The storm of thoughts in Theodore's head raged for hours, a relentless cycle of regret, loss, and bitter liberation. Eventually, exhaustion won, and the sharp edges of his emotions blunted into a heavy, pervasive numbness. It was a silence within that was, in its own way, more unsettling than the pain.
The doctors and nurses came and went with a professional, detached kindness. They treated him like any other trauma patient, which was the first clue that his secret was, for now, safe. Whoever had pulled him from the rubble had chosen to drop him off anonymously, a ghost that had saved his life but preserved his anonymity
After two long days, they finally freed him from the rigid cervical collar. The removal was a careful, clinical process, but to Theodore, it felt like a sacrament. As the stiff plastic came away, the cool air on his neck was a shocking, almost forgotten sensation of freedom.
"There we go, Mr. Theodore," the nurse said with a warm, practiced smile. "You can finally breathe a little easier now."
"Like I said before, Mr. Kimura, your rehabilitation will be a long road," the doctor interjected, his eyes fixed on a tablet that held the digital record of Theodore's ruin. His voice was flat, reciting a list that sounded more like an autopsy report.
"Seven broken ribs, a compound fracture in the right leg—'shattered' would be a more accurate term—a fractured radius and ulna in the right arm, a hairline fracture on the occipital bone, and significant bruising with minor ruptures to several internal organs."
The doctor sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, a universal sound of medical disbelief. "Frankly, it's a miracle you're alive. You have a hero with potent biokinesis to thank for that. They stabilized you at the scene. If it had been anyone else… well, you wouldn't be here to have this conversation."
He finally looked up from the screen, his gaze direct and slightly probing. "You were in a medically induced coma for five days to manage the swelling and give your body a fighting chance."
"I guess I'm lucky," Theodore said, the words tasting like ash. His smirk felt brittle on his face.
"Luck had nothing to do with it, I assure you," the doctor replied sternly, not appreciating the gallows humor. "The force required to cause this specific trauma profile… I can't even begin to speculate."
"Didn't the one who left me here say anything?" Theodore asked, leaning into the role of a confused victim with genuine curiosity. "Who was it? The one who saved me?"
The doctor shook his head, a firm, final gesture. "I'm not at liberty to say. Your… benefactor… was very clear. They instructed us to notify them once you were stabilized and conscious. Now that you're out of the red zone, I will pass the message along. I believe they will want to talk to you."
With that, the doctor and nurse finished their final checks, their footsteps echoing softly as they left him alone in the sterile quiet.
Theodore stared at the ceiling, the numbness receding enough to make room for a deep, gnawing confusion. He had wholeheartedly expected to perish in that warehouse. His final attack wasn't a gambit for survival; it was a funeral pyre, a last, brilliant flash of light meant to ensure the darkness didn't outlive him. The only thing he had truly hoped for in his final moment was to drag the First Hand down to hell with him.
A heavy wave of sleepiness began to pull at the edges of his consciousness, a thick, chemical fog rolling in.
"These damn painkillers," he cursed under his breath. The medications were a necessary evil, damping the symphony of pain in his body but rendering his mind a sluggish, helpless thing. Resisting was futile. "Well, no point in thinking about it now. I suppose I'll know soon enough." He let his head sink back into the pillow, and the world dissolved into a dreamless void.
***
Theodore opened his eyes slowly, the sterile hospital light feeling less harsh than before. For a fleeting moment, there was peace.
"Did you sleep well?" a voice asked, smooth as velvet.
Theodore jerked his head toward the sound, a lightning bolt of pain shooting through his neck and making his vision swim with white spots.
"Ow, goddammit," he hissed, clutching his temple.
He turned more carefully this time. There, seated in the visitor's chair beside his bed, was a man so beautiful he seemed a trick of the light. He was engrossed in a magazine, not yet looking up. His hair was a cascade of golden blonde, and his profile was delicately refined, almost ethereal. When he finally turned, his eyes were a striking, gemlike blue, capable of disarming anyone with a single glance.
Theodore exhaled slowly, settling his head back onto the pillow. The pieces clicked into place with an almost audible snap.
"So, it was you," he said, his voice flat.
Of course, he knew. This was one of the "Seven Greats," arguably the most beloved hero in Japan, and a global icon. A man whose very presence felt like a benediction.
"Saint Michael. No… Hero 'Saint'," Theodore corrected himself, the title tasting formal and distant on his tongue. "I should have known."
Michael looked up, and a brilliant, sun-like smile spread across his face, so warm it seemed to physically brighten the drab room.
"Now, now," he chided gently, closing his magazine. "Didn't I tell you to just call me Michael? We're past the titles, Theo."
Theodore snorted softly. He knew Michael, all right. Their paths had crossed countless times, often on the most dangerous missions. In fact, Aeon's very first official assignment for the Kimura family had been alongside Michael. But after his unofficial exile, Theodore had deliberately withdrawn, building walls around himself. Part of it was his parents' toxic doctrine of being a solitary, ultimate hero. The other, more painful part, was the secret knowledge that his time was limited, and every friendship would eventually become a farewell.
"I should have known it was you who saved me," Theodore said, turning his head carefully to face the other man.
"There's no other power in the world that could have patched this up. Only you, the Saint, could perform a miracle like that."
Michael's smile remained, though it softened at the edges. "Well, of course I would help my friend."
