The Hero Returns with his Yandere Wife-Chapter 52 - 51

The sky sagged under the weight of storm-heavy clouds, a grim ceiling smothering the city in a cold, listless drizzle.

Rain whispered over concrete and glass, slicking rooftops and pooling in dark alleys far below. From the edge of a hospital’s rooftop, Ryn sat motionless, legs dangling over the side like the limbs of a forgotten marionette.

The wind tugged at his torn hero costume—what was left of it—and plastered the scorched, blood-specked fabric to his skin.

The city sprawled beneath him, oblivious. Neon signs flickered. Cars hissed through wet streets. Life moved on, indifferent.

He didn’t.

Dried blood clung to the shallow gashes carved along his arms. Dark bruises bloomed across his ribs and jaw, each one pulsing with the dull throb of memory.

His body ached, but it was nothing compared to the storm roiling inside. His gaze stayed fixed on the sky—those swirling gray clouds, thick with unfallen thunder. They looked like how he felt. Heavy. Torn. Close to breaking.

Today had been hell.

No—hell had structure. Hell had rules. This was chaos, raw and cruel.

Four teammates. Four friends. Gone. Torn from the world in the span of minutes, their final screams still echoing behind his eyes.

The fifth—Lia—was barely alive, lying somewhere beneath him in the ICU, tangled in tubes and wires, her life measured in fragile heartbeats and sterile beeps.

Only two of them made it out breathing.

And Ryn...

Ryn had refused treatment. He’d staggered out of the emergency wing, up floor after floor, until he reached the roof. The pain grounded him. The blood reminded him. He needed to feel it.

Because every wound was a mistake. A silence. A moment of hesitation that cost someone everything.

The mission had been simple on paper.

Textbook. Rescue a corporate heir—some rich VIP’s son—from a group of human traffickers. Just some D and C-rank thugs, a few guns, maybe one with a quirk flashy enough to bluff.

Easy win.

That’s what the team had said, laughing, nudging each other’s ribs like rookies before a schoolyard brawl.

They were A and B-rank pros—veterans.

Confident. Overconfident.

They’d stormed in, cocky and loud, cracking jokes over comms.

Ryn had felt the itch, though.

That low, crawling dread at the base of his spine. The gut-deep warning that something was wrong. But he hadn’t said a word.

Hadn’t wanted to be the killjoy again. Not after last time. Not after they’d teased him for being "Captain Caution" or "Wussy pants" over beers.

So he’d swallowed it.

And watched as everything burned.

The traffickers had been bait. Decoys. The real threat had been waiting—a monster in human skin. An S-class power-user hiding in the shadows. The moment he stepped in, the fight turned. Jokes turned to panic. Laughter gave way to screaming.

Ryn saw Kai go first—spine shattered against a steel beam like a rag doll. Then Jun. Then the others. One by one. The villain didn’t rush. Didn’t flinch. He played with them. A predator savoring the kill.

Ryn’s fire—usually enough to scorch cars—barely kept the bastard at bay.

The villain after killing his four teammates and crippling their captain Lia, was after Ryn’s head, and he almost had it after he got him cornered and threw his monstrous punch at him.

And then, by some miracle, the monster tripped. Mid-swing, slicked with blood and rain, he lost his footing. Fell. Face-first. Right in front of Ryn.

No thought. No mercy.

Ryn lit him up. Turned his grin to smoke and ash.

The news would call it a victory. "Hostage Rescued. Five Heroes Engaged. One Survives." They’d print photos of the smoking warehouse, praise the quick response. Maybe even call him a super hero.

But he’d seen the cost. Heard it. Smelled it. Burned into his lungs and brain.

Victory didn’t taste like glory. It tasted like copper and soot.

He let out a shaky breath, the kind that dragged splinters from his ribs. Fingers curled over the concrete ledge as thunder rolled far off in the distance.

Was this what heroism meant? Not medals or cheers—but counting the bodies you couldn’t save?

He looked down at the street far below. Ant-like people moved on, dry under umbrellas, untouched by the blood spilled hours ago. He used to envy them. Their ordinary lives. Their safety. Their ignorance.

Maybe he still did.

Graduate high school. Get a desk job. Grow old in peace. That used to sound like a cage.

Now it sounded like heaven.

He leaned back, letting the rain find the heat of his skin, mingling with blood and soot, washing nothing away.

This wasn’t what he signed up for.

Not really.

A sharp squeal of rusted hinges broke through Ryn’s spiraling thoughts—the rooftop door groaned open behind him, followed by the soft scrape of wheels on wet concrete.

He didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Let whoever it was come. Let them see the blood, the mess, the failure. Maybe they’d leave.

