You wear that cape like it means something. You stand tall. Chin high. Chest out. Like the world owes you a round of applause just for showing up. Captain Arcadia. The shining example. The beacon of hope. The walking, talking ideal. But I see through it. I see through you.

You call yourself a hero—but you’re nothing more than a narcissist in costume. You don’t save people because it’s right. You don’t dive into danger because you care. You do it because it feels good.

Because for a moment—just one fleeting moment—you get to be the center of someone else’s story. You get the eyes. The cheers. The validation.

That’s all it is, isn’t it? Every burning building you run into… Every child you pull from rubble… Every punch you throw in the name of righteousness…It’s not for them. It’s for you.

You get to feel like a god. Because deep down, heroes like you aren’t selfless. You’re just addicted to the feeling.

You get high on hope. Drunk on applause. You pat yourself on the back and tell the world, “Look at me. Look what I did.”

But what happens when there’s no one to save? What happens when there’s no crowd watching? When the cameras are gone, when the lights fade, when the story doesn’t end with a grateful smile and a headline…

Do you still show up? No. Because there’s no reward in silence. No ego in shadows.

You’re not a hero, Captain. You’re a performer. A man who’s turned tragedy into a stage.

You claim to carry the weight of Arcadia on your shoulders, but you only lift what makes you look strong. You only fight the battles that bring you glory.

And the victims you leave behind? They’re just collateral damage in your story of self-importance.

But I? I don’t save people. I don’t lie to myself.

I dig graves. I ferry souls. I don’t pretend to be noble—I just get the job done. There’s honesty in that. There’s truth in it.

You? You parade around in your polished armor, pretending to be something pure, when you’re just a man with a savior complex and a fan club.

And now you step into the ring with me, thinking you’re going to save Arcadia again. Thinking you’re going to beat the bad guy and ride off into the sunset.

But this isn’t a comic book.

This is the end of the road.

This is where the dirt gets deep and the air gets cold. This is where the cheering stops.

And when I leave you lying on that mat, staring at the lights, gasping for breath with no one left to impress, I want you to remember something:

The world doesn’t need heroes.

It just needs someone to bury them when they fall.

And I’ve got the shovel ready.

And I will send you on your way.