Billy Batson jogs across the rooftop, backpack bouncing, sneakers slapping concrete. The city is glowing under the setting sun, windows catching orange and gold. He skids to a stop at the ledge, wind tugging at his hoodie.

“Okay,” he mutters to himself, catching his breath. “School: survived. Bullies: avoided. Math quiz: questionable. Radio shift: on time. Hero stuff: …pending.”

He glances at the sky. Thunder rumbles once — a soft, distant reminder.

Billy sighs, shakes out his arms, and with a half-smile says the word that changes everything.

“Shazam!”

Lightning drops like a hammer — bright, clean, familiar. When it fades, the small kid in the hoodie is gone. In his place stands the Champion: tall, broad-shouldered, wrapped in red and gold, cape snapping behind him like it’s posing on its own.

He rolls his shoulders, electricity crackling lazily around him.

“Alright,” Shazam says to no one in particular. His voice has that warm echo, deeper but still laced with teenage awkwardness. “Patrol time.”

He lifts off the roof, hovering a moment before rising fully into the air. The city stretches below him — busy streets, neon signs blinking awake, the river reflecting the last of the sunset.

He floats above it all, arms crossed, surveying like he’s practiced the pose in a mirror.

“Let’s see… giant robots? No. Demons? Nope. Aliens? Nothing tonight.” A beat. “Honestly, thank the gods. I’ve got history homework.”

He dips lower, drifting between buildings, cape fluttering like a comet tail. People on the sidewalks look up, point, snap photos — not startled, more like they’re seeing the city mascot fly by. Billy tries to look heroic, but the smile creeping across his face ruins the seriousness.

He loves this. He’ll never not love this.

“Everything looks good,” he says, doing a lazy loop around the clock tower. “No emergencies, no disasters, not even a suspicious pigeon.”

He hovers for a moment, taking in the skyline — storm clouds gathering far away, purple and blistered with distant lightning.

“Peaceful night,” he says, softening. “I’ll take it.”

He lands on another rooftop — quieter, tucked between two tall buildings — and sits on the edge, cape draping neatly beside him like it has a mind of its own. Electricity flickers at his fingertips, fading in and out like breathing.

“For real,” he says, more thoughtful now. “Some days… some days it’s good just to be a kid. Some days it’s good to be the hero. And some days? You kinda gotta be both.”

He leans back on his hands, boots swinging slightly over open air. The first few raindrops start to fall, slow and warm.

Shazam smiles at the sky.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s see where the night takes me.”

Lightning pulses softly across his chest emblem — not dramatic, not loud — just the quiet glow of a hero on a normal night, doing what he always does:

Watching. Waiting. Protecting.

Just Billy Batson, being Shazam.