The wind in Milan didn’t just blow; it hit like a physical fist. In the Piazza del Duomo, the air was a thick, crushing weight that turned the sky into a churning grey sea. High above, the 30x moon of the Second Multiverse hung like a distant, fragile marble—a reminder of a world where heroes had it easy.

  Alex Gornen moved through the gale in a low, disciplined crouch. Every time he shifted his weight, the heavy, segmented bamboo plates on his shoulders clacked with a sharp, industrial rhythm. He ignored the roar of the storm, his focus entirely on the structural integrity of the street.

  Near the gallery, the air twisted into a violent rope of pressure, snapping the axles of a luxury van and lifting it like a toy.

  Alex moved.

  He didn't rush in with a shout. He simply accelerated across the stone, his leaf-textured forearm bracers meeting the side of the lifting van with a dull, heavy thud. He didn't just stop the car; he leaned his mass against it, pinning it to the pavement. The reinforced stone cracked under his boots, but Alex’s posture remained relaxed, almost bored, as he waited for the pressure pocket to pass.

  Across the square, a group of salvagers in industrial suits emerged from the wreckage of a storefront. They were struggling to stay upright in the 60x wind, their pneumatic bolt-launchers shaking in their grip. One of them panicked and fired.

  The bolt hissed through the air with the force of a cannon shell.

  Alex didn't flinch. He didn't even look over. He just tilted his shoulder, letting the bolt strike his segmented green plating. It shattered against the bamboo fiber with a sharp crack, sparks instantly extinguished by the wind.

  Alex finally turned his head toward them. His dark hair whipped above the yellow-white lenses of his mask. He didn't growl. He didn't threaten. He just watched them with a cold, aloof stillness that was far more intimidating than a scream.

  He stepped away from the van, walking toward the salvagers with a slow, heavy gait that seemed to ignore the 60x force entirely. He wasn't there to fight them; he was there to clear the street so he could get back to work.

  The lead salvager looked at the shattered bolt on the ground, then back at the green-armored figure approaching him with the inevitability of a mountain. He didn't wait for Alex to reach him. He signaled his crew, and they began to retreat back into the shadows of the ruins, realizing that "Bamboo" wasn't a hero they could provoke. He was just a fact of life they couldn't overcome.

  The salvagers vanished into the dark, jagged mouth of a shattered storefront, their heavy exosuits clanking in a frantic retreat. Alex didn't pursue. Chasing thieves was a waste of energy when the 60x winds were still trying to peel the Piazza apart.

  He turned back to the courier van. The driver was still inside, pressed against the far door, eyes wide as he stared through the reinforced glass at the green-armored figure who had just pinned his two-ton vehicle to the earth with a single arm.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  Alex didn't wave. He didn't offer a reassuring thumb's up.

  He stepped toward the driver's side door, his boots crushing the fallen pneumatic bolt into the stone without a glance. The segmented bamboo plates on his arm flexed as he reached for the handle. The metal was warped from the pressure, jammed tight into the frame.

  Alex didn't yank it. He placed his gloved hand on the seam, the leaf-textured bracer glowing faintly under the dim streetlights of the Piazza. With a slow, steady application of "Steel-Flex" force, he sheared the hinges. The screech of metal was lost in the roar of the gale. He set the door aside—not throwing it, just placing it flat on the ground so the wind couldn't turn it into a blade.

  The courier stumbled out, gasping as the full 60x atmospheric weight hit his chest. He collapsed to his knees, clutching at Alex’s moss-green leg guards.

  "Thank you... you saved... who are—?"

  Alex didn't answer. He didn't even look down at the man. His yellow-white lenses were already fixed on the spires of the Duomo, watching for the next pressure-bloom. He reached down, gripped the courier’s collar, and hauled him to his feet with effortless, mechanical strength.

  He pointed a heavy, plated finger toward the reinforced bunker entrance of the nearest metro station. It was a command, not a suggestion.

  The man scrambled away, fighting the wind as he ran for cover. Alex stood alone in the center of the square, his dark hair a messy silhouette against the rising 30x moon. He adjusted his stance, his armor clicking as it locked into a new anchor point. The rescue was just a line item on a much longer list.

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  The storm eventually broke, the 60x winds tapering off into a heavy, oppressive stillness. Alex watched the 30x moon dip toward the horizon before he moved, slipping through the back alleys of Milan with a ghost-like efficiency.

  By the time he reached the cramped, third-floor apartment in the Navigli district, the heavy armor was gone.

  The transition was seamless. The segmented bamboo plates and leaf-textured mask were stowed away in a reinforced floor safe, hidden beneath a stack of vintage comic book longboxes and several imported figurines from the Second Multiverse.

  Alex sat on his narrow bed, his dark hair still damp with sweat and rainwater. He looked at his hands—shaking slightly not from fear, but from the residual vibration of the "Steel-Flex" plates. In the dim light of a single desk lamp, he looked every bit the twenty-four-year-old orphan he was supposed to be. There was no sign of the "Invincible" tag here; just a modest room filled with the hobbies of a man who preferred paper worlds to the crushing reality of his own.

  He reached for a worn volume of a classic superhero manga, the cover showing a hero in a bright red cape. He traced the lines of the art with a calloused thumb. The characters in these books always had something to say—a lesson to give, a joke to crack.

  Alex preferred the silence.

  He glanced at a small, framed photo on his nightstand—the only one he had of his parents before the 2000x world claimed them. At thirty-one in mind, he understood the tragedy in a way his twenty-four-year-old face couldn't express. He wasn't doing this for glory, and he certainly wasn't doing it for the "professional" heroes on the moon. He was doing it because if he didn't anchor the city, no one would.

  A soft chime from his work-pad interrupted the quiet. A notification from the structural firm where he worked his day job: Emergency inspection required at the Duomo foundations. Report at 06:00.

  Alex closed the book and set it aside. He didn't sigh. He didn't complain. He simply lay back and closed his eyes, already calculating the most efficient route through the debris-strewn streets. The hero was put away; the citizen had to get to work.