"September 1st, 1939."
The voice was deep, masculine, and serious—the audio equivalent of a firm handshake selling you a high-interest 401(k).
Black-and-white footage flickered to life on the massive Jumbotron. Old-timey tanks rolled over Polish borders, churning up mud and razor wire while smoke billowed from burning rooftops.
"While the world held its breath and darkness spread across Europe," the narrator continued, the bass rattling the teeth of forty thousand people, "America was silent. Or so they thought."
The footage shifted. The grainy filter cleared, replaced by high-definition reenactments. Scientists in white coats huddled around a bubbling vat where a man strapped to a table screamed, his veins glowing radioactive blue.
"In the shadows, the P.I.T. was born. The Powered Individual Taskforce. We didn't just build weapons. We became them."
A montage of violence played out to soaring, manipulative orchestral strings. A man in a star-spangled trench coat—General Glory—punched a Panzer tank until the turret spun off like a bottle cap. The Blue Bullet sprinted across the Atlantic, leaving a wake of sonic booms that shattered windows in London. Mrs. USA descended from the clouds, incinerating a German bunker with a dismissive wave.
"We won the war. We saved the world. We protected freedom."
The music swelled to an obnoxiously patriotic crescendo. The screen cut to a sweating, condensation-slicked bottle fizzing against the American flag.
"And that's why America drinks VALORCOLA. Taste the Freedom. 0% Sugar. 100% Justice."
The image froze on the bottle.
Freedom, Jude thought, watching the ad. Fifty calories of it. On sale for $4.99.
"BOOO! GET OFF THE FIELD, YOU BUM!"
The roar of the crowd drowned out the fading jingle. The war documentary shrank to pixels looming over Citizens Bank Park. The Phillies were scrambling to salvage the top of the ninth, and forty thousand Philadelphians were out for blood.
"He's winding up!" David screamed, a cup of overpriced domestic beer sloshing over the rim. He was shirtless, his chest painted with a sloppy red "P," radiating the specific kinetic energy of a twenty-one-year-old who desperately wanted to punch drywall. "Throw the fastball, baby! Throw the heater!"
Beside him, Kelvin sat like a statue, a fresh beer already open. He took a long, mechanical sip. "He's gonna walk him."
"Shut up, Kelvin! Don't jinx the defense!" David slapped Kelvin's shoulder hard enough to leave a handprint.
Jude shrank into his seat, trying to make himself small enough to disappear. The two-decade-old plastic dug into his spine, and the humid air was thick with the scent of stale pretzels and the specific musty stench of South Philly in summer.
He checked his watch. 9:45 PM.
Three more hours, he calculated. Three more hours of performing enthusiasm, and then he could go home and be nothing again.
"You check that watch one more time, Jude, and I'm gonna shove it up your ass."
Greta was slouched in the seat to his left, boots propped on the empty chair in front of her. She looked like she'd dressed for a street fight rather than a baseball game—denim jacket, ripped black jeans, and a scowl that would make most babies cry.
"Just checking the time," Jude mumbled, pulling his hoodie sleeve down over his wrist.
"You always do this." Greta was aggressively chewing a plastic straw. "You sit there, moping, acting like you're being held hostage. If you hate us that much, just say it."
Hostage. The word landed somewhere in Jude's chest. That's not wrong.
"I don't hate you," he said, keeping his eyes on the field to avoid contact.
"Could have fooled me. You're killing the mood. You're like a black hole for anything enjoyable."
"Greta, be nice," Emily squeaked from two seats down. She was curled into a ball, clutching a bag of cotton candy like a security blanket, flinching every time the crowd roared.
"I am being nice. I'm trying to get him to participate in real life."
Real life. Jude almost laughed. Real life was the stadium full of people screaming at millionaires chasing a ball. Real life was the heroes on the Jumbotron selling soda between innings. Real life was pretending any of it mattered.
"Strike two!" the announcer roared. The stadium shook.
On Jude's right, Ollie jumped up, high-fiving strangers in the row behind them. "Did you see that curveball? That defied physics! That was disgusting!" He grabbed Jude by the shoulders and shook him. "Jude! You seeing this?"
"Yeah," Jude said, his head rattling. "Crazy."
It was too loud. The screaming, the organ music, the thumping bass of the ads—it felt like the air pressure was rising, pressing in on his eardrums until they were ready to pop. He needed five minutes of silence. Just five minutes where nobody expected him to cheer, or smile, or pretend to be a person who wanted to be here.
Jude stood up, the seat folding with a plastic clack.
