The Hero League’s regional headquarters stood as a towering symbol of order and hope in the heart of Crown City. Its sleek glass facade glinted under the midday sun, a beacon of opportunity for those who dreamed of heroism. For the young man standing outside, however, it represented something far more personal: his future.

  In one hand, he carried two black briefcases, their sleek design betraying nothing of their contents. In the other, a neatly prepared resume, slightly worn at the edges from his firm grip. His posture was straight, his white shirt crisp, and his dark slacks neatly pressed. He looked the part of a professional—but the tension in his shoulders and the subtle tremble in his fingers revealed the weight of this moment.

  Taking a deep breath, he pushed through the glass doors and stepped into the lobby.

  Crown City wasn’t like other places. It was a hub of superpowered activity, a city built on the foundation of heroism. Billboards and holographic displays lined the streets, showcasing smiling heroes in colorful uniforms. Names like Solaris, Iron Guardian, and Mistshade dominated the cityscape, their catchphrases and slogans plastered across advertisements for everything from energy drinks to insurance.

  This wasn’t just marketing—it was the result of decades of work by the Hero League and its vast network of agencies. These agencies acted as recruitment centers and training grounds for aspiring heroes, providing a structured path to join the League’s ranks. From the entry-level D-Class to the elite S-Class, the system ensured that only the most capable individuals could call themselves heroes.

  But capability wasn’t just about skill or determination. It was about power. To join an agency, applicants needed a superpower—not just as a tool, but as a safeguard. Superpowers acted as a buffer against the risks of the job, ensuring that heroes could survive encounters with villains and protect civilians effectively.

  The lobby was a polished hub of activity, its marble floors gleaming under the bright lights. Heroes in their uniforms moved purposefully through the space, their insignias and capes catching the light. A group of recruits gathered near a display screen, watching footage from a recent mission as they exchanged animated comments.

  The young man adjusted his grip on the briefcases, his gaze steady as he approached the front desk. A receptionist glanced up from her monitor, her smile professional but polite.

  “Good afternoon. How can I help you?” she asked.

  “I have an appointment with Mr. Carlisle at noon,” he replied, his voice steady despite the nerves simmering beneath the surface.

  “Name?” she asked, her fingers hovering over the keyboard.

  “Leon Hiroyuki,” he said after a brief pause.

  The receptionist typed quickly, nodding as she found the entry. “Second floor, Room 204. Take the elevator to your left. Here’s your visitor’s badge.” She handed him a small laminated card.

  “Thank you,” Leon said quietly, pinning the badge to his shirt. He turned and made his way toward the elevators, the hum of activity around him fading into the background.

  Inside the elevator, Leon’s reflection stared back at him from the mirrored walls. His sharp but unremarkable features, short brown hair, and neatly pressed outfit conveyed calm professionalism. But the subtle crease in his brow betrayed the weight of this moment.

  The elevator chimed softly as it reached the second floor, its doors sliding open to reveal a quieter hallway. Framed portraits of heroes lined the walls, their accomplishments etched in gold. Leon’s eyes lingered briefly on one in particular: Aetherion – The Pillar of Hope. The image of the smiling hero stirred something deep within him, but he forced himself to look away. This is your moment. Don’t lose focus.

  He adjusted the briefcases in his hands, straightened his tie, and stepped toward Room 204. Stopping in front of the door, he raised a hand and knocked firmly.

  “Come in,” a voice called from inside.

  Squaring his shoulders, Leon opened the door and stepped inside.

  The office was modest, its decor functional rather than flashy. A long desk dominated the center of the room, flanked by a row of chairs along the wall and a bookshelf neatly stocked with binders and reports. Behind the desk sat a man in his late thirties, his tailored suit crisp and the Hero League emblem pinned neatly to his lapel. His sharp eyes scanned a folder as Leon stepped inside.

  “Ah, you must be my noon appointment,” the man said, standing to extend a hand. “I’m Carlisle. Please, have a seat.”

  Leon shook his hand firmly, offering a polite nod before sitting down. He carefully placed his two black briefcases beside the chair, his every movement measured and deliberate.

