The soft, golden radiance of the morning sun streamed through the bare windows of the apartment, painting a bright rectangle across the wooden floor. It was a beautiful, peaceful sight. The same rays, however, landed directly on Theo's closed eyelids like laser sights, pulling him rudely from the depths of sleep. As consciousness returned, so did a sensation that felt less like a headache and more like a miniature goblin was trying to chisel its way out of his skull from the inside.
"Ughhh," he groaned, pressing the heels of his hands against his throbbing temples as if he could physically hold his head together. Every beat of his heart sent a fresh wave of nausea and pain crashing through him.
"I drank too much," he murmured to the empty, accusing air.
But it wasn't just his head. His entire body protested as he tried to shift on the thin futon—his back ached, his leg throbbed with a renewed vengeance, and his neck was stiff. He had a newfound, profound respect for anyone who could sleep on one of these things regularly. As he moved his hand to the side to push himself up, his fingers brushed against something unexpected. Something warm. Something disturbingly smooth and… fleshy.
He froze.
Slowly, dread pooling in his gut, he turned his head.
"UAAAAAH!!" he screamed, scrambling backward so violently he nearly tangled himself in the futon and toppled over. "WHAT THE FUCK!"
Beside him, Michael stirred. "Ummm… is it morning already?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep. He rose slowly, the sheet pooling around his waist, his blonde hair mussed.
"Oh. Morning, Theo. Did you sleep well?" He stretched his arms above his head with a contented sigh, completely at ease.
"Motherfucker! WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?" Theo roared, his voice cracking from the hangover and the shock.
"Sleeping? Waking up?" Michael said, as if stating the most obvious facts in the world. He blinked his stunning blue eyes, genuinely confused by the outburst.
"No, you asshole, I can see that! But why? WHY ARE YOU IN MY APARTMENT? AND WHY ARE YOU NAKED?" Theo's voice was reaching a hysterical pitch. He pointed a trembling finger at Michael's exposed torso.
"Ah, this?" Michael glanced down at himself as if noticing his state of undress for the first time.
"You drank a truly heroic amount for a beginner. You were in no state to be left alone. It was so late, I just decided to stay. It seemed like the friendly thing to do."
"WHY. ARE. YOU. NAKED???" Theo repeated, each word a seething punctuation of horror.
"Oh." Michael finally stood up, completely and utterly naked, as comfortable as a Greek statue. "I just can't sleep with clothes on. They're so restrictive. It feels… unnatural." He said it with the same earnest conviction someone might use to explain a deeply held philosophical belief.
Theo, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated horror, snatched the nearest pillow and hurled it with all his weakened strength.
"Cover yourself! For god's sake, man! Have some decency!"
Michael caught the pillow with a lazy hand, holding it in front of himself without a hint of shame. "Yes, yes, I'm going, I'm going. Edgy in the morning, are we?"
Theo didn't respond. He simply sank back onto his futon, dragged his hands down his face, and let out a long, soul-weary groan.
After a tense and awkward half-hour, both men were finally decent. Michael, looking as impeccably put-together as if he'd stepped out of a salon, was ready to depart.
"Now," Michael said, slipping on his perfectly polished shoes by the door, "here is the address. You need to be there tomorrow morning at 7 a.m. Your official shift starts at 8 a.m. sharp, but I want you there early to get settled. First, you'll meet your team, get to know them, and then we can start your first practice run, so to say." He winked. "A trial by fire, but without the actual fire. Probably."
"Cant wait…" Theo muttered, the unease in his voice palpable. The combination of his pounding hangover and the impending meeting with a team of reformed villains was doing nothing for his nerves.
"It will be fine," Michael reassured him, his smile a beacon of forced confidence. "You are not the first, nor will you be the last, to participate in a program like this with former villains. It's a well-established protocol."
Theo's eyes narrowed. "Was any of it... successful?"
Michael's smile tightened at the corners. "....More or less?" he offered, his voice pitching upwards as if it were a question. He adopted a thoughtful, slightly questioning expression, tapping a finger on his chin. "It will be fine... I think."
"Inspiring," Theo deadpanned.
"Anyway, enjoy your free day! And I'll see you tomorrow. Don't be late!" Michael said, his cheerfulness forcibly restored as he handed Theo a crisp, black business card with an address embossed in silver. "The security is very strict. You'll need this to get past the front gate. Oh! And take this phone."
"Sigh. Fine. I'll see you tomorrow," Theo conceded, taking the card and the phone.
„My number is already in it"
With a final, brilliant smile, Michael slid into the back seat of his waiting car and was whisked away, leaving Theo standing alone on the sidewalk. He scratched his head, the morning's surreal events and the lingering headache creating a fog of bewilderment.
"Well, no point in mulling over it. I'll understand everything tomorrow, for better or worse," he said to the empty street, before turning and heading back inside.
Determined to reclaim some sense of control, Theo began the daily routine he had established in the hospital. The empty living room became his makeshift gym. He started with careful, deliberate stretches, his right leg protesting with a familiar, dull ache as he tested its limited range of motion.
