Leander's Golden Eyes provided a startlingly clear view through the residential walls. Just two hundred meters away, deep in a narrow, shadowed street alley, he could distinctly see a massive, burly man—a predator—forcing a young woman deeper into the gloom.
He glanced at the analog clock on his desk. "Fifteen minutes until dinner. Plenty of time."
He moved with the practiced stealth of a covert operative, despite his size. He didn't bother with the door. With a slight, controlled burst of his D-Rank Metal Control, he launched himself from the second-floor window.
The two metal plates fixed to his calves responded instantly, acting as both shock absorbers and kinetic boosters, allowing him to land with the grace of a cat—silent and light—in the soft grass of the yard.
He sprinted toward his target. He wasn't relying on pure speed (his stat was only 8), but on his unique propulsion. It was like wearing the Walto Levitation Boots from the mystical arts of Kamar-Taj, but without the gaudy color. The plates provided lift, allowing him to glide a centimeter above the ground, effortlessly clearing obstacles—trash cans, low fences, hedges—with remarkable, spring-like stability.
The few hundred meters dissolved in less than a minute. Leander reached the entrance of the alley, his breathing perfectly steady.
His Golden Eyes remained locked on the scene. He saw the crucial moment: the large man had successfully snatched the woman's handbag. But his expression was predatory, not satisfied. He was rubbing his massive hands together, chuckling darkly as he stared at the terrified victim.
Leander slapped his forehead, annoyed. Of course, it's not just a quick mugging. The stakes are higher.
He swiftly reached behind his door and grabbed the first metallic object he could secure—Uncle George's aluminum baseball bat, used for neighborhood practice. It was heavy, effective, and crucially, non-lethal (in his hands, anyway).
Leander casually stepped into the alley, but his every footfall was meticulously controlled, barely skimming the concrete. He moved like a ghost, completely silent in the deepening gloom.
The fading sunlight had plunged the alley into heavy shadow. The terrified woman saw the faint outline of the figure entering the alley, and a desperate flicker of hope ignited in her eyes. But when she realized it was just a small child, her hope dissolved into utter despair, replaced by a frantic, silent plea for him to run.
The robber, his mind completely consumed by the victim, didn't notice the newcomer. Like a wolf cornering its prey, he held a cheap, black pistol, waving it menacingly in front of the distraught girl.
"Listen up, dollface. I just finished a five-year vacation. I'm not in the mood to go back to the slammer. If you want to live, you're going to keep that pretty mouth shut and do exactly what I tell you."
Drooling with intent, he aggressively tore at the girl's skirt and began his assault.
The woman thought, with chilling certainty, that this was the end. But her gaze lifted again, locking onto Leander, who was now just a few steps behind the attacker. She tried to signal him frantically with her eyes—Run! Call the police! Get help!
Leander held a single finger to his lips—the universal gesture for silence. He nodded once, acknowledging her plea, but instead of retreating, he took two more silent steps directly behind the burly man.
The woman's eyes widened in sheer horror. She couldn't comprehend the audacity—or madness—of this tiny boy.
The robber, perhaps sensing a shift in the ambient pressure or an unexplained lapse in his victim's terror, finally turned his massive body around, his eyes flashing with irritation.
"WHO THE—"
He didn't finish the word.
CRACK!
Leander delivered the blow with terrifying efficiency. He didn't swing; he used his Metal Control to turn the aluminum baseball bat into a kinetic projectile, accelerating it to maximum velocity right before impact. The bat struck the robber squarely on his forehead.
The sound was a sharp, final clang. The robber dropped instantly and silently, collapsing into an inert heap before his brain could even process the word "ouch." His cheap pistol clattered uselessly onto the ground.
Only then did the woman dare to move. She quickly covered her exposed thigh, tugging at the massive, embarrassing tear in her skirt. She looked down at the unconscious man, then up at her small, armed rescuer.
Leander finally got a clear look at her face in the gloom. The immediate relief quickly turned into a profound wave of awkwardness.
"Oh, for God's sake. It's Aunt May."
Aunt May Parker, now realizing she was safe, stammered, "Leo? What in the world are you doing here? Where did you even come from?"