  Carlisle sat down, opening the folder on his desk. “Let’s start here,” he said, glancing over Leon’s resume. “You’ve got robotics certifications, top marks in design, and an impressive list of completed projects. Advanced combat training, multiple martial arts disciplines, and even emergency medical certifications.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s an impressive skill set for someone your age.”

  “Thank you,” Leon replied, keeping his voice steady. “I’ve spent years preparing for this.”

  Carlisle continued reading, his expression thoughtful. “Judo, krav maga, aikido—you’ve certainly covered a lot of ground. And your robotics work... It says here you’ve designed and built your own systems. That’s not something we see every day.”

  “I’ve been working on robotics since I was a kid,” Leon said, his voice softening slightly. “It’s something I’ve always been passionate about. But I’ve focused on developing systems that can be used in real-world scenarios.”

  Carlisle sat across the desk, his sharp eyes scanning the resume in front of him with practiced efficiency. The room was silent except for the faint tapping of his pen against the folder’s edge. Leon sat on the other side, his posture straight, hands resting firmly on his knees. His breath felt heavy in his chest as he waited for Carlisle to speak.

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  “You’ve certainly put together an impressive resume,” Carlisle said finally, his voice measured. “Robotics certifications, advanced combat training, multiple martial arts disciplines—judo, krav maga, aikido—and even emergency medical response certifications. For someone your age, this is an impressive set of skills.”

  “Thank you,” Leon said, his voice steady despite the nervous energy coiled inside him. “I’ve worked hard to prepare for this.”

  Carlisle nodded, setting the resume aside. “It shows. But let’s make sure we have everything in our records.” He turned to his computer, his fingers moving swiftly across the keyboard. “I’ll pull up your profile.”

  Leon’s stomach tightened as he watched the recruiter type his name into the system. He knew what was coming—the truth always came up when the system flagged his profile—but that didn’t make it any easier to face.

  Carlisle’s brows furrowed slightly as the results appeared. His sharp eyes narrowed as he scrolled through the data. “Hmm...” he murmured, leaning back slightly. “It says here you’ve applied to every hero agency in every major city over the past year.”

  Leon’s grip on his knees tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. “That’s right.”

  Carlisle’s tone shifted, becoming more thoughtful as he continued. “East Wing, Southern Alliance, Horizon Corps... every single agency. And it looks like each application was rejected for the same reason.”

  He glanced up at Leon, his gaze pointed. “No superpower.”

  Leon swallowed hard, his voice quiet but firm. “That’s true.”

  Carlisle leaned back in his chair, folding his hands in front of him as he studied Leon. “I see. So, you’ve been through this process before.”

  “Yes,” Leon replied, his voice steady. “But I believe I’ve built a strong case for why I can still contribute as a hero.”

  Carlisle sighed, his tone softening slightly. “Leon, let me be clear: your dedication is impressive. The work you’ve put in to prepare for this is undeniable. But the League’s policies are in place for a reason.”

  Leon’s hands tightened against his knees. “I understand that powers are considered essential. But I’ve worked hard to overcome that limitation. My training, my knowledge, my technology—they’re designed to make up for what I lack.”

  Carlisle tilted his head, his gaze steady. “A superpower isn’t just an ability, Leon. It’s a hero’s most reliable aspect. It’s a talent that can be nurtured, trained, and strengthened over time—like a muscle. It adapts to challenges, grows when pushed. Machinery, no matter how advanced, doesn’t work that way.”

  Leon’s jaw clenched, his voice rising slightly. “But skills can grow too. Knowledge can expand. Machines can improve. I’ve spent years refining my suit to be adaptable and versatile—”

  “Machines can only go as far as their creator’s knowledge,” Carlisle interrupted gently but firmly. “They’re static. They don’t adapt on their own. They don’t evolve to meet the unexpected. And in a fight, when things go wrong—and they will—you can’t rely on something that can’t grow with you.”

  Leon’s chest tightened as the weight of Carlisle’s words sank in. “I’ve accounted for those risks,” he said quietly. “I’ve trained myself to adapt.”

