BLOODCAPE
Chapter 118: Heroes Don’t Blink

Chapter 118: Chapter 118: Heroes Don’t Blink

The hallways of HeroCorp HQ didn’t echo.

Too much money had been spent on hush-padding, pressure sealants, privacy-grade walling. Sound died quietly here — swallowed like secrets.

Hernan walked with his hands at his sides, boots clean, uniform pressed, the singe marks from District 4 buffed out. He didn’t recognize the hallway they’d escorted him to. That was deliberate. No nameplates. No windows. Just a corridor designed to erase footsteps.

Two guards opened the final door without a word.

He stepped inside.

The room was long, narrow, and freezing — more like a corporate war room than a hero operations center. White lights. Silver trim. One rectangular black table stretching too far, like it had grown until it swallowed the space.

At the far end sat Director Krane.

White suit. Sharp wireframe glasses. Thin hands folded in front of a datapad. His skin was so pale it looked powdered, like someone had removed the blood to save on warmth.

He didn’t stand when Hernan entered. Just looked up with the kind of smile they teach in diplomacy drills.

"Mr. Vale," Krane said smoothly. "Take a seat."

Hernan sat.

No one else in the room. No camera. Just him, the director, and the cold.

"You handled yourself well yesterday," Krane said. "The firestorm footage peaked at 9.6M streams in twenty-four hours. Triple our projections."

"Thank you, sir," Hernan replied. He kept his tone flat. Slightly humble.

"You looked natural," Krane said, tapping the edge of his datapad. "You looked... coached."

A pause.

Not an accusation.

An invitation.

Hernan didn’t take it. "I was just following Virex’s lead."

Krane’s smile twitched. Not quite a smirk. More like a mouse catching the scent of a trap and liking the risk anyway.

"You know how rare it is for a first-year intern to outshine his mentor on a mission broadcast?" he asked. "Especially when that mentor is a Zodiac?"

"I didn’t mean to," Hernan said.

"Of course you did," Krane said, amused. "You’re too smart not to. But I don’t mind. The narrative needs younger blood. Older capes don’t test well with the under-25 demographic. You — you test exceptionally."

He leaned back in his chair.

The datapad folded into his palm.

Then he looked directly at Hernan.

"Was the fire real?"

Hernan blinked. "Sir?"

"Don’t play dumb. You know exactly what I’m asking." Krane’s voice softened. "Were the civilians ever actually in danger? Or was that just Virex working his usual... calibration?"

Tension coiled in Hernan’s gut. But he didn’t move. Didn’t show it.

Instead, he smiled. Like it was obvious.

"Sir," he said calmly, "you’ve seen the footage. The flame patterns were wide-sweep dispersals — crowd-control, not lethal bursts. Ashvein’s power curve showed restraint. No direct attacks on personnel. None on me. Virex had it pegged the whole time."

Krane didn’t blink. "And the woman on the fire escape?"

"She wasn’t on any threat axis," Hernan said, still steady. "She was screaming for her lost phone. I checked."

A beat of silence.

Then: "Good."

Krane folded his hands again.

Hernan wasn’t sure if he’d passed the test — or just confirmed the question was never about truth.

"We’re adjusting your press docket," Krane said. "You’ll be added to three evening segments. No interviews yet. You’re best unscripted — too much polish would make you look rehearsed."

"Understood."

"Oh, and one more thing," Krane added, tapping a button on the table. A holopanel opened — showing a freeze-frame of Hernan crouched over Ashvein’s body, just before Virex touched his shoulder. "That moment. You hesitated. Just slightly. You were deciding what the public should see."

Hernan’s throat felt dry, but he nodded slowly. "Yes."

"That instinct," Krane said, "is exactly why you’re here."

Then, with surgical casualness:

"Next time? Give us a wider sweep on the takedown frame.If you slam him into a branded vehicle, it gives us crossover for auto sponsors."

That almost made Hernan laugh.

Almost.

Instead, he leaned forward slightly, offering what he knew was a dangerous thing: initiative.

