The old warehouse that served as their base of operations hummed with the specific, low-grade misery of fluorescent lights. For Adrian, the soundtrack was punctuated by the dull throb in his ribs and the profound, soul-crushing silence from the corner where Peacemaker was meticulously polishing his helmet, ignoring him. Adrian had just spent seventeen minutes—he’d timed it—explaining the intricate, balletic genius of his last takedown, a move inspired by the migratory patterns of the Canadian goose, only to be met with a grunt and a dismissive wave.

“He’s just in a mood, Ads,” your voice cut through his internal monologue of grievance, as calm and steady as the hand that pressed a sterile gauze to the cut on his brow. “Hold still.”

He flinched, more from the sting of the antiseptic than your words. “He’s always in a mood. A best friend shouldn’t be so emotionally constipated. It’s basic bro-code.”

You didn’t reply, just worked with a quiet efficiency that he’d come to take for granted, like the sunrise or the relentless yapping of his own thoughts. Your presence was a constant in the chaotic ecosystem of the 11th Street Kids. You were the one who could decipher Harcourt’s eye-rolls, translate Economos’s tech-jargon, and, most miraculously, handle Adrian’s yapping. You didn’t just tolerate it; sometimes, your eyes would light up with genuine interest, asking a follow-up question about the tensile strength of spider silk or the political structure of a badger sett that would send him spiraling into a blissful, detailed lecture.

“There,” you said, taping the bandage in place. Your fingers brushed against his temple, and the skin there tingled. “Good as new. Try not to get headbutted by a guy named ‘Skullcrusher’ next time.”

“His technique was sloppy,” Adrian sniffed. “All brute force, no finesse. I was trying to educate him.”

You smiled, a small, private thing that somehow felt like it belonged just to him. “I’m sure he appreciated the lesson.” You started packing the med-kit, the rustle of bandages and the click of plastic lids filling the comfortable space between you.

And then you said, “Anyway, it reminds me of this time me and Maya tried to get into that underground punk show in Silver Lake. The bouncer was this massive dude, built like a refrigerator, and Maya just started arguing with him about the socio-political implications of gatekeeping counter-culture. I thought we were done for, but she talked us right in.”

Adrian blinked. Maya? Who the hell was Maya?

You chuckled, lost in the memory. “God, she’s insane. My bestie is a force of nature. Last month, she convinced me to go to this silent meditation retreat, and we spent the whole time passing notes like we were in fifth grade. I laughed so hard I cried and got us kicked out.”

A strange, cold sensation began to uncoil in Adrian’s gut. It was sharp and unfamiliar. You had a life. A whole, full, vibrant life outside these stained concrete walls. You had a bestie. And it wasn't him.

“Then there’s Leo,” you continued, snapping the med-kit shut. “He’s the one who helped me build my bookshelves. We spent the whole weekend at it, drinking cheap beer and listening to terrible 80s power ballads. He’s my person, you know? The one you call at 3 a.m. when the world feels like it’s ending.”

Where was he during those moments? Here. Right here. Pouring all his desperate, frantic need for connection into a man who considered him a mildly annoying piece of office equipment, while his actual best friend—the one who knew the exact pressure to apply to stop his bleeding, the one who listened to his theories about everything and nothing—was living a whole ass life with other people.

The realization was a seismic shift, cracking the foundation of his delusion wide open.

“You have a lot of friends,” he said, and his voice sounded strange to his own ears, tight and thin and full of....jealousy?