[Luke’s POV]

I’ve been at Star Tower for a week now, each day blending into the next in a haze of tests, briefings, and integration sessions. The world outside continues to spin, life going on as usual for everyone else while I remain trapped in this gilded cage of advanced technology and superhuman wonders.

My room, once a marvel of futuristic design, now feels like a prison cell. The floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a breathtaking view of Boston’s skyline mock me with their promise of freedom, a world just beyond my reach. I spend hours staring out at the bustling city below, watching the tiny figures of people going about their lives, oblivious to the turmoil raging inside me.

The days crawl by, each one a carbon copy of the last. Wake up, undergo more tests, try to wrap my head around the intricacies of this new world, go to sleep, repeat. The scientists and staff at Star Tower are kind enough, always ready with a smile or a word of encouragement, but their presence only serves to highlight the absence of the one person I truly want to see.

Skye

It’s been a seven days since I last saw her, and I told her I needed time to adjust. A week of silence, of waiting for a sign, a message, anything to show that she still cares. But there’s been nothing. No visits, no calls, not even a message passed through one of the countless staff members that dart around in and out of my life like shadows.

I had hoped... well, I’m not sure what I had hoped for. Maybe for her to burst through my door, eyes blazing with that familiar intensity, ready to whisk me away to some secret hideout like my Skye did that summer before our senior year.

Or just anything for her to say, ‘Hey, I like you.’ But anything would have been better than this deafening silence.

Instead, I find myself glued to the television in my room, watching her every public appearance with a desperate hunger. Talk shows, news interviews, charity events.

‘This bitch is so fucking famous.’

I devour them all, searching for any hint, any sign that what happened between us meant something to her.

Today, I’m watching her on ‘The Scarlett Show,’ one of the most popular talk shows in this world. Scarlett, a vivacious redhead with a quick wit and a penchant for asking the hard questions, leans forward in her chair, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“So, Super Star,” Scarlett begins, her voice playful yet probing, “we simply must address the elephant in the room. That steamy rooftop kiss that’s been breaking the internet! Care to share any details about your mystery man?”

My heart races as I lean closer to the screen, hanging on every word. This is it, I think. This is where she’ll tell the world about us, about the connection we share across universes.

Skye’s laughter fills the studio, her voice light and carefree. “Oh, Scarlett,” she says, waving her hand dismissively, “you know how it is. Just a bit of fun with some guy I met. Nothing serious.”

My heart plummets, a cold emptiness spreading through my chest. I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut, all the air leaving my lungs in a painful rush.

“Really?” Scarlett presses, leaning forward eagerly. “Because the way you were kissing him looked pretty intense to me.”

Skye shrugs, a coy smile playing on her lips. “What can I say? I’m an intense person. But it was just a fling, nothing more. You know I’m not the settling down type.”

The studio audience laughs, charmed by her casual dismissal of what had felt so monumental to me. I watch, numb with disbelief, as Skye continues to chat and joke with Scarlett, her emerald eyes sparkling with joy. There’s no trace of regret, no hint of the connection I thought we shared.

As the realization sinks in, a wave of grief washes over me, so powerful it nearly knocks me off my feet. I’ve lost my wife all over again, except this time, I just feel pathetic. This Skye didn’t even love me. It was all in my head, a desperate projection of my own desires onto someone who just happened to wear the face of the woman I loved.

The room suddenly feels too small, the walls closing in around me. I can’t breathe, can’t think. With trembling hands, I fumble for the remote and switch off the TV, plunging the room into merciful silence.

In the quiet, the full weight of my mistake crashes down upon me. How could I have been so foolish? So desperate? I let myself believe that this Skye could fill the void left by my wife, that she could somehow be the same person. But she’s not. She’s a stranger wearing a familiar face, nothing more.

The pain is overwhelming, a physical ache that radiates from my chest outward. It burns through me, consuming everything in its path. I curl up on the bed, hugging my knees to my chest as if I could physically hold myself together.

