The reason that no one knows a super is a super, is because they never look anything like one in the real world. Clad in armour or lycra, it’s easy to throw away your personality like the cape you throw off at the end of the night.

I’m a prime example. Under the sun’s light I’m a freak in the sixth form of a state school in the rough part of Cardiff. I match maroon tights with blue dresses, and wear woolly hats in the middle of summer.

Yet, when the sun sets over the city horizon, the glasses come off and the boots slide up my legs. The last trace of the girl I am disappears when the mask goes on, and the Night Wanderer is born.

It started two years ago. At night I found myself wandering the city’s streets. Soon I got bored of simply walking, and like a gift from the gods, I could jump buildings. I found more hidden talents, and used them for the good of the stranger on the street.

But then the mask leaves my eyes, and the girls spit on me as they pass gossiping about the Night Wanderer’s latest feat.