The panic in the pavilion subsided with the strange, elastic speed of a city used to miracles. Within ten minutes, the "Prism" cosplayers were back to posing, and the "Flash" fans were arguing over whether the save was a "Sonic Reset" or a "Temporal Tuck."

  Valenzo, however, was vibrating with a frantic, uncontained energy. He kept darting toward the massive glass exit doors, his eyes scanning the grey-tinged sky of the 250x city.

  "He’s still out there, Alex! I can feel the ionization in the air!" Valenzo adjusted his glasses, his face flushed. "If a 9th Planet speedster is patrolling Milan, this is the biggest news since the Great Crossover. We have to find the landing signature! Natalie always says I lack 'initiative,' but imagine the look on her face when I bring home a genuine hero’s autograph!"

  Alex reached out and gripped Valenzo’s shoulder, his hand steady and immovable. He didn't use force, but the weight of his "invincible" stillness acted as an anchor. He tapped a quick, distracting rhythm on Valenzo's forearm: Ice cream. First level. Limited edition 'Multiverse Swirl'.

  Valenzo paused, his eyes flickering between the door and the prospect of rare snacks. "Ice cream? Now? Alex, history is unfolding! The speed of light just saved our lives!"

  Alex didn't budge. He pointed toward a screen in the distance showing a "Sold Out" sign for the premium vendors. He tapped again: They just restocked. Five minutes only.

  "Five minutes?" Valenzo groaned, his stomach seemingly making the decision for him. "Fine. But we eat fast. Then we’re back on the hunt for the Blur."

  As they began to weave through the dense crowd of 1x scale booths, Valenzo’s phone chirped—a sharp, high-frequency notification that cut through the roar of the convention.

  "Ooh, a 'Prism-Net' alert?" Valenzo pulled out his device, expecting a news flash. Instead, his brow furrowed as he read a direct message from a user handle that was just a string of encrypted digits.

  From: C.K. (Unverified)

  “Golly, mister, you sure are making a lot of noise for someone who missed the point. To be frank, it’s downright foolish to go chasing after someone who clearly wants to stay out of the limelight. A hero’s work isn't a parade, and it certainly isn't an excuse for you to go running into 60x wind tunnels without a harness. It would be a real swell idea if you just stayed put and enjoyed the day with your friend. Jumping to conclusions is a dangerous hobby.”

  Valenzo stopped dead in his tracks, his face turning a bright, indignant red. "Golly? Swell? Who is this guy? 'C.K.'? And did he just call me 'downright foolish'?"

  Alex leaned over, glancing at the screen. The word choice was unmistakable to his 31-year-old mind. It was the Midwestern, "Aww-shucks" vocabulary of the 9th Planet’s most famous resident—the Man of Tomorrow. Prism wasn't just a hero; he was a fanboy who had clearly modeled his entire moral compass (and his insults) on a telescope-view of Clark Kent.

  "He’s lecturing me!" Valenzo hissed, typing back a furious reply. "I’m a senior inspector! I don't 'jump to conclusions,' I analyze structural anomalies! This 'C.K.' person has a lot of nerve talking to me like I'm a kid in a comic book."

  Alex looked back at the scaffolding. He saw a tiny, gleaming spot where the metal had fused. Tucked into the weld was a small, perfectly square piece of lead foil—the only substance that would block high-frequency scanners.

  He didn't point it out. He knew what it was: a report. Prism hadn't just fixed the scaffolding; he had left a shielded physical record of the Guild’s faulty parts for the inspectors to find later.

  Alex gave a small, silent nod to the empty air. Prism was doing the heavy lifting, the legal work, and the "good citizen" lecturing, all at Mach 50.

  "Let's go, Alex," Valenzo muttered, shoving his phone into his pocket. "Forget the Blur. I need that ice cream. And then I’m going to find out who this 'C.K.' is and tell him exactly what I think of his 'golly' attitude."

  Valenzo’s thumbs moved with the speed of a 250x industrial piston. He was hunched over his phone, his face a deep, localized shade of violet.

  "Oh, he thinks he’s so clever with his 'swell' and his 'golly'?" Valenzo hissed, his voice trembling. "I’ll show him 'downright foolish'!"

  He fired off a reply that was a masterpiece of inspector-grade vitriol, questioning the user’s intelligence, his grasp of Milanese municipal law, and suggesting that "C.K." probably spent his time polishing his telescope lenses instead of doing anything useful for the city.

  The response from C.K. was instantaneous. It didn't have the polite veneer of the first message.