I’ve never felt so alone, so utterly lost. In this strange world of superheroes and impossible powers, I’m adrift without an anchor. The one person I thought I could cling to has cast me aside like yesterday’s news.

Time loses all meaning as I lie there, drowning in my grief and self-recrimination. The sun sets and rises again, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink that I can barely register through my haze of misery.

The silence of my room is shattered by a sharp knock at the door. I barely register the sound, my mind still lost in the depths of despair. The knocking persists, growing more insistent until finally, Dark Star’s voice cuts through my fog of misery.

“Luke? It’s time. The press conference with the President is coming up.”

I drag myself off the bed, my limbs heavy as lead. As I open the door, Dark Star’s masked face comes into view. Her piercing blue eyes widen slightly as she takes in my disheveled appearance.

“Are you alright?” she asks, a hint of concern in her voice.

I nod mechanically, not trusting myself to speak. Dark Star studies me for a moment longer before gesturing for me to get ready.

After a quick shower, we make our way through the labyrinthine corridors of Star Tower, the sleek, futuristic design a stark contrast to the turmoil raging inside me. As we step into the elevator, the glass walls offer a panoramic view of Boston spread out below us.

The elevator descends smoothly, the floors ticking away on the digital display. Dark Star stands beside me, her cape rustling softly with each slight movement. The air between us is thick with unspoken words, questions left unasked.

As we exit the tower, a gleaming black limousine awaits us. Its sleek lines and tinted windows hinting at the advanced technology hidden beneath its polished exterior. Dark Star opens the door for me, and I slide into the plush leather interior.

The ride to the Prudential Center is a blur of city lights and muted sounds. Boston flashes by outside the windows, a kaleidoscope of colors and shapes that fails to penetrate the numbness enveloping me. Dark Star sits across from me, her masked face unreadable as she taps away on a high-tech tablet.

“I’ll be handing you over to Dr. Eliza once we arrive,” Dark Star says, breaking the silence. “I need to oversee security for the event.”

I nod, the motion feeling distant and detached as if my body is responding on autopilot while my mind remains locked in a prison of grief.

The limousine glides to a stop, and suddenly, we’re surrounded by a sea of flashing cameras and shouting reporters. Dark Star escorts me through the chaos, her imposing presence creating a buffer between me and the frenzied crowd.

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As we enter the Prudential Center, the chaos of the outside world fades away, replaced by the hushed anticipation of the assembled crowd. The vast atrium has been transformed into a makeshift press room, with rows of chairs facing a raised platform adorned with the seal of the President.

Dr. Eliza hurries over to me as Dark Star takes her leave. Her eyes are wide behind her thick-rimmed glasses, and she’s clutching her tablet so tightly her knuckles have turned white. As she approaches, I can see a faint sheen of sweat on her forehead.

“Luke,” she says, her voice pitched slightly higher than usual, “there’s been a change of plans.”

I nod, barely registering her words. “Okay,” I reply, my voice sounding hollow and distant even to my own ears.

Dr. Eliza swallows hard, her eyes darting around the room as if searching for an escape route. “The President... she couldn’t make it,” she explains, her words tumbling out in a rush.

I look around the room, taking in the sea of expectant faces, the cameras poised to capture every moment. Suddenly, I realize I don’t even remember who they said had won the election here. In this moment, with my heart still raw from Skye’s casual dismissal, I find I don’t even care.

“Who’s going to do the speaking?” I ask more out of a sense of obligation than genuine curiosity.

Before Dr. Eliza can answer, a gust of wind sweeps through the atrium, rustling papers and sending a ripple of excitement through the crowd. I turn, already knowing who I’ll see, my heart simultaneously leaping and sinking at the prospect.

Skye descends from above, her cape billowing around her like a crimson cloud. She touches down gracefully on the platform, the impact barely making a sound despite the height of her fall. As she straightens, her emerald eyes lock onto mine, and a smile spreads across her face, that same dazzling, heart-stopping smile that I’ve seen countless times before, both in this world and my own.