"Bathroom," he mumbled to no one in particular.
He tried to shuffle past the row, but a hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Soft skin. Perfect grip.
Natalia.
She was sitting at the end of the aisle, looking like she existed under a personal spotlight while everyone else looked sweaty and gross. Cropped jersey, phone open to one of her social media pages. She looked up at him, batting her eyelashes just enough to be dangerous.
"Hey," she said, her voice cutting through the noise like a bell. "Since you're getting up..."
She smiled. The smile she used to get free drinks at bars. The smile she used to get extensions on papers.
"Get me a pretzel? Please? I'm starving."
She knew he wasn't going to say no. She knew exactly where he stood in the pecking order.
Jude looked at her, then at the long line of stairs leading up to the concourse. He wanted to say get it yourself. He wanted to say I'm not your errand boy.
"Yeah," Jude said. "Sure. Salt or cinnamon?"
"Salt. Obviously." She squeezed his hand, holding it a second longer than necessary, then let go. "You're the best, Jude."
She turned back to her phone before he'd even stepped past her.
The best, Jude thought as he climbed the stairs. The best errand boy. The best pushover. The best at disappearing.
The concourse was a sensory assault. Fried grease fought with spilled beer, and the air was thick enough to chew. Jude kept his head down, weaving through the jersey-clad mob while the heroes watched from above.
Screens that weren't showing the game were showing them.
A digital poster for Sentinel Security featured Ironclad standing with his arms crossed in front of a suburban home, steel skin polished to a sheen. "Your home is your castle. Fortify it."
Next to the restroom, a life-sized cardboard cutout of Mindbulb held a pregnancy test. "Predict the future. Plan your life. ClearBlue."
Jude didn't blink. He didn't scoff. It was just wallpaper. The heroes were as much a part of the city's infrastructure as the potholes and the trash on the sidewalk—trademarks with heartbeats.
Freedom, the ValorCola ad had said. We protected freedom.
Jude looked at the Ironclad poster. At the perfectly white smile and the corporate logo in the corner.
Whose freedom? he wondered. And who's paying for it?
He waited in line for ten minutes, paid twelve dollars for a pretzel that looked like it had been under the heat lamp since the Kennedy administration, and grabbed a lemonade because he knew Natalia would complain about being thirsty the moment she finished eating.
That's what you are, a voice in his head whispered. You're not a person. You're a service. You exist to make other people's lives slightly more convenient.
He didn't argue with the voice. He'd stopped arguing with it years ago.
When he got back to the seats, the stadium was vibrating.
"Bottom of the ninth! Two outs! Full count!" Ollie was screaming, gripping the railing like he was trying to rip it from the concrete.
Jude passed the food down the row. Natalia took the pretzel and the lemonade without looking at him, her eyes glued to the field.
"You're a lifesaver," she murmured, the words lost in the rising noise.
Smack.
"STRIKE THREE! BALLGAME!"
The explosion of sound was physical, hitting Jude in the chest like a shockwave. Ollie vaulted over the seat back, tackling David in a hug. Kelvin raised his beer in salute, a rare smile cracking his face. Even Greta stood up, clapping slowly, though she looked like she was doing it ironically.
"Play the song!" David screamed, spinning his shirt over his head. "Play the damn song!"
A generic pop anthem blasted over the speakers. The city of Philadelphia, for one brief, shining moment on a Friday night, was actually happy.
Jude stood there, holding his empty hands, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
They were so happy. Why couldn't he just be happy?
Because you're not really here, the voice answered. You're just watching. You've always just been watching.
The high lasted all the way out of the stadium. The crowd was a river of red pinstripes flowing toward the exits, chanting, high-fiving, drunkenly stumbling into the Philadelphia night.
"We are not going home," David announced as they hit the cool air on Pattison Avenue. He was sweating, still shirtless, ready to fight someone or buy everyone a shot. "We are sticking a flag in this night. We're going to the bar."
"O'Neals?" Ollie suggested, bouncing on his feet.
"O'Neals," Kelvin agreed, lighting a cigarette with a lighter he'd conjured from nowhere.
"I'm down," Natalia said, checking her reflection in her phone. "I need a real drink. That lemonade was pure sugar."
Jude flinched.
"What about you, Jude?" Emily asked. She was walking close to Greta, looking afraid of getting trampled.
Jude stopped. The subway entrance was just ahead, glowing like a beacon.
Freedom, he thought. Right there. Thirty steps and you're free.