His right arm, however, had healed much better. He moved on to light push-ups, his form careful and controlled, and a series of abdominal crunches. It was a far cry from the intense, power-enhanced training of his past, but it was something.
He caught his reflection in the dark glass of the sliding door. His physique was still lean, a ghost of the powerful build he'd once maintained. The well-defined muscles of Aeon had softened, leaving behind a body that was functional but carried the undeniable evidence of his ordeal—a canvas of fading scars over a frame that had lost significant mass and cardio endurance.
A grim determination settled on his face. He would have to work harder than ever if he wanted to rebuild himself, not as a hero, but as a man who could at least stand on his own two feet without a cane.
After finishing his morning exercises, a dull, hollow ache in his stomach growled in loud protest. The lingering burn of the whiskey had long since faded, leaving behind only a raw emptiness. He shuffled to the refrigerator, its hum the only sound in the sparse apartment, and pulled the door open.
The interior was a bleak landscape of white plastic, illuminated by a single, lonely bulb. As expected, the only occupants were the nearly empty carton of orange juice and the half-depleted bottle of whiskey, standing like a monument to last night's poor decisions.
"Who in their right mind stores whiskey in a fridge?" Theo muttered, shaking his head in a mixture of amusement and despair. Michael's logic was, as always, uniquely his own.
With the fridge offering no salvation, the reality of his situation settled in. He needed food, and he needed it soon. His gaze swept across the apartment. The morning sun, which had felt so intrusive earlier, now highlighted the sheer emptiness of the space. The beautiful wooden floors were bare, the walls were blank, and the rooms echoed with every small sound. It was a shell, not a home. Yet.
"I need to fill this place up a bit," he announced to the silence. "At least a TV would be good, for some noise. And a proper couch. But first, definitely a real bed. I'm already developing a deep, personal hatred for futons." He stretched, his back popping in a dozen places, reinforcing his resolve.
Getting ready was its own sobering ordeal. He opened the small duffel bag Michael had provided upon his hospital discharge. Inside were a few pairs of simple, functional clothes—a far cry from the tailored suits and custom-made hero gear of his past. He had nothing of his own. Every sock, every t-shirt, was a gift, a reminder of his utter dependence.
"Sigh. All of this is going to absolutely annihilate my savings," he calculated, mentally tallying the cost of furniture, groceries, and a new wardrobe. The number was daunting. The Kimura fortune was a distant, locked vault, and the small fund he'd secured for himself felt frighteningly finite.
With a deep breath, he took hold of his cane, its familiar weight both a comfort and a curse.
First, he navigated his new neighborhood, leaning heavily on his cane as he consulted the smartphone's glowing map. He eventually found a small, unassuming eatery tucked between a laundromat and a bookshop. The air inside was rich with the scent of miso and grilling fish. He ate a simple breakfast of tamagoyaki and rice, the warm, light food settling his stomach and feeling like the first truly nourishing meal of his new life. He asked the server for recommendations, and the man kindly pointed him toward a small, practical mall a few bus stops away.
The journey was an ordeal in itself. Navigating the steps onto the public bus, finding a seat that could accommodate his stiff leg, and enduring the lurching stops and starts—it was a humbling experience for a man who used to soar above the city's traffic. By the time he reached the mall, a dull throb had set deep into his hip.
He moved through the stores with a slow, deliberate pace, the sheer act of browsing for essentials—underwear, socks, a few plain shirts, and a single pot for cooking—feeling strangely monumental. The simple act of choice, of picking out a towel based on his own preference rather than a family standard, was both liberating and exhausting.
He returned home hours later with just one heavy bag of necessities, his body screaming in protest. The worst part wasn't the pain itself, but the time it had stolen from him; a simple errand had consumed his entire day.
"This damn leg," he sighed, shaking his head as he finally unlocked his apartment door, his body spent and his spirit weary.
He put the meager groceries away in the barren fridge and collapsed onto the floor, pulling out his phone. Needing a distraction from the looming anxiety of tomorrow, he decided to confront another life skill he'd never needed: cooking.
After watching a few clumsy tutorials, he produced a sad, overcooked piece of fish and some clumpy rice. He forced himself to eat it, each bland, dry bite a stark reminder of his incompetence.
"Fuck, that was horrible," he laughed, a dry, self-deprecating sound in the empty apartment. The laugh was better than the alternative—despair.
His eyes drifted to the refrigerator. With a sigh of resignation, he retrieved the whiskey, poured a generous measure into a glass, and, with considerable difficulty, maneuvered himself to sit on the small patch of grass in his private garden.
The earth was cool and solid beneath him. He took a slow sip, the familiar warmth spreading through his chest, and gazed up at the sky as it bled from orange to deep crimson.
Tomorrow was his first day. The thought was terrifying, exhilarating, and utterly inescapable. He sat there in the growing dusk, a man between lives, waiting for the sun to set on the last day of his past.