  From: C.K. (Unverified)

  “For someone who claims to analyze structures, you sure have a lot of loose screws in that head of yours. Why don’t you pipe down and eat your ice cream before it melts all over that cheap lanyard? You’re making a spectacle of yourself, and frankly, it’s embarrassing for the rest of us who actually have work to do. Stick to your checklists, Pops.”

  Valenzo’s jaw didn't just drop; it practically hit the floor. "POPS?! He called me Pops?!"

  Blind with rage, Valenzo stormed over to the nearest merchandise booth—a "Prism Premium Gear" kiosk. He slammed a handful of credits onto the counter and grabbed a six-inch, limited-edition Prism action figure. Without even taking it out of the box properly, he ripped the plastic open, grabbed the miniature hero, and began gnawing on its head in a fit of powerless, middle-aged fury.

  "I’ll show him... munch... loose screws..." Valenzo growled through gritted plastic.

  Chirp.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  From: C.K. (Unverified)

  “Careful there, friend. That plastic has a high lead content. Though, I suppose the paint probably tastes better than your attitude. By the way, you’ve got a bit of blue frosting on your chin. It’s not a good look.”

  Valenzo froze. He slowly reached up and wiped a smear of blue "Multiverse Swirl" off his chin. He looked around wildly, his eyes darting from the rafters to the high-density crowds, to the security cameras.

  "Alex..." Valenzo whispered, his voice suddenly small and terrified. "He can see me. He’s watching me."

  Alex stood perfectly still, his 31-year-old mind racing. He scanned the environment with a focus that surpassed even the most advanced Guild sensors. He looked for hidden lenses, reflected light, or a disruption in the air that would indicate a speedster hovering nearby.

  Nothing.

  The 60x wind outside was steady. There were no vibrations in the floor that suggested someone was moving at Mach speeds within the building. The internal Wi-Fi was encrypted. Even as a hero who could perceive the world in slow motion, Alex couldn't figure out the "how."

  How was Prism—or whoever "C.K." was—monitoring a specific man in a crowd of fifty thousand people with enough precision to see a smudge of frosting, all while sending mocking replies in the style of a 9th Planet boy scout?

  Alex looked at the fused scaffolding again. The lead-foil report was still there. If Prism was here, he was a ghost. A ghost with a very mean-spirited sense of humor and a strange obsession with Superman's vocabulary.

  Valenzo was a man possessed. His eyes, usually clouded by the low-stakes boredom of a civil servant, were now burning with the fire of a humiliated fanboy. He scanned the crowd until his gaze locked onto a man leaning against a concrete pillar near the exit.

  The man was dressed in a rumpled, slightly oversized suit jacket—classic 9th Planet "reporter" style—and was holding a phone to his ear with a look of intense concentration.

  "There! The glasses! The slouch! The 'I'm-just-a-clumsy-journalist' act!" Valenzo hissed, his voice trembling as he began to stomp toward the man. "I see you, C.K.! You and your 'golly' and your 'swell' are about to get a piece of a senior inspector's mind!"

  The man, whose press badge clearly read Michael, was currently mid-sentence: "Yes, Nonna, I know the 60x pressure is bad for your joints, I'll bring the reinforced heating pad when I visit this—"

  "I'VE GOT YOU!" Valenzo screamed, lunging forward to grab Michael by the lapels. "You think you're so smart, watching me eat frosting? You think you can mock the 'Pops' of the Milanese Inspection Bureau?!"

  Michael’s eyes went wide. "What? Who are you? Nonna, hold on, there’s a crazy man trying to eat my press pass!"

  The security team near the exit—heavily armed guards in 250x-scale tactical gear—immediately began to turn their heads. In a convention center this dense, a physical altercation was grounds for a permanent ban and a night in a high-pressure holding cell.

  Alex knew he had exactly two seconds before the guards moved and Natalie’s reputation was permanently tarnished by her foster-father’s public meltdown.

  Moving with the "invincible" efficiency of his 31-year-old training, Alex stepped into Valenzo’s blind spot. To the outside world, it looked like he was just reaching out to steady his "clumsy" father. In reality, he applied a precise, localized burst of pressure to the carotid sinus—a technique he'd mastered for subduing Guild thugs without leaving a mark.

  Valenzo’s rant cut off into a soft “whimper-huff.” His knees buckled instantly.

  Alex caught him before he hit the floor, draping Valenzo’s limp arm over his shoulder. He looked at the bewildered Michael, who was still holding his phone up in a shaking hand.

