The small nightgown lay crumpled on the floor, but there was no trace of the beautiful body it had wrapped around just a few hours ago. Billy rubbed the sleep from his eyes and glanced at the clock. Already eleven. He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, as if it might accuse him back.

  Eleven. Already eleven. Heroes were usually halfway through saving the city by now. Or at least brooding on rooftops. He was still lying in someone else’s bed, in someone else’s apartment. The bed still smelled faintly of her. Soap. Warmth. Something clean and precise, like everything else about her place. X-3-19. Even her name sounded like a serial number. Like a lab experiment. Like something that should have come with a warning label.

  One night stand, Billy Jones. Congratulations.

  Somewhere in his head, a voice cleared its throat. It sounded suspiciously like the comic nerd part of his brain, the part that never shut up, the part that cataloged panels and arcs and character deaths the way normal people remembered birthdays.

  With great power comes great responsibility.

  He groaned softly and pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes.

  Spider-Man wouldn’t do this. That was the first thought that stuck. Peter Parker, eternal screw-up, late on rent, late on dates, late for everything—but he wouldn’t crawl out of a stranger’s bed after betraying his wife. He’d agonize over it for six issues straight before even holding someone’s hand.

  Captain America definitely wouldn’t. Steve Rogers would look Billy dead in the eye, disappointed but calm, and say something about honor and promises and how a man’s word was the only superpower that really mattered. That somehow hurt more than being punched.

  Batman would just stare. No words. Just that look. The one that said he knew exactly what you’d done and had already judged you unworthy.

  Billy exhaled slowly.

  He wasn’t even in the same league. Not even the same genre.

  He tried to justify it. That was the worst part, how fast his brain jumped to excuses, assembling them like a sloppy retcon. He’d been lonely. Confused. His life was falling apart. He was in pain. Constant pain. Didn’t that count for something? Didn’t heroes break sometimes?

  Sure. But when they did, it was always framed as a tragedy. As a fall. As something to crawl back from. This didn’t feel like a fall. It felt like indulgence.

  Tony Stark would drink himself into oblivion, sure, but he’d also build a suit the next morning and try to fix things. Daredevil would whip himself with guilt and then throw himself into the streets until his knuckles bled. Even guys like Punisher (deeply messed up, walking trauma responses) had a code. Twisted, violent, but consistent.

  Billy Jones had… what? A headache. A bad conscience. A talent for running away.

  He turned his head toward the empty side of the bed. The pillow was cold. She’d left quietly. Of course she had.

  He wondered what kind of man she thought he was.

  Probably not a superhero.

  And that stung more than it should have.

  Billy had grown up with heroes. They’d raised him more than most people. While other kids learned morality from parents or teachers, he’d learned it from panels and speech bubbles. From characters standing over fallen enemies, choosing mercy when it would’ve been easier not to. From masks that didn’t make men liars, but better versions of themselves.

  Masks were supposed to hide weakness, not excuse it.

  He rolled onto his side, curling slightly as his body reminded him, rudely, that pain was still very much a thing. His joints screamed. His spine felt like it had been assembled incorrectly.

  Somewhere, Wolverine laughed. The imaginary version, at least. You’re overthinking it, bub. But even Logan, immortal mess that he was, had a soft spot for vows. For loyalty, and for lines you didn’t cross twice.

  Billy had crossed one.

  He almost laughed. A dry, humorless sound.

  What kind of man read about heroism his whole life and still failed the easiest test?

  No alien invasion. No ticking bomb. No impossible choice between saving one life or a million.

  Just temptation. And he folded.

  Maybe that was it. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be the guy in the suit. Maybe he was background radiation. Collateral damage. The civilian who learned a lesson the hard way so someone else could shine.

  This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

  But even civilians in comics had integrity. Even the nameless bystanders knew right from wrong.

  He squeezed his eyes shut.

  If heroes were defined by what they endured without breaking, then he’d broken over nothing. Over warmth and loneliness and a beautiful woman who had trusted him.

  The thought sat heavy in his chest.

  He didn’t deserve a costume. Didn’t deserve a symbol. Hell, he didn’t even deserve a decent origin story.

  All he had was guilt. And pain. And a very human, very ugly awareness of his own weakness.

  Billy opened his eyes again and stared at the ceiling.

  He had to find Vivian, fast. He tossed the blanket aside, got up, and grabbed his worn-out boxers off the floor, pulling them on. One more day didn’t really make a difference. Moving like an old man in pain, he went in search of X-3-19 and her miracle pills that would at least give him a few hours of pain-free existence. A queasy feeling spread in his stomach, sloshing back and forth with every step.

