🇬🇧 Where No Heroes Come — 09 —

CHAPTER 9 The World They Chose The city of Zerak wakes each morning with the sound of cars filling the streets, advertising screens lighting up on the buildings, and the news repeating the names of the best-known heroes again and again, as if every day it were necessary to remind people who they should admire and who they should fear. Urame walks toward school with his backpack over his shoulder and a calm gaze, following the same path as always while observing everything happening around him without stopping for too long, noticing the posters showing smiling heroes, the drink advertisements with their faces printed on them, and the messages appearing on the city screens, speaking of safety, hope, and protection. To anyone else, it might seem normal. Not to him. Not since that night. Not since the fire. Not since Horem. A huge screen above a technology store shows several heroes posing in front of cameras after stopping a group of thieves, receiving applause from the people while the presenter speaks of them with admiration, calling them protectors of Zerak, defenders of the innocent, and symbols of trust for everyone. Urame listens to those words as he keeps walking, without changing his pace and without allowing anything to show on his face, although inside, every sentence feels heavier than the last. Protectors. Defenders. Trust. Clean words. Easy words. Words people repeat because someone placed them in front of them many times. At school, the atmosphere is not very different, because some students carry backpacks with the symbols of famous heroes, others comment on fights they have seen in videos, and some argue about which of them would be stronger if they had to face a dangerous villain, talking about all of it as if it were a spectacle and not something that leaves bodies, burned houses, and people who never return. Urame sits at his desk before class begins and listens without intervening, keeping his gaze on his notes while several classmates talk near him. “I think Brakion could have stopped Horem if he had arrived earlier,” one of them says confidently, resting his arms on the desk. “I’m sure he could. That guy never loses,” another replies enthusiastically. “Heroes do what they can. They can’t be everywhere either,” a girl comments without giving it too much importance. Urame does not raise his gaze. He does not answer. He does not argue. He only listens. Because that sentence sounds too much like many others. “They can’t be everywhere.” “They did what they could.” “It wasn’t their fault.” There is always an explanation. There is always an excuse. There is always a way to keep the heroes’ names clean, even if the ground remains full of ash. The teacher enters the classroom and begins a lesson about social coexistence and public safety, using several interventions by recognized heroes as examples, explaining that their presence maintains order and that, although tragedies sometimes happen, the world would be much worse without them. Urame keeps his eyes on his notebook while taking notes neatly, copying the necessary words without showing any sign of rejection, although his mind is not on the explanation but on the way everyone accepts it without question. They do not need proof. They do not need details. They do not need to know what happened before. They only need someone with authority to say it calmly. And then they believe it. During break, several students gather around a screen in the hallway where an interview with a well-known hero is being broadcast, one of those who took part in Horem’s initial capture before everything burned, the same one who, in that video, crouched in front of him to mock him while others laughed around him. Urame stops for a few seconds at a certain distance, just enough to see the image without seeming too interested. The hero appears seated in a bright studio, wearing a clean uniform and a measured smile, speaking in a serious tone about responsibility, sacrifice, and the pain they feel when they cannot save everyone. “There are days that weigh more than others,” the hero says, looking at the camera, “but we keep moving forward because people need to believe in us.” Some students look at him with admiration. One even comments that being a hero must be very hard. Urame watches the screen without moving, feeling how the image of that man mixes with the memory of the video where he laughed in front of Horem, with that same face that now seems calm, serious, and worthy of respect. People need to believe in us. That sentence stays in his head. Not because it seems sincere to him. But because he understands how useful it is. If people need to believe in something, then they forgive faster, forget better, and stop looking where they should not. Urame keeps walking before anyone notices that he has stopped for too long, maintaining a serene face as he returns to the classroom with the same calm as always. In the afternoon, when he leaves school, the city is more crowded than usual because an event of gratitude for the heroes of Zerak has been set up in a nearby square, with stalls, screens, music, and entire families approaching to take