I wake up feeling... good. Which is odd. Mornings aren't supposed to feel good—they’re supposed to feel like you’re one foot in the grave and the other tangled in the sheets. But as I stretch out, letting the weak light of dawn slip through the blinds, my eyes land on the clock. That’s when a smirk slips onto my face.

06:39 AM, Sunday.

“On time,” I mutter, rolling out of bed. “Wouldn’t catch me doing that on a Monday.”

Stifling a yawn, I shuffle into the kitchen. The blinds are open. Elli’s up already? That kid-sister of mine always was an early riser. I can’t help but smile at the thought as I splash my face at the sink and down a bottle of water. Yeah, let's keep it that way. Let her have a normal, healthy life. Someone in this house should.

I glance at the shoe cabinet. Her jogging shoes aren’t there. Out on a walk, then. Good. Very good. Keeps the mind sharp. Just… be safe out there, kid. Still, I double-check—because that’s what I do.

I peer out the balcony. Sky’s blue and clear. No blood-red skies, no alien motherships, no Death Star looming above. Ground level looks fine, too—no cracks, craters, or surprise floods. Buildings are intact, none of them on fire or missing chunks like they got into a brawl with a giant.

So, yeah—looks like our little quiet neighborhood made it through another night in one piece. It’s really starting to deserve a medal at this point. Can’t say the same for the rest of City 17, though. Faint smoke’s billowing from the west, over by the riverside. Choppers are circling, sirens doing their usual scream, and a slow, glowing blue barrier’s going up.

“Must’ve been a pretty nasty skirmish… It always is,” I shrug, heading straight for the bathroom. “That’s what the heroes are for, right?”

I take a dump, brush my teeth, and—while I’m at it—shower too. Gotta save time where I can. Sundays are special, after all. Fresh, clean, and dressed, it’s time for the real ritual: coffee. I open the cabinet to grab the beans just as the front door swings open. In walks a sweaty girl in a black top and shorts.

“Good morning, Ell,” I say, waving with a wide smile. She doesn’t even look at me, just shoves her shoes back into the cupboard.

“How’s the world outside?” I ask, pushing a little.

“Cold,” she grumbles before slamming the door to her room.

Well, that’s… cold. Something’s up. I can tell by the mood—maybe a fight with the boyfriend? Typical teenage drama, I suppose. It’s no big deal, or so I keep telling myself.

I shrug it off and focus on the important stuff—coffee. Water in, paper filter, beans, press the button. It beeps, grinding away. Meanwhile, I grab the dusty DVD player, brush it off, hook it up, and turn on the TV. The logo of some long-forgotten brand pops up, asking me to feed it a disc. I pump my fist. Fantastic.

That’s one thing sorted. Now for breakfast.

I check the fridge. Milk, eggs, bread, and some orange juice. Not exactly gourmet, but it'll do for me. Ell, though? She’s… pickier.

I knock on her door. “What do you want for breakfast?”

No response.

Just as I’m about to knock again, the door swings open, and I narrowly avoid turning it into a knock on her head.

“There you are. So, what’s it gonna be?” I ask, following her as she beelines for the bathroom. “We’ve got toast, scrambled eggs, and coffee. Or scrambled eggs, toast, and milk. And for the grand finale, orange juice, toast, and scrambled eggs.”

“Oh wow, so many choices,” Ell gasps, throwing her arms up in fake wonder before slamming the bathroom door in my face.

I sigh. Why does she keep doing that? Doors aren’t exactly cheap, y’know.

I settle on the breakfast set that suits me: scrambled eggs, toast, and a hot cup of coffee. Simple, effective. Just like me. As for lunch, I’ll drag Ell out of her cave for a meal. That should lift her mood.

“Yup,” I clap my hands together and get to work. Fifteen minutes later, the masterpiece is ready and served.

“Ell, breakfast's ready! Come eat!” I call out. She’s in her room getting dressed. She’ll show up eventually.

I grab my plate and cup of coffee, saunter over to the couch, and set everything down on the table. Then, the moment I’ve been waiting for—finally—I pop in the Season 3 disc of The Office.

The player whirrs to life, and the TV lights up with color.

[“I am Prison Mike!” Michael Scott yells, purple bandana on, strutting around the office like he owns the place.]

I snort, mid-chew on a piece of egg and toast.

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[“The worst thing about prison was the dementors!”]

“Classic,” I chuckle, half-laughing, half-mumbling through a mouthful of food. Why do I love this garbage so much?

The way Michael tries to scare his employees into being grateful for their jobs by pretending to be some hardened ex-con—it’s just... golden. I lean back, taking in the absurdity on-screen as I swallow my toast and let out a satisfied sigh. This. This is what Sundays are for.

Then, I hear the door click open. Ell steps out, fully dressed, makeup on. Looks like she's headed out. She glances at the untouched breakfast, but doesn’t give it a second thought. Instead, she hurries to grab her new shoes. Skipping breakfast—again?

“Ell, where are you going this early in the morning?” I shout, mildly annoyed. “No college, no work today. And if you’re meeting Josh, trust me, he’s not gonna drop dead from sunstroke if you spend five minutes eating the food I made.”

She just freezes, staring at me from the doorway. And that’s when I realize—yeah, maybe I wasn’t exactly sugar-coating things about her boyfriend. I quickly soften up, forcing a smile.

I get up, motioning for her to come sit with me while I grab her plate. But before I even make it a step, Ell cuts me off.

