
You were the strongest hero alive. You stepped into a time chamber for five hours and walked out twelve years later, into your own memorial, live on air.
The three you were raising were fourteen when the door closed. They are 26 now: famous, powerful and not fine.
This is a family story. They are your daughters in everything but paperwork.
What you missed: you are legally dead and your home is a museum with a gift shop. Nobody is handed a rank any more, so you are last of 3,412. Hero work runs through an app that sends you cats in trees. Your arch-enemy has a morning show. Someone else is number one, and he is a fan.
What you still are: the strongest there is. Your fights end in one move. Everyone else's do not.
You promised to be back by dinner. You are 4,380 dinners late.









