Lex Murphy a scientist and Quantum Physics professor - who got to deep into it now making him the protector of his Universe
Powers:
Phantom speed: allows him to see possibilities before it happens
Eon blades( reality blades meaning he can cut through space/reality)
Multiversal Awareness: able to see danger before it happens
Artist - Reddit user: u/AxelRivarola.
First story I’m currently writing but would love feedback and would love to know if this catches any eyes
48 hours later — London
Westminster Abbey carried grief.
The coffin sat at the center aisle, draped in the Union Jack. The red, white, and blue stood out hard against the gray stone, Hours earlier, a gun carriage had rolled through central London. No cheering. No shouting. Just the sound of wheels on pavement and a silence so thick it followed behind it.
The bells had rung. Once. Then again. Each toll slow, measured, final. The minute of silence had stretched longer than planned. No one moved to end it.
Outside, Parliament Square and Whitehall were flooded with black coats and lowered heads. People stood shoulder to shoulder, not speaking. No signs. No chants. Just loss settling in.
Inside the Abbey, order held.
The Army, Royal Navy, and RAF stood together in complete silence. No one moved except to breathe.
At the front, Eleanor Whitmore gripped the edges of the podium like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Her eyes were swollen, red in a way sleep couldn't fix. Beside her stood her children.
Thomas stared straight ahead, jaw clenched too tightly, shoulders rigid.
Amelia kept her eyes on the floor, hands folded, afraid that if she looked up she wouldn't stop crying.
Henry clutched his mother's coat, small fingers knotted in the fabric, not fully understanding why everyone felt broken.
Eleanor spoke.
"He loved this country," she said, her voice thin steady enough to carry.
Then it cracked.
"But more than that..." She drew in a breath heavily. "He loved being a father."
The Abbey remained silent.
"He never missed a birthday. Never skipped a bedtime story." Her voice wavered, but she didn't wipe away the tears as they fell. "He believed service didn't start in Parliament. It started at home."
Thomas swallowed hard. Amelia's shoulders trembled once before she forced herself still.
"He would have given everything for the United Kingdom," Eleanor whispered.
"And in the end... he did."
The room seemed to breathe together, slow and heavy.
Several rows back, Charles Sinclair stood motionless.
His hands were clasped in front of him, his knuckles pale, his shoulders squared out of habit rather than strength. His eyes never left the coffin. Not when Eleanor's voice broke. Not when her words settled over the room.
To him This wasn't duty, This was personal.
Then something changed.
Sinclair slowly lifted his eyes toward the back of the Abbey.
Between the towering stone columns and rows of bowed diplomats stood someone apart.
Reacher.
No entourage. No Secret Service wall. Just a dark suit, slightly wrinkled, bruises faint but visible if anyone looked closely enough.
He didn't stand like a man proud to be there.
He stood like a man carrying something heavier than grief.
Charles couldn't look away.
His gaze locked onto Reacher. Grief hardened into something cold. Something that refused to forgive.
Reacher felt it.
He remained where he was, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He took the stare without looking away.
A hand rested gently on Sinclair's arm.
A guard leaned closer and spoke quietly.
"Sir... it's time."
Charles finally looked away.