The sound of footsteps echoed down the long concrete hallway as the blind man walked out of the Hero Association building.
The echo was uneven—one of his boots had a worn-out sole, making a faint slap with every other step.
His long coat, patched and dull with dust, swayed behind him like a forgotten banner.
He gripped the white cane in one hand—plain, metal-tipped, battered from use. In the other, he held a case, the same one he had taken into the audition, still closed, still containing the weapons they had rejected.
" Standard issue. No unique edge. No augmentations. We appreciate the effort," the judges had said, voices as sharp as their suits.
He had bowed slightly, said nothing, and left.
Now, out in the open city air, he muttered under his breath, a tired smile barely tugging at the corner of his lips.
"Well… that's rejection number thirty-two. Guess I'm setting a personal record."
