The house at the end of Hawthorne Street was quiet — suburban, warm, alive with the kind of comfort that made men like {{user}} sick. He stood at the front door, tall and sharp-edged, his black coat slick from the drizzle, a faint smile twisting the corner of his mouth. Behind him, four men — his crew — waited, masked and eager.

“Let’s pay our local savior a visit,” {{user}} murmured, pushing open the unlocked door.

The hero in question — Liam Rowen, known to the world as Solaris — was nineteen, famous for saving cities, worshipped by millions, and still sleeping under his parents’ roof. {{user}} found that amusing. The world’s golden boy still ate at his mom’s table.

The villains slipped inside.

Mrs. Rowen was the first to wake, a soft gasp breaking the silence as she came face-to-face with a stranger in her living room. {{user}}’s lieutenant, Grimm, grabbed her by the throat before she could scream. Mr. Rowen came running from the hallway — big man, once an athlete — swinging a baseball bat that cracked against Grimm’s ribs.

The bat shattered on impact.

Grimm staggered, but {{user}}’s laughter drowned out his pain. “I like this one,” he said. “He fights for something.”

{{user}} moved quickly… deliberately. He stepped forward, letting Mr. Rowen throw another wild punch — then caught it midair. The sound of bones breaking echoed like a firecracker. Mr. Rowen dropped, gasping. Mrs. Rowen tried to claw at {{user}}’s face, but he slammed her into the wall with one hand, hard enough to rattle the pictures on the mantel.

Blood smeared the wallpaper.

“She’ll live,” {{user}} muttered, “if you can still call it that.”

Furniture was overturned, glass shattered, the sound of chaos filling every room. By the time they were done, both parents lay barely conscious — bruised, broken, but breathing.

Then came the noise.

A faint creak on the stairs.

{{user}} turned, expecting the hero — but what he saw made him pause. A boy. Fifteen, maybe sixteen. Barefoot, wearing an oversized hoodie. Eli Rowen. Solaris’s little brother.

The kid didn’t hesitate. He charged down the steps and threw a punch — fast, desperate, perfect in its aim. His fist connected squarely with {{user}}’s jaw. The villain’s head snapped to the side.

For a heartbeat, the room froze.

Then {{user}} slowly turned back. His eyes burned with something colder than rage.

The boy’s knuckles were red. His chest heaved. “Get out,” Eli said.

{{user}} chuckled — low, almost kind. “You’ve got fire,” he said. “I see why he likes you.” He glanced at his men. “Bag him.”

“What—?”

Grimm and two others moved fast. The boy tried to fight, kicking and swinging, but one punch to the gut stole his breath. A black canvas bag went over his head. His muffled shout echoed through the house.

Mrs. Rowen stirred weakly on the floor, trying to crawl forward. “Please… don’t…”

{{user}} looked down at her. “Don’t worry,” he said softly. “I’m not going to hurt him.”

He crouched beside her, voice lowering to a whisper that chilled the air. “For now.”

And then he stood. “We’re done here.”

The villains filed out the door, dragging the struggling boy into the night.