  Alex tapped a slow, apologetic rhythm against his own chest, then pointed to Valenzo’s head and made a "spinning" motion with his finger. Exhaustion. Heat stroke. He’s seeing things.

  "Oh... oh, jeez," Michael stammered, smoothing his jacket. "The pressure must be really getting to him. Poor guy. Tell him I'm not... whoever C.K. is. I just want to visit my grandmother."

  The guards arrived, but Alex was already moving toward the side exit, dragging the unconscious Valenzo with practiced ease. He didn't look back at the scaffolding, but as he passed the final security sensor, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

  Chirp.

  From: C.K. (Unverified)

  “Nice move, kid. Precise. Clean. You’ve got better hands than 'Pops' over there. Maybe you should be the one in charge of the checklists.”

  Alex’s face remained a mask of stone as he hauled Valenzo into the cool, 60x air of the street. He still couldn't see the observer, but for the first time, he felt like the "Invincible" tag was being acknowledged by someone who actually knew what it meant.

  Alex hauled the dead weight of Valenzo to a bench in Parco Sempione, tucked beneath the shadow of a massive, 250x reinforced oak tree. He waited a beat, then gave Valenzo a sharp, rhythmic shake.

  Valenzo sputtered, his eyes fluttering open as he gasped for air. "The reporter! The glasses! C.K., you coward, come back here!"

  Alex sat beside him, his expression as blank as a fresh sheet of drafting paper. He held up his phone, the screen showing a pre-loaded local weather alert about "high-altitude pressure pockets." He tapped a slow, steady lie: You fainted. Flash-concussion from the pressure drop. Michael the reporter was actually a paramedic who helped you.

  "A paramedic?" Valenzo rubbed his neck, looking genuinely dazed. "But he looked so... mild-mannered. And the blue frosting—"

  Chirp.

  Valenzo’s phone buzzed again. He grabbed it, expecting the razor-sharp wit of C.K., but his face immediately fell into a look of deep, professional boredom.

  "Oh, for the love of the Duomo," Valenzo groaned. "It’s a broadcast from Vesuvian."

  Vesuvian, the "Hero of Naples," was a man who tried too hard. Known for a costume that looked like a melting wax museum and a personality that was 90% bravado and 10% actual soot, he was famous for arriving at emergencies only to make them slightly warmer and significantly more annoying.

  From: TheRealVesuvian (Broadcast)

  "Citizens of the North! Do not fear the chill of the 60x winds! I, Vesuvian, am currently tempering the southern currents with my MAGNIFICENT HEARTH! I’m so hot, I make the sun look like a popsicle! Prepare for a 'lava-ly' afternoon! Ha! Get it? Because I’m fire!"

  Valenzo stared at the screen for a long time, then looked at Alex. "It’s not even a good pun. 'Lava-ly'? C.K. called me a man with loose screws, but at least he had style. This is just embarrassing. I’m actually offended on behalf of the alphabet."

  Suddenly, a streak of glowing, orange-red light cut through the hazy Milanese sky from the south. It wasn't a meteor; it was a lava ray—a condensed burst of superheated ash that Vesuvian usually fired into the air when he felt ignored.

  The ray fell short of the city center, splashing harmlessly into a nearby canal with a violent hiss and a plume of steam. The ground shook slightly, a reminder of the 2000x world's volatility.

  Valenzo didn't even flinch. He just watched the steam rise with a tired sigh. "He missed. Again. He’s trying to be a 'hot-shot' and he can’t even hit a municipal waterway. What a disaster."

  Alex looked up at the dissipating steam. His face remained a mask of total indifference, but he felt the 31-year-old urge to comment on the absurdity of a man who thought "fire" was a substitute for "aim."

  He looked at Valenzo and tapped a dry, rhythmic quip he had seen in a 9th Planet archive about a certain web-swinger dealing with a fire-villain:

  I’ve seen better aim from a broken lawn sprinkler. Someone should tell him 'Flame on' doesn't mean 'Brain off.'

  Valenzo blinked, a slow smile creeping across his face despite his irritation. "A lawn sprinkler? Brain off? Alex, that’s... that’s actually pretty good. You’re getting a real edge to you today."

  He stood up, dusting off his pants and tossing the half-gnawed Prism figurine into a trash bin. "Let’s get home before Vesuvian decides to 'help' us with the commute. I need to tell Natalie about how I survived a paramedic’s assassination attempt and a lava-strike in the same hour."

  Alex followed a step behind, his hands back in his pockets. He glanced south, wondering if C.K. was still watching from the blurs, and if the "real" heroes ever got tired of the amateurs making a mess of the skyline.