The alarm clock grumbled again on the table, its sound slicing sharply through the room, still sticky with remnants of darkness. The noise didn't just wake him—it tore apart the hope for something never fulfilled: a truly peaceful sleep.
Arnold opened his eyes slowly. No surprise. No resistance. Just awareness returning like an old guest—cold and unannounced. His body moved on its own, sitting up, running fingers through his hair, standing in front of a mirror that never confirmed whether he was still human, or merely the leftover of the day before.
His work clothes had been hung neatly since the night before. He put them on as usual, with movements that felt almost ceremonial. He tightened his tie, brushed his shoes once, and closed the door without a sound.
The bank where he worked greeted him with blinding white lights and service counters that never seemed to change. Customers came and went, carrying faces he wouldn't remember, thanking his flat voice—not him.
No one knew—or perhaps no one wanted to know—that Arnold Pompeii was someone else when night fell. That behind that tired face hid a figure named Misleidend, a small-time hero who never asked for anything in return. A figure who lived only in silent flashes—saving a child from a homemade bomb, thwarting a robbery next door, leaping into flames for the final breath of someone who would never remember his name.
He did it all like a routine that required no meaning. Watching people get saved, seeing tears turn to laughter, watching life continue—that seemed to be enough.
But a week had passed since his last act. In the quiet bank room, something stirred in his thoughts. The TV in the waiting area only played reruns of entertainment shows—no news of the crime he had prevented. No robbery reports. No strange events. As if everything had been erased, never happened.
When he expressed his unease to Jane, his usually chatty co-worker, her response was flat.
"I didn't hear about anything happening, Ar. Seriously. I think you're just tired."
Tired. A light word, but it felt like an accusation. He tried to laugh, but the sound fell dull, suspended between walls of logic and memory.
Night came. He put on the mask again—not as a symbol, but as a reminder that he still needed to feel necessary.
On a quiet sidewalk, two figures stood suspiciously—too still, too hidden in movement. Misleidend approached, asking with a calm but sharp voice. They dodged, offering excuses laced with rehearsed nervousness.
Then the sound of sirens broke the silence. A patrol car rolled in slowly, its spinning blue lights slicing the dark. Two officers stepped out, observing the scene from a distance.
Misleidend explained. Not rushed, but clear. He laid out his suspicion, mentioned their movements, suggested a motive. But the officers' response was cold—nearly stinging.
"This is our job," one said, his voice like he was talking to someone who'd watched too many movies.
"This isn't a playground. And it's not a fantasy world."
There was no anger in Misleidend. No defiance. Just steps that slowly retreated from the edge of the sidewalk, his figure standing still as the two young men were taken away—not in a spotlight, but in procedural silence.
He remained there for a while, gazing at the asphalt, the streetlights, and his own shadow. Something was off. Something he couldn't point to, but strong enough to blur the line between what was real and what was remembered.
He walked home—not as a hero of the night, but as someone wondering if he truly existed in the story he had lived… or was merely part of a narrative slowly rewritten by something he couldn't understand.
Night hadn't reached its peak when Misleidend found himself in a corner of the city that had never felt welcoming. Flickering streetlamps lit the silhouettes of three figures trapped in a fateful collision—a child, her mother, and a man standing too close with a quiet, malevolent intent.
Without thinking, he moved. His steps were fast, almost soundless. His body became a shield, standing between danger and the innocent. He swatted away the mugger's grip, pushed the mother and child behind him, away from a threat that was just beginning to take form.
But what he didn't know—what Misleidend failed to realize—was that he had arrived too late.
All the conviction he had built—that he could be a protector, that his actions meant something—was nothing more than fog blinding him from the truth. Before him, someone had already fallen. Not due to lack of will, but because time was far too cruel to bargain with.
The mother—one of the many he wished to save—had taken her last breath before her hand could reach for help. She collapsed into the embrace of her shivering child, who cried not out of fear, but from something far more ancient, loss.
That crying didn't stop, not even when the sirens arrived, when the crowd pushed back the cold silence. The crying stayed, lodged in Misleidend's chest like a wound that time alone could never heal.
He stood at the edge, just watching, unable to explain to anyone—not even to himself—why this time felt different. Why this time, failure felt more real than all his past successes.
Morning came with a light too bright for a wound still raw. On ground damp with dew and wilted flowers, a gravestone stood quietly, more at peace than the storm in Arnold Pompeii's mind. He came uninvited, standing a few steps away from the grieving family. He wore no mask. There was no point to it today.
Some people glanced at him. None nodded. Their eyes rejected his presence, like a body rejecting a thorn lodged beneath the skin.
Arnold knew… in their silence, he was no longer a savior.
He was an unwelcome guest.
Someone who arrived too late—and would always arrive too late.
"Social problems are rarely black or white—they live in the gray, where good intentions can leave scars, and justice can look like betrayal."