Leaning back on the counter, I clutch my mug and watch as Aben, Galah, and David set up thermographic cameras around my apartment.

They're dressed in everyday clothing, though Aben still wears his wrap-around glasses and Galah has a scarf wrapped around her mouth and nose. They look normal, and if I hadn't known they were the deadliest heroes in the region, I could've mistaken them for citizens.

David catches my eye and raises his vibrantly blue eyebrows. Well, except for him. He still sticks out like a sore thumb—if sore thumbs were blue and had the walk of a superstar.

Giving my head a quick shake, I drop my gaze to my mug and press farther into the shadows, wishing they'd just leave. They insisted on coming back with me to set up the security systems (that I talked them into using instead of placing me in a safe house with other heroes) and I have no way to refuse. Installing them now rather than later is a sensible move, but I wish I had found some excuse.

I want to be alone and sort out all the information I gathered without needing to be acutely aware of everything I do. I want to be alone and eat something without worrying about how white my fingers are. Megabytes, I want to actually blank something instead of holding it in!

And I can't do that with heroes in my home. Can't do that with David glancing over his shoulder to check on me. Frustration growls under my skin, tossing a ball of knotted impatience from one foot to the other.

Patience, Denizen. Patience. I can't be mad at him. He's been nothing but nice this entire time—even with me humming and hawing at virtually everything they wanted to do, especially the medical check ups.

Heat prickles the back of my neck and I glare into my drink, the echoes of the way I made a fool of myself bouncing back to me. What a pitiful mess I must be to them, so afraid of medical equipment, blood tests, and even simple scanners that I wouldn't let them close.

I didn't mean to use fear as my excuse, but that's what they took it as. In a way, I am afraid of those things. Afraid of what they could find.

One nick of blood and they'll find the parasite in my body giving me—and all heroes and villain—supernatural abilities. One dose of medicine might send me into deadly anaphylactic shock. One wave of a scanner and my face—my body—will be in their systems and perhaps, somehow, match up with Blank Slate's appearance.

It's not worth the risk to let them close. Not worth saving my dignity.

Still, the heat burns in my ears and crawls under my skin, stinging every time David looks at me. If only I could scrub his memory clean and make him forget that I ever existed.

The beating of my heart slows and my body stills. If only? No, I...could do it. I have the power to wipe memories. I could make him—make all of them—forget.

For a moment, the possibility looms before me, tantalizingly sweet like the smell of freshly baked donuts. I can make them forget. Just one touch and poof, no more memory. No more need to pretend. No more worry.

The corner of my lip twitches and I shake mouse-brown curls out of my eyes. Ha. If only it were that easy. Wiping memories is what got me here in the first place. The auto-played message was pretty clear on that; breaking rule six, never use your power on any living thing, has extreme consequences.

"How are you holding up?"

Ice jolts down my arms and into my numb fingers at David's voice. Inwardly wincing, I set down the mug and stuff my hands into my pockets before he can notice their almost total colorlessness. "I'm..." Extremely sick of heroes and wishing I followed rules better. "...hanging in there, I guess."

David half smiles, the sternness of his hero alias softening. "I know it's been a really crazy day and a lot to digest. We'll be out of your hair soon enough, don't worry." He glances at the bedroom, where Aben and Galah work on securing a camera to the wall, then back to me. "Anything I can get for you? Groceries, a drink, or a snack, perhaps?"

Why does he have to be so nice? I shake my head. "No, I'm fine." My stomach growls and I grimace. Betrayer. "...But maybe a snack would be nice."

David chuckles, pulls back his jacket sleeve, and taps at his holowatch. "What would you like?"

"Umm..." What are my safe foods again? My brain goes blank, the static the only thing left buzzing inside. Shoot. "...Triple H-grade pizza."

Thankfully, David doesn't question my choice and nods as he orders delivery. Once he finishes, he opens his mouth but is cut off by the soft tone of the doorbell.

We all look towards the door. The pizza can't be that fast. But who else could it be? Pushing off the counter, I slide to the door and open it.

A man stands outside, dressed in a thick coat with a scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose. From his wind-blown brown hair and red cheeks, he looks to have just come off a high-speed zipbike.

"Good morning," the man in front says with a faint accent that makes his words round and friendly like a classic British chap. "Is Mr. Aulden's home?"

I squint at him. The name sounds vaguely familiar, like I've read it a couple of times, but I can't place it.

"Ah, Citizen, there you are!" David comes up behind me, placing a hand on my shoulder.

Shifting away from his hand, I glance at him. "Who?"

"Storm Cell's temporary team leader." The man inclines his head towards me. "It is a pleasure to meet you despite the undesirable circumstances."

"...And you too." I step back as Citizen enters, unease beginning to use my intestines as a bungee rope again. This is their leader. Or, well, a temporary one.

Citizen hangs up his coat but keeps his scarf. "Mr. Denizen Aulden. Formic tells me you have been attacked by Blank Slate."

"Er, yes, that is the theory so far."

Citizen's eyes harden even as his face softens. "We should have guessed he would go after you, with your connections to us. I am sorry we did not protect you sooner."

Though his voice is muffled, and I can only see half of his face, recognition sparks. I stare at him, words jumbled in my throat.

I've...heard that voice before. It's different, somehow—perhaps lower and smoother—but it still rings a bell.

Where have I seen him before? On the field as Blank Slate? Have I fought him before? Talked to him before? The static buzzes louder, empty and impenetrable as always.

Citizen must have mistaken my silence as something else because he elaborates. "I have made it my life's duty to protect you citizens from the ill will of supervillains, hence my alias. Unfortunately, my team and I cannot protect everyone, and some things cannot be prevented. My apologies, Denizen, that we could not come sooner."

