Operation: OnlyHeroes

Yes, Tobes. You might be crushing on sunshine personified, now lock in.

The media briefing room on the 88th floor didn't smell like blood or ozone like the rest of the building. It smelled like heated dry-erase markers, cold brew, and sheer, unadulterated panic. Also, my own sweat. But I was trying not to think about that.

"We have thirty minutes before the teleconference with the global press pool," Bishop said, her voice cutting through the room like a razor blade. She stood at the head of the polished obsidian conference table, projecting a high-resolution breakdown of Circuitrix's financial holdings onto the glass wall. The numbers glowed in cool blues and reds—percentages, stakes, subsidiaries—all of it adding up to a PR disaster that I was supposed to spin into gold.

I sat near the middle of the table, nursing an espresso that was quickly losing its heat. Across from me sat Naomi—Circuitrix—slouched in a high-backed leather chair like she was at a house party, not a crisis briefing. She was wearing an oversized hoodie covered in glowing neon patches, chewing lazily on a piece of pink bubblegum, and utterly unbothered by the fact that her name was currently trending alongside Afterdark Productions.

"Williams," Bishop said, not looking away from the screen. "Walk me through the talking points."

Right. Because four weeks of surviving kaiju attacks, shapeshifting bosses, and a dead villain's posthumous taunts had prepared me for explaining why Earth's greatest cyborg hero owned a controlling stake in a porn empire.

I adjusted my collar and took a steadying breath. "We don't deny ownership," I began, my voice surprisingly firm. I'd been practicing this in the mirror for two days. "Denial makes it a scandal. Admission turns it into an asset strategy."

Bishop turned slightly, raising an eyebrow. "Go on."

I gestured toward the glowing display, my Communications studies finally kicking in. The basics: control the narrative, frame the frame, never let the facts get in the way of a better story.

"We frame Afterdark Productions not as a tawdry secret, but as an initiative in worker safety, ethical digital production, and algorithmic fairness," I said, the words coming faster now. "Naomi didn't buy into the adult entertainment industry for personal profit. She acquired controlling shares to implement blockchain-verified consent protocols, eliminate non-consensual deepfakes, and establish a standardized living wage for digital creators."

Naomi cracked a small smile, popping a bubble. "Look at you, Latte Lad. Spinning smut into human rights advocacy. I might actually hire you as my personal fixer."

"It’s not spinning," I said, looking directly at her. "It's structurally defensible. The receipts show that under your holding company, Afterdark redirected thirty-five percent of its net revenue toward anti-trafficking task forces and AI detection software. If the press attacks you, they're attacking the only person actually cleaning up the dark web."

I'd spent three hours in the archives pulling those numbers. My Media Ethics professor would be proud. Or horrified. Probably both.

"And the bank?" Bishop pressed. "The controlling stake in Hermoney?"

I was ready for this one. I'd been ready for it since I saw the leak. "Hermoney isn't just a women-only banking platform," I said, pulling up the slide I'd prepared—a sleek infographic I'd designed at 2 AM on four hours of sleep and too much caffeine. "It's a financial inclusion initiative. Under Naomi's stake, they've expanded micro-loan programs to female entrepreneurs in developing economies. They've got a ninety-seven percent repayment rate, which is—"

"Impressive," Bishop cut in, her tone flat. "But the headlines won't read 'Naomi Takahashi-Murphy Empowers Women.' They'll read 'Cyborg Hero Bankrolls Female-Only Institution—Discrimination or Innovation?'"

"Then we make it innovation," I said, leaning forward. "We frame it as a pilot program for equitable lending. We point out that the financial sector has historically underserved women—and that Naomi's stake is about correcting systemic bias, not creating it. We don't apologize for Hermoney. We celebrate it. And we challenge the press to find a single case of discrimination in the bank's lending practices."

Silence.

Naomi's gum stopped popping. Then nodded.

"You actually did the research," she said, smirking.

"I'm a Communications major," I replied. "Research is what we do. Well, that and panic."

Bishop's lips twitched—almost a smile. Almost. "And the portfolio as a whole? You mentioned a package."

I nodded, pulling up the final slide. "We package the entire portfolio under a single umbrella initiative: The NextGen Infrastructure Fund. It's not a secret stash of weird investments. It's a holistic corporate responsibility portfolio designed to bridge the gap between emerging technology, digital ethics, and economic independence."