“I’m going to speak, Luke,” she announces, her voice carrying easily across the suddenly silent room.

The conflict inside me rages like a storm. Part of me wants to run to her, to throw myself into her arms and beg her to give me a chance. But another part, the part still stinging from her casual dismissal on national television, wants to turn and flee to protect what’s left of my battered heart.

“Did you watch the Scarlett Show today?” she asks, her voice low and intimate despite the crowded room.

I swallow hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Yeah,” I reply weakly, forcing a smile that feels more like a grimace. “You did great.”

Skye scoffs, clearly not believing my feeble attempt at nonchalance. Her eyes narrow slightly, searching my face with an intensity that makes me feel exposed and vulnerable. Without warning, she reaches out and grabs my waist, her grip possessive and strong. The sudden contact sends a jolt through my system, a mixture of desire and trepidation that leaves me breathless.

As we walk towards the podium, I’m acutely aware of her arm around me, the heat of her body pressed against my side. It feels incredible to be in her embrace again, to feel the strength and vitality that radiates from her. But at the same time, it feels oddly performative, a public display of affection that contrasts sharply with her recent dismissal of our relationship.

The eyes of the crowd follow us, a sea of curious and speculative gazes. Cameras flash incessantly, capturing every moment of our approach. I can almost hear the headlines being written, the gossip columns salivating over this new development.

A few feet from the podium, Skye suddenly stops. The abrupt halt catches me off guard, and I stumble slightly, only to be steadied by her firm grip. She turns to me, her lips brushing against my ear as she leans in close. Her breath is warm against my skin, sending shivers down my spine.

“After this,” she whispers, her voice low and dangerous, “you’ll never get away from me again.”

I melt to her words, my heart racing as her breath tickles my ear. The world around us fades away, the flashing cameras and murmuring crowd becoming nothing more than distant background noise. At this moment, there is only Skye and me, connected by an invisible thread that transcends universes.

As she pulls back slightly, I hardly notice the cool sensation of something slipping onto my ring finger. My eyes are locked on hers, drowning in the depths of those emerald pools. It’s only when she takes my hand in hers, her thumb brushing over my knuckles, that I glance down and see it. A golden ring, sitting exactly where my old one was.

In that instant, everything clicks into place. The week of silence, the dismissive comments on the talk show, it all makes sense now. This wasn’t Skye throwing me away. It was all part of an elaborate plan, a masterful manipulation to bring us to this very moment. And God help me, I’m over the moon about it.

A wave of relief and joy washes over me, so intense it nearly brings me to my knees. She didn’t abandon me. She wanted me all along. The realization is like a bandage to my wounded heart, instantly healing the pain of the past week.

‘God she’s so toxic. They really are the same.’

Before I can fully process what’s happening, Skye is guiding me up the steps to the podium. Her arm remains firmly around my waist, a possessive gesture that now sends thrills of excitement through my body.

Skye steps up to the microphone, her presence commanding instant attention. The room falls silent, hanging on her every word. When she speaks, her voice is clear and strong, filled with a confidence that seems to radiate outward.

“Good evening, everyone,” she begins, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “I know you’re all expecting to hear from the President today, but I’m afraid there’s been a change of plans.”

She pauses, her eyes sweeping across the crowd before landing on me. The look she gives me is filled with such warmth and affection that I feel my cheeks flush.

“You see,” Skye continues, her voice taking on a more intimate tone, “I have a confession to make. Earlier today, on the Scarlett Show, I told a little white lie.”

A murmur ripples through the crowd, reporters leaning forward in their seats, pens poised over notepads.

“I said that my encounter with this man,” she gestures to me, her hand squeezing my waist gently, “was just a bit of fun. Nothing serious.” She pauses, letting the tension build. “Well, I’m here to set the record straight.”

