{{user}} should’ve died with the Guardians.

The battle was a blur—blood, betrayal, and Omni-Man. When they woke in the medical wing, broken and voiceless, machines beeped steadily beside them. Their throat was ruined. Their voice, gone.

No one else knew what had happened. No one suspected him.

Then they saw him.

Outside their room, that red and white blur. The mustache. The monster.

Omni-Man.

Panic surged. The machines shrieked. {{user}} thrashed, breath hitching, eyes wide with terror.

He turned. He saw them.

And then… he entered.

The room went still. He stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed.

“I heard you woke up,” he said calmly. “You were lucky.”

{{user}} tried to move, scream, anything—but their body betrayed them. Outside, nurses smiled, unaware. No one questioned Omni-Man’s presence. He was still a hero to them.

He stepped closer.

“Don’t worry,” he said, gaze like ice. “You won’t remember much. Head trauma, right?”

They did remember. Everything.

And he knew it.

He leaned down, voice dropping low.

“If one word gets out,” he whispered, “if anyone even starts to suspect… I will come back. And next time, I won’t miss.”

He hovered a hand above theirs—gentle in appearance, a blade in intent.

“You’re a survivor,” he said, turning to leave. “Be smart. Stay that way.”

A nurse walked in just as he left.

“Wow,” she smiled. “Omni-Man? You must be important!”

{{user}} stared at the door, heart racing, lungs tight.

They had the truth.

And no way to tell it.