Life is like a bowl of instant noodles. At first, the slightly firm texture combines wonderfully with the rich broth—each bite full of flavor, satisfying, and unforgettable. But after a while, the noodles start to soften, losing their chew and charm. As time goes on, the noodles overstay their welcome, collapsing into a mushy, overly soggy mess. The soup gets absorbed, leaving them with a tofu-like blandness. By then, all the passion and appeal have long faded.

And such noodles? Hardly a joy anymore.

Why am I rambling about noodles? Honestly, this comparison is little more than a prelude—a metaphorical appetizer for the story of my life. You wouldn't believe the connection I share with noodle metaphors.

Several years ago, I was just a naïve geek, the type you'd call a shut-in nerd.

I spent days cocooned at home, friends only with video games and anime. Schools detested ordinary, talentless kids like me—especially ones who loathed studying. Yeah, I dropped out. True, I managed a middle-tier grade in the college entrance exams eventually, but my academic ship had long sailed.

Time shifted the world faster than anyone could predict.

Back then, the word "Hero" began to circulate globally, as though whispered by winds of evolution. No one knew what sparked it, and experts were useless. Those with Supernatural Powers—heroes and criminals alike—spread like wildfire, an uncontrollable epidemic.

As for me? I remained hero-less, power-less, and ordinary, navigating life in blissful mediocrity. It's funny how trends engulf even the irrelevant bystanders, like an unstoppable tide dragging along sacrificial lambs.

One day, on my way home clutching a much-anticipated game, I daydreamed about immersing myself in its new world, plugging that hard drive into my computer—the ultimate moment of pure gamer joy. Minutes later, fate flipped the script.

They kidnapped me.

A group of men in black uniforms adorned with aggressive red "S" emblems—looking as obnoxious as wannabe BDSM enthusiasts—snatched me off the street. They dragged me to a lab, and while I was knocked out, they subjected my body to near-total modification. Nearly ninety percent of me became machine.

I wasn't entirely destroyed, though—not mentally and not... reproductively. My brain and... er, "family heirlooms" remained untouched (thank heaven). It wasn't until much later that I realized, the ability to think freely and savor life's smaller pleasures are humanity’s true treasures.

They turned me into a warrior—someone capable of transforming. My gear resembled a biker's uniform instead of the grotesque "cape and underwear-on-the-outside" look, thank goodness. Oh, and imagine living masked forever, unable to even kiss someone without a barrier. Life in hero gear means zero intimacy.

Initial plans were devilish. They wanted me as a knight of darkness, doing their dirty work. Sound familiar? We've all heard of the "evil knight script." It hardly mattered, though, because absurdity struck.

One researcher was eating spicy-flavored instant noodles near the control machine overseeing my modifications. As they slurped carelessly, a single bead of broth fell, sizzling against the controls.

Boom.

Explosion of the century. Everything went up in smoke, including the system tethered to my free will. So, I shouted my name—“Zeming Han III has returned!”—and bolted.

Turns out, I didn’t need cinematic choreography or battles of epic proportions to end the villainy. A factory-wide explosion annihilated the entire organization. Sole survivor? Yours truly.

I stumbled home expecting sympathy—confessions of worry and tears of joy. Instead? Nothing. Just the usual level of indifference, friends assuming I'd been lost in another gaming binge.

That hurt. Really did.

But life goes on. I waited in paranoia for revenge that never came. Nobody from the organization lived to come after me. Left with seemingly limitless powers, I begrudged my way onto the same road as other heroes.

Life became a bizarre mix of crime-fighting, epic battles, casual gaming, odd jobs at convenience stores, and aimless patrols. With no real responsibilities or oversight, my existence danced on the thin edge of rebellion and heroism.

These modifications made me nearly invincible—not quite “one punch man” strong but close. I actually earned the title of legendary Hero. But you know what I didn’t do? Official registration as a hero with the government. Bills and rules couldn’t entice me. Time was more precious.

For one, government sponsorship meant I’d become a salaried cog, forced into the grind whenever deemed necessary.

Second, payment depended on some point-scoring system. No daily punches, no penny. I couldn't bend my gaming schedule for arbitrary “hero events.”

Third, being chained to bureaucracy sounded like hell. I liked my freedom.

Still, life began to blur. Saving lives meant little when nobody cared about the savior. Even the day I single-handedly prevented massive destruction, my reward was silence.