“All you care about is yourself. So, don’t bother. And don’t wait. I’ll eat out,” she snaps, strapping on her shoes and bolting out the door. I stand there, watching as the door slowly closes itself, the light fading off my face.

“I’m sorry, Ell,” I whisper into the empty room, letting out a long breath. “I know you hate me. But I promise, I’ll try better next time…”

“The dementors... they suck the soul out of you, and it hoits!” Michael screeches from the TV, cutting through my thoughts.

I push those heavy emotions aside, forcing myself to focus on Prison Mike’s ridiculous antics instead, and somehow—despite everything—I laugh. Better to laugh at something than feel the other thing creeping in.

Then comes the first boom. Not from the TV, but from outside. It’s distant, like someone just dropped a house a few blocks away. I raise an eyebrow but shrug it off, focusing on the screen.

[“What’d you do, Prison Mike?” Jim asks.]

[“I stole,” Prison Mike answers, calm as ever, locking eyes with Jim. “And I robbed, and I kidnapped the President’s son…”]

Boom! Still far off, but stronger than the last.

[“…and held him for ransom.”]

Sirens now, faint but unmistakable. My eye twitches.

[“That is quite the rap sheet, Prison Mike,” Jim nods, fake-impressed.]

[“And I never got caught neither!”]

BOOM! This one rattles the room, making the walls shake. I sigh, glancing up at the ceiling. “Whatever it is, no. Not today,” I say to myself, eyes drifting back to Michael’s antics.

But then, the emergency alert blares. The screen flickers, The Office freezes, and a news anchor’s serious face fills the screen. I groan, sinking deeper into the couch.

“…currently ongoing at Riverside Heights, where an unidentified, S-class beast—now coined the ‘Black Fire’—is causing unprecedented destruction…”

“Oh, for the love of—Riverside Heights?” I snap, springing up and fuming. “That’s the other side of the city! Why does this matter to me?”

The screen shifts to footage of absolute chaos: cars flung like pebbles, streets splitting open, buildings toppling as flames consume the sky. Doesn’t even make me flinch.

Then, the camera cuts to the culprit—and, of course, it’s a fucking dragon. Two hundred meters long, eighty high, scaled in pitch black, with fire spilling from its jaws that’s so dark it looks like shadow. It’s tearing through buildings like paper, thrashing its tail, wings smashing down, and roaring loud enough to rattle the whole city. Flames stick to whatever they touch, melting steel, charring concrete. The thing’s on a rampage, and nothing’s standing in its way.

The dragon swings its tail, slamming into the side of a hundred-story apartment complex. Half the building vanishes, and it starts leaning like a sinking ship.

I frown. “They… evacuated, right?”

I wait for the anchor to say something reassuring, but she just keeps rambling about how the heroes are “trying their best” to contain the damage. The camera shifts to a guy in snow gear streaking toward the dragon, leaving a blue trail behind him. He thrusts a hand out, unleashing a blizzard blast strong enough to actually push the beast back, toppling it into a block full of untouched buildings. They’re reduced to rubble in seconds. Unnecessary.

The dragon steadies itself, then starts spewing fire. The snow guy bolts the second his blizzard turns to steam, gone faster than you can say “melted.”

Next up, Firestorm Hero—her big move? A mini-sun, right at the dragon. The beast lunges, and in her scramble to dodge, she drops it. The fireball detonates over ward seven, spilling lava everywhere. Metal, concrete, rebar—all melt down in seconds. Metro lines, cafes, a school, some poor guy’s office—now a magma pool. Totally needless.

Then Void Preacher shows up, opening a black hole to suck the beast into oblivion. But the dragon’s faster than it looks. One tail swipe, and the hero, along with half the block, gets tossed straight into his own void. The black hole goes wild, sucking in news drones, trains, houses, roads—everything within reach, except, of course, the dragon. A third of the city becomes a shredded wasteland.

“Contain the damage?” I snicker, shaking my head and settling back with a sigh. “They’re making it worse! Why do they even bother?”

I pull out my phone, open the location app, and spot Ell two blocks away, safe in a café. Good. One less thing to worry about—for now.

The anchor's droning voice cuts back in, “…destruction spreading across multiple wards. All nearby citizens have been successfully evacuated. But we urge everyone to head to underground shelters below your apartment as efforts to subdue the villain continue—”

I blink. Efforts to subdue? What efforts? These people aren’t even trying. And there’s still no sign of any real heroes on the scene, the S-class, I mean.

“Look, all I’m asking for is one day,” I grumble at the TV. “One. Day. Of Prison Mike.”

In the background on the news, a frozen Mike in his purple bandana stares back, taunting me. Play me, if you dare, I can practically hear him say. Until the threat is taken care of, the coverage will go on and on.

“If only I could rip out that damn transponder,” I scream, gritting my teeth and punching the couch. But that would fry the whole TV. “Damn you, NBC. You sick sons of bitches!”

I weigh my options. I could wait it out. Or… I could deal with it.

A small voice in my head whispers that waiting it out is the best possible choice. Not like anyone would notice or care even if I did get involved. But a louder voice reminds me that if this drags on, I’m not getting Prison Mike back. And even if I do, I won’t have time to watch it. I’ve got Ell to think about. She might be mad at me now, but she’s still my sister. There’s only the two of us left in the world.

With a heavy, world-weary sigh, I drag myself off the couch.

“Fine,” I crack my neck. “But this better be quick.”