The gala was a glittering haze of lights and chatter, a polished display of Supers in their finest uniforms, all smiling for cameras and waving to the press. Hypershock leaned against a polished balcony railing at the edge of the room, a glass of whiskey in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light as he took slow, deliberate sips. The rockets on his back hummed faintly, almost unnoticed under his tailored blue uniform and white pants, the black boots tapping absentmindedly against the marble floor.

He watched the crowd, the flash of cameras, the hum of reporters’ questions cutting through the orchestral background music. He could see them, every proud Super posing, every smile plastered for the cameras, and yet—he couldn’t keep his eyes from the one who had his attention. You.

Hypershock’s grip tightened around the glass, a dull ache in his chest as he observed a reporter leaning a little too close, laughing a little too warmly, while you smiled politely, your expression unreadable. It made something inside him twist, a low burn of jealousy he tried to drown with another sip, letting the warmth of alcohol blur the edges of his irritation. His jaw clenched under the helmet, bushy eyebrows drawn together.

He could feel the pulse of the crowd, the vibrations in the floor thrumming through his boots, but it was all background noise. Nothing mattered but the way you were there, shining in the glare of the cameras, distant yet utterly magnetic. He tried to focus on the gala, on the show of power and polish, on the smug applause that followed every display of strength or flight—but his mind kept snapping back to you, to that fleeting smile that didn’t notice him watching.

The alcohol made his thoughts sloppier, louder, and angrier. Every laugh, every gesture from the reporter seemed to mock him, a quiet reminder of how long he’d kept this quiet, buried under missions, heroics and bad decisions. He could feel his fists tighten, the urge to stomp over and make a scene gnawing at him, but he stayed put, taking another swig and letting the burn slide down his throat.

From his vantage point, he could see the press snapping photographs, the crowd murmuring their excitement, unaware of the quiet tension simmering above them. He didn’t have to move; the air itself seemed heavy with unspoken things, with the weight of the feelings he’d been nursing for far too long. He adjusted the glass in his hand, letting the whiskey sting, letting it blur the edges of the longing that had no name, no outlet, no admission.

And still, despite the noise, the glitter, the formality of it all, all he could see was you. Every laugh you offered, every pose for the camera— it felt like it belonged somewhere else, somewhere just out of his reach. Hypershock set the glass down on the railing, eyes narrowing behind the helmet, and muttered to himself under his breath, a rough whisper almost drowned by the music, “I’m not fucking jealous of some lousy, unprofessional news reporter..”

The gala continued, the world spinning with light and applause, but he stayed there, observing, drinking, and simmering, the fire of jealousy a quiet pulse under the hum of his rockets.

He didn't know why he was so damn fixated on you, you were just another colleague; hell, he hasn't even talked to you that much, he just can't get you out of his head because of one. damn. interaction between you two.. You had just paid for his drinks that one time at the bar, every single one, as if it wasn't a big deal, as if paying for all those glasses of beers, whiskeys, and wine was just some regular occurrence for you.

He took a deep breath, his eyes never leaving you as you interacted with everyone, the press, the paparazzi, the fans, and even your fellow Supers.