That was true.
Finn wasn’t the only one with a PR team.
“I have a radical idea. Why don’t you ask Iris?”
“Would she give me a straight answer? If her mother somehow made it clear that shehasto do this, would she tell me that she didn’t want this and risk whatever consequences her mother might have for her?”
“I don’t know. She’s certainly had no issues telling me her opinion.”
“Because she thinks you’re nothing but an empty suit. Who is always judging her.”
“I’m trying to help improve her image,” Henry said, brows pinching. “Like I’ve always done for you. Do you feel judged?”
Not anymore, he didn’t.
But maybe that was just because there was nothing left of him that hadn’t been gone over with a fine-tooth comb and a high-definition media lens.
He could remember a time, many years back, though, when Henry had scoffed at his sci-fi movie posters and had helped him box up his comic books and stick them in storage.
In their place, he’d been instructed to invest in artists from all the different boroughs of the city—and to make sure he represented humans and paranormals alike in his collection. In place of his action heroes who saved the world, he was urged to read non-fiction books on history, species, and political policy.
Finn hadn’t seen the last ten big-budget superhero movies that had come out. Nor the many comics that had been released. He’d forgotten about them for the most part. And the nerd inside him died a little more at that realization.
Henry watched him, sighing.
“Tell you what? Why don’t you take the afternoon off? Go do something relaxing. Get a massage. Take a walk. Come back here tomorrow with your head on straight.”
“Yeah,” Finn agreed, getting to his feet.
“And don’t forget to tell Iris about the fae cultural parade. She has to be there.”
“Got it,” he agreed, making his way out of his office, then the building.
As he moved out onto the street, he had the depressing realization that he had no idea what to do with himself if he wasn’t focusing on work.
All he knew was he couldn’t go home and be confronted with Iris’s coldness while trying to battle his own desire for her.
So he did what Henry suggested—as he almost always did.
He walked.
And walked.
Until, at some point, he turned to look where his feet had automatically taken him.
Back to a store he’d spent too much time in—and far too much of his parents’ money—as a kid and teen.
The comic book store.
He hated how he paused, how he looked around to see if anyone was watching him, recognized him, and what they might be thinking of him if they did, if they saw where he was going.
“Screw it,” he mumbled to himself and moved inside.
The bell jingled over the door, the same way it always had. The scent hit him first: ink, new paper, a whiff of sugar from the vending machine someone still stocked with off-brand candy.
It was a temple. One where younger versions of himself had debated plot twists, stacked issues like sacred texts, and dreamed of being the kind of man who could save a city with nothing but conviction and a cape.
No platform.