pictures beside promotional figures and official vehicles. Urame passes through because it is the shortest way home, although he could take another route if he wanted to, but he does not, because something inside him wants to look, wants to understand how far all of this truly goes. There are children waving little flags. Adults smiling. People buying souvenirs. Screens showing rescues edited with intense music. Messages of gratitude. Speeches. Applause. Everything is arranged to seem noble. To seem necessary. So that no one thinks too much. A small child points at a poster and tells his mother that he wants to be like that hero when he grows up. The woman smiles and strokes his hair, telling him that heroes are good people who protect others. Urame hears that as he passes nearby, feeling his fingers tighten slightly around the strap of his backpack. Good people. They protect others. The sentence mixes with another. No one came. His pink eyes move toward one of the screens, where a list of the victims of Horem’s attack appears for only a few seconds before the image changes again to the heroes who helped after the fire. After. Always after. They arrived after. They spoke after. They apologized after. And even so, the world applauds them. Urame remains still for an instant longer than necessary, watching how people look at the screen with sadness while the names appear and with relief when the heroes return, as if they need to leave the pain quickly and return to something more comfortable. Then he understands it more clearly. It is not only the heroes. It is the city. It is the people. It is the entire world that prefers a peaceful lie over an uncomfortable truth. When he gets home, Durim is watching the news in the living room while Estamia reviews some papers at the table, and the screen once again shows images from the gratitude event, with interviews of citizens talking about how important heroes are and how much they trust them. Durim looks at Urame when he enters and lowers the volume a little, as if remembering too late that those news reports might not be good for him. “Did you pass through the square?” he asks carefully. Urame leaves his backpack near the door and nods calmly while taking off his shoes. “Yes. There were a lot of people.” Durim observes his expression for a few seconds, searching for something he does not find. “I suppose they need to feel safe,” he comments softly, perhaps trying to explain what he has seen without fully justifying it. Urame raises his gaze toward him and keeps a small, calm smile, one of those smiles that do not say too much but serve to stop others from worrying. “I suppose,” he replies. Estamia says nothing at first, although her gaze remains fixed on him for a few seconds longer than normal, observing that calm, that way of answering, that way of accepting a sentence that perhaps another child would have rejected with rage or pain. Urame notices it. As always. That is why he adds nothing. He does not talk about the square. He does not talk about the posters. He does not talk about the hero smiling on television. He does not talk about the names that appeared for only a few seconds before disappearing. He only helps set the table when Durim asks him to and acts as if it had been just another day, maintaining that normality the others need to see in order to feel calm. That night, in his room, he sits at his desk and opens one of his notebooks, although he does not start his homework immediately. For a few seconds, he looks at the blank page while remembering the city screens, the teacher’s phrases, his classmates’ comments, the face of the hero talking about sacrifice, and the square full of people thanking those who arrived too late. He does not feel uncontrolled rage. Not in that moment. What he feels is colder. Clearer. Easier to keep hidden. The world has chosen to believe them. It has chosen to applaud them. It has chosen to forgive them. Even when they fail. Even when they lie. Even when others pay the price. Urame lowers his gaze toward his hand and remembers the fire, the strength, and that invisible sensation that moves things without touching them, but that night, once again, his powers are not the first thing he thinks about. Instead, he thinks about the way an image can cover a truth until it disappears. Heroes have strength. They have cameras. They have speeches. They have people willing to believe. And that makes them more dangerous than any ability. Urame takes the pen and writes a sentence in the corner of the page, small, neat, and almost hidden between the margin and the line. “The world does not want the truth. It wants to feel safe.” He stares at those words for a few seconds. Then he closes the notebook. The room falls silent while the light from the street enters through the window and reflects in his pink eyes, which remain calm to anyone who might see him from the outside. But inside him, something settles into place. Not as a scream. Not as an impulse. But as a decision that still does not have a complete shape. If that is the world they chose. If that is the lie they want to protect. Then he will have to learn how to destroy it from within.