The backlash did not begin with hatred.

  It began with questions.

  Why was Elira always there.

  Why did she get priority.

  Why did resources follow her.

  Why did the cameras.

  At first, they were harmless.

  Talk show debates.

  Opinion columns.

  Late-night jokes.

  “Do we really need one person deciding who lives?”

  Elira ignored them.

  She was used to noise.

  Then came the investigations.

  A major outlet published a “deep dive” into her deployments.

  A neat graphic.

  Red dots for gates.

  Blue dots for her appearances.

  “Notice anything?” the anchor asked.

  They did.

  Patterns.

  Regions she helped recovered faster.

  Regions she did not reach did not.

  The implication was never stated.

  It did not need to be.

  The second wave was resentment.

  A factory worker went on record.

  “My daughter waited three days. She shows up somewhere else in ten minutes.”

  A woman cried on camera.

  “Why wasn’t my son worth saving?”

  No one mentioned logistics.

  No one mentioned distance.

  They mentioned her.

  Elira watched the interview in a transport shuttle.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  She turned it off halfway through.

  “I wasn’t there,” she whispered.

  No one answered.

  Social media followed.

  It always did.

  At first:

  #ThankYouElira

  #ShieldOfChildren

  #Guardian

  Then:

  #SelectiveSavior

  #GoldenAwakener

  #ChosenLives

  Memes appeared.

  Edited footage.

  False timestamps.

  Rearranged maps.

  Truth became optional.

  William saw it coming.

  He called emergency meetings.

  Issued statements.

  “Deployment follows strategic necessity.”

  No one cared.

  Necessity was not comforting.

  Blame was.

  A panelist said it on national broadcast.

  “She decides who matters.”

  William turned the television off.

  Hard.

  Elira’s next mission was a disaster.

  Not tactically.

  Politically.

  She sealed a gate in an industrial district.

  Saved thousands.

  But three blocks burned.

  Two people died in secondary collapse.

  That was enough.

  “ELIRA’S INTERVENTION CAUSES COLLATERAL DAMAGE”

  “S+ HERO DESTROYS NEIGHBORHOOD”

  “ARE WE SAFE FROM OUR SAVIORS”

  She read the headlines in silence.

  Her hands shook.

  Protesters gathered outside a relief center.

  Not against monsters.

  Against her.

  Signs read:

  STOP PLAYING GOD

  WE DID NOT CHOOSE YOU

  NO MORE AWAKENED TYRANTS

  She walked past them.

  Someone spit.

  It hit her boot.

  She did not react.

  Inside, a nurse whispered, “I’m sorry.”

  Elira smiled weakly.

  “It’s okay.”

  It was not.

  The government pivoted.

  Quietly.

  They announced oversight committees.

  Deployment review boards.

  Civilian impact audits.

  On paper: accountability.

  In practice: shackles.

  William argued.

  Lost.

  Again.

  Elira noticed the change.

  Requests delayed.

  Approvals required.

  Missions rerouted.

  “Why?” she asked him once.

  He did not meet her eyes.

  “They’re afraid,” he said.

  “Of me?”

  “Of dependence,” he replied.

  She laughed softly.

  “They depended on me five minutes ago.”

  The first serious incident happened in Province Seventeen.

  A mob surrounded her convoy.

  Not armed.

  Just angry.

  Desperate.

  “Where were you when my wife died”

  “You don’t care about us”

  “Fix this”

  Someone threw a stone.

  It struck her shoulder.

  She did not block it.

  She deserved it.

  That was what she thought.

  Tancred watched the footage later.

  His jaw tightened until it hurt.

  “They’re going to get her killed,” he said.

  Xior did not reply.

  He was watching something else.

  Market sentiment.

  Capital withdrawal.

  Political opportunism.

  This was not random.

  It was being cultivated.

  A columnist wrote:

  “We replaced governments with heroes.

  Now we are shocked when heroes fail.”

  It went viral.

  Elira stopped sleeping properly.

  She trained harder.

  Fought longer.

  Refused rotations.

  “If I’m everywhere,” she said, “they can’t say I wasn’t.”

  William begged her to slow down.

  She smiled.

  “I’ll rest later.”

  There was no later.

  Her first panic attack happened in a locker room.

  After a successful mission.

  She could not breathe.

  Her hands would not stop shaking.

  A medic found her on the floor.

  Crying.

  Silently.

  The next morning, a commentator said:

  “Maybe it is time we stop relying on unstable individuals.”

  She turned the television off.

  Did not turn it back on.

  At night, on her balcony, she stared at the city lights.

  “They loved me,” she whispered.

  No one answered.

  Somewhere in Abyss, Tancred stood on a rooftop, watching the same horizon.

  And for the first time in years, he felt helpless.