That word—friend—stung with a sharp, unexpected pain. Theodore had never allowed himself to be one. He'd built his emotional fortress high and strong, knowing better than to let anyone past the battlements. Yet, it had never deterred Michael, whose persistent attempts at camaraderie were a mystery Theodore had never solved.
"Sigh… Thank you," Theodore finally said, the words feeling inadequate. "Although, I have no idea why you bothered."
"No problem!" Michael said, his cheerfulness feeling both genuine and overwhelming. "I couldn't just sit by and let one of the greatest heroes of our time die in a warehouse collapse. But you are lucky I was in the area. That final blast of yours was… spectacular. One hell of a BOOM!" He mimed an explosion with his hands, his expression one of theatrical awe.
Theodore managed a weak, pained chuckle. "Yeah, well. You know me. I like flashy endings."
Michael's own chuckle was a melodious sound, but it faded quickly, replaced by a more sober expression. "But those injuries…" he hissed, the memory seeming to pain him. "That was something else. I pushed my ability to its absolute limit, almost drained myself completely. And even after all that… I could only stabilize you. The rest is up to time and your own body."
Theodore tried to adjust his position, each movement pulling a sharp hiss of pain from his lips. He knew Michael's ability, "Sanctuary." It was less a healing power and more a form of divine grace—he could mend flesh, bolster the spirit, and smite evil. He was less a doctor and more a paladin from an old legend. The fact that even he couldn't fully heal the damage was a grim testament to the fight's brutality.
"I'm sorry," Theodore said, the apology strangely calm. "I didn't plan on making it out alive." He shrugged, a small, painful gesture, as if stating a simple, logistical fact.
Michael's brilliant smile finally vanished. His brow furrowed slightly. "What do you mean?"
Theodore hesitated, but Michael had saved him. Aeon was gone. What did it matter now?
"I lost my powers," he stated, his voice hollow.
Michael arched a perfect blonde brow. "Lost? As in, temporarily? Or…?"
"I'm afraid it's permanent," Theodore said, the finality of the words hanging heavy in the sterile air. He let out a long, weary sigh. "So, even if I wanted to repay you, I can't. From this moment on, the hero known as Aeon… is gone."
The tinge of sadness in his voice was not for the loss of power itself, but for the death of the hero he had been.
Now, he was just Theodore, a shattered man in a hospital bed.
"Are you sure?" Michael asked, his voice uncharacteristically soft, the usual brilliance in his eyes dimmed with concern.
"Yep. It's gone," Theodore confirmed, his voice a hollow echo. "My mojo is gone completely. And if you're asking how?" He let out a dry, humorless laugh. "I have no idea myself. It just… snapped."
Michael sat back, curling his fingers as he contemplated the impossible. The silence stretched, filled only by the steady beep of the heart monitor—a sound that now felt like a countdown to a meaningless future.
"So," Michael began, choosing his words with delicate care. "What will you do now?"
"Heal," Theodore said, the word a simple, stark goal. "After that… I don't know. I never actually thought I'd get this far."
He frowned, the lines on his forehead deepening as he tried to envision a life beyond the hospital room. "Find a job? A normal one. Maybe a waiter?" He laughed, a bitter, self-deprecating sound. "I don't really have any experience outside of… well, you know."
"But… you're the son of Solar and Nightingale," Michael countered, genuine confusion on his face. "Don't they have a fortune? Connections! Maybe they could even help you, find a way to reignite your powers."
Theodore's gaze shifted, and Michael saw it—a flash of profound sadness, instantly smothered by a cold, familiar rage. His banishment was a private affair, a dirty secret of the illustrious Kimura clan. To the world, "Aeon" was their golden child, the heir to a legacy of light. But Theodore, the man behind the mask, had been a closely guarded secret, and then, a disposable asset.
The "how" was a memory that still burned. A sterile office, his parents' faces not of comfort, but of cold calculation. The contract was simple, brutal: as long as his power served the family's prestige, he could wear the mantle of Aeon. The day the Ether faded, so would his membership in the Kimura family. No support, no name, no mercy.
He'd been naive, young, and desperate for their approval, signing it with a foolish hope that he could somehow cheat his own destiny. Michael was one of the handful of people who knew the truth, his identity, having stumbled upon it by accident.
"Let's just say," Theodore said, his voice tight with a regret that went bone-deep, "that is not an option."
Michael studied his face for a long moment, the pieces falling into place. "Huh," he murmured, a world of understanding in the single sound. "So that's it."
"Yep," Theodore exhaled, the word carrying the weight of his entire collapsed world. "That's it."
They sat in a comfortable silence. For the first time since waking up, Theodore felt a sliver of peace. There were no expectations here, no performance to maintain.
After a while, a new energy seemed to animate Michael. He leaned forward, the familiar, dazzling smile returning to his face, but this time, it was edged with something else—mischief.
"You know," Michael said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone. "I think I have an idea."
Theodore looked at him, his own confusion a stark contrast to Michael's sudden spark.
"What do you say," Michael asked, his smile widening into a brilliant grin, "about working for the government?"
Theodore could only stare. "The… government?" he asked, utterly bewildered. The path of his life, which had just shrunk to the four walls of this room, suddenly felt like it was veering into uncharted, and deeply suspicious, territory.