
The Hero Serum
Forty-one site photos to upload before you get paid. In number twelve there is a gold cap in the corner of the frame.
Sheridan runs on Arden Standard: the municipal security contract, two of the four news channels, the reinsurance on every hero-adjacent claim in the state, and the Roster — forty-one contracted heroes, licensed by borough, sold by the appearance. You are none of that. You work night debris for a vendor on Arden's approved list: two people, a van, a shop vacuum, nineteen dollars an hour, cleaning sites nobody will ever tell you anything about. Four hours ago, in an alley the company's own Recovery crew had already cleared, you put an unlabeled bottle in your sock. No lot band means no file and no chain of custody — an orphan, worth exactly what you can prove about it. Take it and find out which one in nine you are. Sell it and choose which buyer learns your face. Burn it and hold nothing while everybody comes anyway. Your only armor is that nobody knows who you are, and every move you make spends a piece of it.