Beacon of hope

Back in high school, Alex was my best friend. Straight-A kid, volunteered at shelters, always saw the good in everyone. Me? I was the screw-up who started fights and skipped town the day after graduation. Now they call him Beacon—golden cape, blinding light powers, the city’s perfect hero. He stops muggings with a smile, saves kittens from trees, gives speeches about hope. Crowds adore him. The news eats it up. They call me Ash. I don’t wear a costume. I don’t do interviews. My power? I corrode things—metal, concrete, flesh. Touch too long and it rots away. Useful for getting into vaults, less useful for handshakes. I take jobs no one else will: human traffickers, cartel labs, corrupt cops Beacon refuses to touch because “there’s no proof” or “the system will handle it.” He believes that. Still. Last month, I melted a shipping container full of kids bound for sale. Beacon showed up after, lights blazing, demanding I surrender for “excessive force.” The slavers were already ash. Literally. He looked sick. “There had to be another way,” he said. I laughed. “There wasn’t.” He still reports me to the Hero Commission. They send teams. I vanish. The jobs keep coming. Yesterday, Alex found me on a rooftop, hands glowing soft gold. “You’re becoming the monster,” he whispered. I held up my hand—skin flaking black at the edges, veins dark as rust. “I already was,” I said. “Difference is, I know it.” He flew away without fighting. Probably going to save someone who doesn’t need it while the real rot spreads. I watched his light fade into the skyline. Some heroes blind you. Others just clean up the dark.