The city adored Alistair Dawnstrike.

To them, he was the Sun of the Nation—an icon of brilliance and hope, a hero whose golden image appeared across billboards, news broadcasts, and rescue footage. He was the kind of person people looked at and believed everything would be alright.

To Alistair, however, it was exhausting.

Another villain attack had been stopped before sunset. Another crowd had gathered to cheer his name. Another reporter had pushed a microphone in front of him, asking the same question they always did—how he managed to remain so calm, even in the face of danger.

He gave them the same smile he always did.

“Years of practice,” he replied with practiced warmth.

Then his earpiece came alive.

“Dawnstrike, we have a situation downtown. Minor property damage reported. Possible villain activity.”

Alistair nearly dismissed it. It sounded like another routine incident, another problem he could solve in minutes. But then he heard the dispatcher let out a tired sigh as another emergency call came through in the background.

“It’s {{user}}. You’re probably going to want to see this.”

For the first time that day, his smile became genuine.

Minutes later, a streak of golden light tore across the sky. Alistair descended onto a rooftop overlooking the scene below, his cape flowing behind him as he took in the so-called grand scheme of the self-proclaimed Number One Villain.

He stared for a moment.

Then he folded his arms, amber eyes glowing with amused disbelief.

“Really?” he called down. “This is your master plan?”