Leander, the consummate master planner, found himself completely flustered. "I—well, no, you, Aunt May! Why were you blocked here? I... I thought I was just passing by a stranger!" He had been preparing for an anonymous heroic exit, not an awkward family reunion.
"Leo, I was trying to find Sister Jenny's house, and he just... spotted me on the street. He's disgusting!" May raged, kicking the inert black man hard in the side.
The man groaned and shifted slightly, showing signs of stirring back to consciousness.
Leander didn't hesitate. BANG! A quick, precise tap from the bat to the same spot on the forehead. The lights went out completely.
"Aunt May, we need to go. Now. This area is completely unsafe, especially at night."
"Oh, yes," May agreed, tugging at her torn skirt self-consciously, picking up her dropped bag. "I think I need to change immediately. Thank you, Leo, you were so brave!"
Leander led the way. With a subtle, almost imperceptible twitch of his finger, the pistol lying innocently on the ground broke into several harmless pieces of scrap steel, the bullets dissolving into small copper beads.
As for this guy, Leander thought, sparing a quick glance at the unconscious form, Queens just gained a local legend about a transient with a mysteriously massive lump on his forehead.
On the way back to his house, May tried to make sense of the encounter. "Leo, how did you know I was in that secluded alley? What were you doing wandering around?"
Leander smoothly deployed a cover story. "Aunt May, I'm just out for a stroll, getting some fresh air. Yes, just strolling. Anyway, Aunt Jenny was talking about you all evening! I didn't realize you lived so close to us!"
"Oh, it's a long story about why I'm over here," May sighed, her face clouding over with renewed sadness. "Peter's parents... it's all so complicated. Let's talk about it later."
When they arrived, Aunt Jenny was ecstatic and immediately pulled May into the house, insisting she stay for dinner.
The atmosphere at the dinner table was warm until May finally decided to share her burden.
"Jenny, George," May began, her voice cracking, "I... Peter's parents, they were CIA agents. They were always on assignment, which is why Peter always stayed with me. But a few days ago, the agency sent word that... they were killed in action during a mission." May's eyes immediately welled up, and she dissolved into tears.
"I don't know what to do," she sobbed, burying her face in Jenny's shoulder. "My parents passed away young, and now my brother and sister-in-law are gone too." George looked shocked and helpless.
Leander quietly watched the deeply grieving May. Here she was, only twenty-six years old, suddenly left as the sole guardian of a traumatized six-year-old nephew, heartbroken, and utterly alone. All her emotional weight, which she had to hide from Peter, was pouring out onto Jenny.
He took a few rapid, quiet bites of his meal—the necessary fuel—then stood up and slipped silently back to his room.
He lay on his bed, the reality of the Marvel Cinematic Universe hitting him harder than any physical blow.
The movies he had watched only provided the broad strokes. The reality was messy, painful, and human. The Peter Parker he just met was not the one burdened by the ghost of Uncle Ben and the famous dictum: "With great power comes great responsibility." This Peter was orphaned by government secrecy and facing the trauma of loss without the wisdom of his uncle's sacrifice to guide him.
But wait, Leander recalled, his mind accessing the deep vault of fan lore. In "Captain America: Civil War," Peter says to Tony Stark, "If you have the power and you do nothing, then the bad thing happens because of you."
That sentence wasn't inherited wisdom. It was Peter's own conviction. It deeply resonated with Tony Stark, but more importantly, it mirrored Leander's own driving philosophy. It was why he constantly risked his meager Control Points to step into trouble.
Like Tony Stark and Peter Parker, Leander was a hero by choice. Before Iron Man, Tony was just an arms dealer; he never had to save the world. Peter could have easily ignored the spider bite and used his powers for cash, or just lived quietly.
But they didn't. When they gained the power—accidental or inevitable—they chose the path of duty, of intervention, of heroism. They did what a hero should do.
Leander smiled faintly, thinking of the good boy who would grow up to face a mad titan at fifteen. He closed his eyes, his newly minted Golden Eyes glowing briefly behind his lids.
"Peter," he vowed silently, the commitment settling deep in his soul. "You won't have to face the enemy alone this time. I will help you grow. We'll carry the weight of this responsibility together."