The Hero Who Died Twice

CONTENT WARNING: Suicide, suicidal thoughts, implied Sexual Assualt, Implied rape, and murder/ implied murder!

I’m the one they call when they need a hero.

“Oh, God, thank you. We’re saved. Look—look, everyone!” A woman’s voice cracks, raw with relief. Tears streak her cheeks as she thrusts out a trembling hand toward me, hovering above the waves. “It’s Valor!”

God?

Was it God?

Or the Devil?

Who marked me?

Why was I the one chosen for these superhuman gifts?

I hear the sirens grow louder as they get closer. The crowd of civilians grows, and they are mesmerized, getting the chance to see me live. I'd better feed them what they want.

“I’m here to save you?” Heroes smile. So, I smile wide.

Cameras are already rolling, and the news crews are outpacing the emergency vehicles.

The crowd cheers from the shore, and someone yells, “Valor is the greatest superhero.” I want to believe that.

I wave, saluting the crowd before I dive into the water and pull the surviving victims from the wreckage.

Their gratitude pours out in sobs, in desperate clutches at my arms, in the way they chant my name like it’s holy. Valor. Valor. Valor.

They think I’m their miracle. Their savior.

When the cameras are gone and the sirens fade, the smile dies. My face stiffens, my jaw aches from the performance.

No one cares about their hero afterward. I go home. Alone.

The house is quiet, locked up tight, just the way I like it.

The costume comes off first—dumped in a heap on the couch, the fabric still reeking of river water. I kick off my boots, don’t bother trying to turn on the lights.

In the kitchen, an envelope waits on the counter, bold red letters screaming through the thin paper: FINAL NOTICE. Another one sits beside it—DISCONNECT WARNING: electricity, gas, water.

I laugh, a brittle, hollow sound. I can bench-press a truck, but I can’t keep the lights on.

I grab a beer from the fridge—warm, because the power’s already cut once this month—and sink into the recliner. My phone buzzes with another headline: VALOR SAVES DOZENS FROM DOOM. Below it, an endless thread of comments. Worship, devotion. Memes of my smile, screenshots of me waving to the crowd.

They’ll never see this version of me. The one sitting in the dark, clutching a beer in a trembling hand, wondering if tonight’s the night I finally end it.

The pistol waits in the drawer beside me. One squeeze and the applause stops, the headlines fade, the mask comes off for good.

I imagine it sometimes—flames licking at my skin, the stink of sulfur, screams shredding the air like nails on a chalkboard. Or maybe it’s quieter than that. Maybe Hell is just this: an empty house, an endless performance, a smile that never fits. Maybe I’ve already been living there.

My fingers toy with the pistol in the drawer, tracing the metal like it might answer me. Would pulling the trigger send me straight down, or would I keep floating in the dark forever?

My jaw clenches. Part of me almost wants the flames. Wants to see if pain could feel honest, for once.

But then—

A sound.

Low. Muffled. Beneath the floorboards.

My eyes snap open.

The basement.

For a moment, I sit perfectly still, the quiet pressing heavily against my chest. Then I push the drawer shut, leaving the gun untouched.

I rise and cross the room, footsteps soft against the worn carpet. At the basement door, I rest my hand on the knob, listening. Another sound drifts up—a shuffle.

The world thinks I live alone as both Valor and Adam Creed.

And they’re right.

Except for what I keep locked below.

I fish the key from my pocket and slip it into the lock.

When I swing the door open, the smell hits me first—stale air, sweat, sex, death...fear. It’s thick. Familiar.

The light from the hall spills down the concrete steps, and there he is.

“Miss me?” I ask into the dark.

The boy in the corner lifts his head, eyes hollow, lips cracked. He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

Because this is the part no one gets to see, except for those who end up in this basement. Outside, I’m Valor, the hero; I save people. Inside…I am everything they fear. I close the door and lock it.

He flinches as I step closer. I notice the way his hands tremble, every muscle coiled and ready to bolt. But there’s nowhere to run so I unlock his restraints.

