Theodore stared at Michael, his mind struggling to catch up. "The government?" he repeated, the word feeling foreign and heavy. "Didn't I just tell you I lost my powers?"
Michael's smile was infuriatingly patient. "I know. I heard you perfectly," he said, leaning back in his chair. "But you're thinking like a hero, Theo. Not like a man. Let me break it down for you."
He gestured casually, as if drawing a map in the air. " As you know the heroes in Tokyo, they all fall into one of three camps. First, you have the corporation heroes. All flash and sponsorships. They help people, sure, but the bottom line is always the bottom line. The government hires them for work or when we're spread too thin. Most of them make their real money in the private sector—security, celebrity endorsements, you name it. That is where you have ben. One of the few truly powerful heroes in the sector."
He then pointed a thumb casually at his own chest. "Then you have the government heroes. That's me. We're the national defense force, the largest organized group in the country. Our strength varies wildly, from rookies on patrol to... well, three of the Seven Greats." He said it not with arrogance, but as a simple statement of fact. "It's structured, it's stable, and it serves the public."
"A third group," he continued, "are the freelancers. The lone wolves who don't want to be tied down. Most are mid-tier at best, but..." Michael's eyes glinted with respect. "...rumor has it some of the most terrifyingly powerful individuals on the planet hide among them, wanting nothing to do with our politics."
Theodore listened, the landscape of his old life laid out with clinical clarity. "A fascinating lecture," he snorted. "But it misses one key point: I have no powers. I don't fit into any of those camps now. I'm a civilian."
"I know, I know," Michael smiled, undeterred. "But who said you need power to do meaningful work?" His expression turned earnest, his brilliant blue eyes locking onto Theodore's. "The system needs more than just fists and energy beams to function. You don't need to be Aeon to be of use. You just need to be Theo."
"Theo?" Theodore recoiled slightly, the informal nickname feeling like an intrusion. "What are we, suddenly on a nickname basis?"
Michael shook his head, the dazzling smile returning. "I'm serious." He rose from his chair with an effortless, elegant motion, the very picture of health and purpose next to Theodore's broken form.
"You just focus on your rehab. Let me worry about finding something suitable for you. Your mind and your experience are assets that didn't vanish with your power."
He moved towards the door, pausing on the threshold. "And you never know," he added, throwing a final, hopeful glance over his shoulder. "Maybe you just need time. Maybe your power will come back."
Theodore said nothing, merely letting out a long, weary sigh as the door clicked shut. That was Michael in a nutshell: an irrepressible optimist to his very core, trying to plant a garden in a field of ashes.
Theodore was still turning Michael's proposal over in his mind. It wasn't a bad idea. The government offered structure, and his extensive, elite education from the Kimura family—strategy, logistics, criminology—was an asset that didn't require any power. A flicker of something resembling hope began to kindle in the cold emptiness within him.
It was extinguished the moment the door to his room swung open again.
Two men in impeccably tailored, dark suits entered, their presence sucking the warmth from the room. Behind them, a flustered nurse stumbled in, her face pale with apology and fear.
"I'm so sorry, Mr. Kimura! They—they demanded to see you, and they just pushed past—"
Theodore held up a hand, his gaze fixed on the intruders. A cold certainty settled in his gut. He knew these vultures.
"It is fine. Thank you for your concern," he said, his voice a flat, emotionless monotone.
"Are you sure? I can call security!" the nurse insisted, her voice trembling.
"It's fine," Theodore repeated, more firmly this time. "Can you give us a moment?"
Reluctantly, the nurse retreated, slowly closing the door, her worried eyes locked on Theodore until the last possible second.
The moment the latch clicked, the first lawyer, a man with a face as expressive as granite, spoke. He didn't introduce himself. There was no need. He was a functionary, an instrument of dispassionate corporate will. He retrieved a crisp stack of documents from his briefcase and placed them on the bedside table, just out of Theodore's reach, forcing him to pick them up.
"To the individual known as Hero Aeon," the man began, his voice cold and precise, devoid of any humanity. "You are hereby formally notified that your contract with the Kimura Association is terminated, voided effective immediately upon your receipt of this notice. All rights, privileges, and access associated with the identity of 'Aeon' are hereby revoked."
He paused, letting the words hang in the sterile air like a verdict.
"From this moment forth, the hero identity 'Aeon,' including all associated trademarks, public goodwill, and intellectual property, is the sole property of the Kimura Association. The Association retains the right to utilize, reassign, or retire the identity as it sees fit. There is no requirement for your signature. The contract is binding upon delivery."
Theodore simply nodded, the motion sending a dull throb through his skull. He had expected this. It was the first part of the script, the corporate severance.
Then, the second lawyer, a man with a sleazy, practiced smile that didn't reach his eyes, stepped forward. He placed another, thicker stack of papers on top of the first.
"And these documents," he said, his tone slick and condescending, "formally expel you from the Kimura family. Upon receipt, you are disowned and disavowed. You hold no standing, no lineage, and no claim to the Kimura name. Any future use of the family name 'Kimura' by you, Mr. Theodore, will be considered identity fraud and will be pursued with the full litigious force of the family. No signature is required. The disownment is effective immediately upon receipt."