"I think I'm gonna pass," Jude said, stepping away from the group. "I'm tired. Long week."
The temperature dropped ten degrees.
Greta stopped walking. She turned slowly, boots scraping pavement. "Of course you are." She crossed her arms, her scowl lit by the streetlights. "God forbid you actually celebrate with your friends. What, is this too low-brow for you? You'd rather go sit in your room and stare at the wall?"
"It's not that. I'm just—"
"You're always just something." Greta stepped into his space, aggressive and sharp. "You act like you're doing us a favor by existing, Jude. It's exhausting."
You have no idea, Jude thought. Existing is exhausting. That's the whole problem.
"Greta, chill," Kelvin said, exhaling smoke. "Let the man sleep if he wants."
"Nah, fuck that." David wrapped an arm around Jude's neck in a headlock that was meant to be friendly but felt suffocating. "Judey! Come on, man. One beer. Don't be a bitch."
"I really—"
"Jude."
Natalia's voice cut through everything. She stepped forward, tilting her head, looking at him with those big dark eyes—the ones that made him feel like he was the only person on the planet.
"Just come for one," she said softly. "It won't be fun if the whole group isn't there. Please?"
She pouted. A weaponized expression.
Jude looked at the subway entrance. Freedom. Silence. His bed and the ceiling fan he'd memorized every blade of.
Then he looked at Natalia.
This is the cage, a quiet part of him whispered. This is always the cage. You think you're choosing, but you're not. You never choose. You just do what they want.
"I don't have my ID," Jude said. "Left my wallet in my other pants when I changed for the game."
"You're twenty-one, you look forty," Greta muttered.
"They card at O'Neals. I have to go back and grab it."
"Okay!" Natalia beamed, the pout vanishing. "We'll save you a seat. Just be quick?"
"Yeah," Jude lied. "I'll be quick."
"Don't flake, Jude!" Ollie called as the group moved away.
"I won't."
He watched them disappear into the crowd. David shoving Kelvin. Greta stomping and probably complaining about his lack of spine. Natalia in the center, the queen bee leading the hive.
They vanished, and Jude stood alone on the corner.
The wind picked up, blowing a discarded hot dog wrapper against his leg. He looked at the subway entrance, the orange light flickering like a dying firefly.
He wasn't going to the bar. He was going to go home, turn off his phone, and stare at the ceiling until he passed out.
And tomorrow, the voice said, you'll do it all again. And the day after that. And the day after that. Until one day you just... don't.
Jude descended the stairs into the subway.
The station was underground purgatory, tiled in grime and smelling of urine, exhaust, and old pretzels. Jude stood near the edge of the platform, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
To his left, a man with no shoes slept on a bench, wrapped in a colorless blanket. To his right, a woman with sores on her arms scratched at her skin, muttering something about spiders.
Directly above the woman's head was a pristine, backlit poster.
The Aviator hovered in the clouds, holding a bank card. "Chase Bank. Rise above the rest."
Jude stared at the ad. The Aviator's smile was blindingly white. The woman beneath it groaned, shifting on the cold tile.
Rise above the rest. The irony was thick enough to choke on. The heroes were on the walls, on the screens, in the sky—and down here, the people were rotting.
His phone buzzed. Multiple angry vibrations.
DAD (3 Missed Calls) DAD: Wells Fargo alert just hit my email. Overdraft again? DAD: I'm not funding this anymore, Jude. You're failing classes and burning cash. DAD: Pack your things. We need to talk about you coming home. Permanently.
Jude stared at the screen. The blue light illuminated the hollow bags under his eyes.
Coming home. Quitting. Becoming exactly what they always thought you were: a bad investment.
He didn't reply. He didn't feel a spike of panic.
He just felt heavy. Like someone had dropped a barbell on his chest and walked away.
He swiped left. Delete.
That's one cage, he thought. School is another. The friend group is another. Even this—standing on a subway platform at 10 PM because a girl wanted a pretzel—this is a cage too.
Cages all the way down.
The train screeched into the station, metal shrieking against metal. The homeless man on the bench jolted awake. The doors hissed open.
Jude stepped onto the Broad Street Line. It was crowded even at this hour. He squeezed into a plastic seat near the window. Across from him, a teenager blasted music from phone speakers. Two seats down, someone wept quietly into their hands.
Jude rested his forehead against the cold glass. The tunnel rushed by in a blur of black wires and concrete. He watched his reflection—a ghost overlaid on the darkness.
They're probably ordering shots right now.