  Carlisle leaned forward slightly, his voice softening. “I don’t doubt your ability to adapt, Leon. But you’re asking to enter a world where split seconds determine life and death. Where some of your opponents can level entire city blocks with a single attack. Without a power, you’d be going in with a disadvantage you can’t control. And if your suit fails—or worse, if you don’t have it when you need it—what then?”

  Leon opened his mouth to respond, but no words came out. He had thought about those risks countless times, but hearing them laid out so plainly made them feel heavier, harder to argue against.

  Carlisle leaned back in his chair, his tone tinged with regret. “It’s not just about what you’ve done, Leon. It’s about what you’re asking for. The League’s responsibility isn’t just to the heroes it recruits—it’s to the civilians we protect and the teammates who would rely on you. Without a power, the risks are simply too great.”

  “So that’s it?” Leon asked quietly, his voice strained. “You won’t even give me a chance to show you what I can do?”

  Carlisle hesitated, his expression conflicted. “I don’t need to see you fight to make this decision. You’ve done everything right, Leon, but the risks remain.”

  Leon felt his chest tighten further, but he forced himself to remain composed. He stood slowly, his hands falling away from the briefcases. “Thank you for your time,” he said, his voice carefully measured.

  Carlisle stood as well, extending a hand. “For what it’s worth, I believe you have the potential to make a difference—just not in this role. Perhaps you can take a look on taking a support role here at the hero league. Or perhaps take the path on become a police officer or a firefighter, they also have every right to be called a hero. But under good consciousness, ”

  Leon shook his hand, though the gesture felt hollow. He turned toward the door, his grip tightening on the handles of the briefcases.

  “Leon,” Carlisle said softly, stopping him just as his hand touched the doorknob. “I don’t take this decision lightly. You’ve done everything you can, and it’s not fair. But the world we’re sending heroes into... it isn’t fair. Please remember that.”

  Leon paused, his shoulders sinking slightly. He nodded once, then opened the door and stepped out, letting it close quietly behind him.

  As the sound echoed faintly in the empty hallway. He stood there for a moment, his grip tightening on the handles of the briefcases until his knuckles turned white. His chest rose and fell with deep, uneven breaths as he tried to steady himself, but the weight of everything pressed down on him, relentless and suffocating.

  This was it. His last chance. Gone.

  The realization hit him like a blow, and no matter how much he tried to resist, tears welled up in his eyes, blurring his vision. He pressed his back against the wall beside the door, his head tilting upward as if hoping the ceiling could somehow hold back the storm building inside him.

  What would they think? The thought came unbidden, sharp and painful. His parents—gone, but never forgotten—had always believed in him, always encouraged him to chase his dreams. But now, standing here with nothing to show for it, the shame was unbearable. He could almost hear their voices, offering reassurance, but it only made the ache in his chest worse. He’d failed them. He’d failed himself.

  A tear slipped down his cheek, followed by another, until he couldn’t stop the quiet sob that escaped his throat. He turned his face slightly, his shoulders trembling as he tried to hide his emotions, but the hallway was too quiet, the weight of his sorrow too heavy to conceal.

  Footsteps echoed down the corridor. A pair of heroes—D-Class by their insignias—walked past, their cheerful conversation fading as their eyes landed on him. They hesitated, their smiles fading as they took in the sight of Leon standing there, tears streaking down his face, his posture slumped in silent defeat.

  The younger of the two nudged the other, whispering something, and they both glanced back at Leon with looks of quiet pity. One of them opened their mouth as if to say something, but the other shook their head gently, and they moved on, their expressions somber.

  Alone again, Leon let out a shaky breath, his tears falling freely now. He wanted to pull himself together, to push the feelings aside, but the weight of his rejection was too much. All the years of preparation, all the sacrifices, all the hope—it had led to this moment, and it wasn’t enough.

  He slid down the wall, his briefcases clattering softly to the floor beside him. Resting his elbows on his knees, he buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking silently as he cried. For once, the world around him felt as cold and unfeeling as the rejections he’d faced.

  The hallway stretched on, quiet and empty, except for the faint sound of his grief.