If it wasn't for the superhero, the Garnet Defender, I'd be dead.

Late one stormy night, I snuck into my work building just before it was set to be fumigated. While I'd always been told that my workaholic tendencies would be the death of me, I assumed that it would be in a stress-induced heart attack sort of way, and not because the building would collapse with me inside.

Except the Garnet Defender saved me.

Clutched in the muscular arms that are plastered all over social media in glimpses and blurs, he swooped me out of the building and away to his penthouse. There, we shared a magical night to celebrate being alive.

It was perfect. He was perfect.

Or maybe not.

In the light of day, the shimmering perfection of the night before tarnishes. As a lawyer, I know that I tend to see the worst in people, but it's not just my go-to pessimism that whispers of plots and conspiracies. Between the all too convenient timing of the building's collapse and the charm of my rescuer, something doesn't add up.