The thing my mother hates most about me is how I act before I think—how I throw myself into things without the faintest concern for my own safety.
And standing here now, under the twisted shell of a metal beam, I can finally see her point.
The air smells like burnt wires and wet dust. The ground trembles under me every few seconds, like the building's still deciding whether it wants to collapse. Sparks fall from somewhere above, scattering light across the floor like dying fireflies.
If I'd just gone home like a normal person, I wouldn't be here.
It started half an hour ago. I was walking back from the station, taking the long route because I needed some air. My head was buzzing from another useless day—empty blog views, ignored posts, and the same stale feeling that I wasn't going anywhere.
Then the explosion hit.
It came from across the street—a shockwave that rattled my chest and set off car alarms for blocks. A cloud of black smoke rolled out from an old lab building at the edge of the district. Everyone else ran the other way.
I ran toward it.
I know. Stupid. But when your blog's been dying for months and your dream's hanging by a thread, "stupid" starts to sound a lot like "necessary."
I thought maybe, just maybe, if I got this live—if I caught something before the big outlets did—it could turn things around. So I sprinted across the street, pulled out my phone, and hit record.
Through a broken window, I saw the impossible.
Dr. A.P.E.
The same Dr. A.P.E. who'd been making headlines for months—a literal ape in a lab coat with a doctorate in just about everything. He was leaping between broken consoles, swinging a cracked power line like a whip, snarling as arcs of electricity danced through the room.
And facing him—someone new.
A man with a metal radio for a head, lights pulsing where his eyes should've been. His name had been buzzing around online lately. RadioJack.
Every few seconds, the speakers on his head boomed with heavy bass, sending shockwaves that shattered the glass and bent steel like tin.
I couldn't look away.
I started streaming right there, crouched behind the window frame, and the numbers shot up fast. Comments flooded in:
> Where is this??
Holy crap, is that real?
RadioJack! Let's gooo!
For the first time in months, I felt alive—like I mattered again. But the comments kept coming, faster, louder:
> Get closer, bro!
We can't hear anything!
Stop being a chicken, go inside!
And… I agreed.
The view wasn't great, and my hands were shaking too much to zoom.
So, against every warning bell in my head, I climbed through the window.
Into the smoke.
Into the danger
I landed on the other side of the window with a clumsy thud, dust swirling up around me. The air inside was thick—burnt metal, ozone, and something sharp like acid. My hands were shaking, but the stream was still live.
Thousands watching.
Thousands waiting.
I ducked behind what looked like a toppled workstation, my camera angled just above the edge. The place was chaos—wires hung like vines, flames flickering where machines used to hum. Through the static of my own breath, I caught the tail end of the battle.
Dr. A.P.E. was backing toward a glowing core at the center of the lab, fur bristling, metal arm sparking wildly. He bellowed something—maybe a formula, maybe a curse—and slammed his fist down on a console.
Then everything went white.
An explosion of heat and pressure blasted through the room. I ducked, covering my head, the shockwave throwing debris in every direction. Through the smoke, I saw him—the hero, RadioJack—his speakers glowing bright blue as he unleashed one last pulse of sound. It hit like a cannon. He launched himself out of the collapsing wall, chasing after the escaping ape.
The same wave slammed into me.
I remember flying backward, my phone slipping from my hands, the stream cutting to black. My back hit the ground hard, and suddenly the world was a blur of smoke, metal, and pain.
When I came to, I was here—pinned under a chunk of ceiling, the edges of my vision pulsing. The floor still trembled now and then, like the lab was breathing its last.
I tried pulling my leg free, but the metal barely budged. Each movement made the ceiling above me groan louder, cracks spidering across it. So I froze, heart pounding, staring up at the jagged lines that inched lower every second.
My phone was next to me, screen shattered, the word "LIVE" gone.
Figures.
I let out a weak laugh. "If I make it out of here alive," I muttered, "Mom's gonna kill me herself."
I set the phone down and stared at the ruin around me. In stories like this, it's always the same sequence—news crews first, firefighters next, then the heroic rescue shot that makes the front page.
But before all that?
There's always the casualty.
I looked at my trapped legs. Then the ceiling above me. The math didn't look good.
Still, I wasn't ready to be the casualty. Not yet.
I pushed again, teeth gritted, and felt the metal shift—just barely. I gave one last shove and yanked my leg free. But that's when the ceiling cracked fully, shadows shifting as it sagged right above my face.
I froze, flat on my back. Nowhere to run. The ceiling trembled, dust drifting down like falling snow.
That's when I saw it.
Something glinting beside me—a small, intact glass tube half-buried in rubble. I reached out and picked it up carefully. Inside, a faint green liquid swirled, glowing softly like it was alive. The label had a crude monkey face stamped on it.
My mind clicked instantly.
Dr. A.P.E.'s serum.
Every comic, every movie, every "top ten superhero origin" list I'd ever written suddenly played in my head. The mysterious formula. The desperate hero. The one reckless decision that changes everything.
I couldn't help but laugh—a dry, scared, stupid laugh. "No way. I'm really doing this."
The ceiling cracked again, louder this time. I held the tube close, staring into that green light.
"If this is my cliché," I whispered, "guess I'll live it."
I popped the cap and swallowed it just as the ceiling came crashing down.