In a small, average apartment that smelled faintly of instant noodles and old wood, a young man with a tired face stood in front of a full-length mirror wedged between a cracked wall and a dusty wardrobe.
The morning light that leaked through the torn curtains painted faint stripes across his worn-out attire.
Oliver Grant.
His red hair was a mess—but in that "didn't try but still looks cool" way that made people double-take. His golden-yellow eyes had that natural gleam, like sunlight reflecting off the edge of a blade. His attire was simple — an old black hoodie, faded jeans, a backpack hung off one shoulder, and sneakers that had seen better days.
Oliver scratched the stubble on his chin, eyes half-lidded, and muttered to his reflection—
"Well… time to head out."
He swung his sling bag over his shoulder and gave the mirror a cocky, exaggerated wink. He stepped out of the cramped bedroom, tired sneakers thudding softly on the old wooden floorboards.
But just as his hand touched the front door handle, he paused.
In the cramped little kitchen, barely separated from the living space by a low counter, stood her—
Anna Rodriguez.
Slim. Curvaceous. Effortlessly gorgeous.
She had that soft caramel glow to her skin, the kind that made sunlight jealous.
Her back was to him, her hair tied up in a messy bun, a loose T-shirt slipping slightly off her slender shoulder as she stirred something in a small pan.
The warm scent of butter and garlic drifted in the air.
Oliver couldn't help it.
He smiled softly, shoulders helplessly easing as his eyes lingered on her.
She always looked good, even when she wasn't trying.
He always felt like the luckiest guy in the world to have a woman like her… sometimes too lucky.
Lucky enough that it scared him.
That maybe—just maybe—he didn't deserve her.
Quietly, he tiptoed forward, the way he always did, and wrapped his arms around her soft, curvy waist, nuzzling in to plant a kiss on her neck.
But this time—
She slipped out of his grasp like she was dodging a splash of sewer water.
"Ugh—Oliver!"
She squealed, pulling away sharply.
She squeezed her pretty face at him like he'd just sneezed on her food.
"Can't you ask permission before you touch a lady?!"
He blinked.
"Wait… what?"
His hands hovered awkwardly mid-air, still curved like they were trying to hold something. He stepped back a little, confused, watching as she stirred the pasta with a quick, aggressive flick of her wrist.
"Since when do I need to take permission to touch my own girlfriend?"
He asked slowly, trying not to let his voice sound hurt.
"When did that start?"
He laughed awkwardly, trying to brush it off, reaching for her again like it was all just playful.
But again—she batted his hand away like it was some annoying fly.
"Can't you see I'm cooking, Oliver?!"
She snapped, not even looking at him.
"I'm obviously busy. Just… take permission next time!"
Her voice dipped at the end, like even she didn't want to say the words.
Oliver stood still, very much lost.
"You looked disgusted just now. Like… like I made your skin crawl. When did that start…?"
Anna didn't answer.
She just turned off the gas cooker with a sharp click, dropped the wooden spoon on the counter, and stormed off toward the bedroom.
"I mean, look at this dump… look at what we're using to cook—like freakin' paupers. I'm so tired of all this garbage!"
She disappeared into the room and slammed the door shut with a boom that made the cheap walls tremble.
Silence filled the apartment.
Oliver stood there, staring at the door in emptiness.
And then… he smiled.
A strong, too-wide smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
He couldn't blame her.
They were both twenty-two.
They had dreams, plans, ambition—but none of that could be cooked into pasta or pay rent.
All they had was this apartment that always smelled like mildew when it rained, and his broken-down van parked downstairs that coughed smoke every morning.
And Anna's friends… most of them were dating or married to Hero Recruiters now.
Industry elites. Men with status, with money.
Men who flew through the skies and made headlines on a weekly basis.
Oliver? He was an underpaid recruiter.
He reached into the pocket of his hoodie, and pulled out a crumpled envelope.
Inside were two glossy tickets with a purple dragon logo stamped across them.
[Purple Dragons Concert – Regular Seats • $250 Each]
He had to borrow money from three people just to afford them.
He was going to surprise her tonight.
He pictured her excited face, maybe even a kiss on the cheek, the two of them jumping and singing to old songs they loved when they first met.
But now… now she wouldn't want to hear it.
