"By the way, have the reports on that series of nighttime warehouse thefts come out yet?"

The man, wrapped head to toe in bandages like a mummy, asked. His trench coat and wide-brimmed hat only deepened his mystery.

Such a sight in the police archives room was no longer strange. Meteor showers had turned humans into Supernatural Beings. Outlandish outfits barely raised eyebrows—less shocking than carnival clowns handing out flyers.

"Yes. But one name will tell you who it was," the green-haired girl in the archives room replied, smiling contentedly.

"Who? That bastard father of mine—who might as well be dead for all I know?"

To him, his father was just a piece of trash who’d abandoned him. That betrayal had shaped him: becoming a Hero, yet also a detective-type Hero, chasing truths and criminals.

"Don’t joke, Mr. Question Mark. The keyword is *legend*. Legend."

The two simple syllables silenced him. He stared down, lost in thought.

Only two legends existed in this world. First: who truly stood at the peak of Heroes—not by scores, but raw power. Second: the identity of the city’s phantom, who’d vanished years ago.

"You’re sure it’s really him? Could be an imitator."

"Absolutely certain. Honestly, thanks for all these questions—it finally makes my archives job feel visible. Forget that! The facts: footprints on the ground, marks on walls, even the trajectory analysis of his punches. His signature never changes."

Her voice brimmed with awe. Such a report was bizarre. If the police’s urban legend was human, it meant that seasoned figure—unchanged for years in strength, speed, even movement—was terrifying.

"Like a robot," he muttered, flipping through files that matched decades-old records. "Who wouldn’t want to see his real face?"

"I’d love to meet him too. Maybe he’s some dashing, rich, handsome guy—charming, good-looking, loaded."

——————————————————————

"Tch! Die, rich handsome guy! Rich handsome guy! Rich handsome guy!"

Zeming was seriously annoyed.

His knife flashed, dicing the steak into perfect cubes. Years of practice made his cuts sharp and precise.

".........Zeming, are... you upset?" Eira whispered.

"It’s nothing. Just remembered... never mind."

The air was thick with awkwardness.

Vivian was at a kindergarten party dinner. Without her, their home had no conversation.

The date had been lovely. Tonight’s candlelit dinner promised the same—until that man showed up.

Dusk——————

A young, successful rich handsome guy knelt on one knee, proposing to his beloved. The setting sun haloed him, its rays glinting off a pigeon-egg-sized engagement ring like a falling star.

It was straight out of a cliché romance drama—a poor girl and a prince charming. Beside their perfect match, Zeming had braced to be the disposable side character, the mood-setter ready to fade away.

"Sorry, Yoderick. I’m married."

Eira refused.

"What? How! No... impossible..."

The man froze, shock stripping all emotion from his face.

Zeming noticed it—the sudden dimming in Yoderick’s eyes, a pain like an arrow through the heart.

"Calm down, Yoderick. I really am married... family reasons."

Eira blinked, her own heart aching with delayed sorrow.

Childhood sweethearts reunited, only to have that fragile hope shattered by his presence.

"I see. Of course."

Yoderick stood, smoothing his clothes before turning to Zeming.

Eyes were windows to the soul. Zeming saw despair, fury, and suppressed rage—but years of etiquette forced a mask.

"Hello. I’m Yoderick. Eira’s former... classmate. You must be her husband?"

"Yeah. Zeming. Nice to meet you."

Not nice at all. This situation sucked.

"This is my husband. We’ve been married two months."

Eira cut in, fearing trouble between them.

"Then congratulations on your wedding."

"Oh, it’s nothing—we’re just out strengthening our marriage."

"Is that so... Well... congrats."

"Yeah, thanks."

Zeming’s smile was tight. One more word, and someone might not survive the night.

..............

So awkward. A sudden confession. A sudden rejection. A sudden discovery that the love of his life had a husband. It was a disaster.

Yoderick turned away, hand pressed to his forehead.

"You... have a company meeting, right?"

"Right! Almost forgot. I’ll go. Drinks next time?"

Zeming seized the escape.

"Sure."

"Goodbye, Eira. Next time... never mind."

"Yoderick, you... be careful on your way."

Eira’s hand hovered mid-air, her gaze flicking to Zeming with lingering unease.

"Goodbye!"

Finally alone, they walked side by side—their first real talk without pretense.

"You’re thinking about Yoderick?"

Eira saw right through him.

"If I lied, you’d know. So yes."

"I’m sorry."

The apology stung his pride. What could he say?

"That makes me feel worthless."

".......Sorry."

"Do you still like him?"

Zeming didn’t love Eira. Their marriage was a contract—him hiding his marriage from parents, her concealing her job and family.

"Your steak is delicious. Your spice ratios are perfect..."

"Random praise feels weird. I’ll take that as a yes."

Zeming forced a grin.

"My parents are traditional. Thanks to them, I only ever held hands on dates. Don’t worry—I take marriage seriously. My old classmates joked I was an ‘iron virgin’."

Eira laughed awkwardly.

"Really?" Zeming leaned in.

"I’m not bored enough to joke about this. Besides... tonight, let’s drop the guards."

"What do you mean?"

"No chains. Sharing a bed without barriers. Just... trying."

Eira’s face flushed crimson. Of course—she’d understand heartbreak best.

"One blanket won’t work?"

Zeming grinned, baring his teeth.

"That’s my final concession. Don’t push it!"

This fierce side of her was perfect.

"Yeah, yeah. I’ll sleep soundly tonight."

Calm on the surface. But hearts churned beneath.

A promise-keeping first love had returned. How could a girl not waver?

Seeing the woman he was starting to care for get confessed to—any man would feel uneasy.