I catch shelter underneath the massive entryway as the interior of the place caves in on itself. Metal, concrete, wood, it all piles on top of the golden hero.

Then, I run.

Believe it or not, that's the easy part. Despite the fact that I'm nearly surrounded, I escape, too. Despite the news cameras, the police, the helicopters, I get out of there by disappearing through the side of the warehouse that faces the woods. No cops.

At least I have that going for me. Even if I can't do hand-to-hand combat particularly well, I can disappear. I can sneak around. I can escape without anyone noticing.

I don't even go back to HQ. I'll just figure out how everything went tomorrow, instead I stop by one of our smaller, nearby salvation centers and change clothes. After covering myself basically head to toe—safety measures due to being in public—I then take the bus home, deciding I'll get my car from HQ tomorrow.

I just really don't want to deal with everything right now. That was a lot, and I got thrown across large distances multiple times by the country's top hero. So. I would like to rest. Thank you.

It's about noon when I decide to open the store, though I'll only be open for five hours. Still, that's better than nothing, because I love the atmosphere of my shop. Even if everything hurts and I'm covered in bruises and I should probably seek medical attention.

What a joke. Seek medical attention. From who? Milan?

Milan.

I can feel him all over me.

That's my biggest problem. I literally climbed him while we flew through the air. Now that I've had a break from the chaos of the whole ordeal, I can't stop thinking about the actual altercation. Specifically his arm around me. His hand holding my head. Even though it wasn't really a hug, it seems to have processed as one. I feel so warm. I want it to happen again.

Which is my second biggest problem. The more I touch him, the more I want to. At one point during the flight, my hand touched his hair, and I can still feel it. I keep thinking about it.

Don't even get me started on the actual collision with the warehouse, when he turned his body and covered me so he took the full force of the impact, and I crashed into him—

I sigh, hating the way my body feels right now. In shock, but not necessarily in the bad way. It's so new. Luckily, instead of wallowing further, I'm given a distraction in the form of children entering my establishment.

"Mr. Wells!" The boy announces as they enter the store with flair. His sister follows closely behind, giggling, a full plastic bag in her arms. The children march straight to my counter, and I sit up straighter, making sure my gloves and sleeves are secure. Even though I know they are.

I also move my butterflyfish drawing to the side. It still looks like garbage, thank you for asking. It's also been days. I'm not giving up.

The girl plops the grocery bag full of vibrant, colorful balloons in the center of my counter. The bag is filled to the brim with balloons of all kinds, some from birthdays, some from welcome parties, assorted and in varying states of ruin. They had to have been actively hunting for these nonstop for at least the last week or so. That or they just bought a pack and dropped it in some dirt and glass, but that doesn't seem to be the case. The balloons would be too identical if they did that. Also, they take their jobs seriously. I trust them.

The kids are kid-sized, so their heads reach just past the counter. I can only see their eyes and foreheads. They both peek at me, proud, the girl beaming with her hands resting on her hips and the boy puffing out his chest with his eyes shut and a closed-mouth smile. "What do you think? How did we do? We want the motherload."

Alright. Well. I'm kind of in a box, here. I don't want to hear back from their grandma about giving them too much sugar—though that's never happened before, I mean... she owns a bakery—but they earned it. This is a lot of balloons. And other various trash, but either way it's all harmful. It's all litter. Every piece could've killed a bird if left out there.

I smile at her in return, picking up the plastic bag and setting it next to my small trash can, since it won't fit inside. I'll throw it out with the rest, later.

I turn to my candy drawer, grabbing the whole strawberry candy bag and turning back around. The children are practically vibrating. The girl is more excited than the boy. He seems to be focused on something else, eyes wide and glimmering. I probably don't even have to look at what's on the news, his expression alone could tell me.

"Woah! It's Clover!"

I don't even think about it.

