"—and in breaking news, the Five have once again saved the world! Just minutes ago, they successfully defeated the Level 200+ entity known as 'Lilith The Hell,' ending its five-year reign of terror over half of Antarctica. The creature's hellish dominion has finally been broken!"
The anchor's eyes practically sparkled. "And here with an exclusive statement is the man who led this incredible victory—the incomparable, the invincible, the magnificent leader of the Five... Apex!"
The image cut to a tall figure in gleaming silver and blue armor, his helmet retracted to reveal a square jaw and perfectly styled golden hair. Even through the TV screen, he radiated an almost suffocating confidence.
"Citizens of Antarctica, your long nightmare is finally over." His voice carried the perfect blend of heroic gravitas and subtle self-satisfaction.
"Today, we—the Five—ventured into the frozen hell you've endured for five long years. Together, we shattered Lilith's ice fortresses. Together, we banished her hellspawn armies back to whatever dimension spawned them. We stood where others fell."
He paused, his jaw set at just the right angle for the cameras. "This victory comes at a profound moment. At midnight tonight, we mark three years since the Five united as one, and..." his voice dropped to a reverent tone, though a careful observer might notice how the light caught his eyes just so, "two years since our brother Eagle made the ultimate sacrifice. He was... instrumental to our early success."
The hero's expression shifted, warmth mixing with authority. "Tomorrow, the Five House opens its doors to you, the people we serve. Come celebrate with us—with your heroes. Let's honor Eagle's memory together, as the unified force we've become."
He flashed a smile that had launched a thousand charity campaigns.
"This victory belongs to all of us. The Five stands because we stand together. Though of course, as leader, the coordination of such a complex operation..." He caught himself with practiced humility. "But no. This is our victory. Antarctica is free because we are Five."
The anchor cut back in, practically breathless. "Thank you, Apex! There you have it, folks. Once again, Apex proves why he's not just the leader of the Five, but arguably the greatest superhero of our generation! His tactical genius, his unmatched power level, his stunning good looks—"
The 85-inch OLED screen went black with a decisive click.
"Yeah, whatever."
The remote clattered onto the glass coffee table as its owner finished an elaborate stretch, his back popping in three places. Twenty-three years old, wearing nothing but designer boxers and yesterday's trading firm t-shirt, he padded toward the kitchen of his penthouse apartment. The TV, a small fortune in OLED technology, reflected his indifferent expression in its darkened surface.
The Sub-Zero fridge revealed its treasures, and he grabbed a burger from a container marked 'Nobu - Special Order.' First bite, and his eyes rolled back.
"Mmm, fuck yeah," he mumbled through a mouthful of wagyu beef and truffle aioli. "That's the shit right there."
Still chewing, he wandered to his bedroom, burger in one hand, already unbuttoning his shirt with the other. The walk-in closet lit up automatically—three hundred square feet of curated fashion.
He tossed the shirt into a hamper that cost more than most people's rent and selected tonight's armor: black Balenciaga jeans that looked spray-painted on, a simple white Givenchy t-shirt, and a leather racing jacket that screamed money without logos.
His fingers found the car fob without looking—muscle memory from a hundred nights like this. The weight of it felt right. Necessary.
The private elevator hummed its descent to the garage, and he finished the last bite of burger just as the doors opened to reveal his collection. Six figures of automotive art, but tonight called for something special.
The McLaren 765LT Spider sat low and predatory under the LED strips, its Papaya Spark orange paint job almost radioactive in the artificial light. 755 horsepower of twin-turbo V8 insanity, zero to sixty in 2.7 seconds, top speed of 205 mph. But those were just numbers. What mattered was how it felt when you pushed it to the edge and held it there, dancing on that knife's edge between control and chaos.
The butterfly doors swung up with theatrical flair. He slid into the Alcantara racing seat, and the engine barked to life—a sound that bypassed the ears and went straight to the spine.
Los Angeles at 11:47 PM was a different animal than its daytime incarnation.
The McLaren prowled through streets lit by neon and ambition, its engine note bouncing off glass towers that housed the dreams and schemes of millions. In this new world, where powers had emerged five years ago, most people still lived ordinary lives.
Sure, every few blocks you might spot someone using minor abilities—a delivery guy making impossible jumps between buildings, a bouncer who could smell lies—but true power?