“Stand,” I say. His body shakes as he obeys.

I watch him, letting the smile spread across my face, the one no one outside will ever get to see.

“You know the rules by now,” I murmur. His eyes flicker to the floor, tracing the shadows on the walls. The fear, the shame, the helplessness—they’re all laid bare, and he can’t hide any of it.

He edges backward, pressing against the cold wall, trying to create distance, to protect himself in some small way. I'm not done with him yet, so there is nothing to be afraid of.

“It’s time to play.”

I circle him slowly, watching him calculate every option, every futile escape attempt. His eyes dart from me to the shadows, to the door, to anything that might be a way out—but there is only one way out: when I am through with them, they get a ticket to...do the ones I end up burying go to Heaven? What if they don't believe in God? What if they don't have faith in that Jesus fellow?

I'm taking their chance to ever learn about Him, so does He invite them into Heaven?

Doesn't matter.

I don't care where they end up. I know I've paved my path to Hell with their blood.

The basement is silent except for the faint hum of the lights overhead.

“You know better. Don’t try anything stupid,” I whisper. “You’ll just make it worse for yourself.”

He nods.

I drop my boxers to my ankles. My real work begins. I press my hand to his shoulder, guiding him down. His sobs echo in the basement, but before we can start our game, my alarm blares.

I growl, stepping back, pulling up my boxers. I bend down and kiss him on the head.

“The world needs me.”

I usually say something along the lines of, “I’ll be back soon,” but today, I…don’t feel like it. I'm too tired.

I throw on the costume, still grimy from the last rescue, tap into the speed of sound, and shoot out the door. The city sprawls below me, sirens mingling with the wind as I streak toward the burning apartment.

One by one, I drag them from the fire—children gasping, women weeping, men stumbling, even animals thrashing in terror. I reach the top floor just as the last child is trapped in a smoke-filled room. Time slows—every instinct firing. I burst through the door, hoist the child into my arms, and leap out a window just as the flames swallow the hallway behind me.

As I float down to the ground, I hear the police radios blaring different codes—numbers I don’t understand, but the urgency in their voices is enough. The air is thick with smoke and static, my cape dragging against the asphalt as my boots touch down.

The cops all stare at me, hands on their holsters, fingers twitching like they’re just waiting for an excuse. Their eyes don’t hold relief or gratitude—not this time. They hold suspicion. Fear.

“Don’t move!” one of them barks, his voice cracking through the chaos.

I freeze, lifting my hands slightly, palms open. “Excuse me, I just—”

“Shut it!” another cuts me off, his gun halfway drawn.

And then, over the screech of radios, a dispatcher’s voice cuts through, sharp and damning: “Be advised, suspect identified. Superhero Valor accused of abduction and assault. Possible murder. All units respond.”

Did I remember to lock the door?

Around me, the officers stiffen, their fear twisting into something else—determination.

“On your knees,” the first one orders.

My eyes dart to the burning building, then back to the boy in my arms.

“Release the child!” Another yells.

The boy squirms in my arms, coughing from smoke, and for the first time, I feel how fragile he is—how fragile they all are. I let him go, setting him gently on the pavement. A firefighter scoops him up immediately.

The crowd that once chanted my name is gone. In its place: silence, suspicion, whispers. They don't know what to believe. Cameras still flash, recording the downfall of the man they once worshipped.

I smile one last time for them. A hero’s smile. A liar’s smile.

And then I launch into the sky. Bullets chase me, sparks of gunfire against the night, but I climb higher, higher, until the city shrinks to a smear of lights—the air thins, cold in my lungs. My ears ring with the memory of their cheers, the way they used to call my name like a prayer.

I think of the basement. The lies. The mask I wore until it fused to my skin.

As I ascend toward the void, I whisper, “No more masks.” The stars stretch out ahead.

With every passing second, the air thins, each breath a sharp, hollow ache. The hero has long since vanished—strangled by the lies, the applause, the weight of expectation. And now…the monster follows, finally free in the emptiness, where no one can see, no one can judge, and no one can call my name again.