Age of Antiheroes

Chapter 5 - Empty

"You still haven't told me where we're going," I mutter, crossing my arms as I try to mask my unease.

"It's a surprise," he replies, a playful glint in his eye.

"For all I know, you could be taking me somewhere to murder me," I shoot back, narrowing my eyes.

"After our heart-to-heart, you still don't trust me? I'm wounded," he says, placing a hand dramatically over his chest and feigning a pained expression, his voice thick with mockery.

Before I realize it, a faint smile slips onto my lips.

"I think that's the first time I've seen you smile," he observes, his grin widening.

But the moment fades almost instantly, the weight of my skepticism pulling my expression back into shadow.

"Come on. For this to work, you have to trust me—at least a little," he urges, his tone softening.

I darken, my defenses rising. "In this world, you can't trust anyone."

"Maybe that's why you feel so lonely," he counters, his voice gentle yet firm.

"I am not lonely. I prefer it this way. I was doing just fine before you showed up."

"Yes, because standing atop a skyscraper is exactly what a sane and rational person would do."

"Just forget it. I don't owe you any explanations," I snap, my irritation flaring.

He falls silent, gazing ahead into the night sky, where stars begin to sweep by us, twinkling against the velvet darkness.

"I'm just saying... didn't it feel good to let go of your nihilistic worldview, even for a moment?"

"That's what gets you killed..." I murmur, my voice trailing off.

"Allowing yourself to enjoy the little things in life?" he presses gently.

"You wouldn't understand. You've been sheltered from all of it."

The muscles in his jaw tighten, a flicker of frustration crossing his face. "And you've allowed your grief to consume you completely. It's all you think about. I'm sure you tell yourself it's wrong to smile or laugh or feel anything other than unrelenting pain because of your guilt. But releasing that burden doesn't make you a bad person."

A wave of nausea rolls through me, churning my insides.

"I can't let go! Not when I don't know if they're alive or dead!"

"Yes, you can," he insists, his voice steady and unwavering.

As I struggle to form a response, we land in a dimly lit parking lot, where an old diner stands, its neon sign flickering in the night.

"Where are we?" I ask, looking around with a mixture of confusion and curiosity.

"This is Patty's. I come here late at night when I need to clear my head. The owner knows me. She closes at midnight but lets me in after hours, so I can enjoy a good meal without being recognized."

He opens the door, and a bell jingles as we step inside, revealing a middle-aged woman with bright red lipstick and bold blue eyeshadow. Her mint green waitress uniform looks like it was plucked straight from a 1950s catalog, vibrant and cheerful.

"Max!" she exclaims, pulling him in with a warm embrace before her attention pivots to me. Her southern accent dances through the air, lively and animated.

"And who's this you've brought with you? A new friend?"

"Ares. And we're not friends," I interject, glaring at him, my tone sharp as a knife.