Chapter 75 I Care

The silence broke like glass. A murmur spread across the hall as the guests blinked themselves back into awareness, their shoulders twitching, their gazes darting about like startled prey. Champagne spilled, cutlery clattered, and an ocean of confused whispers flooded the ballroom.

“What… what just happened?” a man asked, pressing trembling fingers against his temples.

Another woman clutched her pearls, her voice cracking. “I can’t… I can’t remember. Was I asleep? No… I was talking—no, I was chanting…”

The atmosphere turned heavy with fear, panic rising like smoke in the room. Then one sharp voice cut through the confusion.

“It’s him!”

Dozens of eyes locked onto me. Recognition burned there, feeding panic into terror. Faces I knew from politicians, magnates, and various celebrities turned pale. Soon, screams followed.

“Eclipse!”

“The monster of Markend!”

“God, somebody stop him!”

I felt their terror crawling over my skin, every thread of empathy twisting in my chest. They were nothing but a storm of scattered emotions now from fear, hatred, and revulsion. I no longer belonged here, I realized.

Without a word, I stepped backward into the windowpane. The glass trembled against me, then gave way as I phased through it. The shrieks from inside blended with the howl of the wind.

And then I fell.

The city stretched beneath me, a jagged sprawl of towers, smoke, and neon. For a moment, I let gravity take me, the weightlessness cleansing, almost freeing. I was almost tempted to end it right there. But I couldn’t.

There had to be a reason why I’m alive.

“I’m going to find it.”

Why do I live?

…

..

.

A week passed.

Time blurred, but I hadn’t died. I hadn’t even slowed down. I kept moving through alleys, shadows, and nameless rooms, a phantom in my own city. Something in me had shifted that night in Estrella Alta. Hall’s death, the truth of Crow’s illusions, and the screaming faces of people who now only saw me as a monster… It all hollowed me out.

I wasn’t different physically. My strength, my powers, and my reflexes. They all remained. Even my Empathic powers that I thought to be temporary. A piece of Onyx and Silver lived within me. But my mind, my perspective, and the fragile tether of what I once was… that was gone.

I was a changed man.

Not better. Not worse. Just something else entirely.

The bench felt cool beneath me as I settled into it, the wood worn down by countless strangers who had sat here before. Around me, life went on without pause as families walked along the promenade, joggers passed by with their earbuds in, and the chatter of children blended with the rush of the tide. Nobody minded me, and I preferred it that way.

I leaned back, watching as the sun dipped slowly toward the horizon. The ocean reflected its light in rippling shards, painting the beach in hues of gold and crimson. For the first time in a while, Markend looked calm. The riots had burned out, the city had exhaled, and even if it was only temporary, the chaos I had stirred had settled into silence.

News of Hall’s death spread like fire. His identity as Crow had been revealed, unmasked before the entire city. People called it justice. Others called it proof that corruption reached deeper than anyone dared admit. I had done my due diligence. Exposing Hall, the SRC, the Vanguard’s fractures… all of it. Even Sunstrider, once hailed as the city’s radiant hero, was remembered now with suspicion and unease. His true nature lingered like a scar on the public’s conscience. Heroes were not always heroes. Some were just better liars.

It had been gruesome work, but I knew where to look.

I felt my empathic powers acting up. It began with a soft pulse of disappointment, and then sadness. A small thread tugged at me, fragile and untainted. I turned my head and saw a little girl pulling a cart, the plastic wheels rattling against the pavement. Boxes of cookies stacked neatly inside, untouched.

She stopped in front of me, her tiny hands still gripping the cart’s handle. “Mister, do you want some?” she asked, her voice shy, yet hopeful.

Her emotions reached me clearer than her words. She hadn’t sold a single box, and she was too young to wear failure on her sleeve. I reached into the inside of my suit, fingers brushing against a folded bill. I pulled out a hundred mark note and handed it to her.

Her eyes widened, and joy replaced the sorrow I’d felt moments ago. She dug into her cart and pulled out two boxes. “You can have two!” she said, her smile too bright for this world.

Before I could respond, a woman rushed over, worry etched across her face. She grabbed the girl gently by the shoulder. “Sorry, sir. Let’s go, Leslie. Don’t just talk to strangers like that…” Her eyes flicked over me, uneasy. “…he seems dangerous.”

The girl frowned but obeyed, the brightness fading as quickly as it came. The mother led her away, their footsteps soft against the boards of the promenade.

I glanced down at the cookies in my lap, the red sunset washing over the box. I tore the seal and opened it, the faint smell of sugar rising as the waves rolled in.

