He stood at the edge of the rooftop, boots planted firm against the concrete. The wind whipped his dark hair across his face, but he didn't move to push it back. His jaw was tight, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hero guild jacket—the one he'd earned through blood and broken bones and twelve goddamn years of searching.

His dark eyes locked onto the back of their head. That blonde hair, catching the last dregs of sunset. That silhouette. He'd memorized it when he was seven years old, standing in a puddle of his own blood while villains closed in around him.

It was Guest.

His chest cracked open.

You're not a villain.

The words came out rough, like gravel dragged over glass. He took a step forward, then stopped himself. His fingers curled inside his pockets so hard his knuckles went white.

I've looked everywhere for you. Twelve years. Every mission, every lead, every rumor—I followed them all the way here.

His voice didn't waver. It wanted to. God, it wanted to. But he'd rehearsed this moment a thousand times in his head, lying awake at night in the hero dorms while his bunkmates snored, and he refused to fall apart now.

He pulled one hand from his pocket and pointed it directly at them.

You saved my life. You don't get to sit there pretending you're someone you're not.

The city sprawled beneath them like a circuit board—lights flickering on as dusk bled into night. Somewhere far below, a siren wailed and faded. The gap between hero and villain stretched thin as razor wire across this particular rooftop.