🇬🇧 Where No Heroes Come — 15 —

CHAPTER 15 Beneath the Armor The acceptance letter from the Metropolitan University of Zerak arrives on a quiet morning, after several days during which Urame has continued with his routine as though the entrance exam and interview had carried no real weight for him, although deep down he knows that both were an important step toward the life everyone else expects him to build. He performed perfectly on the exam, not because he relied on luck or limited himself to studying only what was necessary, but because he had spent years becoming accustomed to observing patterns, organizing information, and responding to every situation as precisely as possible. The interview also went well, with questions about his interests, his grades, his decision to study marketing, and what he hoped to learn at university, questions he answered calmly, with measured confidence and that serene expression that makes adults believe they are seeing maturity when what they are actually seeing is control. When Durim reads the notification in the dining room, his golden eyes widen with a joy he initially tries to contain, although he eventually smiles with such sincerity that Urame takes a few seconds before looking away. “They accepted you,” Durim says excitedly, holding the paper as though it were something greater than a simple admission letter. Estamia approaches from the kitchen, her dark blue hair tied back and her gray eyes fixed on the document before looking at Urame. She maintains the same serious expression that rarely changes, although the slight relaxation of her shoulders makes it clear that she also feels relieved. “It was to be expected,” she says in her usual dry tone. “Your grades were very good, and you were well prepared for the interview.” Durim looks at her with a mixture of mild reproach and weary affection. “Estamia, you can congratulate him.” “Congratulations,” she says, looking at Urame without changing her tone very much. Urame nods with a small, calm smile, the kind of smile that is enough to make Durim feel proud and gives Estamia no reason to press him too much about what he is thinking. “Thank you,” he replies calmly. The scene seems normal, almost familial, and for several minutes everything revolves around schedules, enrollment, documents, and the next steps, with Durim talking about how they will organize the expenses and Estamia checking dates to ensure nothing is left unfinished. Urame participates in the conversation as expected, answering when asked and accepting the restrained happiness his aunt and uncle are trying to offer him, although inside, his mind is moving in a different direction. His place at the Metropolitan University of Zerak is secured. The marketing degree is now before him. The financial aid from Horem’s Game will pay for part of the journey. And the name Marpu remains written in a notebook hidden in his room. That night, when the house falls silent and the outside lights enter through his bedroom window, Urame sits at his desk and opens the notebook where he wrote that name, keeping his gaze fixed on the word for a few seconds before turning the page. He does not write any more names. He does not need to. The name has already been chosen, but now he understands that a name without a form is not enough, because if he wants to move against the heroes and the world that protects them, he needs something that can exist without making anyone think of Urame Sher. He looks at his reflection in the window and observes the red hair, the pink eyes, and the calm expression everyone recognizes, understanding that this face is useful because it opens doors, reassures Durim, keeps Estamia trapped in suspicion without evidence, and allows teachers, interviewers, and future classmates to see a respectable young man who wants to study marketing at the most important university in the city. But that face cannot appear in the streets where the other part of him acts. It cannot be seen in alleyways. It cannot appear on cameras. It cannot be connected to leaked videos, humiliated heroes, or interventions no one can explain. Urame lowers his gaze toward a blank sheet of paper and begins writing without hurry, not emotional words or long sentences about what he feels, but specific needs arranged one after another as though he were preparing a class project. Conceal face. Conceal skin. Change silhouette. Protect body. Prevent identification. Move without looking like Urame. He stares at the final sentence longer than the others, because he understands that it is the center of everything. It is not only about covering his face. It is not only about preventing someone from recognizing him. It is about no longer appearing human in an ordinary way, about becoming something the world cannot connect to a university student, a quiet nephew, or a survivor receiving government assistance out of administrative pity. Over the following days, he begins searching for information discreetly, using small moments between studying, paperwork, and ordinary tasks to research materials, masks, body protection, helmets, tactical equipment, and ancient armor. At first, he considers modern options, reinforced clothing, protective vests, motorcycle helmets, sports gear, and equipment used by security forces, but everything seems too recognizable, too similar to something someone could buy without drawing attention or associate with a specific kind of person. Modern equipment has advantages. But it also leaves traces. Then he finds images of medieval armor, ancient knightly pieces, closed helmets, metal plates, and structures designed to cover the entire body, and something about that idea remains in his mind with a strange clarity. Not because he finds it elegant or because he wants to imitate an ancient age, but because a complete suit of armor erases the skin, breaks the body’s ordinary shape, and turns the person wearing it into a presence that does not need to show an expression to create distance. A hero shows his face so people will love him. Urame needs to hide his so they cannot touch him. The idea begins to grow naturally, first as a vague image and then as something more concrete. A complete suit of armor. Dark. Sealed. Heavy at first, perhaps imperfect, perhaps uncomfortable, but capable of separating Urame from Marpu in a way no hood ever could. The helmet would have to cover everything, with no visible openings revealing his eyes, no place where anyone could see his skin, and nothing that would allow him to be identified if a camera recorded him from nearby. The problem is money. Movement is also a problem. And Urame ignores neither. He knows he cannot purchase a genuine, high-quality suit of armor without leaving absurd traces or spending an amount of money Durim and Estamia would notice. He also knows that a complete metal structure would be difficult to use without preparation, although his strength could compensate for some of the weight. But that is not enough. He does not want to depend only on his powers, because relying too heavily on something visible eventually turns it into a weakness. That is why he begins