"NewTron?" Bishop pressed.

"AI research with a focus on ethical implementation," I said. "They've got a published code of conduct that's stricter than any government regulation. We lead with that."

"Sylvester Neill-Tate Pictures?"

"Legacy preservation," I said, and I actually meant it. "That's a hundred years of storytelling. It's not an investment—it's a commitment to art history. We spin it as cultural stewardship."

"Afterdark?"

"Worker protection and consent verification. We're ahead of the curve, not behind it."

"Hermoney?"

"Financial equity."

"And the controlling stake in Afterdark?"

I met Bishop's eyes. "We don't call it a controlling stake. We call it a partnership for industry reform. We're not in the porn business. We're in the consent verification business. The adult content is incidental."

Naomi burst out laughing—a genuine, unguarded laugh that made her glitch slightly, her holographic form flickering.

"Incidental," she wheezed. "I'm in the consent verification business. I'm keeping that."

Bishop ignored her, studying me with those unreadable eyes. "You've turned a potential PR disaster into a corporate ESG keynote in under ten minutes. I'm almost impressed."

"Almost?" I asked.

"Don't push your luck, Williams."

The door clicked open. Kim stuck her head in, tablet in hand. "Five minutes to broadcast. Naomi needs to be in makeup yesterday."

Naomi pushed herself up from her chair, still chuckling. "Makeup. Right. Because my face—" she gestured at her features, her cybernetic eye spinning lazily—"needs to look more human for the cameras."

"It helps with the optics," Ms. Bishop said.

She paused at the door, looking back at me. "You know what, Latte Lad? When this is over, you’re getting yourself a drink. A real one."

"I don’t—" I asked.

"It’s mandatory."

She sauntered out, popping another bubble as she went.

The door clicked shut. Bishop remained at the head of the table, deactivating the glass display. The room dimmed slightly, leaving just the ambient light of the city skyline outside—New Chicago glittering through the floor-to-ceiling windows like a billion tiny lies.

She walked over to my chair, resting a manicured hand on the back of it.

"You're evolving, Williams," she said quietly. "A month ago, you would have stammered through a basic press release and hidden under a desk."

I looked down at my cold espresso. I'd barely touched it. Too nervous. "A month ago, I didn't know superheroes had offshore holding companies, let alone needed PR handlers."

"And now?"

I met her eyes. "You adapt or you get flattened."

She held my gaze for a moment. Something flickered across her face—approval, maybe. Or amusement. It was hard to tell with Bishop.

"Indeed," she said softly.

And then her form shimmered.

It was subtle—a fraction of a second, a flicker of height, a shift in shoulder width. Her jawline softened, then sharpened again. Her posture shifted, became a little more fluid. Less Bishop. More... something else.

Before I could react, she smiled. It wasn't Bishop's smile. It was wider. Playful. Dangerous.

"Mr. Enigma sends his regards, by the way," she—they—said, their voice layering over Bishop's crisp tones like a second track. "He was quite impressed with how you handled the courtroom transcript analysis."

A chill ran down my spine. "Wait... how are you—"

"The beauty of this department, Williams," they whispered, leaning close enough that I could see the faint shimmer at the edges of their form, "is that you never truly know who is holding the pen."

They winked—a signature Enigma move—and turned on their heel, heading toward the door in Bishop's perfect heels, Bishop's perfect suit, Bishop's perfect posture. But I knew now. It was all a performance.

"Five minutes to live broadcast," they called over their shoulder, their voice settling fully back into Bishop's clipped cadence. "Get to the control room. It's time to watch our cyber-hero save the markets."

The door closed behind them.

I sat alone for a moment, looking down at my reflected face in the dark glass of my cold espresso. My reflection stared back at me—a Communications major from a state school, barely twenty, who'd somehow become the handler for a cyborg's sex scandal.

I wasn't the terrified intern who'd walked through the glass lobby four weeks ago. I was becoming part of the machine—the unseen hand that guided what millions of people believed, felt, and outraged over.

And Enigma was right. I never truly knew who was holding the pen.

Including myself.

I picked up my cup, took a slow sip of the bitter, cold espresso, and walked out to manage the narrative.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!