Chapter 223 Sandwich.

Chapter 223: 223 Sandwich.

"When Rick recovered enough to leave the hospital, Khonsu helped him set up this diner," Mystic said, drawing my attention away from the departing back of Jester’s daughter.

She took a calm, unhurried sip of her water. "It seemed the... least that they could do for him."

That did sound like Finn.

Right. I remembered Michael casually mentioning during his big megalomaniacal speech that Rick had never actually wanted to be a front-line superhero in the first place.

His lifelong, unfulfilled dream had always been to open a sandwich joint. Looks like the universe finally gave him the keys—even if it had to drag him through a psychological meat-grinder to do it.

Admittedly, after living through an absolute fucking nightmare of an existence as a telepathic puppet dancing on a bureaucrat’s strings, a quiet life flipping burgers probably felt like paradise.

Still, I couldn’t help but feel it was a slight waste of raw cosmic potential for a guy who could bench-press an aircraft carrier to spend his golden years toasting rye bread.

But hey, I wasn’t about to judge a man’s retirement plan. Especially not after the week he’d had.

"Ah. Well, I’m glad you’re... you know, back on your feet," I told him, clearing my throat awkwardly.

Rick nodded with a distinctly pained expression, his massive hands clasped tightly behind his back as he rocked back and forth on his heels.

The face that used to beam with boisterous, media-trained confidence was now startlingly uneasy and guarded.

"It’s been... difficult. So many years completely blanked out," Rick murmured, his voice dropping into a gravelly whisper. "The memories feel like someone else’s movie. I was trapped inside my own skull, but every decision I made was filtered through a thick, gray fog.

"It’s impossible to describe. But I remember... I remember the exact moment you put that foil hat on my head, and... and suddenly the fog broke. I was me again. It was such a violent shock that I didn’t even know how to react, well..."

"Uh-huh," I said, shifting uncomfortably in the vinyl booth. "Well, I’m uh—"

Rick suddenly lunged across the table and grabbed my hand.

I instantly tensed up, my magnetic instincts flaring before my brain caught up. But he didn’t throw a punch.

He just clamped his giant, calloused hand over mine and squeezed with enough pressure to crack pavement, his eyes swimming with overwhelming, unadulterated emotion.

I involuntarily jerked my arm back a few inches.

Was he going to cry?

Oh, please, god of all things unholy, do not start weeping in the middle of a grease-trap diner!

"You have no earthly idea what it means to be free again," Rick said, his nose visibly twitching as he fought back tears. "I... I owe you my life. So, so much."

"Don’t mention it," I muttered, desperately trying to slide my hand out of his grip while maintaining a casual facade.

Goddammit, I was completely unequipped for this. I never dealt with emotional people—and I definitely didn’t deal with heroes crying tears of raw gratitude.

What was the protocol here? Was I supposed to pat his back? Give him a coupon?

"Really. It’s no big deal."

"No, I insist. Any time you want a sandwich, it’s on the house. For the rest of your life. I owe you that much. Thank you. Thank you so much, Miles."

"Sure, whatever, man. It’s all good!" I squeaked out, finally ripping my hand free and wiping my palm against my trousers.

Rick sniffled heavily, patted my shoulder with the force of a falling oak branch, and let me go. "Please. Enjoy your meal. Eat with my deepest, most heartfelt thanks."

"Uh-huh. Sure. Will do," I choked out.

Sniffling miserably, Rick turned on his heel and shuffled back toward the swinging kitchen doors.

I watched him go, on some level genuinely terrified he might come back out and try to give me a hug.

Fucking hell, that was surreal. I wasn’t a hero. Heroes didn’t thank me; they usually tried to compress my ribs into a fine powder.

The only physical contact I typically got from the cape community was a boot to the jaw or a police cruiser thrown at my head. Rick’s level of public, vulnerable sincerity was completely unmoored from my reality.

