Operation: OnlyHeroes

The world shrank to the size of my phone screen. The villain's smirk. The glint in his eye. The way he'd said it—"Latte Lad"—like it was a private joke between us, something filthy and secret.

My blood didn't just run cold; it crystallized in my veins.

The library's quiet hum became a deafening roar in my ears. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't blink. My thumb, hovering over the screen, was trembling so badly I almost dropped the phone.

He knows. He knows about me. How does he know about me?

The live feed chat was moving at light speed, a waterfall of panic, confusion, and morbid excitement.

@BlazedAndConfused: LATTE LAD CONFIRMED???

@VoidMommy: omg he said the thing

@JusticeStan84: THIS IS A SETUP IT HAS TO BE

@Foxes4Blaze: someone find the intern!! protect him!!

I was no longer a spectator. I was part of the story. The narrative I was supposed to be controlling had just swallowed me whole.

My phone buzzed again, a violent shudder against my palm. It wasn't a notification from the PR server.

It was a direct message. On TwitVid. From an account named @OptiksMaster.

The message preview glowed on my screen:

@OptiksMaster: Spinning this one will require more than a press release, Tobias. Don't bother. The truth has already left the building. :)

A sound escaped my throat—a half-choked gasp, half-gurgle. He was in my DMs. He knew my name.

This wasn't a crisis. This was a targeted strike.

My training—all two months of it—evaporated. The crisis response binder might as well have been ash. My brain, usually a decent enough machine for crafting believable lies, was now just playing a high-pitched tone of pure, undiluted fear.

What's the protocol for when the supervillain personally DMs the intern?!

The cubicle walls felt like they were closing in. I had to get out. I had to find Bishop. I had to find anyone.

I stumbled out of the cubicle, my legs feeling like over-cooked spaghetti. Jaden and Mike were still at our table, now arguing quietly over a shared bag of chips. They looked up as I blundered past, my face undoubtedly the color of old milk.

"Tobes?" Jaden said, his joking tone gone, replaced with genuine concern. "Dude, you look like you just saw a ghost."

"Worse," I croaked, not stopping. "A... a deadline."

It was the lamest lie of my life, but I was fresh out of creativity. I burst out of the library's heavy doors into the afternoon sun, gulping in air like I'd been drowning.

My phone was still blowing up. The @AscendantsPR server was in full meltdown.

[Kim]: WHERE IS BISHOP???

[Intern_Leo]: HQ is locking down. No one in or out.

[Kim]: WILLIAMS. ARE YOU SEEING THIS? DO NOT ENGAGE. DO NOT RESPOND.

[Kim]: TOBY. ANSWER ME.

Another DM. @OptiksMaster.

You can't outrun the signal, intern. It's already everywhere. Check your campus feed.

A pit of dread opened in my stomach. With shaking fingers, I opened the campus security alert app. Usually, it was for lost cats or bike thefts.

The top post, from two minutes ago, was a picture of me. It was me from this morning, walking into the library with my backpack.

The caption:

CAMPUS SECURITY ALERT: Tobias Williams ("Latte Lad") is a person of interest in an ongoing situation. Please report any sightings to authorities. NOT APPROACH.

They'd used my name. They'd used the meme name. They'd told people not to approach me like I was a rabid dog.

This was it. My life was over. My college life, my normal life—evaporated.

I heard it then. The first whisper.

"...Is that him?"

I turned. A group of students had stopped on the path, staring at me, then down at their phones, then back at me. Their expressions were a mix of awe, fear, and voyeuristic curiosity.

One of them raised her phone. Not to call for help. To take a picture.

I did the only thing I could think of. I ran.

Not toward anything. Just away. Away from the stares, away from the phones, away from the horrifying reality that my face was now currency in a war I didn't sign up for.

My phone rang. It was Kim. I swiped to answer, pressing the phone to my ear as I ducked behind the engineering building.

"Where are you?!" she hissed, her voice strained with a panic I'd never heard from her.

"C-campus," I panted, sliding down a brick wall into a crouch. "He's here. He's messaging me. He put out a campus alert—"

"I know. I see it. Listen to me very carefully," Kim said, her voice dropping into a low, urgent command. "You are not safe in public. You have been strategically exposed."

"What does that mean?!"

"It means you're bait, you idiot!" she snapped. "He's flushing you out. Making you run. Now, get up. Stop hiding. Walk. Don't run. Walk to the campus parking garage on Elm. Level B2. Now."

"Why? What's on Level B2?"

"Your extraction," she said, her voice grim. "And Toby? Whatever you do, do not look at the news."

The line went dead.

Extraction. The word echoed in my hollow head. I was being extracted. Like a rotten tooth.

I forced myself to stand, my knees protesting. Walk. Don't run. I pulled my hood up, shoved my hands in my pockets, and tried to make myself small, uninteresting.

It was useless. Every glance felt like a spotlight. Every snapped picture was a gunshot.

I finally reached the entrance to the parking garage, a dark mouth swallowing the light. I took the stairs down to B2, the air growing cold and smelling of damp concrete and oil.

It was deserted. Silent. The flickering fluorescent light made the shadows dance.

A black SUV with tinted windows sat parked askew in the middle of the level, like it had arrived in a hurry. The engine was off.

This was it. My ride back to the nightmare. Back to the tower. Back to Bishop, who would probably fire me into the sun.

I took a step forward.

The SUV's passenger window slid down silently. But it wasn't a security agent that looked out.

It was him.

Grant Sterling. All-Star.

He wasn't in his suit. He was wearing a grey hoodie and jeans, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. But there was no mistaking that jawline, even in the gloom. He looked... tense. The usual lazy grin was gone, replaced by a tight, focused expression.

He jerked his head toward the passenger door. "Get in."

I stood frozen, a deer in the headlights of my own life's destruction.

"Toby," he said, his voice low and devoid of its usual summer-day warmth. It was all business. "Get in the car. Now."

The urgency in his voice broke my paralysis. I yanked the door open and slid into the leather passenger seat, pulling the door shut behind me. The lock clicked with a sound of finality.

He didn't pull away immediately. He just looked at me, his eyes scanning my face like he was assessing damage.

"You okay?" he asked, and for a fraction of a second, the real Grant flickered through.

"No," I whispered, my voice raw. "No, I am very much not okay. He knows my name. He's messaging me. He called me Latte Lad to, like, ten million people—"

"I know," Grant said, cutting me off. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. "We all know. He's not just after Blaze."

He finally put the car in drive and pulled out of the parking spot, the tires squealing softly on the concrete.

"Then what does he want?" I asked, staring out the window as we ascended the ramp back into the light.

Grant's jaw tightened. He glanced at me, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes I'd never seen before. It wasn't mischief or charm.

It was fear.

"He wants to break the brand," Grant said quietly, his eyes fixed back on the road. "And he's starting with you."

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