The reviewer of superhero movie

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They warned us about him before I ever met him.

> "Stay out of his way."

"That guy's not one of us — he's from The Rick."

"He doesn't talk. Doesn't joke. Doesn't miss."

The Rick.

At first I thought it was a codename for some elite black-ops unit.

Turned out it was worse.

An orphanage. The kind of place they don't put in government records, only in whispered nightmares.

The Rick didn't raise kids. It raised survivors.

And John Rick — or John from Rick, as they called him — was the only one they said came out without breaking.

But looking at him now, I'm not so sure.

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I remember the first time I saw him.

Orientation day.

He stood in the back — like even the walls should keep their distance.

Head down. Eyes unreadable. Posture relaxed, but you could tell — there was a knife behind every breath. Everyone else had name tags, joking around, showing off gear.

John Rick just stood there.

Didn't talk.

Didn't smile.

Didn't even nod when our captain introduced him.

The others thought he was arrogant.

I thought he looked… tired.

Like someone who's seen too much and said too little for far too long.

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And now here we are — one bloody mission later.

Everyone else is knocked out, icing bruises or bragging about who took down what.

Me? I'm in the corner of the gym.

Watching him.

John.

He's shirtless, gloved, barefoot on the mats — doing slow, deliberate movements. Eyes closed.

Most would assume it's some meditation technique.

But every step, every strike, every breath—it's precise. Mechanical. Like his body knows the dance by heart, and his mind isn't even in the room.

Like he's not training.

He's resting.

Through motion. Through work.

And somehow… it fits.

He's not like the rest of us.

He doesn't train to get better.

He trains because stillness might tear him apart.

I watch the way his muscles ripple as he moves — not for show, not for strength, but for release. As if this is the only place he's not haunted.

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The rumors say he's hiding something.

A forbidden ability.

A sealed power.

Some even say he doesn't sleep because the dreams are worse than the missions.

And standing here, seeing him like this — I believe it.

He's too calm in chaos.

Too focused in failure.

Too silent for someone with nothing to say.

He isn't emotionless — he's guarded.

He's not broken — he's buried.

And whatever he's hiding… it's not just power.

It's pain. Purpose. Maybe even punishment.

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To his squad, he's the cool ghost guy.

To the officers, he's a tool they keep sharp but never close.

But to me?

He's like a storm pretending to be still water.

The kind of man who could level cities but chooses to live in quiet corners.

Not because he's weak…

But because he's already fought enough.

I wonder if anyone's ever asked him why he's still fighting.

Or if he even knows anymore.

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He doesn't open his eyes when I walk past.

He doesn't need to.

But something tells me...

He knows I'm watching.

And maybe, just maybe...

He doesn't mind.

(John rick he can't sleep because of spector type ability he got after mission so his mind awake even when he sleeps but he discovered using his reflex power made him feel relaxed than sleeping he is actually in semi sleep mode where he is barley awake it's the only way he can relax now)