Skye’s emerald eyes sparkle with mischief as she continues, her voice ringing out clear and strong across the hushed room. “The truth is, I’ve been keeping a secret. A wonderful, life-changing secret.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “This man isn’t just some random fling. He’s the love of my life, my soulmate across universes, and as of today...” She lifts my left hand, the gold ring glinting under the harsh lights of the cameras. “My fiancé.”

The room erupts into chaos. Flashbulbs explode like miniature supernovas, their light so intense it leaves purple afterimages dancing in my vision. The air is filled with a cacophony of voices, reporters shouting questions over one another in a frenzied attempt to be heard.

“Super Star, how long have you been together?”

“Show us your shit hole!”

“Sir, what’s your name?”

“Is this a publicity stunt?”

“I bet that thang long!”

“When’s the wedding?”

The questions come so fast and furious that they blend into an indistinguishable roar. I feel dizzy, overwhelmed by the intensity of the moment. My heart is pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat, and I’m suddenly acutely aware of every bead of sweat forming on my brow.

Skye, however, seems to thrive in the chaos. She raises her free hand, and miraculously, the room falls silent once more. Her smile is radiant as she addresses the crowd again.

“I know you all have questions, and believe me, it’s quite a story.” She chuckles, the sound warm but slightly dangerous. “You see, it all started with a rescue mission. I saved this handsome fellow,” she gives me a playful squeeze, “from the clutches of Dr. Blight. It was just another day for me, swooping in to save the day. But the moment our eyes met...” She trails off, her gaze locking with mine. “Well, it was love at first sight.”

The crowd lets out a collective “Aww,” the romantic notion clearly appealing to them. Cameras click furiously, capturing every moment of our apparent fairytale romance.

“But wait,” Skye continues, her voice taking on a conspiratorial tone. “That’s not even the most exciting part. You see, my fiancé here,” she gestures to me with a flourish, “he’s not from around here.”

The room goes quiet, reporters leaning forward in their seats, hungry for more information.

“He’s from another universe entirely,” Skye announces, her voice filled with feigned wonder. “A parallel world, similar to our very own.”

Skye’s eyes widen, “And get this, he’s got superpowers. He can shoot noodles from his fingers.”

The room erupts into chaos once more, the cacophony of voices rising to a deafening roar. Reporters jump to their feet, shouting questions over one another, their words blending into an incomprehensible mess in my ears.

“What kind of noodles?”

“Can we see a demonstration?”

“Super Star! Which way does it curve?”

“How does this power work?”

“Is he joining the Stuper Stars?”

The questions come fast and furious. I feel my face burning with embarrassment, acutely aware of how ridiculous my power must sound to these people. In a world of flight and super strength, the ability to produce pasta from one’s fingertips seems laughably mundane.

Suddenly, Skye’s demeanor shifts. The playful glint in her eyes is replaced by a hateful glare, her smile morphing into a tight-lipped frown. With a sharp gesture, she silences the crowd, the abrupt quiet almost as deafening as the previous uproar.

She leans into the microphone, her voice low and dangerous, each word dripping with barely contained menace. “And if anyone, and I mean anyone, lays a finger on him,” she pauses, her emerald eyes sweeping across the room before locking directly into the nearest camera, “I will fucking kill you on sight.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. The once-excited crowd now shifts uncomfortably, the atmosphere thick with tension. Reporters exchange nervous glances, pens hovering uncertainly over notepads. The only sound is the soft whir of camera motors as they continue to capture every moment of this unexpected turn.

After a beat of awkward silence, a brave soul in the back of the room timidly raises a hand. “Um... what’s his name?”

Skye’s face instantly brightens, her menacing aura dissipating as quickly as it appeared. She turns to me, her smile warm and inviting, a stark contrast to the threat she just issued.

“Well, go on,” she says softly, giving me an encouraging nod. “Tell them your name, sweetheart.”

I step up to the microphone, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure it’s audible through the speakers. “I’m Lucas,” I manage to say, my voice sounding small and uncertain in the vast room. “Lucas Lyon. But my friends just call me Luke.”