But the sound didn’t stop. It rolled closer. Slowed. Stopped right beside him.

"Fireboy, what’re you doing up here?"

The voice was high, chirpy. Too bright for this gray hellscape.

Ryn’s eyes flicked to the side. A girl in a wheelchair had parked beside him, grinning like she’d just found the best seat in the house. Her hair was cropped white and close to her scalp, blue eyes wide and full of mischief.

She looked like a porcelain doll—skin pale, frame fragile—but there was a spark in her that no hospital bed could smother.

"Shouldn’t you be stitched up and cozy downstairs?" she asked, head tilted, eyes roving his bloodied form. Her voice danced on the edge between sass and concern.

Ryn shrugged, gaze shifting back to the sky. "Nah. I’m fine. You holding up?"

His voice came out flat, but there was a flicker in his amber eyes as he glanced at her again—checking, not just asking.

She pushed against the armrests of her chair with a flourish, puffing her chest like she was on stage. "Peachy. Thanks to you, hero."

She tried to stand—legs trembling, knees buckling. Ryn moved fast. Boots hit concrete with a thud as he slipped down from the wall and caught her, hands steady under her arms, gentle but sure. He helped her lean against the rooftop wall, her breathing ragged but steady.

She tilted her head back, face upturned toward the drizzle. Raindrops speckled her cheeks like freckles.

"Love this weather," she murmured, dreamy.

Ryn raised a brow, something like amusement tugging at his lip. "Why?"

She shrugged, her blue eyes glinting with a knowing light. "Dunno. Guess it fits the mood. Everything’s so gray and still—it’s kinda... cozy. Like the world’s taking a nap."

She grinned, sly and self-satisfied, as if she’d just unraveled the universe’s best-kept secret.

Ryn grunted, almost a laugh. The rain was picking up, a steady patter now.

"You should head inside. It’s about to rain."

She didn’t budge. Instead, she turned to him, eyes piercing now. "I will. But first... thanks, Fireboy. For saving me again."

He paused, then offered her a small, tired smile—crooked but real. "You’re welcome. It’s my job."

His voice was softer now. Less armor, more human. The weight on his shoulders lightened just a fraction.

"Third time now," she added with a smirk, holding up three fingers like a scoreboard. "I’m starting to think you’ve got a thing for rescuing me."

Ryn chuckled—low and rough. "Yeah? Then maybe you should stop running into trouble every week. I can’t swoop in every damn time."

She gasped, mock-offended. "How do I keep ending up in this mess? And it’s always you showing up like some dramatic movie entrance. Coincidence?"

He laughed for real this time—rich, rolling, amber eyes sparking. "You think I’m setting this up? Tossing you to villains just to look cool when I show up?"

She leaned in, grinning wickedly. "Maybe? I mean, I am adorable. Admit it. You’re stalking me, Mister Fireboy."

Ryn recoiled in theatrical horror, hands raised in mock defense. "Hell no!"

She pouted, sticking out her lower lip like a kicked puppy. "Why not? No chance for me?"

"Nope," he replied, deadpan, helping her ease back into the wheelchair. His touch was careful, practiced.

"What’s your type then, huh?" she pressed, rolling beside him as he started pushing her toward the door. The wheels squeaked softly as the drizzle thickened into real rain.

He smirked, glancing down at her. "Let’s see... she’d be a superhero. Someone I can talk about work with—who gets this insane job. Someone I don’t have to rescue every time she steps out of bed."

His tone was teasing, eyes glinting with mischief of his own now.

"And?" she demanded, practically bouncing in her seat.

"She’d have to be an adult," he added with a smirk, pointedly. "You know... not ten."

"I’m eleven," she corrected with mock indignation, blue eyes narrowing. "And age is just a number!"

Ryn chuckled, shaking his head as they reached the door. "You got a long way to go, kid."

She squinted up at him slyly. "You got a girlfriend, Fireboy?"

"Nah," he said, his voice quieter now. Simple truth.

"Then wait eight years for me," she chirped, flashing a grin. "I’ll be a badass superhero—S-class even. First paycheck, I’ll buy a ring and sweep you off your feet."

She flung her arms out dramatically, like she could already see the billboard.

"Slow down there, future bride," Ryn said, half-laughing, half-horrified. "That’s a bold plan."

"Hey," she said, sticking her tongue out. "Go big or go home."

Ryn stopped just inside the doorway, the rain now pounding on the rooftop behind them. He looked down at her, eyes warm despite the bruises and blood still crusted on his skin.

"What’s your name, anyway?"

She blinked, like she’d forgotten she hadn’t told him. Then she smiled—big, bright, and impossibly alive.

"Sophia."