He kept the fake smile on, but the cracks were showing.
His breath hitched as he folded the envelope and slipped it back into his hoodie.
"Maybe I'll show her when I get back…"
He whispered to himself.
And then, gathering every drop of courage left in him, he raised his voice toward the closed door,
"EVEN IF YOU'RE MAD, I LOVE YOU, SWEETIE!"
No reply.
With that, Oliver turned, yanked the door open, and rushed down the countless flights of stairs like he was running away from something that had already caught him.
･･･
━ Liberty City Streets ━
Oliver pedaled down the street on his rickety bike.
One hand on the handlebars, the other adjusting his crooked tie. The city roared around him: cars honking, people yelling, holographic ads lighting up billboards.
Above him, heroes soared across the sky like aircrafts.
Boom.
A streak of blue light zipped by overhead.
A thunderclap followed.
A crowd pointed up and cheered.
Oliver didn't even look.
His thoughts came were completely occupied.
『For a very long time now… the world's been ruled by capes, clout, and contracts.』
He turned onto another street.
『Heroes don't just fight crime anymore — they sell brands. They're streaming, modeling, merchandising. Every hero's a business. Every agency's a machine.』
He stopped at a red light.
A poster of a 10th ranked hero [Solar Beast] towered beside him.
[Brought to you by Moxie Cola.]
There was always a sponsor.
『And then there's the bottom of the barrel… guys like me. One-star agencies. The joke of the industry.』
His eyes dulled and dropped.
『I never awakened my Force-Gene. Probably never will. But I still wanted to be part of their world… somehow.』
Green light. He pedaled on.
『So now I'm just an underpaid recruiter with no powers, no clout… and no real future.』
His eyes dimmed even more.
『My life is unpaid commissions, drunk D-listers, and street fights streamed to zero viewers.』
HONK! HONK!!
A truck came screeching down from the left.
"Shit—!"
Oliver swerved just in time, barely avoiding the bumper.
The driver slammed the horn and flipped him the bird.
Oliver glared back. "Yeah, real mature, asshole…"
Up ahead, he spotted the JusticeFindr building.
Gray. Lifeless. Ugly.
Even the signboard looked like it gave up halfway through the job.
He parked his beat-up bike next to the rusty rack.
They looked like soulmates.
But then he froze.
A line of adults stood outside the building
Men and women dressed in crappy superhero costumes.
One guy wore a fishbowl for a helmet.
Another had a cape made from shower curtains.
At the far back there was even a guy who was literally in his underwear.
"What in the Walmart cosplay competition is this…?"
Oliver mumbled.
Ignoring them, he walked in.
The smell of coffee and broken dreams hit him like a truck.
The ceiling leaked.
The AC wheezed like it had asthma.
Dusty motivational posters from 2011 lined the walls like tombstones of hope.
The workers looked half-dead.
Infact, they were so old you could basically call the place a retirement home.
"OOOOLIVEEEERRR!!!"
He flinched.
"Shit—"
He dashed toward Mr. Dawson's office.
･･･
[JusticeFindr — Office of the Regional Manager]
The room smelled strongly of cigar smoke.
Mr. Dawson sat behind his messy desk — a fat, sweaty man with a rough, whiskey-rough voice. A fat cigar dangled from his mouth, looking like it was glued there.
But the one that caught Oliver's attention wasn't him.
It was her.
Battle Siren.
One of their only heroes.
And arguably the most "marketable" one.
Short blonde hair, sharp cheekbones, pouty lips. Her body was like it was carved from marble — tall, muscular, curvy in all the places that made headlines. And her outfit? A black, high-cut bodysuit that screamed "violation of HR policy."
The way her hips curved, the way her breasts nearly spilled out of the thin strip of fabric — it was practically illegal.
Then again, she was an R-rated hero.
Oliver saluted. "S-, SIR!"
Mr. Dawson puffed smoke.
"According to her, you've got opinions on her suit. That you don't like it. That true, intern?"
Oliver blinked. "Wait, what? That's what she said?"
Battle Siren folded her arms under her massive breasts that bounced and jiggled as she leaned in.
"Well? Do you hate my outfit or not?"
Oliver exhaled.
