The world watched with bated breath.
The red carpet shimmered beneath flashing camera lights, stretching across Liberty Avenue like a velvet river of royalty. Tall spires of white and gold decorated the entry to the Solar Gala, now in its 80th year, an annual spectacle to commemorate the day the world should have ended… and the day it didn't.
The New York Disaster, what should've been mankind's extinction date, had become a global holiday. A celebration of survival. A tribute to the dead. And above all, a glorification of the one who saved them.
Solar, Earth's first superhero. A being from another realm.
That evening, the Solar Gala was in full swing. The air buzzed with anticipation as a tidal wave of cameras pointed at the glowing arch of the entrance hall. The building itself, Stellar Hall, was wrapped in gold-tinted glass, curved and glittering, with massive holograms projecting highlights from heroic feats past. Jets of magical flame danced skyward on cue, painting the city skyline in arcs of fire and light.
VIPs and elite heroes spilled onto the carpet one by one, followed by news drones, security personel, and stylists who looked more otherworldly than human. Capes flowed. Armor gleamed. Gowns sparkled with actual fairy dust. From celebrities to senators, CEOs to spellcasters, if they had power, they were here.
Every few seconds, a new roar of flashes erupted. A hero smiled. A name was screamed. Applause echoed across the carpet as the rich and extraordinary made their entrance.
"As you can see, the energy here tonight is absolutely electric!" a Channel One reporter chirped, her voice crystalline and polished through a live broadcast. "We're standing just feet away from some of the most powerful figures on the planet. Oh look! Here comes Thunderbolt and his gorgeous wife, Lady Luck!"
Down the carpet strode Thunderbolt, Earth's #2 ranked hero. A towering man of perfect build, broad chest, trim waist, arms that looked like they'd been chiseled out of divine marble. His ashy white hair sat tousled yet intentional, flowing down to his shoulders, with his perfectly trimmed beard finishing up his look. His suit, crafted from high-durability flex-weave, fit him like a second skin, sleek and charged with accents of silver and blue. A huge bolt slashed from the nape of his neck to the small of his back, the bolt pulsing faintly with electricity as if a miniature thunderstorm was brewing beneath the surface of his suit.
By his side stood the very definition of desire: Lady Luck.
She was nothing short of mesmerizing. Her gown, if it could be called that, was an ethereal constellation of green four-leafed clovers, delicately scattered across her skin like nature itself chose to worship her form. Each leaf shimmered faintly, clinging in just the right places to reveal and conceal in tantalizing balance. A teasing cleavage cut-out left photographers gasping, her long legs accentuated by high heels laced in golden thread. Her honey-gold skin, luminous green eyes, and luscious blonde curls made it nearly impossible to look away.
Billboards. Makeup ads. Designer perfume. She was the face of a thousand brands and the fantasy of ten million hearts.
"Thunderbolt, how wonderful to have you here today! New York thanks you for your continued service! And Lady Luck—" the reporter gushed, "**—might I just say, you look absolutely fantastic tonight."
Thunderbolt flashed a grin that launched a thousand tweets.
With practiced charm, he wrapped an arm around his wife's waist, pulling her in gently but firmly, and stared right into the nearest camera lens.
Mine.
That one look said it all. And the internet would spend weeks analyzing it.
As the couple spoke to the reporter, their interaction was broadcast live to hundreds of millions across the globe. Camera drones hovered above like satellites. Hashtags already trended. Screenshots already framed.
---
Meanwhile…
In a cramped New York apartment, the celebration looked very different.
A small, boxy TV flickered in the corner of a modest living room. A ceiling fan spun endlessly overhead, creaking softly with each rotation. The walls were yellowed slightly by age, corners of peeling paint revealing a life lived long past new. The sofa, frayed, over-sat, older than the apartment itself.
"Look, Sis!! It's Thunderbolt! Isn't he the coolest?" shouted Kyle, eyes wide, nose practically kissing the screen.
The heat of a summer night drifted in lazily through the open windows, letting in the low hum of traffic, distant horns, and muffled city life.
