Media spotlight, quiet exit

The morning breeze swept in from the mountain pass, carrying the smell of Ashes and burnt metal. Ye Mo walked ahead, his steps slow but firm. Emma Frost followed half a step behind him, her shoes making a soft crunching sound as they rolled over the gravel. Neither of them turned around.

The alley was narrow, flanked by abandoned drainage ditches and rusted iron railings. Cables strung haphazardly overhead, like a torn spiderweb. Sunlight slanted in, casting shadows of varying lengths on the ground. Ye Mo's hat was pulled low, and his silver half-rimmed glasses gleamed coldly in the shadows, as if deliberately concealing some kind of signal—don't look at me, I'm not here.

He didn't speak, nor did he need to. Just now, Scott stood in front of the lab, facing the surging crowd, helmet on, mask closed, back ramrod straight. That wasn't a choice made after hesitation, but rather something finally caught.

Ye Mo knew that some people were born to stand in the light. Even though he was almost roasted to a crisp by the heat rays last night, and even though his suit was still leaking electricity on the left leg, as long as he dared to move forward, there would be people willing to look up at him.

He can't do it himself.

He's not afraid of fame, nor is he pretending to be aloof. It's just that every time the camera focuses on someone, that person is no longer themselves. They'll label you, make up stories, and cram you into the scripts they want to see. Today you're a hero, tomorrow you're a controversial figure, and the day after tomorrow you'll have to do live streams to sell merchandise.

He didn't want to become a topic of conversation.

I don't want the system to take the blame either.

"Do you remember what you said you most wanted to do when you first came here?" Emma Frost suddenly asked, her voice low, as if she were asking casually.

Ye Mo paused, "Get a full night's sleep."

"Then what?"

"Then... find a place where you can breathe without wearing protective clothing, and eat a meal where no one's filming you." He raised his hand to touch the back of his neck, where the tingling sensation from the EMP recoil still lingered. "I don't even dare order takeout now, afraid a drone will fly in with the food."

Emma Frost gave a soft humph. "So you're not even willing to show your face now because you're afraid you'll have to change your hoodies later?"

"Smart." He glanced at her sideways. "If I trend on social media, bloggers will be analyzing my outfits the next second, and # Mr. X # will be number one on the list. Do you know how outrageous the counterfeits are these days? They fade after just one wash, and the hood can be used as a rag."

"So you do care quite a bit about your image."

"I don't care about my image, I care about peace and quiet." He looked away and continued walking. "Scott can be a public hero; he has a daughter, a life, and a reason to stand up. I can help him repair equipment, modify algorithms, and take bullets for him, but I can't live that kind of life for him."

Emma Frost didn't say anything more.

She didn't need to refute him. She knew Ye Mo's personality well—he seemed lazy on the surface, but was actually more clear-headed than anyone else. He knew where everyone should be, and he also knew where he didn't belong.

At the end of the alley was a gentle slope leading down a secluded path at the foot of the mountain. The outline of the city was faintly visible in the distance, and the morning rush hour traffic had already begun to creep in. Several news drones were still hovering over the laboratory, their buzzing coming intermittently like a swarm of flies that couldn't be driven away.

Ye Mo stopped and took his phone out of his pocket. The screen lit up, and push notifications kept popping up:

[Ant-Man's true identity revealed? Insiders say he's an electronics engineer]

[On-site video recap: Did the mysterious man in black participate in the battle? Netizens are hotly debating whether "Mr. X" exists]

[Expert Analysis: The technology used by the Yellowjacket may have originated from Pym Particles reverse engineering]

He glanced at it, turned it off, and casually stuffed it back into his pocket.

"Aren't you going to take a look?" Emma Frost asked.

"What are you looking at? Are they going to paint me as a masked swordsman or the mastermind?" He smirked. "Anyway, I'm not the main character. Let them argue. They're not going to give me a bonus if they win."

After he finished speaking, he continued walking down the path. His steps were lighter than before, as if he had let go of the last bit of worry.

On the other side, the open space in front of the laboratory's main entrance had become completely bustling with activity.

Reporters set up their lights, pointed their cameras at the entrance, and started the live broadcast. More and more people gathered, some taking selfies with their phones, others looking for autographs on printed screenshots of the video. The child who had given the note was still there, squatting by the railing, carefully folding the note that said "Go for it!" and tucking it into the innermost part of his schoolbag.