This was the second, deeper cut. The personal one.
Theodore stared blankly at the two stacks of paper. His eyes drifted to the signatures at the bottom. The contract termination was signed with the sharp, aggressive stroke of his father's hand. The disownment papers were graced with the elegant, cold signature of his mother.
A strange, choked sound escaped his lips. It started as a disbelieving snort, then grew into a soft chuckle, which quickly escalated into full-blown, unrestrained laughter. It was a raw, hysterical sound that clawed its way out of his throat, echoing painfully in the quiet room.
The two lawyers exchanged a glance of mild distaste, as if witnessing a particularly undignified spectacle.
"We confirm you have received the documents. You have been served, Mr. Theodore. Goodbye."
They turned and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind them, leaving Theodore alone. His laughter grew even louder, more manic, the sound of a man who had just heard the most devastating joke of his life. It was a stark, horrifying contrast to the tears that now streamed freely down his face, carving paths through the bruises and bandages—the final, bitter proof that the hero Aeon was now well and truly dead.
Somehow, through a force of will he didn't know he possessed, Theodore's hysterical laughter died in his throat, leaving behind a silence that felt more deafening than the noise. The tears, however, did not stop. They were silent now, a relentless, hot flow of pure sorrow. His body ached from the convulsive laughing, a fresh, physical pain layered over his existing injuries, but it was a fleeting discomfort compared to the deep, surgical cut to his soul.
He tried to wipe the tears away with the back of his trembling left hand, a futile, childlike gesture. They simply kept coming, smearing against his skin and dampening the stiff hospital pillowcase.
"That's it…?" he murmured to the empty, sterile room.
No "How are you?" No "Are you hurt?" Not even a cold "Are you alive?" Nothing. Just two stacks of paper, written in such sterile, legalistic language that an AI chat bot could have drafted them.
The sheer, dehumanizing efficiency of it was so profoundly absurd that if it wasn't the most painful moment of his life, it would be the funniest thing he'd ever seen.
A fresh wave of anger, hot and cleansing, surged through the numbness. With a guttural roar that tore at his injured ribs, he swiped his arm across the bedside table, sending the two stacks of paper flying. They fluttered through the air like pathetic, weightless ghosts before scattering across the floor.
"Well, fuck you too, then!" he roared, the curse a raw, physical thing in the quiet room.
The tears still streamed down his face, but their nature had changed. The sorrow was being burned away, fuel for the fire now blazing in his eyes—a clear, sharp, and deeply rooted anger.
"I don't need this fucking family," he hissed, the words a venomous promise as a spike of pain from the outburst forced him to collapse back onto his pillow, spent.
In that moment, a final, irrevocable decision solidified within him. He would never use the Kimura surname again. It was a badge of ownership, not lineage, and he was no longer their property. He went a step further, a more personal severance—he vowed he would not use the first name his mother had given him, either. "Theodore" was a relic of a life that had never truly been his. He would need a new name. He needed nothing from them anymore. Not their name, not their legacy, not their conditional love. This, he promised himself with the last shred of his fractured will.
As the last of his angry tears dried on his cheeks, a new sensation began to bloom: a grim, unyielding resolve. He steeled himself, clenching his one good fist. He would endure this rehab. He would walk again. He would accept Michael's offer, or find another path, but he would get a job, build a life, and finally live in a way he had only ever allowed himself to fantasize about in his most secret, quiet moments.
The hero known as Aeon was gone. The son known as Theodore Kimura was dead. What emerged from this hospital room would be someone entirely new, forged in the fires of loss and freed from the chains of expectation.
After that thought left him and his rage finally subsided, a profound silence descended upon his mind. It was as if a giant, cancerous weight—one he had carried for so long he'd forgotten it was there—had been surgically removed. The phantom ache of its absence was a relief.
As sleep began to pull him under, its embrace felt different this time. It wasn't the chemical oblivion of the painkillers, but a true, weary rest. Whatever fragile, poisonous attachment he'd clung to regarding his family was now severed, the wound cauterized by his own righteous anger. The space it left behind felt clean. Empty, yes, but a holy emptiness, ready to be filled with something of his own choosing.
The burdens were gone. All of them.
The crushing expectation to be the perfect heir, the desperate hope for a shred of parental pride, the exhausting performance of being the invincible Aeon. In a strange, cruel, and beautiful way, he realized he had been his own jailer, clutching the keys to a freedom he was too afraid to claim. He had never been willing to let go—not of the hero's mantle, nor of the twisted idea of family his parents offered. Now, with the choice ripped from him, the chains were simply gone.
It was finally over. The war was lost, the banners were burned, and the territory he had been fighting for was revealed to be a barren wasteland. And in that utter defeat, he found his first true victory: liberation.
The knowledge settled over him like a warm blanket, and for the first time in years, Theodore—the man who was yet to be named—slept a deep, untroubled, and free sleep.