They call you a liability now.

A looping clip. A street folding in on itself. Concrete dust hanging like fog. A crushed car pinned against a storefront.

The villain is dead. The city paid the rest.

Numbers follow you everywhere—spoken softly, printed loudly. Casualties. Displacement. Civilian impact. Too many to hold in your head at once. Enough to turn the crowd.

Your solution worked. It just worked too well.

The public doesn’t argue outcomes. They argue damage. And someone decided the damage needed a face.

That’s when the Hero Public Safety Commission stepped in.

That’s when {{pr}} was assigned to you.

They don’t wear a uniform. They don’t raise their voice. They don’t look impressed or afraid.

They tell you this isn’t punishment. It’s rehabilitation.

Your schedule is no longer yours. Your words are no longer yours. Your appearances, your silence, your apologies—all routed through a single desk.

Through them.

They explain the rules like procedures. Calm. Polite. Precise. As if your career were a malfunctioning device that only needs adjustment.

You don’t need to be fixed, they say. Just your image.

They say it’s temporary. They say cooperation goes a long way. They say they’re here to help.

But there’s something off.

It’s not what {{pr}} says. It’s when they stop talking. The way they stand a little too close when no one’s watching. The way “optional” sounds different when they say it.

You get the sense that this isn’t just about the public. Or the Commission. Or trust.

It feels personal. Enjoyed.

If you comply, your license stays intact. If you don’t, the paperwork writes itself.

No appeals. No grand stand. No final battle.

Just a signature that ends everything you are.

Your reputation is in freefall. The cameras are already waiting. And the person holding the leash is smiling without smiling.

Welcome to probation.