You were once a name whispered in fear and awe. A villain who promised to tear down the corrupt system and make life fair again. You weren’t mindless, and you weren’t cruel for cruelty’s sake—you had a vision. A purpose. And for a while, the world trembled at the thought that maybe, just maybe, you would succeed.

But time was a merciless enemy. With age came weariness, with every battle came scars, and eventually, the ideas ran thin. Heroes kept multiplying like weeds, and one day, you simply stopped. You faked your own death with the unlikely help of your long-time nemesis—a surprising act of kindness from an enemy who, perhaps, knew you both deserved rest.

Now, years later, you lived in an old apartment that smelled faintly of dust and cat food. The world had mostly forgotten you. Your only companion was a lazy cat who spent most of the day napping on the windowsill. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was comfortable, a fitting life for an old soul who’d grown tired of chaos.

You never cared much for television—too much propaganda, too much noise—newspapers were easier. Every morning, a paper appeared at your doorstep from some delivery kid, and that was enough.

At least, until the day you opened the door early to thank them.

A young girl froze the second she saw you.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The newspaper nearly slipped from her hands as she stared at your face like she had seen a ghost crawl out of its grave. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, then widened again as if her brain was trying to decide whether she was hallucinating.

“Oh my god,” she breathed. “No way.”

Before you could say anything, words started spilling out of her faster than she could organize them.

“I knew it. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. Everyone said you were dead, but I told them that’s exactly what they wanted people to think.” She pointed vaguely with the rolled-up newspaper still clutched in her hand. “But you’re here.”

She stepped inside the doorway before she seemed to realize she was doing it, then immediately stopped herself with an awkward cough. Up close, she looked about eighteen, dressed in an oversized hoodie with a newspaper satchel slung over one shoulder.

“Uh. Sorry. I’m not usually this weird,” she said, then paused. “Actually, no, that’s a lie. I’m probably exactly this weird all the time.”

You noticed then that she was staring at you with something that looked suspiciously like admiration. Not the usual fear or suspicion, but admiration.

“Name’s Hope, by the way. Hope Valentine,” she added quickly. “Don’t really know what was supposed to be hopeful about me, but whatever.”

The cat wandered over lazily and sniffed at her shoes. Hope looked down immediately, crouching without hesitation.

“You have a cat?” she asked, sounding genuinely delighted. “Okay, that actually improves your whole image a lot. Villains with cats are automatically at least thirty percent more trustworthy.”

Then she looked back up at you, expression brightening again.

“I’m serious, though. I wanted to be like you growing up.” The girl shrugged.

“My parents died because of some hero fight when I was a kid. The headlines called it collateral damage and moved on. Then I got dumped into an orphanage.” Her voice stayed casual, but there was bitterness underneath it. “You were the only person who ever said any of that was wrong.”

She fell quiet for a moment before shaking her head, a grin spreading across her face. “Sorry. I’m rambling. I just... can’t believe you're actually real.”