Hero

The streets always felt different after midnight.

The daytime city was chaotic but alive—honking horns, rumbling buses, voices and footsteps echoing off tall buildings like the pulse of something breathing. But at night, it went hollow. Like the city exhaled and forgot to inhale again.

Sally Stern walked quickly, arms crossed tight over her chest, the leftover scent of french fries and burnt coffee clinging to her uniform. Her shift had ended later than usual. Some idiot had dropped an entire tray of milkshakes during the dinner rush, and the manager—Keith, whose sole redeeming quality was that he knew how to unstick the ice machine—had insisted she stay late and help clean it up.

Now, with her sneakers slapping the damp pavement, Sally wished she’d called a rideshare. But her tips had been bad tonight. No point in burning ten bucks to get five blocks home.

She took a left onto 8th Street, the one with the busted streetlamp and the alley she always crossed quickly. Tonight, she didn’t even get halfway.

“Hey.”

The voice came from behind her. Too close.

She turned—and something in her chest turned with her.

A man stepped out of the shadows. Tall. Heavyset. Hoodie up, eyes flat and hungry.

“I said hey.” He raised a hand. There was something in it—metal. A knife.

Sally’s blood turned to ice.

She spun, ready to run, but he caught her wrist. Yanked her hard. Her balance tipped. Her feet slid. She screamed.

The sound didn’t even echo.

He dragged her into the alley like a bag of trash.

“No no no—let go of me—help!” she shouted, her voice cracking. The street was gone behind her. The world narrowed to brick walls, puddles, the stink of oil and something older, fouler. She kicked. Scratched.

The knife pressed against her ribs. “Shut up.”

Her lungs seized. She went rigid.

This was it. She could feel it—**** wasn’t a concept, it was a presence, watching from behind the dumpster. Would he just take her purse and go? Or worse? He was big. He was angry. He smelled like sweat and chewing tobacco and everything evil.

She felt a sob rise, hot and helpless. Is this it? Is this how I die?

Then—something moved overhead.

A shape.

No sound. Just a rush of air.

She looked up—

—and someone landed on the sidewalk. Soft, like a feather. Like a dancer.

Sally stared.

It was a young man. Maybe her age. Maybe younger. Slim, pale, barefoot.

He wore a peach camisole. A gray skirt.

Hair tousled. Eyes sharp.

“I think you should back off,” he said.

The mugger turned. Blinked. Then barked out a cruel laugh.

“Who the fuck are you supposed to be? Super-Tranny?”

Sally’s breath hitched. Oh no. No, no—don’t make him angry—

But the young man just walked forward, calm as anything. “Back. Off.”

The mugger didn’t hesitate. He lunged.

The knife came down.

Sally screamed—

—but the blade hit the man’s side and bounced off.

She blinked.

The mugger frowned. Grunted. Tried again—stabbed hard this time.

Clink.

Nothing. The blade glanced off the bare flesh.

“What the hell—?”

The mugger slashed at him. Again. Again.

The young man didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

The mugger growled, reared back, and punched him across the face.

There was a crack—sharp, horrible.

The mugger cried out and stumbled back, clutching his hand. “You broke my fuckin’ hand!”

The young man took a step closer. His face was calm. “I told you to back off.”

The mugger turned and ran. Fast. Limping.

Sally sat in the alley gravel, legs sprawled, her uniform skirt dirty, her hands shaking.

The young man looked down at her.

“You okay, ma’am?”

She blinked up at him.

He looked like a boy playing dress-up in stolen clothes. But also—he didn’t. There was something else. A confidence. A warmth. A stillness in him that felt like safety.

“I... I think so,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “Did you fly?”

He smiled faintly. “Yeah. I did.”

She stared at him. “Who are you?”

He offered her a hand.

And said, “I’m still figuring that out.”