He puts a hand on my shoulder, meeting my eyes with a fierce, unwavering gaze, something gleaming behind the determination in his eyes. Something as old and powerful as childhood dreams.

"Now that we are here, I will see to it that no more harm will come to you," he says, voice firm and gentle. "You're safe now. I've been on Blank Slate's case for a long time now and know some of how he works. We will make sure he will never touch you again and we'll help you regain your memories."

I swallow and nod, familiarity screaming behind the static and implications bouncing off of it. He...can't protect me from myself. Not truly. Not that I need protecting from myself.

Then again... my thoughts drift to the lies I've already told myself—the temptation to wipe David, Aben, and Galah—and my lack of memory. I inflicted my own power on myself to forget something. I did this to myself.

Was it worth it? The question stretches out into the empty expanse in my mind, reaching no answer. Maybe...I do need protecting from myself. Or maybe...people need protection from me.

Citizen clears his throat and I fix my attention on him, insides crawling. "Since it has been a long day for you, I will leave the technicalities for later. Have you received the panic switch yet?"

"The panic switch?"

"I see not. Aben?"

Aben stops what he's doing and tosses something at Citizen. He catches it and offers it to me. "Here. Put it on."

I look at it, frowning. It's a thin bracelet of smooth black metal with a raised bump where a little knob sits in an indent. The switch, I assume. What exactly will it do? Does it trace my location? Vitals?

As if Citizen read my thoughts, he shakes his head. "It doesn't track your location unless you flip the switch. It will only be tracking your vitals, which we can't see, in order to make sure you're still alive and it isn't stolen. If your heartbeat disappears, it will send a signal burst to me with the last known location."

So...it was relatively safe. "Alright..." Slowly, I take the bracelet and clasp it around my wrist. It is cold but comfortable, and doesn't restrict my movement.

It's not bad, I decide. It won't give me away or interfere with my plans. I hope, anyway. Taking a measured breath to still my insides, I straighten and let my shoulders relax. "Thanks...for all of this."

"It's what we're here for." David nudges my shoulder, smile spiced with a friendly wink. "If you need anything, call me. And don't let my hero-ness stop you; I'll answer as soon as I can."

I nod, a knife sharpening itself on my ribs. I won't call him. I won't call any of them, unless I'm about to die. It's the sensible thing to do—a real duh moment—and yet it almost feels...wrong. Mean, even.

They've done all this to help me. Yes, it's to catch villain me, but still. They didn't need to be this nice. This caring. This helpful. And what am I doing in return? Lying to their face. Giving them false hope. Using them like a real villain would.

A bitter taste coats my tongue, followed by a twist of my gut. Just how different am I from myself before?

The heroes turn to leave and I go through the motions of saying farewells. Just as the door almost closes, a question strikes me like a lightning bolt. "Wait, Citizen—"

Citizen pauses and everyone looks at me.

"—You, uh, said you worked on Blank Slate's case. What is he...like?"

He raises his eyebrows. "Why do you ask?"

"...I just want to know in case he comes. Maybe I can get more information while you're on your way." Maybe you can tell me something useful.

His features soften, the touches of something almost melancholy skirting across his face, and his voice lowers to a soft, practically wistful tone. "He reminds me of my brother."

What?

"Quick tongue, incredibly smart, always ready for action." The corner of Citizen's mouth twitches and he gazes into the distance, the gleam of childhood dreams returning before a dark pool consumes it.

"Blank Slate has morals—or at least did." The darkness in his eyes sharpens into a blade. "He won't kill you on the spot, or hurt you, if it's not necessary. But do not listen to him. He has a way of twisting words into illusions of safety."

The static reaches in between my ribs and grips my lungs with icy claws. "A villain with morals?"

The smile flicks onto his face, carved from bitter rinds parched of any humor. "Keep him talking, if he comes." He dips his head, and when he meets my eyes again, he is a fierce and stoic hero once more. "No rat escapes the trap for long. We will catch him; that I promise."

I nod and, with a final wave from David, Citizen closes the door. Only when the last echo of their footsteps fade away does silence fill me.

They're gone. The heroes are gone.

A weight falls off my shoulders and I slump against the wall, allowing myself to tear my hands through my hair like I have been itching to do all day. I am alone. Finally.

Sighing, I lift my head. The pillow on the couch is on the right side instead of the left and, in the kitchen, my mug sits on the counter all alone. On the window sill, plants soak up sunlight, greenness standing out like a beacon against the browns, whites, and blacks my living room is made out of.

It looks normal. Mundane. Unremarkable. But all I can see is the shadows in the corners—the spaces hidden behind furniture—the unknowns hovering just out of reach. What secrets are hiding behind the books on the shelves? What piece of my underground life is tucked under the couch?

A tide rises in my stomach, acid waves reaching for the lump forming in my throat, chanting words I can't silence.

He has morals—or used to.

Do not listen to him. He has a way of twisting words into illusions of safety.

"Stop," I hiss. "Stop!" I don't want to hear it. I don't want to feel the ring of truth in the words clambering in my head. I don't want to acknowledge that that rule is true. That all of it applies.

But the acid wave doesn't stop. It stings my throat and eats through the blockages I throw up until I am forced to listen to its words.

There ain't a smidgen of dirt or un-blanked clue on that slate of his.

He wanted attention, and it had to do something with our system.

You are trying to make yourself known to Deception so you can meet her again. She will accept you in every way.

Don't attempt to remember what made you become the top villain. It's not worth it.

At last, the words fade, leaving behind a statement that screams with the voice of a dying soul:

Don't trust anyone, even yourself.