That was rare. Maybe one in ten thousand had anything useful. One in a million had something that mattered.
Jayden guided the McLaren through downtown with practiced boredom, his expression flat as he passed the clubs where wannabe heroes tried to leverage their C-list abilities for VIP access.
Past the financial district where he'd made three million dollars that morning while half-asleep. The city lights blurred together, meaningless streams of color.
Then he turned toward the real Los Angeles—the one that existed in the spaces between what tourists saw and what cops ignored—and something shifted in his face. The corners of his mouth twitched. By the time he reached the industrial district, a dangerous smirk had taken residence on his features.
This was what gave him life.
The Sixth Street Bridge had been rebuilt twice since powers emerged—once after a superhuman battle, once after an earthquake that might have been natural.
Tonight, its underside hosted something more primal than heroics. The gathering was already in full swing when he arrived, the concrete canyon beneath the bridge packed with machines built for one purpose: going fast enough to make death jealous.
Million-dollar hypercars sat next to garage-built monsters running on nitrous and hope. Smoke from burning rubber mixed with vape clouds and expensive perfume.
Bass from a dozen sound systems created a physical presence, a rhythmic pressure against the chest. This was church for those who worshiped at the altar of speed.
The crowd parted as the McLaren's doors rose. Recognition rippled through the gathered faithful.
"Jayden!"
"Yo, J-Cross in the house!"
"Finally, bro! Been waiting all night!"
Within seconds, they swarmed him—a mix of genuine racers and opportunistic leeches, all drawn to the gravitational pull of his bank account.
They slapped his back, bumped fists, shouted over each other. The logic was brutally simple: Jayden Cross wasn't the best driver here. He wasn't even particularly friendly. But he was a spoiled, filthy rich brat who threw money around like confetti and had a talent for causing exactly the right kind of trouble.
Case in point: this entire racing den was his creation. He'd bought the abandoned dungeon turned it into a complex six months ago through a shell company, paid off the right people to look the other way, and turned it into the city's premier underground racing venue. His playground, his rules.
"Yo, Jayden!" A guy with neck tattoos and hungry eyes pushed forward. "That party still happening after?"
"My boy!" Another racer, all fake smiles and real greed. "You got that special import coming tonight?"
Jayden saw it all—the hidden hunger behind their grins, the calculations in their eyes.
How much could they get out of him tonight? Drinks? Drugs? Maybe a loan they'd never repay? As if he didn't know exactly what they wanted from him.
He threw his arms wide, a foolish grin plastered on his face.
"Woooo!" He pointed at the night sky visible through the bridge overhead.
"We're gonna tear this shit up! Race now, rage later at the den! Everything's on me!"
The crowd erupted in cheers. This was the Jayden Cross they wanted—the reckless rich kid who'd drop fifty grand on a party without blinking.
"JAYDEN! JAYDEN! JAYDEN!"
They chanted his name as he slid back into the McLaren, all of them already looking forward to the party afterward. After his loss. Because that was the beautiful thing about Jayden Cross—he always lost.
Despite the million-dollar machinery, despite having every advantage money could buy, he'd find a way to lose. And then he'd laugh it off and buy everyone drinks.
A matte black Nissan GT-R pulled up beside him, its driver window rolling down to reveal a smirking face—Rico, one of the better drivers who actually had talent to back up his attitude.
"Ready to donate another ten grand to my fund, trust fund?" Rico's taunt was measured, careful not to actually annoy his friend just to make the crowd laugh.
Jayden revved the McLaren's engine, that same foolish grin in place. "You know what to do, Rico. Make it look good for the crowd."
Rico's smirk widened. They both knew the script. Jayden would push hard, make it exciting, maybe even lead for a while. Then, at just the right moment, he'd make a mistake. Shift a fraction too late. Brake a moment too early. Just enough to lose by a car length.
Everyone would win tonight. Rico would get his ten grand. The crowd would get their party. And Jayden Cross would get what he really wanted—to feel something real, even if it was just the bitter taste of another staged defeat.
"Let's give them a show," Rico said, rolling up his window.
Jayden Cross's fingers tightened on the wheel, that dangerous smirk returning. Oh, he'd give them a show alright.