The horizon burned as the sun sank lower, and I watched it in contemplation.

“So… boring.”

From the threads I had spun, I could taste the emotions bleeding off the crowd that passed me by. Some were mundane, routine drifts of boredom, fatigue, or fleeting contentment. Others carried spikes of agitation from arguments simmering, excitement over some small win, even the quiet buzz of lust tucked under polite faces. It was all noise to me, an endless orchestra I couldn’t turn off.

I finished the entire box of cookies without realizing it, chewing through the last crumbs as the horizon darkened. Dusk crept across the city like a bruise, painting the streets in shades of violet and amber. I rose from the bench and started walking again, the remaining box of cookies tucked under my arm while I ate lazily from it.

It should have been impossible. A highly wanted man, a figure whispered about in headlines and warrants, strolling openly in the city he had scarred. They called me a murderer, a phantom, and a terrorist, yet here I was, wandering among them like I was just another face. I wasn’t even wearing the mask anymore.

That was the point.

It was the combined application of my intangibility and empathic ratings. Phasing light was still beyond me, too sharp, too insistent; invisibility was out of reach. And truthfully, I doubted my power would ever develop in that direction. But I didn’t need to vanish from sight. I only needed to blur.

The trick wasn’t in the eyes but in the heart. With my empathic threads woven carefully, I could distort the emotional perception people had of me. Their minds would fill in the blanks with whatever face seemed forgettable or convenient. They would imagine me as the most generic man in the crowd, or conjure a stranger they would never recall minutes later. Recognition became impossible, because in their minds, there was nothing worth remembering.

I stopped in front of a tailor shop, the glow of its lamps spilling onto the pavement. The glass reflected my borrowed disguise back at me. A drab young man stared out of the window, his suit wrinkled, his fedora tilting too far forward, as unremarkable as dust. I let the reflection fade behind me as I walked on, the city buzzing quietly around my blurred presence.

By the time I stopped, I stood before a small home.

I phased through the wall, my body slipping inside what used to be an abandoned home. The air was stale, carrying dust and the faint smell of old wood. Crow had once used this place as a safe house, a forgotten den tucked between rows of decaying apartments. Now it was something else entirely. It had become hers.

The woman I cherished lay asleep on the couch, the flickering glow of the TV painting her in pale blues and grays. Her chest rose and fell in the steady rhythm of exhaustion. I stood there longer than I should have, watching her. Onyx. Silver. But no… she wasn’t either of them anymore. She was something else, someone else. And yet, to me, she was still… her.

The television droned on in the background.

“…recovery efforts continue across Markend after the tragic revelations surrounding Michael Hall, also known as Crow. Officials confirm dozens of compromised officials have stepped down amid the scandal. The SRC and the Vanguard are facing one of the largest audits in recent history, their credibility severely damaged. Citizens demand reform as investigations deepen. The Council of City-States has issued statements promising tighter oversight and stricter protocols for cape activity…”

I found the remote and clicked it off, silencing the broadcast. The room fell into a heavy quiet, only the soft hum of the fridge and her steady breathing filling the space. I walked closer and placed the half-eaten box of cookies on the table.

She shifted in her sleep, murmuring something I couldn’t quite catch.

I grabbed the sheets draped over the armrest and gently pulled them across her body. She curled into the warmth, unaware of me standing there. My hand lingered for a moment longer than I should have, then withdrew. I bent down and pressed my lips to her forehead, a whisper of a kiss. The kind you give when you know it may be the last.

From under my suit jacket, I pulled out the manila envelope. It was thick with papers, maps, and a carefully assembled truth. I placed it beside the box of cookies and then set my fedora over it, as if the gesture could somehow make it feel more like a gift than a burden.

I stood over her, conflicted. I wished I could leave her more… money, safety, stability. But money would only draw suspicion, and the SRC would track every mark. I had already burned too much to risk her trail being exposed. And Markend… Markend was no longer safe for me. Not even with my powers. The Council had decided to bear down with everything they had. After the chaos I’d stirred, I couldn’t stay here.

The thought of taking her with me crossed my mind, and for a second, I almost convinced myself it would work. She probably still had her powers, and from a purely utilitarian perspective, she could be useful. But she wasn’t a tool. She wasn’t someone to be bent to purpose. She wasn’t just a stranger either.

Because I cared for her. That was why I was doing this.

I turned toward the door, my chest tightening as though every step away was tearing something from me.

My voice came out low and hoarse, breaking against the silence of the room.

“Maybe one day you’ll hate me enough to forget me. But until then… at least know that I never stopped caring.”

And then I left.