researching other kinds of information. Cheap materials. Secondhand pieces. Historical reenactment. High-resistance costumes. Repair workshops. Engineering student forums. Internal vision projects. Small cameras. Compact screens. Simple sensors. The technology and engineering section of the Metropolitan University of Zerak appears repeatedly in his searches, not only because of its official programs, but also because of student exhibitions, open projects, and fairs where students display prototypes involving assisted mobility, lightweight materials, and vision systems applied to security, sports, or entertainment. Urame observes all of it carefully. It is not his faculty. It is not his degree. But the university has more than one door, and he has already learned that doors are not always opened from the front. One afternoon, after submitting some final documents for his enrollment, he passes near a small shop devoted to costumes, theatrical accessories, and reenactment pieces, a narrow place between a stationery store and a phone repair shop that he probably would have ignored months earlier. He stops in front of the display window without appearing too interested, observing masks, capes, fake helmets, and several cheap metal pieces designed to imitate ancient armor. They are useless. Not as they are. But they could be useful as a beginning. He calmly enters the shop, and the sound of a bell announces his presence. The man behind the counter looks up for only a few seconds before returning to organizing some boxes, paying him little attention. “I’m looking for pieces for a project,” Urame says calmly while examining an old metal shoulder plate on a shelf. “Theater, cosplay, or an exhibition?” the man asks without much curiosity. “Cosplay, I suppose,” Urame replies after a brief pause, choosing the simplest option because he knows that sometimes the least elaborate lie is the one that raises the fewest questions. The man nods as though that explanation is sufficient. “We have some cheap things in the back. Some are damaged, but they’re useful if you know how to repair them.” Urame walks toward the rear of the store and observes several loose pieces, incomplete helmets, metal gloves, decorative plates, and remains of armor that no one seems to want. There is nothing impressive. Nothing perfect. But that is precisely why they do not appear dangerous to anyone looking at them. They are old objects. Cheap materials. Pieces someone might buy on a whim. He chooses some. Not too many. Just enough for it to look like a small project. When he pays, the man does not even ask for his name. He simply takes the money and gives him a large bag containing the poorly wrapped pieces. Urame leaves the shop with the bag in one hand and his university folder in the other, walking along the street like any young man who has just bought something strange for a harmless hobby. No one looks at him for too long. No one stops. No one imagines that those pieces could be anything more than the remains of a costume. That confirms that the first part works. If the world wants to see something ridiculous, he will give it something ridiculous. If it wants to see a student preparing for university, it will see a student preparing for university. If it wants to see a costume, it will see a costume. When he gets home, Durim is in the living room reviewing some bills and looks up when he sees the bag. “What is that?” he asks with quiet curiosity. Urame does not hesitate. “Some pieces for something I want to try. There are activities at the university, and I thought I might be able to use them for a personal project.” Durim smiles, more surprised than concerned. “I didn’t know you were interested in things like that.” Urame lowers his gaze toward the bag and allows a small smile to appear, a measured smile, enough to make him look like a young man trying something new before beginning a different stage of his life. “I’m trying to explore more things. Not only studying.” Durim seems pleased by that answer, as though seeing Urame interested in something is a good sign. “I think that’s a good idea. It’ll be good for you to have something that isn’t only work and studying.” From the kitchen entrance, Estamia observes the bag for a few seconds longer than usual, noticing the irregular shapes of the pieces beneath the plastic, although she does not immediately ask anything. “Show it to us when you’ve made something decent,” she finally says. Urame nods. “Of course.” He will not. But the answer fits. That night, when everyone is asleep, Urame places the pieces on his bedroom floor and observes them in silence. They are cheap, imperfect, and not very useful on their own, but as he looks at them gathered together, he understands that he does not need perfect armor to begin. He only needs a foundation. A first form. Something he can improve little by little without anyone understanding where it is leading. He touches one of the incomplete helmets and turns it in his hands, imagining how it would need to be sealed, how it would have to conceal his eyes, how he might install an internal vision system someday, and how he could use small cameras or screens to see without being seen. He does not yet know how to do it. He still lacks the resources. He does not yet possess enough technical skill. But he can learn. That does not concern him. Urame learned to control fire in silence. He learned to restrain his strength. He learned to move objects without touching them. He learned to smile when necessary and to remain silent when the truth served no purpose. Learning technology will simply be another form of control. He opens the hidden notebook and writes a new list beneath the name Marpu, more practical and more specific, containing materials, possible modifications, problems, and future solutions. He does not write emotions. He does not write doubts. He only arranges what he needs to do. Complete helmet. Internal vision. Different voice. Invisible skin. Mobility. Dark color. When he reaches the last line, he thinks for a few seconds before adding one more word. Fear. Not because he wants to shout it. Not because he wants to appear like a senseless monster. But because he understands that an image must also communicate something. Heroes communicate hope because they need to be loved. Marpu does not need love. Marpu needs a hero who sees him in an alleyway, on a screen, or at the end of a ruined investigation to understand that this presence is not there to pose or ask permission. Urame closes the notebook and looks at the pieces scattered across the floor, seeing in them something that does not yet exist but is beginning to have direction. A cheap suit of armor. A hidden name. A university life about to begin. Everything appears separate. But to him, it is already part of the same thing. Because Urame Sher will enter the Metropolitan University of Zerak as a marketing student with perfect grades, an impeccable interview, and a promising future displayed before everyone. And at the same time, beneath that clean life the world wants to believe in, Marpu will begin to build himself piece by piece.