The headlines?

“Once-in-a-generation Hero Organization Holds Grand Inaugural Party atop Jewel Tower!”

That day spelled my retirement from heroism.

I’d wasted years, saved the world... and realized I owned nothing: no close friends, no passions—just mind-numbing games, now devoid of joy.

Maybe it was time to stop hiding. Maybe I needed to reach out and form real connections.

So, I asked my dad for help. He found me a job at a local martial arts academy for aspiring heroes. Teaching overconfident superpowered teenagers? Not so bad. They didn’t require fancy degrees—as long as I could fight, I’d do just fine.

Of course, nobody else wanted the job. But the reason behind that? Well, that’s for later.

One day, Dad barged into my apartment unannounced. "Son, it’s about time. You need to get married."

"Seriously? You’re just trying to get grandkids," I shot back. "I don’t even have a girlfriend. You can’t force me into marriage!"

“Boy, who do I care about if not you? You think I’d let my son rot away like a leftover sandwich?”

“Then you understand me, Dad.” I tried soothing him, pretending I’d pour him some tea.

“Understand you? Sure! Now hurry up—I’ve already fixed your wedding. It’s with that childhood betrothal girl. Remember her?”

I froze. My hand wavered.

“No tea then?”

“No tea. You sold it—same way I sold you off for marriage.”

“What?! I’m locking myself in my room, Dad. I won’t let you in if you try to mess with my life. Push me, and I might just—”

He cut me off before I could finish that theatrical “I’ll die protesting” spiel.

Without missing a beat, he flung several flash drives onto the table, smugly tilting his head with victorious amusement.

“See these? Middle school videos—your ‘dark knight’ era. Remember those cringe transformations you recorded? Not deleting them was a masterstroke of parenting.”

"One punch’ll smash them..."

He barked a challenge. “Punch away!”

I raised my fist. Yet, before it landed, Dad pulled up his jacket, showing a stash of even more drives. He had that unholy smirk, like a train-station vendor hawking fake watches.

“Family legacy, son. Computers. Hardware, software, and, of course, U-drives filled with golden material.”

... He. Played. Dirty.

Fast-forward to now, though. Life’s taken an unusual turn.

“Do you remember the first time we met?” Zeming asked his wife while scrolling through his phone and lounging on their bed.

Eira, reclining beside him in a gossamer slip-dress, gracefully flipped the pages of “A Commander’s Guide to Self-Mastery.” Her serene devotion to reading mesmerized him, her body cloaked in an ethereal aura. Watching her felt like drinking in moonlight—beautiful, endless, and soothing. If only he could reach out, brush his fingertips across her skin...

Except, for some reason, a set of chains bound Zeming's hands. Between them, a comically oversized pillow sat, separating these "newlyweds" like some marital barrier.

“You were even more nervous than me back then—shy beyond belief,” Zeming teased.

“Well, of course,” she replied without looking up. “I'd never had a close encounter with anyone from the opposite sex, let alone someone as awkward as you.”

She tilted her book slightly and gave him the faintest glance, her intoxicating gaze cutting him off mid-thought. The volume of her unspoken words was deafening.

“You really don’t want to talk about it, huh?” Zeming ventured.

“It’s not important,” she muttered, brushing a strand of hair from her face as her cheeks flushed ever so slightly.

She returned to her book while Zeming shrugged it off, shaking his head with a weak smile.

"You were hiding your identity, trying to preserve the façade. I went through it to avoid rocking the boat with my family—and let’s face it, to keep Dad from leaking my embarrassing past. Honestly, we’re the perfect match. What better pair?”

Self-mockery suited him. After all, even as one of the world’s trending elite Heroes, he remained little more than fate's punching bag.

Eira closed the book softly, careful not to make noise. She leaned over Zeming to turn off the bedside lamp. Kreek—click. Darkness blanketed the room.

Lingering for a heartbeat longer before lying back down, her flushed face hovered above Zeming's peacefully slumbering expression.

“That day... I was nervous too,” she whispered. “It was my first time being so close to someone my age.”

As the words melted away, Eira burrowed deeper beneath the blankets, curling into herself as though preserving her secret. Her skin radiated warmth amidst the cool night air, leaving her powerless against the lull of exhaustion.

背对背，两个心却远远靠近。

Back to back, their hearts silently drew closer.