Ch. 53 – The Perfect Alibi

Rhys didn’t flinch. Decades of black-ops infiltrations, high-stakes galactic standoffs, and intense psychological warfare had conditioned his nervous system to lock down under pressure. His heart was hammering against his ribs, but his physical posture remained entirely fluid, entirely unbothered. He didn’t let a single muscle in his face twitch.

Instead, he forced a sudden, bright flash of recognition to cross his features, leaning forward on the sofa with a look of genuine relief.

“Your dog found my shirt?!” Rhys said, feigning an eager, delighted excitement.

Arthur’s eyes narrowed into suspicious slits. He didn’t take the bite immediately. He turned the piece of fabric over in his thick, calloused hands, examining it like a prosecutor eyeing a key piece of evidence.

“So this IS your shirt,” Arthur said slowly, his booming voice dropping an octave as if he had just unraveled the first major clue in a high-profile investigation.

Arthur had no idea, but Rhys was no slouch when it came to interrogations. During his years operating in the dark under his hero alias, Omen, Rhys had spent countless hours on both sides of the silver mirror. He knew how suspects broke, he knew how investigators thought, and, most importantly, he knew how to play completely, incontrovertibly innocent when backed into a corner.

“Yeah, man! That’s definitely my shirt,” Rhys said, his voice dripping with an effortless, casual deception. “I’m so glad you found it! I’ve been looking for that thing everywhere for days.”

Arthur didn’t immediately relax. He leaned back in his leather recliner, his sharp, weathered eyes boring into Rhys’s soul, pondering the response. It seemed the stout, retired knight was a bit sharper than Rhys had initially credited him for.

“If that’s the case,” Arthur challenged, his tone rising sharply, “why did the very sight of this shirt send my wife into a blubbering mess? Why did she burst into tears and run out of the house like she’d just been shot the second I picked it up off the table?”

Rhys paused for a fraction of a millisecond, absorbing the heat of the question.

Looking at Arthur—standing his ground, fiercely defensive of his home and his wife—Rhys couldn’t help but feel a small, reluctant grain of respect forming for the man. They might not agree on hero politics, regulation laws, or basement decor, but Arthur’s immediate instinct to protect Dione was deeply admirable.

A sharp, agonizing pang of guilt pierced Rhys’s chest. In a normal, untainted world, the two of them should have been sitting down here drinking whiskey, bonding over old combat stories, and having a friendly, spirited argument about the golden age of heroes versus modern league policies. Instead, Rhys was actively compromising Arthur’s marriage, standing in his basement trying to cover up an affair, and he couldn’t even claim he was doing it to protect his own household—he was doing it purely to keep his web of secrets from imploding.

Fortunately for Rhys in that crucial moment, lying had become a second nature he hated admitting he possessed. Before his conscious brain could even fully process the threat, his tactical instincts hijacked his speech, pushing his body into effortless motion.

“Oh, man... you must not have heard about the event yet,” Rhys said, throwing out fresh, shiny bait with a light, exasperated sigh. “Did Dione really not tell you?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed tightly. “What event?” he asked, a scowl forming on his broad face.

It’s a bite! Rhys thought triumphantly, locking onto the opening.

Without skipping a beat, Rhys began to weave a masterclass story, smoothly blending exact truths with fabrications. He explained how, over the past couple of weeks, he had been putting together an official catering company—a detail that was actually 100% true as of that very afternoon. He went on to explain that Dione had been generously “helping” him get the foundation off the ground in her spare time. A half-truth.

“Dione must have taken the shirt one night after we were prepping menus, probably intending to throw it in the wash for me so it’d be ready for our team uniform,” Rhys said, his tone smooth as silk, dropping in an almost-lie. “I really needed it back because we’re using those dark fitted shirts for a massive, high-profile launch event we’re hosting.”

He paused, gesturing toward the dog bed in the corner where the pug was snoring softly. “When Dione saw the dog drag it out into the yard and tear up the hem, she completely panicked. She thought she ruined a crucial part of my startup gear right before the event. She was so overwhelmed and embarrassed that she broke down and ran over to my place to apologize and offer to pay for the damage.”

Rhys finished reeling the line all the way in, landing the catch with absolute, flawless execution. He offered Arthur a warm, neighborly smile, looking entirely relaxed.

Spin the truth around the lie, Rhys thought bitterly to himself, horrified by how terrifyingly good he had become at his old Omen tradecraft.

Arthur sat in silence for several agonizing seconds, taking a deep breath as if inhaling the lie like thick cigar smoke, letting it settle in his brain.

“So...” Arthur grunted, digesting the story. “When is this big catering event supposed to happen?”

Rhys opened his mouth, his lying tongue cutting back at him faster than his tactical brain could calculate the timeline. “In two weeks!” Rhys blurted out with absolute, radiant confidence.

TWO FUCKIN’ WEEKS?! Rhys roared internally, his inner voice screaming in pure panic. What the hell did I just say?! I don’t have a staff! I don’t have a venue! I just incorporated the LLC three hours ago!

“Two weeks, huh?” Arthur repeated. The stern, suspicious lines on his weathered face melted away, replaced by a wide, satisfied grin. “Ok, great! I’m looking forward to it, neighbor.”

Arthur completely swallowed the bait, hook, line, and sinker. He slumped heavily back into his plush leather recliner with a thick sigh of relief, looking for all the world like a master detective who had just solved a high-society murder case with flying colors.

“Yeah... yeah, it’s gonna be great,” Rhys said weakly.

He stood up, reached over to the table, and picked up the dirty, dog-chewed shirt, tucking it under his arm before turning toward the basement stairs. As he reached the foot of the steps, Rhys cast one final glance back over his shoulder at the stout, former knight sprawled out horizontally across his oversized recliner, his stomach rising and falling rhythmically.

I can’t lie, Rhys thought to himself with a quiet, absurd flash of smug humor amidst his intense stress. He oddly looks like a flopping fish completely out of water right now.

As if sensing the gaze, Arthur suddenly opened one eye, catching Rhys’s glance right before he set his foot on the first wooden step.

“One more thing, neighbor,” Arthur called out suddenly from the depths of his recliner.

Rhys froze instantly, his boots locking against the carpet, his posture going completely rigid. He slowly turned his head back, forcing his expression to remain entirely neutral. “Yeah? What’s up, Arthur?”

Arthur looked up, his booming, overbearing voice suddenly dropping into a surprisingly soft, almost embarrassed cadence. He rubbed the back of his neck, awkwardly averting his eyes.

“Could you... could you ask Lira if she could sign an autograph or a photo or something for my wife?” Arthur asked quietly. “Dione adores her... she looks up to Astraea so much, but she’s way too shy to ever ask your wife herself.”

Hearing those words sent a cold, agonizing shudder straight down the length of Rhys’s spine.

Standing in his neighbor’s basement holding the physical evidence of his own infidelity, listening to the man he was betraying humbly ask for Rhys’s world-famous superhero wife’s autograph just to bring a smile to his mistress’s face... it was a level of twisted, tragic irony that almost made Rhys physically sick.

“Yeah... yeah, I’ll ask her for you, man,” Rhys said solemnly, his voice dropping into a quiet, heavy tone.

He turned around, walked up the basement stairs, and stepped out of the house into the blinding, warm afternoon sun, feeling heavier and more tainted than he ever had in his entire life.