  In the bathroom, he was greeted by the pleasant, damp scent of soap and shampoo, but neither streaks on the shower door nor toothpaste splatters in the sink hinted at X-3-19's morning routine. Not even fingerprints shimmered on the metallic surface of the faucet as he lifted it and took a big gulp of water. Everything was spotless. Billy yanked open the cabinet above the sink without even glancing at the mirror and rummaged through the rows of items: floss sticks, disposable razors, deodorant, travel-size lotions, healing clay for extra-fine skin, liquid soap in bulk, band-aids, cold bath soak, and dozens of nail polishes in different colors. One in particular caught his eye: a rebellious, glittery shade called Not Your Princess! Then he realized the nail polishes were the only things that had been used. Everything else sat sealed and arranged like decoration on the shelves.

  He slammed the cabinet door shut.

  “Where the hell are those painkillers?” he yelled into the empty apartment.

  In the kitchen, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bread lingered in the air, but both were nowhere to be seen. Not a crumb in sight. Even the corners near the stove and sink were spotless, the walnut-colored laminate floor free of dust or dirt. The cleanliness was almost unnatural. Like a clean room in the factory, Billy thought, and suddenly, he remembered how strange his encounter with X-3-19 had been yesterday and how it all fit into the bizarre reality he now faced. Secrets, mysteries, and (bad) surprises were his new normal.

  What would come next?

  As he searched for the pain meds, he ripped open every drawer, finding (despite the previous tidiness) crumpled notes, dish towels, and eventually a notebook, which, on closer inspection, turned out to be her diary. He hesitated, staring at the little book for a long moment. Wasn’t this the perfect chance to find out if X-3-19 was really who she claimed to be?

  Billy pulled the diary out of the drawer but hesitated to open it. Snooping in someone’s personal life felt like a cardinal sin, he thought. Whether stranger or friend, privacy was privacy, and he had always promised himself to be decent about it. But his situation forced him down paths he never thought he’d take before. New paths, maybe the wrong paths.

  He needed to be sure who he’d trusted last night.

  Billy opened the kitchen window, but even the cold, fresh air didn’t ease the tightness around his throat, choking him like a noose as he broke his principles and glanced at the diary.

  Was there more to her strange behavior?

  What was X-3-19’s real name?

  Okay. So this is the moment when I’m supposed to stop. The point in the comic where the hero hesitates, the ominous music kicks in, and he says: no. This is as far as it goes. No further. Non plus ultra. Some lines aren’t meant to be crossed. Privacy is sacred. Trust matters.

  Is this really how I want to start things with X-3-19? Do I really want to screw it up with both women at once?

  Batman would’ve put the thing back. Captain America would probably have given a little speech. Spider-Man would’ve felt guilty, before not doing it anyway. And me? I’m standing in a stranger’s kitchen, holding the diary of a woman I just slept with, pretending I’m in some kind of noir investigation.

  I need answers, I tell myself. Sounds better than: I’m scared and I have absolutely no control over my life.

  This isn’t a hero thing, Billy. Honestly, it’s not. This isn’t investigative journalism, it’s voyeurism with good marketing.

  Billy flipped straight to the last page and found an entry she must have written last night, after he had already fallen asleep.

  His eyes darted over the lines.

  He was so absorbed in what was written that he didn’t hear a sliding door open in the other room. A moment later, footsteps. Then a soft clearing of the throat, so close that it finally pulled him out of the foreign memory, one that, in a way, they shared. Holding the open diary in both hands, he looked back and forth between X-3-19 and the words on the last page. His emotions swung between joy and shame.

  “You… fell in love with me?” he asked, stunned. “I’m the ugliest mofo on the planet, and you fell in love with me?!”

  X-3-19 held a full blister pack of the pain meds Billy had been longing for, the pills that could make his life bearable. She shook her head, though the gesture wasn’t an answer to his question. It was more a sign of her shock that he had been snooping through her things.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  All Billy wanted were answers. Answers to questions that made him feel like a madman every time he thought about them. Who had stolen a week of his life? Where had his car disappeared to? And what about that creepy, disfigured woman with her spindly limbs, who had looked like some sort of alien—and maybe she was. Why did the newspaper say Billy Jones was dead, when he was standing right here?

  Who was he, really?

  Everything that had happened yesterday seemed so absurd, he’d begun to wonder if X-3-19 was somehow involved. Involved in what, though? Some kind of conspiracy? With what purpose? To take his old life away and leave him alive, without an identity?

  But the secret diary had turned out to be no great revelation at all. It was just filled with harmless, hormonal scribbles. Stuff about how much she’d enjoyed the night with him. How lucky it was that they’d crossed paths.

  You stupid idiot.

  Guilt sank its claws into the flesh of his soul. Billy felt worse inside than he did physically. He had to be going crazy. That was the only rational explanation for his behavior, for his paranoid outbursts.

  “Why are you reading my diary?” Her blue eyes sparkled like diamonds in the cold kitchen light, filling with sadness and disappointment.

  Billy swallowed hard. “Because I’ve lost my mind,” he whispered. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go now. To my own funeral.”

  The young solar technician shook her head, half in disbelief and fully confused. Billy set her diary down on the kitchen counter and walked past her. But before leaving X-3-19 behind in her own apartment like a stranger, he grabbed the pain meds from her hand.