"No, I didn't say that. I just mentioned that maybe — maybe — the recent spike in crime has less to do with actual villains and more to do with… um, people wanting to meet you."
He coughed awkwardly.
"… and maybe get spanked by you."
Her brow twitched.
"That's such a stupid reason! How is that my fault?!"
Dawson didn't even pretend to look away. His eyes were locked on her… well, assets. Her bodysuit was practically just a thong from the back, and the way it wedged between those huge cheeks—
Yeah. Oliver wasn't getting paid enough for this.
He did his absolute best not to look as Mr. Dawson openly ogled Battle Siren's backside. The man wasn't even being subtle about it—chin resting on knuckles, eyes glazed like he was watching gourmet rotisserie in slow motion.
Oliver cleared his throat.
He adjusted his clipboard awkwardly.
"Look, um… I mean… is it absolutely necessary for her to always wrestle the villains?"
He asked, cautiously choosing his words like he was defusing a bomb made of ego and explosives.
"Like… can't she just, yunno, not suffocate every criminal by squeezing their face into her chest or grappling them between her, uh, sweaty thighs in mid-battle?"
Battle Siren turned. Slowly. Her eyebrow twitched.
Oliver winced but kept going.
This was him trying his best not to sound critical.
"I mean… she has sonic scream powers. That's ranged. That's cool. Maybe she can… like… keep her distance instead of turning every fight into a spicy WWE match?"
Battle Siren took one threatening step forward, fists clenched at her sides.
"First you had a problem with my outfit…"
She snapped, marching toward him.
"Now you've got a problem with my fighting style too?!"
Oliver instinctively stepped back.
"You're just an intern, fucking remember that! I have seniority! SENIORITY!"
She shrieked, stabbing a finger hard into his chest with every syllable.
He sighed. Softly caught her wrist and lowered her hand.
"I don't have a problem with what you wear, okay? I just think it's… kind of counterproductive. I mean, I checked HeroNet analytics this morning. Villain emergence is up eighty-nine percent. That's insane. And these aren't your regular lunatics either. We're talking Lube Man, Dominatrix Defender, Thigh Licker, The Scoundrel, and — get this — The Iron Nut."
"The… Iron what?" she asked, blinking.
"The Iron Nut…"
Oliver replied flatly.
"His villain profile literally says, and I quote, 'Battle Siren may stomp on my nuts to confirm their durability.' You can already tell what he has in mind."
Battle Siren's face squeezed.
She desperately wanted to deny it.
But when she turned around and caught Mr. Dawson — still drooling at her ass like a dehydrated golden retriever — her jaw clenched.
"Mr. Dawson!" she snapped.
The man jerked upright, hands flailing.
"Oh! Oh, uh—sorry! I was just… deep in thought!"
Siren turned back toward Oliver, face stormy but subdued.
Oliver exhaled and gave her a small, smug smirk.
"All I'm saying is… maybe I'm just a gentleman trying to stop women like you from being turned into walking fan service by the industry. Yunno. Protect your dignity. Keep you from being objectified."
Her eyes twitched.
"No. No, no, no!"
She took a step forward — and rammed her breasts directly into his face like a battering ram.
Oliver stumbled backward.
He practically choked on her sweaty cleavage.
"I don't need a man to protect my dignity!"
Battle Siren shouted.
"If I want to strut out there with my tits swinging like fucking wrecking balls, I'll do it! That's my agency! MY BODY, MY BOUNCE!"
Oliver facepalmed, thoroughly exhausted.
"Okay, you're… very confused. Like, I don't even know anymore if we're profiting off your hypersexual image in a historically sexist market… or if we're just riding the wave of self-empowerment culture while secretly enabling pervs."
BLAM!
Battle Siren slammed both palms on Mr. Dawson's desk so hard the pens jumped.
"I QUIT!"
She yelled, then spun on her heel and angrily marched toward the door.
"Wait—wait, where are you going?!"
Dawson cried.
"You can't just—!"
"I SAID I QUIT!"
And just like that, JusticeFindr lost the only halfway decent hero they had left.
There was a long pause.
Mr. Dawson slowly turned to Oliver.
"You happy now?"
Oliver blinked.
"Depends. Are we still paying Lube Man to livestream his crimes?"
"… Shut up, idiot."