In the hallway, scattered shoes. On the tiny counter, a bowl filled with overdue bills and a half-eaten bagel. It was messy in a lived-in way, but clean enough to be called home.
And just outside the window, perched on the fire escape, sat Thalia's mother.
A cigarette glowed in her fingers. The smoke curled into the humid night like a ghost stretching its arms.
She sat in silence, watching the city lights blink like fallen stars. Her dark auburn hair was tied back loosely. Still wearing her nursing scrubs, she looked like someone on the edge of exhaustion, but even now, there was a beauty to her. Something worn but radiant. The kind of beauty that didn't fade under stress, only changed.
She always smoked outside.
Said she didn't want her kids breathing it in.
Even now, as the world celebrated heroes, she sat out there quietly, staring up at the sky.
Then there was Thalia.
Twenty-two years old. Piercing blue eyes that cut through smoke and shadow. Messy black hair she barely bothered to style, forever tied up in a lazy ponytail or left to spill across her shoulders like ink. Her jeans were faded, her black cropped top hugged her frame,just loose enough to be casual, just tight enough to show off the graphic design of a skeletal fairy with glowing eyes.
She carried her mother's beauty without even trying. Sleek. Elegant. Effortless.
A knock echoed at the door.
Thalia was already halfway across the hallway before her little brother even moved. She cracked the door open and found Chris Margoth standing there, dressed in a plain black tracksuit with the hood pulled low. His ever-present smirk peeked out from beneath a mop of curls.
She didn't say a word.
She spun on her heel and dashed back to the living room, vaulting over the old couch and planting herself in front of the flickering TV.
"I didn't miss it, did I?" Thalia asked, eyes glued to the screen.
"Nah. I don't think he's here yet," Kyle replied, eyes still glued to the screen.
Chris let himself in and closed the door behind him. This wasn't just any apartment to him, it was practically his second home. He'd been coming here since they were kids, back when Thalia still wore fairy-themed pajamas and Kyle carried a plastic sword everywhere.
He walked up behind Thalia and gave her shoulders a playful squeeze.
"Damn, dude. You really gotta calm down with this Solar obsession."
"CHRIS!!" Kyle shouted, leaping over the couch like a missile and tackling Chris into a hug.
"Ayy, little man! How you been?"
"Good! We're watching the Solar Gala!"
Chris grinned. "Yeah, I figured. T stopped answering my texts. I should've known she was in full Solar worship mode."
"She's waiting for him," Kyle explained.
They both turned to Thalia.
"She's way too obsessed," they said in unison.
Then, silence. Then laughter.
Chris chuckled and ruffled Kyle's hair.
"Where's your mom? I should probably say hi."
Kyle pointed. "She's on the fire escape."
He glanced toward the balcony. Through the window, he could just make out the back of Thalia's mom, her silhouette half-lit by the glow of the city.
Chris nodded, eyes softening. "She still doesn't watch the Gala, huh…"
---
Back at the Gala.
A hush fell over the crowd.
All the top heroes were here. Every major figure had arrived. Which meant only one name remained.
The cameras fell still. Conversations quieted. Even the flutter of capes and gowns seemed to still in the wind.
And then…
WHOOOSH!
A gust of wind tore overhead, sending dresses flying and hair whipping in every direction. Car alarms blared down the street. The crowd gasped.
WHOOOSH. WHOOOSH.
He was here.
Solar.
The streak of light he left behind shimmered gold and white, like daylight itself had bent through the sky. He zipped from skyline to skyline, his body a blur, weaving through the stars as though he painted the heavens.
Then, he stopped. Midair. Hovering high above Stellar Hall.
And then,
WHOOSH.
He dove straight down, feet first, light trailing behind him like a comet's tail.
BOOM.
He landed with surgical precision, the ground beneath him cracking from the force. A powerful shockwave rippled out, forcing those closest to stumble back a few paces.
Dresses flapped. Security drones swerved. Reporters tried to keep those balance. Cameras flashed.
And then… he raised a single hand. Camera flashes erupted. The crowd surged forward.
The #1 Hero had arrived.