My skin still crawling from the display of raw emotion, I turned back to the booth, only to find Vanessa and Mystic staring at me with a matched pair of intensely measuring expressions.

"What?" I snapped defensively.

"You really did help him, didn’t you?" Vanessa asked, her hostility dialed back by at least five percent.

"I mean, I guess? Look, I was really just trying to get Psyren back, and saving the golden boy was kind of an accidental side-effect of hitting the off-switch," I muttered, waving a hand dismissively. "Whatever. Can we get back to business? I’m making a professional offer here that I usually charge a ridiculous retainer for."

I inwardly groaned the microsecond the words left my mouth. Idiotic, idiotic move.

I sounded like a sleazy used-car salesman trying to close a quota on a Tuesday afternoon. That bizarre encounter with Rick had completely rattled my composure.

I was going to have to seriously step up my cynical mob-boss game if I was going to survive dealing with villain royalty.

To my surprise, Vanessa didn’t immediately scoff or walk out. She just gave me a long, calculating look, then slid out of the booth with a soft jangle of silver charms.

"I will... think about your offer," she said.

"You will?" I blinked, pleasantly surprised.

"Yes. Do you have a card?"

"Oh, sure. Right here," I said, quickly digging into my inner breast pocket and pulling out a crisp, heavy-stock card. I slid it across the table.

Vanessa picked it up, turning it over in her fingers to examine the raised, metallic-gold monogramming. Lilith had insisted on the aesthetic, and Rhea had fabricated a whole box of them in the lab.

The Iron Polaris. Evil Overlord for Hire.

Not my first choice of job title, but it certainly got the brand identity across.

"I’ll call you when I make my final decision," Vanessa said, slipping the card carefully into her pocket before offering Mystic a respectful nod. "It was good to see you."

"Take care, Vanessa," Mystic said smoothly.

With one final, lingering glance in my direction, The Jester’s daughter turned on her heel and walked out of the diner, the old-school mechanical bell jangling merrily with her exit.

I let out a massive, shoulder-slumping sigh of pure relief, running both hands aggressively through my hair.

"God almighty," I breathed.

"Not quite what you expected?" Mystic asked calmly, taking a delicate bite of her club sandwich.

"Better, honestly," I admitted, leaning back against the red vinyl. Which was the absolute truth. I’d walked into this diner fully expecting her to scream obscenities and throw a fireball straight through my chest.

I narrowed my eyes at the red-headed heroine across the table. "I have a question, though."

"Ask away," she said around a bite.

"Why stay in the game?" I pressed. "And don’t pretend like you had to orchestrate this meeting here, of all places. Bringing Vanessa to a diner owned by a newly rescued Rick? Having him walk out and put on a public display of gratitude?

"We both know that wasn’t a coincidence. You were deliberately trying to soften me up and make me look like a decent guy in front of her. Why help me out like that, Mystic? I thought you despised villains."

Mystic chewed thoughtfully, swallowing before she set her sandwich down on the paper-lined basket.

"Polaris," she began, her tone carrying that quiet, infuriatingly wise gravity she always leaned on. "I said once before that you would have made an exceptional hero if you’d chosen a different path.

"And while I stand by that... I genuinely believe your true purpose in this chaotic ecosystem is to quietly protect the people caught in the crossfire. I have simply chosen to make it my purpose to help you realize that."

She offered a faint, enigmatic smile. "It is an absolute tragedy that you refuse to see it yourself. A great pity. But that doesn’t mean I will ever stop assisting you when the tides turn against you."

"Oh. Well, uh... thanks, I suppose," I muttered, feeling thoroughly outmaneuvered by her wholesome agenda. "But for the record, I am still not putting on a cape."

Mystic’s smile widened just a fraction, a rare display of genuine amusement. "We’ll see about that."

I rolled my eyes, shaking my head as I reached over and picked up my own neglected lunch.

Damn.

That was a really, really good sandwich.