The city loved heroes.
Their faces smiled down from every screen, every billboard, every train station wall. Capes flowing, fists raised, slogans polished until they sounded like promises.
"Heroes Protect the People."
"Justice Never Sleeps."
"Peace Through Power."
Astra Vale used to believe every word.
He stood on the cracked sidewalk of District Seven, holding his little sister's hand as they watched the sky glow faintly gold in the distance. That glow always meant the same thing—another battle, another headline, another heroic victory.
"Big brother," Lyra said, tugging his sleeve. Her fingers were small, warm, and slightly trembling. "Is that a hero fight?"
Astra nodded. "Yeah. Probably one of the top ranks."
Lyra's eyes sparkled. "Do you think we'll see them on TV tonight?"
"Of course," he said, forcing a smile. "They always show the important parts."
District Seven was never one of those important parts.
The buildings here leaned like tired old men, concrete cracked and patched over so many times that no one remembered what they were supposed to look like. Power lines hung low. Sirens took longer to arrive. And when fights happened nearby, they always happened nearby, never here.
Astra had learned that difference early.
The ground shuddered.
Dust fell from the rooftops. Somewhere far off, an explosion thundered like an angry god slamming his fist into the earth.
Lyra flinched. Astra tightened his grip on her hand.
"It's okay," he said automatically, repeating words he'd heard heroes say on TV. "They've got it under control."
Another blast followed—closer this time.
People began spilling into the streets. Shouts echoed between buildings.
"Villain attack!"
"Get inside!"
"Where are the evacuation teams?!"
Astra looked up. In the sky above the city center, he could see them—tiny figures moving faster than sound. A man wrapped in sunlight punched something invisible. A woman with wings sliced through the air, leaving contrails like scars across the clouds.
Heroes.
Lyra stared upward in awe. "They're amazing…"
Astra didn't answer. He was watching the streets instead.
No evacuation drones.
No shields.
No heroes landing here.
The glow in the sky brightened. Then it shifted—tilted, like a spotlight turning in the wrong direction.
A voice boomed from above, amplified and calm.
"Civilian damage minimized. Redirecting impact zone."
Astra's breath caught.
"Redirecting?" he whispered.
The world screamed.
A beam of energy—brilliant, blinding, wrong—cut through the air and slammed straight into District Seven.
The explosion swallowed sound.
Heat tore through Astra's lungs. The ground vanished beneath his feet. For a moment, there was nothing but white light and pressure, like the world itself was crushing him flat.
Then darkness.
When Astra opened his eyes, everything was quiet.
Too quiet.
Dust filled the air, turning sunlight into a pale haze. His ears rang. His body screamed with pain, but he couldn't tell where it was coming from.
"Lyra?" His voice cracked. "Lyra!"
He pushed himself up, hands scraping against broken concrete and glass. The street was gone. Buildings were torn open like hollow shells. Fire flickered where homes used to be.
"Lyra!"
He saw her a few meters away.
She was lying still.
Astra crawled to her, heart hammering so hard it felt like it would burst. He grabbed her shoulders gently, desperately.
"Lyra… hey… wake up…"
Her eyes were open, staring at nothing. Blood trickled from her temple, dark against the dust.
"No," Astra whispered. "No, no, no—"
He shook her. Once. Twice.
She didn't move.
Footsteps landed behind him—heavy, confident.
Astra turned.
A hero stood there, armor scorched but intact. A blazing emblem shone on his chest. He looked down at Astra and Lyra, expression unreadable behind his visor.
"Civilian casualties confirmed," the hero said, voice flat. "Acceptable losses."
Astra stared at him.
"My sister," he said hoarsely. "She's—she's hurt. Please. Can you—"
The hero glanced at Lyra, then back at the sky where the battle still raged.
"Medical teams will arrive when the area is secure," he said. "Be grateful. This could've been worse."
"Worse?" Astra echoed.
The hero placed a hand on Astra's shoulder, firm and impersonal.
"She died for peace," he said. "That's something to be proud of."
Then he lifted off, soaring back toward the light.
Astra didn't scream.
He just sat there, holding his sister's hand as it grew colder, while above him, heroes saved the world.
Just not theirs.