He could almost hear Greta's voice. "Finally. The dead weight is gone. Now we can actually have fun." David would laugh. Ollie would agree, just to fit in. And Natalia... she was probably at the bar, leaning over the counter, flashing that smile at some guy in an Eagles jersey. Maybe she'd already forgotten he existed.
It doesn't matter, the reflection seemed to say. You're meaningless to them anyway. You're meaningless to everyone. Including yourself.
The train slowed. Cecil B. Moore.
Jude stood and shuffled off, carried by momentum. He climbed the stairs, surfacing onto the street. The campus nightlife buzzed in the distance, but the edges were dark.
Bzzzt.
NATALIA: hey <3 since ur going back... can u stop at that gas station on 15th? need snacks. sour candy & maybe chips? ur the best xx
Jude stared at the text.
He wasn't going back. He was going home to rot. But his thumb moved automatically.
JUDE: Sure.
He hated himself for it. He was one of Pavlov's dogs, trained to salivate at the sound of a bell.
You could just go home, the voice said. You could turn off your phone and climb into bed and let the ceiling fan spin until you fall asleep. That's what you want, isn't it?
Or you could just... not wake up. Wouldn't that be easier? Wouldn't that be the real freedom?
Jude's feet kept moving toward the gas station. Muscle memory. Autopilot.
The exit sign has been glowing for years, the voice continued. You've just been too much of a coward to walk through it.
He turned left, heading toward the run-down gas station on the corner. Bulletproof glass, always cracked. Flickering fluorescents washing everything in sickly yellow.
He pushed the door open. The chime sounded weak, like it hadn't been fixed since the '90s.
Jude walked straight to the snack aisle. Routine. Grab the red bag. Grab the blue bag. Don't think.
This is your life, the voice whispered. Running errands for people who don't see you. Existing in the margins of other people's stories. You're not even a supporting character, Jude. You're set dressing.
"No! Please! I don't understand!"
The shout came from the front.
Jude froze, his hand hovering over a bag of chips. He peered over the rack.
Two men at the counter. Hoodies pulled tight, faces obscured by cheap ski masks. Both holding pistols—black chunks of metal leveled at the clerk.
The clerk was older, maybe sixty. Trembling, hands raised high, stammering in broken English.
"Open the register, old man! Now!" The taller robber slammed the butt of his gun onto the counter. The plexiglass cracked.
"Okay! Okay!" The clerk fumbled with the keys, hands shaking so badly he dropped them.
"Stop dicking around!" The second robber leaned over and pistol-whipped him across the face. The old man crumpled, blood spraying onto the lottery tickets.
Adrenaline dumped into Jude's system—cold, sharp, sickening.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His brain screamed logical instructions: Duck. Hide. Stay behind the chips. Wait for the heroes. That's their job. That's what the ads say. Wait for Ironclad. Wait for Titan.
But nobody was coming. The ads were just pixels. The heroes were brands with better things to do.
Jude looked at the clerk, cowering on the floor, bleeding.
He looked at the robbers, laughing, high on adrenaline and power.
And something in him snapped.
Not courage. Not heroism. Something darker.
Why not?
The thought was quiet. Almost peaceful.
You've been waiting for the exit sign. Here it is. Lit up in neon. You can die doing nothing in your bed at ninety, or you can die right now doing one thing that actually matters.
Either way, you're free.
Jude didn't decide to move. His body simply rejected the logic of survival.
He lunged out of the aisle. No plan. No idea how to fight. He swung his fist in a wild, desperate haymaker.
His knuckles connected with the side of the second robber's head.
It wasn't like the movies. No satisfying crunch. Bone met bone with a jarring shock that shot up his wrist, and the robber barely stumbled.
"The fuck?"
The robber turned, eyes wide behind the mask.
Jude tried to swing again, but the taller one was faster. A boot slammed into Jude's stomach, doubling him over. The air left his lungs in a wheeze.
"Fuckin' kid!"
Something hard cracked against the back of his skull. He hit the linoleum hard, sliding into a display of candy bars. He tried to push himself up, gasping, but a heavy boot pinned his chest to the ground.
Jude looked up.
He was staring directly down the barrel of a 9mm. The serial number was scratched off, some digits still visible. The robber's finger tightened on the trigger.
Jude stopped struggling.
He didn't think about Greta. He didn't think about his dad. He didn't think about Natalia waiting for her snacks.
He just looked at the gun.
Is this it?
For a split second, he felt something strange. Not fear.
Relief.
Finally, the voice whispered. Freedom.
BANG.