I’ve never had a panic attack before. Apparently you get hot and sweaty, your head starts pounding, and it feels like all your airwaves got blocked.

It’s happening to me now.

As I lurch towards Geraldine, my own body turning traitor, her expression switches to concern.

‘Are you all right? It’s literally just a short introduction about yourself and the idea behind your comic. There’s a clicker for you to flick through your images. Finally a brief piece, lasting no more than ten minutes. OK?’

I nod, breathing through my mouth.

‘Would you like some water?’ she asks, holding out a bottle of mineral water.

I’d rather go home, I think. Go back to living in the shadows, where it’s safe and boring and lonely. Why did I ever reach for the stars, when all they did was burn me?

Grabbing the bottle, I rasp my thanks, then push myself through the curtains.

I. Am. Not. Prepared.

Calling the auditorium ‘big’ would be like calling the Taj Mahal ‘pretty’. Three thousand people from the furthest-flung places on the planet have come to watch. Sitting on ten levels, they spread around the stage like a two-seventy-degree slice of colosseum. There are cameras everywhere, including one attached to a zip wire. My dumb face is projected on to four IMAX-sized screens. The ceiling has been done up like a galaxy, sprinkled with ice-white stars, glowing planets and interstellar bodies.

Ten metres away stands a ghostly lectern made of clear glass, glowing blue with hidden LEDs. As I lurch towards it, my eyes swim in and out of focus. The applause sounds like a thunderstorm.

Nausea jabs at my stomach, but I keep pushing on. I owe it to my teacher and my friends to see this through. I owe it to Amma, who never quit encouraging me, even when it meant arguing with Dad. I owe it to Shaista, who believed in me for once in her life. I owe it to Kelly, even though she isn’t here. But most of all, I owe it to myself. This has been my life-long dream, and I will never forgive myself if I don’t give it my best shot.

‘G-g-good afternoon,’ I stutter into a microphone that nearly blows my eardrums out. ‘My name is Ilyas Mian. I’m fifteen, and I go to Stanley Park Academy in south London.’

‘South London represent!’ screams someone who is probably Kara. Other Londoners whoop it up for our home city.

‘I’m here to talk about my comic book character, Superman. No!’ I shake my head. ‘PakCore.’ I slap myself, and the sound of it reverberates through the speakers. Laughter spreads through the hall. ‘Sorry, sorry!’ I say, blushing so hard. ‘I mean Big Bad Waf. She went through a lot of changes to get to this point so …’ My attempt to explain my confusion clearly isn’t working. I change tack. ‘Here’s the cover for issue number one.’

I hit the clicker, and the screen behind me fills up with a picture I no longer recognize as the one I created on black card with coloured pastels in my dank bedroom. The illusion of bas-relief is brought to 3D life through light and shadow and a whole lot of smudging. Big Bad Waf stands like a statue, arms raised, fingers pointing as she makes the Sign of Wahid. Her hijab is adorned by a golden crown of daggers, the uneven spikiness of the tines evoking a crown of thorns, symbolizing her sacrifice for humanity. Her eyes are luminescent ovals of golden-green as she powers up. Vapour seeps from her lips, rising to form the title is wispy font:

Who’s Afraid of Big Bad Waf?
created by Ilyas Mian & Kelly Matthews

I yank at my tie as if it’s a hangman’s noose. Tremors and heart palpitations threaten to bring me down. Jamming the water bottle in my mouth, I slurp for my life. My lips make a smacking noise, and I’m left gasping, rubbing my wet mouth on a sleeve. The audience gawps, unsure what to make of me.

‘See, the truth is, I’m no good at this … talking,’ I admit. ‘My co-creator, Kelly Matthews, is the girl with the silver tongue and brilliant ideas. Like, if it wasn’t for her, my character might’ve been just another big-boobed, funnel-waisted chick leaping from panel to panel doing a whole lot of sexy poses. And my mum woulda slapped me silly!’

There’s laughter and some clapping. I blink, taken aback by this.

‘Um …’ I scratch behind an ear doubtfully. ‘So …’

I’ve got nothing. The unexpected positivity has fried my brain. Being hated is what I’m used to. Shit.

‘Ilyas is just being his usual annoyingly modest and adorable self,’ says a disembodied voice from a universe that no longer exists.

Kelly is sauntering over to me. She’s wearing a floaty evening dress in fiery colours and Uncle Fiz’s DM boots. She places an arm around me as if to prove she’s actually there. But I only start to believe it when I see us, side by side, on one of the HD screens.

