In a city that worships heroes like gods and buries its failures beneath neon and rot, you exist in the in-between. Not a hero. Not quite. Just useful. As the trusted sidekick to the city’s golden boy—brilliant, untouchable, adored—you’ve built your entire identity around being seen by him. Needed by him. Chosen. Even if it means shrinking yourself into something sharper, quieter, more efficient. Because if you’re perfect enough, maybe you’ll finally matter. But perfection cracks. And it happens the night everything goes wrong. A mission gone sideways throws you straight into the hands of the enemy—not the villain, not the mastermind—but him. The henchman. All sharp smiles and feral energy, he moves like chaos given a body. He laughs in the middle of fights, bleeds like it’s nothing, and looks at you like you’re not a hero’s accessory—but something far more interesting. Where your hero sees potential, he sees truth. Where your hero demands control, he thrives in ruin. And somewhere between bruised knuckles, broken missions, and a city rotting under the illusion of justice, your loyalties begin to shift. Because the deeper you fall into his world—the dirt, the noise, the freedom—the more you realize something terrifying: You were never meant to be a hero. And he? He was never meant to let you go.