I Made Her Stay.
They say absolute power corrupts absolutely.
What they don't say is that it also turns your phone into a notification graveyard of thirst traps and desperate DMs.
Since my little "crater incident," I've been called a terrorist, a war criminal, a fallen icon, and—my personal favorite—a "walking red flag with laser eyes and a god complex."
They're not wrong.
But here's the funny part: the more unhinged I get, the more people seem to want me.
Especially the ones who should know better.
---
It started three days after I quit.
I was in my new hideout—a repurposed penthouse overlooking the city I used to "protect." Dark, luxurious, equipped with all the essentials: power generator, weapons cache, and a bed large enough to host a U.N. summit.
I was shirtless, naturally. Not for comfort—just statistically proven intimidation.
And there was a knock.
Not at the door. Through the wall.
Only one woman punches her way into a 50th-story building like she's pissed at drywall.
Titania.
Warhammer of Justice. Feminist Icon. Poster girl for "punch now, ask questions after."
She stormed through the smoke like a goddess of war in yoga pants. Eyes blazing. Arms crossed. Rage barely contained.
"You psychopath," she growled. "What the hell did you do?"
I turned, sipped from a glass of imported whiskey, and said, "Hi to you too."
"I'm serious!" she barked, marching up to me. "You leveled an entire block. There were civilians. Kids."
I raised an eyebrow. "There were also twenty-eight cartel members with enough weapons to start World War Three. Let's not forget them."
> "You don't get to decide who lives or dies!"
I leaned in, close enough for her to smell the bourbon on my breath.
"I do now."
Her breath hitched. Just a flicker—but I saw it. The hesitation. The confusion. The way her fists clenched like she didn't know if she wanted to hit me or—
"You're not the man I knew," she whispered.
I smirked. "Maybe you never really knew me."
She grabbed me by the collar, slamming me into the wall hard enough to crack the concrete. That's her love language.
"You think this is funny?" she snapped.
I leaned forward, brushing my lips to her ear.
"I think you came here hoping I'd make you forget how much you miss me."
She froze.
A beat no two.
Then she pushed away. Hard. Like I'd burned her.
"You're insane," she said, backing toward the hole she came through.
I didn't stop her. Just watched. Smiling.
Because she was shaking.
Not from fear.
From want.
---
That night, the other guests started arriving.
The villainess, Silksong—a former eco-terrorist who can paralyze you with a kiss—slid into my hideout like she already owned the place. Wrapped in green, barefoot, and grinning.
"I heard you're off the leash," she purred, fingers trailing down my chest. "I always preferred wolves to lapdogs."
I didn't say no.
Then there was Cassie, a reporter who claimed she just wanted "an exclusive."
She got it.
Twice.
She's still limping.
And yes—there are others. Some just want the power. Some want to fix me. Some don't even care why they're drawn to me—they just are.
Like moths to a bonfire.
And me?
I'm not chasing. I'm not asking.
I take.
Because the truth is—
They don't want the hero.
They want the danger. The thrill. The man who stopped pretending.
And they can't look away.
Not even Titania.
Especially not her.