Scott stood five meters in front of the crowd, his helmet pulled tight and his visor completely closed. He didn't speak or make any movement; he just stood there. Sunlight shone on him, and his tattered suit reflected mottled light spots, like a medal covered in patches.

A reporter quickly stepped forward and handed him a microphone. "Mr. Ant-Man! Are you the hero who fought the Yellowjacket last night? Could you reveal your true identity?"

Scott didn't move.

Another reporter pressed on. "There are claims online that you infiltrated enemy armored vehicles to carry out sabotage. Is that true? How did you manage to do it?"

Still no one answered.

The crowd began to stir, and the murmurs grew louder. Someone shouted, "Say something!" "Don't just stand there!" "You're a hero, you don't need to hide!"

Scott slowly raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the excited faces before him. He remembered how he had crawled out of the ventilation shaft last night—covered in dust, his right leg trembling, barely able to stand. At that moment, all he wanted was to escape, to find a place to lie down, and to forget all about the core algorithm and the Yellowjacket.

But now, he stands here.

It wasn't to prove how great he was, nor to hear anyone praise him as "super cool." He just suddenly realized one thing: if he didn't step forward, someone else would just make up some random "Ant-Man." That version might be cooler, stronger, and have a more compelling backstory, but that wouldn't be him.

He is Scott Lang, a convict, a single father, and someone who has served time for theft. He dons this suit not to save the world, but to protect his daughter so she can grow up in a safe place.

Therefore, he had to speak.

"I'm not here for an interview." He finally spoke, his voice muffled but clear enough through the mask. "I have no team, no PR, and no lawyers. What I say is my own opinion and doesn't represent anyone else."

The crowd fell silent for a moment.

"What happened last night is true," he continued. "I did crawl inside that thing and almost got roasted. I did break its system, by luck, not talent. I'm not a scientist, nor a warrior; I'm just an ordinary person who happened to get this suit."

Someone muttered under their breath, "You're being modest, bro..."

Scott ignored him and continued, "I know you have many questions. My identity, my origins, the source of my abilities... I can't answer those right now. But I can tell you one thing—I'm not a perfect hero. I get scared, I make mistakes, and I want to run away. But I'll still come back."

He paused for a moment, his gaze falling on the child holding the schoolbag.

"Like that kid said last night, I'm cool. But true coolness isn't about being able to fly or shrink; it's about taking that step forward even when you're terrified."

After saying that, he turned around and walked towards the street.

His steps weren't fast, but they were steady. Flashbulbs went off behind him one after another, and questions came one after another, but he didn't turn around.

The drone rose even higher, the camera following it closely. The number of viewers for the live stream surpassed three million, and the chat was flooded with comments.

"It's broken down..."

"This is the kind of hero I want to see!"

"I've taken a screenshot of Ant-Man's quote and sent it to my son!"

"Please release an official collaboration outfit!"

In the shadows around the bend in the mountain path, Ye Mo stopped and glanced back at the scene in the distance.

Scott's figure grew smaller and smaller until it was swallowed by the morning light of the street. The red and blue lights of the news van flashed incessantly, like a performance that never ends.

"He's holding on," Emma Frost said softly.

"Hmm." Ye Mo nodded, pulling his hat down a little further. "This time, I didn't need to teach him; he figured it out himself."

"Aren't you regretful?"

"What's there to regret? I never wanted to be a star." He smiled. "All I can do is make sure his outfit doesn't explode so often. As for standing on stage and receiving applause—that's his reward, not mine."

After he finished speaking, he turned around and continued walking down the mountain.

The road beneath my feet gradually turned into a concrete surface, with abandoned factory buildings and overgrown parking lots on both sides. The wind blew from afar, swirling a few pieces of waste paper in the air before they fell.

Emma Frost stood beside him, a half-step apart, like an ordinary couple on the street. No one noticed them, and no cameras were pointed at them.

very good.

Ye Mo likes it this way.

He doesn't need trending topics, fan support, or being pointed at and called "that's Mr. X." He just wants to be able to appear quietly when the next crisis comes, do his job, and then leave quietly.

Just like now.

The alley ended, and ahead lay a secluded path leading to an old neighborhood on the city's edge. There lay his secret base, unfinished data analysis, and suit parts awaiting repair.

He checked his hoodie pocket to make sure his phone was still switched off.

"Let's go," he said.

The two walked one after the other into the depths of the path.

The figure was quickly obscured by the shadows of the trees, as if it had never existed.