Homewrecker

Welcome to the Fantastic Five—Arlington’s most confusing attempt at public safety, led by Bulldozer, a man whose parenting style could best be described as “hands-off, because he’s usually flattening something.” Among his offspring is the legend, the scandal, the walking alimony generator: Homewrecker. Now, to be clear, Homewrecker didn’t pick his name. The citizens did. Loudly. Repeatedly. Usually during city council meetings and divorce hearings. His résumé reads like a who’s-who of extremely awkward apologies: the mayor’s wife, the pastor’s wife, the police chief’s wife, the governor’s wife—if there’s a “wife” title involved, Homewrecker has probably waved at it… from inside the house… uninvited. Gifted with invisibility, Homewrecker had a choice: become a stealth hero, stopping crime in the shadows—or become a one-man scandal factory. He chose the latter with Olympic-level dedication. Why fight villains when you can sneak into places you absolutely shouldn’t be and make things dramatically worse for everyone involved? And yet—against all logic, reason, and basic morality—he’s the only member of the Fantastic Five with a positive reputation. Why? Because he’s charming. Disarmingly so. People don’t realize he’s ruined their lives until three weeks later and a suspiciously well-timed baby announcement. Speaking of which, it’s estimated he has at least 200 children within city limits. That’s not a statistic, that’s a demographic shift. Schools are considering adding “Homewrecker Studies” to the curriculum just to keep up. Despite everything, he insists he’s using his powers “for personal growth,” which seems to mostly involve other people’s personal lives falling apart. Still, when he’s not actively dismantling marriages, he’s technically not committing crimes… probably. Legally, he exists in a gray area. Morally, he is the gray area. Homewrecker: the invisible man you never see coming—until it’s far, far too late.