise.
On my way to Stark Industries, I pass the construction site. The crane's been dismantled, steel piled in twisted heaps. A mural already stretches across the plywood fencing: a glowing figure with one hand raised, golden lines radiating out. Underneath, someone scrawled HE WAS REAL. Someone else spray-painted HAHA GLOWSTICK MAN in red across the bottom.
The city's writing its own story about me. I'm just along for the ride.
Inside SI, the noise is worse.
"Glowstick Man."
"My cousin swears he saw him."
"Had to be Stark tech."
"Alien."
The gossip circles me like I'm invisible and radioactive at the same time.
Pepper cuts through the storm like a scalpel. She balances a phone on her shoulder, three folders in one hand, and a coffee cup in the other. Her heels hit the floor like punctuation.
"No, Mr. Stark will not be answering questions about the vigilante in Midtown. Yes, we are shifting to clean energy. Yes, the press conference is Friday."
She lowers the coffee for half a second, notices a pile of reports sliding off a desk, and bends just enough to catch them before they fall. Her gaze sweeps the bullpen. It lands on me.
"You," she says, voice clipped.
My chest seizes. "Yes, Ms. Potts?"
"Take this folder to Archives. The interns down there keep misfiling anything newer than last month, and I don't have time to fish it out later."
She hands me a slim folder, trust in her eyes sharper than her words. I nod, clutching it like it's glass, and for the first time since arriving here, I don't feel like background noise.
By afternoon, Tony blows in. Rhodey trails behind him, the eye of the storm pretending he isn't.
"Rhodey," Tony says loud enough for the whole floor, "if I sit through another meeting about missile contracts, shoot me. No, wait, don't. That'd only encourage the board."
"Tony," Rhodey warns, voice tight, "this isn't funny. The brass are furious. You can't just announce you're out of the weapons business without a plan."
Tony smirks, slides his sunglasses into his pocket. "I already have a plan. It's called not making weapons anymore. Revolutionary."
His gaze skims the room, hooks on me. "Hey, clipboard. You seen Glowstick Man yet? Tell me you've seen Glowstick Man."
I manage a stiff smile. "Hard to miss."
"Great branding, right?" Tony leans on the desk nearest him. "Glowstick Man. I mean, it's no Iron Man, but it'll do."
Rhodey shakes his head. "The Air Force already asked if you're testing prototypes in Midtown."
"Please," Tony says, waving it off. "If it was me, it'd fly, and it'd look better than a rave accessory. My money's on Hammer Industries trying to steal the spotlight again. Glowstick Man. Low-budget knockoff."
The whispers hum approval deep in my ribs. They like him.
Before I can breathe, Obadiah arrives, smooth as ever. His hand drops on Tony's shoulder like it belongs there. "Tony, the investors want reassurance. Jokes won't pay their bills."
"Relax, Obi," Tony mutters. "We'll give them something shiny."
Obadiah laughs, warm and practiced, then looks past Tony to me. "Jordan, right?"
"Yes, sir."
He studies me, smile wide, eyes sharp. "Young people are impressionable. It's easy to fall under the sway of big personalities." His hand rests heavy on my shoulder. "Make sure you learn from the right ones."
The whispers shriek like claws against glass.
I nod quickly. "Of course."
"Good." His hand lingers one beat too long before he strolls off, still smiling.
I feel hollow until he's gone.
By evening, the whispers are pulling again. They drag me into a side street where a neon sign hums above a corner store.
The bell over the door jingles as I step inside. The air smells like stale gum and dust. A kid behind the counter looks up, earbuds dangling loose.
Then a voice cuts through the stillness. "Empty the register!"
Two men stand at the counter. One points a revolver at the clerk. The other stuffs candy bars into a backpack.
The whispers slam into me.
My chest locks. I could turn, leave, pretend I didn't see. But the gun twitches in the man's hand, and before I can think, I'm moving.
"Hey," I say, voice raw.
Both robbers whip around. The one with the backpack laughs. "Wrong store, buddy."
The gunman snarls. "Out. Now."
The glow prickles under my skin, begging to be free.
I step forward. "You don't want to do this."
The backpack guy sneers. "What the hell are you supposed to be?"
The gun lifts. The trigger pulls halfway.
The whispers roar.
Light bursts from my palm, smacking the revolver sideways. The shot cracks into the ceiling, showering plaster dust.
The kid dives behind the counter. The backpack thuds to the floor.
The glow spreads, flooding the store, turning every shelf and corner into pale gold. The robbers shield their eyes.
"It's him," the clerk whispers. "It's Glowstick Man."
The name stabs.
The gunman squints, tries to aim again. I flick my hand, harder, and the weapon rips free, slamming against the far wall. He curses, blinking against the glow.
"Leave," I say, voice low and harsh. "Now."
They don't argue. They stumble out into the night, half-blind, tripping over themselves.
The glow fades once they're gone. My arms shake. Sweat sticks my shirt to my back.
The kid stares at me wide-eyed. "You saved me. But… I can't see your face. It's just light."
Outside, phones are already up. Voices echo down the block.
"Glowstick Man! It's him!"
I push through the door, raising a hand against the flash of a camera, and vanish into the nearest alley. The whispers thrum, pleased.
Back in my apartment, the notebook waits. The tree sprawls across the page, its roots digging deeper, its branches straining higher.
The words hover in the margins, always the same.
Balance.
Choice.
Tree.
Remembered.
Cost.
Seen.
Named.
My hand shakes as I carve another word into the paper.
Forgotten.
Because the city remembers me as Glowstick Man, but never as me.
The whispers hum steady, patient.
The legend is growing. And I'm already disappearing inside