Unheroic Life of a Certain Cape-Chapter 42 Life of a Winner

Chapter 42 Life of a Winner
March 1, 2025. Saturday. 6:23 a.m.
The life of a winner was quieter than I expected. No fireworks. No trumpets announcing my triumph. Just a city that didn’t give a damn and money flowing in steady streams, the way I planned. A month had passed since Royal’s blood painted my hands, and in that month, I’d kept my head down, played the role of the quiet, untouchable professional. Pride paid me what I was owed, even threw in a bonus, though I doubted it came from generosity. I didn’t ask questions. People in my line of work don’t.
I’d funneled that money straight into the building I bought, a five-story block in the heart of Markend’s gray district. Rooms for rent, clean enough to draw working types, and anonymous enough to keep the gangs from sniffing too close. I’d always wanted my own building. Now, I had one. Passive income for as long as I could keep it off the radar.
Royal’s death never made the news. A whisper here and there in certain circles, but nothing concrete. No one connected me to it, which was good. The second my name got attached to his, I’d have clients knocking on my door, some to hire me, others to kill me. That kind of attention wasn’t good for business. I don’t think I could take the heat.
Through it all, I just trained. Mental exercises until my head ached, running drills that Mom had drilled into me years ago. I wasn’t taking chances with telepaths. My fear of them wasn’t paranoia. In this world, someone looking too deeply into your mind could be a death sentence.
Looking at the past month, I am really winning it, huh?
I opened my eyes to the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains. Sleep had long since abandoned me, but I still went through the motions, lying still, keeping my breathing even. Acting normal was as important as breathing. Normal people sleep and dream.
Silver stirred beside me, her body shifting under the sheets, pale skin catching the dim light. Her hair spilled across the pillow like molten silver, soft and unreal. We’d overdone it again last night, judging by the state of the room from the sweat, tangled sheets, and clothes scattered across the floor.
Her eyelids fluttered open, and then she smiled,  bright, beautiful, and almost blinding. “Good morning.”
I turned my head, studying her for a moment, before murmuring, “Morning.”
Her hair shifted in the blink of an eye, turning jet black as Onyx surfaced. The same face, the same body, but the eyes sharpened, the smile vanishing like it had never been there. Onyx frowned, her voice cutting through the quiet. “You just thought of something naughty, didn’t you?”
I smirked, half amused. “Maybe.”
Just as quickly, the black strands shimmered back into silver. “Hey, it’s my turn today,” said Silver, voice light as if the other half of her didn’t just glare daggers a second ago.
It was still surreal sometimes, seeing two people inhabit one body and two lives forced to share a single shell. But surreal or not, Silver and Onyx were mine, and after everything, I wasn’t letting anyone take them away.
I stretched lazily and asked, “Do you want to take a shower with me?”
Silver’s smile widened, almost innocent. “Sure.”
A month ago, they weren’t mine. A month ago, Silver and Onyx were nothing more than property, two powerful women bound and broken, sold as slaves to anyone willing to pay. Royal had dangled them in front of me like some twisted prize, a leash disguised as a gift. Maybe he thought binding me to him through them would keep me loyal. Maybe he thought I’d play the obedient little killer in the making.
Royal was dead now. Whatever plans he had died with him.
The shower was warm, steam curling around us, the water carrying away the sweat, the exhaustion, and maybe even the lies I told myself. Silver clung to me like a cat, arms wound tight around my shoulders, her head pressed against my chest. She didn’t talk, didn’t need to. The quiet between us had grown comfortable, the kind of silence that spoke louder than words.
I’d been trying to enjoy myself this past month, to find something that felt good and kept feeling good. Sex, money, even violence, but none of it filled the emptiness gnawing at the edges of my mind. Maybe it was the Enhancer ratings. The power dulled everything, muted the highs until even the sharpest thrills felt like static. Murder didn’t weigh on me because of it, but neither did anything else.
And the rest of my powers? They’d been… strange. Stronger, sharper, almost alien. The SRC had theories about it. Stress-fueled evolution, they called it. Use your powers enough, especially under pressure, and they changed, grew, and mutated. Exponentially faster than simple training ever could. Not that the training Mom drilled into me had been useless. Five years of discipline had turned me into something efficient, something dangerous.
Five years. Or maybe just four and change, since Mom died a year ago.
Silver tilted her face up toward mine, her eyes soft and unguarded. “Is there a problem?”
I let out a slow breath. “I just remembered it’s Mom’s death anniversary today.”
Her arms tightened around me. It was a silent comfort that didn’t ask for anything in return.
By the time we stepped out of the shower, the sun had risen, painting the city in pale gold. I dried off, dressed in a clean set of designer clothes, the kind of sharp, expensive fit that drew eyes without trying. Silver smiled as she zipped up her dress, her reflection bright in the mirror.
She caught my gaze, head tilted slightly. “Why don’t we visit her today?”
“There’s no need,” I said, sliding my watch onto my wrist as I glanced at her through the mirror.
Silver tilted her head, frowning in confusion. “But this is your mom’s first death anniversary. We should visit, since you don’t know when you can see her again.”
I met her eyes in the reflection, my tone flat. “She’s gone. There’s no seeing her again, and it’s not like she was a great mom.”
Her lips parted slightly, confusion flickering in her gaze. She didn’t see it that way. I could tell. She probably had this perfect little picture of my mother in her mind, someone worthy of flowers and whispered prayers.
Silver’s voice softened. “Do you not want to see her?”
I leaned against the dresser, folding my arms. “Nope.”
“You’re lying to yourself,” she said, no hesitation, no judgment, just that quiet certainty that made her words sharper than a blade.
I sighed, dragging my hand down my face. “Well, you’re the empath, so of course you’re saying the truth. But no, I refuse.”
She didn’t push after that, just stood there with that unreadable look on her face as I grabbed the keys and led the way out of the building.
The garage smelled like oil and fresh paint, the red sports car gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It was everything a kid like me, an eighteen-year-old who grew up with nothing, thought would feel good to own. Power, money, and a shiny toy that turned heads.
Silver slipped into the passenger seat, her frilly white dress brushing against the leather as she adjusted herself. I caught my own reflection in the rearview mirror, sunglasses on, hair styled, and clothes sharp enough to cut. We looked like a magazine cover, some rich young couple ready to own the world.
I stepped on the gas, the engine roaring as we shot out into the streets of Markend.
Did I feel fulfilled?
No.
Just annoyed.
I thought I’d feel something once I got all of this from the car, the clothes, the building, and the money. The things I used to dream about when my life was just secondhand everything. But having it all didn’t fill the hollow space inside. It just… sat there. Empty.
We cut through the streets, the city blurring around us. My hands gripped the wheel tighter than they should’ve, and I pretended I didn’t notice.
Then came the siren.
The sharp wail sliced through the hum of the engine, bright and accusing.
“Are you kidding me?” I muttered, easing the car toward the curb.
Silver tilted her head, expression calm, almost curious.
I slammed the gear into park, muttering under my breath. “What the fuck did I do wrong? I ain’t speeding!”
Yes, I was eighteen. Yes, I’d only gotten my license a month ago after greasing the right palms. But driving? Driving was easy when your Enhancer rating let you process and react faster than most computers.
The cop car idled behind us, lights flashing in the mirror. Then the officer stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered. He walked toward my window with a deliberate pace that set my nerves on edge.
I rolled the window down, scowl already etched into my face. “What’s the problem, officer?”
He didn’t answer right away. His shadow fell over the car, and when he finally spoke, his voice was flat, professional, and cold enough to pierce through the early morning air.
“Nicholas Caldwell,” he said, “you’re under arrest.”