‘I’m Kelly Matthews,’ she says into the microphone without a hint of fear. ‘And I’m here to fill you in on all things Big Bad Waf.’

I gape. She speaks. They listen.

Kelly tells the audience that the world desperately needs Big Bad Waf. She talks about the dark times we’re living through, how people’s mistrust has evolved into hate, how it spreads like a plague. She talks about Big Bad Waf being a character with universal appeal. Someone to unite fans, blast stereotypes and stay true to her faith and culture.

‘The news is full of depressing stuff,’ Kelly says. ‘And we play spin the bottle with the finger of blame. Gotta hate those social-justice warriors for spoiling everybody’s fun! And how about those Feminazi bitches? They’re on a mission to castrate every last man!

‘The truth is it’s not a level playing field out there. It never has been. No matter what you tell yourself, the world still isn’t a safe place for girls.’

She’s not going there. The world is watching. People are judging. Please don’t do this to yourself, Kelly!

‘I recently had a really bad experience at school,’ she tells a deathly quiet audience. ‘It nearly destroyed me. I’m a girl who knows her privilege. I’m white, middle class, and I usually get top grades. So life should be a bed of roses, right?’

Silhouettes like sand dunes in a breeze shift about uncomfortably, titters sifting through.

‘I fell in love with a boy. A boy who lived and breathed toxic masculinity. My friend here tried to warn me, but I wouldn’t listen to him. So I did everything I said I’d never do. I tried to conform to the sexy-gal stereotype Ilyas has just been talking about. I’m not proud of myself, but neither did I deserve what happened. The guy discarded me like trash, and I was slut-shamed by kids at school. So if I’m so smart, why did I do it?’

My lips are as dry as autumn leaves. I lick them, wanting Kelly to stop telling the world her business. I can’t bear her being judged any more.

‘Why?’ she demands, spreading her hands quizzically. ‘Because comics. Because TV. Because music videos and movies and toys and dolls and everything else you feed us. You put this stuff out there; you should take responsibility for it. If I’d had a character like Big Bad Waf to look up to when I was younger, maybe I would’ve thought I was good enough just the way I was. And maybe the guy who used and abused me might have thought twice about treating a girl in that way.’

The auditorium is so quiet right now, it’s like everyone got abducted by aliens. With Kelly by my side, words stir inside me, rising to the surface, refusing to be denied. I step towards the mic, next to Kelly.

‘People aren’t born evil,’ I say. ‘We pick stuff up from the characters we want to be. I never had anyone to look up to. I ended up in a gang. Something terrible had to happen to wake me up. But I’m one of the lucky ones. Some people never get that wake-up call. Ladies and gentlemen, the antidote to global madness. Meet Big Bad Waf.’

I press the clicker, the lights dim, and I feel the weight of an auditorium filled with expectations. The motion comic I have bust a gut over for weeks is brought to life across four IMAX screens. Kelly perfected the story, my friends did the voice acting and mixed the soundtrack, and Ms Mughal was my kick-ass muse. As Big Bad Waf leaps about on the screen, bringing the bad guys to justice, she is all of us. The judges stare at the screen – smiling and gawping. Even the sour-faced guy on the end is leaning forward in his seat. The audience reacts to the special effects with wonder and delight, and it’s already more than I could ever have wished for. Somewhere in the auditorium, Kara is whooping for joy, and Nawal is shouting ‘Mash’Allah!’ with ferocious pride.

My lower lip trembles, my heart thrums, and my head is roaring. I steal a glance at Kelly, ashamed that jealousy made me think the worst of her; that foolish pride and anger stopped me from protecting her. But now she’s told the whole world what happened with Imran and set herself free. Whether Imran ends up doing time in prison or gets released, Kelly can never be destroyed.

As I scan the room, I see an international audience reacting to Big Bad Waf in just the right way, and I finally understand my place in the world. I am more than DedManz, the least talented of three siblings, or the kid who ends up working at his dad’s shop because nobody wants him. I’m the kid who can go toe-to-toe with adults in the cut-throat world of comics.

Across the lectern, Kelly and I stare at each other for the longest time, eyes misty blue in the diffused glow of the LEDs. We’ve both addressed literally thousands of people but don’t have a clue what to say to each other.

‘You’re late,’ I croak.

Kelly laughs, her eyes filling with tears. Then she gives me the hug I have been missing forever.