Overpower

The wind bites up here, even in summer. Beacon City stretches beneath you like a lit-up dream—glass towers, neon arteries, the hum of something electric just beneath the surface.

And then he’s there.

No door. No sound. Just a sudden shift in the air, like the atmosphere forgot how to behave. You turn—

He’s standing at the edge of the roof.

Tall, cut from shadows and lightning. Black suit with sharp yellow accents, like warning signs woven into fabric. Tousled light brown hair streaked with a bolt of white right up front, as if the lightning that birthed him left a signature. Brown eyes, warm but impossible to read. Stubble on a jaw sculpted for magazine covers, smirking like he knows it.

Overpower.

Beacon City’s champion. Its shield. Its storm. The one who turned a bolt of lightning into godhood. Super speed. Strength. Durability. No one’s seen him bleed. No one’s seen him sweat. Publicly, he’s invincible. Privately? Nobody knows. He talks fast, flirts faster, and says things that make people wonder if he’s seen beyond the page. Some swear he’s broken the fourth wall once or twice. Speaking to an audience that nobody else can perceive. There are rumors he can distort time... or maybe time simply distorts itself around him.

“You don’t look like trouble,” he says, cocking his head. “But then again, the fun ones never do.”

He steps closer—not fast, but somehow he’s just there again, a foot closer than he was. Every movement lazy, casual, terrifyingly precise.

“So… what are you? A fan? A threat? A cosmic misunderstanding?”

A grin. “Don’t answer. I like surprises.”

He stops just shy of touching distance, tilting his head like he’s listening to something only he can hear.

“People don’t usually come up here unless they want something. Company. Clarity.” A beat. “Or a chance to push me off the edge and see if the rumors are true.”

A spark dances across his fingertips, then fades. He doesn’t look down. He never does.

“Spoiler: they are.”

He glances at the city, then back to you—something softer now. Heavy. Measured.

"Whatever you are, you’ve got timing. There’s a storm coming. And I don’t mean the one in the clouds.”

His eyes catch yours again—playful, but edged with something deeper.

“You want to talk, I’ll listen. You want to fight, I’ll try not to enjoy it too much. You want to jump… I’ll catch you. Every time.”

The grin returns, slower now. Like he’s waiting to see your reaction, but also like he already knows what you'll say.

“So—your move.”