"If you’re planning to run more staged rescues," he said,"consider dropping the incident before lunch hours. Keeps the footage fresher by dinner broadcasts.Also, place the villain on a high-traffic visual corridor — less edit work for the mid-tier media farms."

Krane’s smile widened for the first time.

"Excellent," he said. "You’re already thinking like a hero."

He stood — which Hernan immediately recognized as a dismissal.

But before he turned away, Krane said:

"The camera loves you, Vale. And love, my boy..."

He tapped the datapad closed.

"...is the most profitable lie."

The dorm hallway smelled like old steel and lemon cleaner.

It was past midnight. Quiet hours. Even the freshmen pranksters were asleep, and the noise of District 4 had been reduced to glowing headlines scrolling silently across Hernan’s comm-band.

He walked with steady steps, posture perfect, like nothing from the day clung to him.

It did.

The heat. The lies. The phrase auto sponsors echoing in his head like a curse.

He reached his door — and stopped.

Aya was leaning against the wall across from it, arms crossed. Not slouched. Not hiding. Just... waiting. Like she’d been there a while.

She didn’t smile when she saw him.

"Long night," she said.

Hernan nodded. "Long enough."

A pause. Too long.

She pushed off the wall, took a step toward him.

"You didn’t cuff him."

It wasn’t sharp. No edge. Just four words.

But they sliced anyway.

He looked at her. Quietly. "Did you watch the whole feed?"

She nodded. "Twice."

"Then you saw Virex wave me off."

"I did."

Another pause.

"But you still didn’t cuff him."

Her tone was curious. Not accusatory. But not friendly, either.

Hernan exhaled through his nose. "I followed orders."

"Do you always?"

He tilted his head slightly. "Do you always question teammates after a win?"

Aya’s eyes didn’t blink. They were darker than usual — or maybe it was just the hallway lighting. She stepped closer, arms still folded, like she didn’t quite trust her hands yet.

"I don’t question teammates," she said. "I question patterns."

Hernan leaned back against the door, one shoulder resting against the frame. He didn’t unlock it. Not yet.

"You think I’m a pattern?"

"I think you’re interesting."

It wasn’t a compliment.

Or maybe it was.

He studied her face. Calm, quiet, unreadable — but there was a line of tension in her jaw that hadn’t been there during training last week. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed.

"You asked Virex," he said, "about the mission."

"No."

"You should."

"I wanted to ask you first."

That part hit different.

Something in Hernan’s chest shifted, just a hair.

"You think I’m hiding something," he said.

Aya didn’t answer.

She stepped forward again — one pace. Then another. Close enough that he could see the scratch on her lower lip, the smudge of ash still clinging to her jacket’s left cuff.

When she spoke next, her voice was softer.

"You scare me," she said. "Not in the way villains do. In the way mirrors do — when they show you something you’re not sure you’re ready to admit."

That silenced him.

Just long enough for her to catch it.

Then, before it could turn into anything more dangerous, she stepped back. Just half a foot. The tension snapped like a thread between them.

She reached into her pocket.

Pulled something small and silver.

Held it out.

A flash drive.

"I pulled this from the feed archive," she said. "Before the editors got it. Raw mission footage. No compression. No cuts."

He took it, slowly. Their fingers didn’t touch.

"Why give this to me?"

"Because you were there," she said. "And I don’t trust edited history."

He looked at her again.

She didn’t flinch.

Aya turned away then. Walked two steps. Then stopped, glancing over her shoulder.

"I liked your speech," she said. "You almost convinced me."

He didn’t reply.

She left without another word.

The hallway returned to silence.

Hernan stood for a moment longer.

Then he unlocked his door, stepped inside, and let it shut behind him.

The lights were low. His desk was clean. His cape was folded perfectly on the wall hook, still stained faintly from the District 4 ash.

He looked down at the flash drive in his palm.

Simple. Ordinary. A piece of plastic and code.

But it felt heavier than it should.

Like a secret with teeth.

He stared at it for a while.

Then he muttered, just loud enough for the silence to hear:

"Some girls bring flowers.""She brings ammunition."