The ship made lazy circles in the air, clutched tightly between Hernan's small hands. Its worn plastic edges caught the dying sunlight as it zipped and spun above the living room carpet, a makeshift galaxy underfoot.
He made the usual sounds — whooshes, soft pew-pew noises — the soundtrack of quiet wars only he could see. His mother laughed from the kitchen, the warm, bubbling kind of laugh she always had when she didn't think he was listening. His father lounged across the battered couch, half-watching, half-lost in thought, the evening news murmuring low from the wall-screen.
For a moment, the house was just a house.
And Hernan Vale was just a boy.
The communicator clipped to Solaris's belt buzzed once — a tiny vibration against fabric. Hernan barely noticed, but his father did. He moved like the couch had turned to fire beneath him, snatching the device up with a hand too quick, too sharp.
A thin voice crackled through the tiny speaker. Hernan couldn't hear the words, but he didn't need to.
Solaris's face had drained of color.
The toy ship dropped to the floor with a soft clatter as Hernan looked up, confused. His mother appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a dish towel. The smile faltered on her lips when she saw Solaris's expression.
"Who was it?" she asked. Not loud. Like she already knew the answer.
Solaris didn't respond.
He only crossed the room in three strides and seized the old latch on the front door, snapping it shut with a decisive, brutal click.
"Windows," he said.
The word carried more fear than all the alarms in the world.
His mother ran. Hernan watched her — the way she yanked down blinds, dragged heavy old chairs against thin glass, her hands shaking.
The house turned cold in seconds, and the sinking feeling in Hernan's chest tightened like a fist.
Solaris knelt in front of him, both hands on Hernan's small shoulders.
"Listen to me, champ," he said. His voice was low, urgent. "I need you to hide. Go to the closet. Stay there. No matter what happens, you stay quiet. You stay hidden."
Hernan blinked at him. The words made no sense. This was Dad. Dad who could stop robbers with a snap of his fingers. Dad who flew over burning cities. Dad who smiled and saved the day.
"But—" Hernan started.
Solaris squeezed his shoulders once.
"No buts. Right now."
Something in his father's eyes — not fear, but a kind of hollow certainty — rooted Hernan to the spot.
He scrambled to his feet and sprinted toward the hallway closet, heart hammering against his ribs. The old wooden door creaked open with a groan, swallowing him in dusty darkness. He crouched low among winter coats and forgotten boots, the smell of old cedar filling his nose.
From the crack between the closet doors, Hernan could still see the edge of the living room.
He saw his father standing tall in the middle of the carpet, one hand balled at his side, the other resting lightly on his hip, just above the old cosmic insignia etched into his belt.
His mother pressed her back to the far wall, her fists clenched, tiny sparks flickering from her fingertips — raw panic crackling into instinct.
Then the footsteps started.
Slow. Measured. Coming from every direction.
Hernan's skin crawled at the sound — a dreadful, rhythmic percussion hammering against the walls.
A shadow crossed the nearest window.
Another loomed by the side door.
Solaris didn't move.
He stood like a monument, breathing shallowly, waiting.
Hernan sucked in a tiny breath and clamped both hands over his mouth. The closet smelled stronger now, like woodsmoke and old leather and the sharp tang of fear.
Something hard hit the front door. Once. Twice.
A heartbeat later—
BOOM.
The door exploded inward, wood and steel fragments flying like knives. Hernan flinched back, jamming himself deeper into the coats.
Five figures stepped through the ruins of the entrance.
Tall. Armored. Faces hidden behind mirrored visors.
Each one wore a uniform — sleek, dark, and marked on the shoulder with crests Hernan had seen before.
The Zodiac signs.
Heroes.
Real ones.
Solaris stepped forward, palms raised, his voice rough:
"You don't have to do this."
Silence answered him.
The figures fanned out, tactical, precise.
One by the window. Two at the kitchen archway. One near the stairs.
Their movements spoke of endless practice — not hesitation.
Hernan gripped the closet door so hard his knuckles ached.
His mind scrambled for an explanation. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe they thought his parents were someone else. Maybe it was training.
One of the invaders raised a weapon — a sleek black rifle humming with barely contained power.
Solaris flared bright. His skin shimmered with light, his veins pulsing a deep gold. Cosmic energy wreathed his body, painting the walls with shifting stars.
For a second, Hernan felt the pull of hope.
Dad could win.
Dad was Solaris.
His mother moved first — a flash of light and a snarl of energy as she hurled herself toward the nearest figure.
The shot caught her midair.
A narrow, perfect beam of burning white that punched clean through her chest.
She hit the ground without a sound.
Her body crumpled like paper.
Hernan bit down on his hand to keep from screaming.
Solaris roared — a sound that didn't belong inside a human throat.
The entire house shook. A pulse of raw power blasted outward, knocking two of the Zodiac soldiers back into the walls.
Pictures fell. Furniture split.
The invaders fought like machines — reforming instantly, pressing in tighter.
Solaris was everywhere — fists blazing, boots shredding the carpet as he moved. Hernan saw one of the figures fly through the kitchen doorway and smash into the counter.
But five-on-one was never fair.
Even gods can bleed.
Solaris staggered, a spear of condensed plasma punching through his side.
Another shot clipped his knee, sending him crashing down to one hand.
Panting. Bleeding.
Still fighting.
He rose again, half-collapsing toward the closet — as if he could shield Hernan even now.
That's when the leader stepped forward.
Their helmet slid back with a soft hiss — revealing a face Hernan had seen on TV, smiling in bright commercials, shaking hands with world leaders.
Not a villain.
Not a monster.
A hero.
A hero with dead eyes.
The barrel of the weapon leveled at Solaris's forehead.
Solaris looked at them — no begging, no anger.
Just a slow, tired exhale.
The shot cracked like thunder.
Solaris jerked once, then crumpled beside the overturned couch.
Dead.
The house went still, except for the faint whine of dying lights and the low moan of something smoldering in the kitchen.
The five figures turned, stepping over his parents' bodies without a word.
The leader looked around once, helmet sliding back into place.
Then they left, boots crunching over broken glass, the front door swinging loose on shattered hinges.
Silence.
Thick. Crushing.
Hernan stayed frozen.
Minutes passed.
Or hours.
Or a lifetime.
When his legs finally remembered how to move, he crawled from the closet on shaking hands and knees.
The house smelled like burnt metal and old pennies.
His father's body lay half-twisted toward the hallway, one hand outstretched — as if still reaching for him.
His mother's body faced the window, eyes glassy, blood soaking her sweater.
Hernan sat down hard on the cold floor, the toy spaceship still lying near his knees.
No screaming. No crying.
Just the cold.
Just the broken pieces of a life that would never be put back together.
His throat worked once, dry and cracked, before he finally whispered:
"They were heroes... Why did they kill my dad?"