My hand is on the remote in seconds. I turn the TV up annoyingly fast, mostly because I am also unfortunately curious. Clover stands on the right side of the screen, a smaller woman next to him. She's absolutely dwarved by his size, it's almost comical.

The lady is dressed in a button down and skirt, cherry red hair pulled back into a bun. A reporter.

Clover's chocolate-lavender hair is a complete mess, he's half covered in soot and dust, half in blood, and it appears as though he's already healed most of his injuries. He still hasn't mended the tears. His suit is shredded in multiple areas, especially the legs. He's standing there, looking like he just got put through a car crusher, and smiling. It's polite, charming, disturbingly PR. Which is interesting because I can tell he's angry. Frustrated. A subtle purple glow illuminates from him, his impatient gaze on the reporter.

In the corner of the screen, an aerial view of us in the warehouse right before I collapsed it is playing.

Clover seems to be giving a statement. The lady is mid-sentence. "—and it seemed as though you were gaining the upper-hand, so how exactly did The Executioner escape you once again?"

His jaw clenches. He's so mad. So purple. That has to be his mad color. Noted.

"The structural integrity was miscalculated," he explains, clipped, polite. Someone definitely told him to say that. The danger in his eyes contrasts his cordial, strained smile, and the reporter can tell. "Won't happen again."

The woman quirks an eyebrow. She has an agenda. I'm all for it, honestly, anything that challenges his ridiculous posturing. Him and the rest of the DVA.

"3 years you've been Solace International's official top hero, and while you retain the rank, people have been wondering: after going undefeated for all this time, what's it like to have lost twice within the span of only a couple weeks?"

Oh, he is barely holding it together. Purple eyes blazing, body tense, glow flickering a bit. He's definitely thinking about throwing me again. His favorite activity, guess it's stress relief.

I think I like this lady.

"A couple lucky shots don't mean anything. The Executioner knows he's outmatched, it's only a matter of time." His polite tone is being held together with paper clips and mud, slipping by the second.

Wait. What? Isn't luck supposed to be his whole thing? Why am I the one supposedly getting lucky? His name is Clover.

The lady blinks. She agrees with me. "But he beat you twice."

His sharp teeth are clenched. Dangerous. He's starting to look shark-like.

"I mean, he dropped a warehouse on you. Everyone saw it. You're still bleeding—"

"Alright, okay, that's enough questions," another guy who is around Clover's age interjects, a man who appears to also be of similar stature. Their complementary outfits make me wonder if this is supposed to be Clover's sidekick. That would make sense, I remember him talking about making a bet with someone when he was trying to cut my mesh off. He talked about the person like I should've already known them. I don't remember their name, though.

The slightly shorter man with an armored skintight hero suit made of multiple shades of blue is chuckling uneasily, darker complexion sheened with sweat and a nervous smile on his face.

He hastily begins motioning Milan away, smiling at the reporters and waving until they're finally out of focus. When the woman is back centered, she has a satisfied look on her face.

"Well, you heard it here, folks." She says sarcastically into the microphone. Her smug smile widens into something a bit more mocking.

"The Executioner is super outmatched."

The boy child makes some sort of irritated noise, displeased with the reporter. I decide to turn the TV down so he can air his grievances. "I don't care, everyone still thinks Clover's the coolest. My grandma said the news is evil and they're liars."

The kids start going back and forth. I'm barely hearing anything.

I can't help my fascination. The golden boy, the star hero, looking like he just got hit by a truck while being grilled about why he couldn't apprehend me again. In the middle of warehouse ruins with sirens in the background and a lot of arguing. They aren't used to losing.

I can't help the way my spirits improve, content with my other job for once.

Despite the Milan defeat, that isn't why. That isn't where my happiness, my satisfaction is stemming from right now. The warmth I start to feel, the longer the camera in the corner pans over a crowd of people.

I didn't kill anyone. For once I didn't kill anyone.

Whether I'd have escaped Clover or ended up back in prison, that fact makes the mission a success.