Listening to his parents talking downstairs, Clark couldn't help recalling something that had happened when Peter was just over a year old.
Late at night, when everything was quiet, he had heard it—from the small bed beside his own.
Peter's sleep talk.
"Clark… Clark…"
The words were slurred, soft, still carrying the milky sweetness of a toddler's voice.
That was the first meaningful word Peter Parker had ever learned.
Not "Dad." Not "Mom."
But "Clark."
Hearing it, tears had slipped from the corners of Clark's eyes.
At that moment, the teenage soul within him was completely healed. He was no longer the lonely transmigrator, no longer a stranger burdened with secrets in a foreign world.
He was a brother.
He was a Parker.
The overwhelming surge of emotion triggered, for the first time, a loss of control over the power hidden deep within his Kryptonian bloodline.
Wrapped in happiness, he fell asleep.
And then, he dreamed.
In that dream, he was no longer bound by the weight of his physical body. He felt light—so light. With just a thought, his feet lifted from the bed, and his body began to float upward.
He passed through the ceiling and arrived on the roof of his home.
The nightscape of Queens spread out beneath his feet, like neatly arranged slices of cake.
In the distance, he could see the sleepless lights of Manhattan, and the flowing river of cars across the Brooklyn Bridge.
He tried to fly forward.
There was no sound, no resistance—only a natural ease, like a fish moving through water.
The wind brushed across his face, though he couldn't truly feel it.
He flew higher and higher, piercing through the clouds, reaching the stratosphere.
Here, the stars no longer twinkled—they simply existed, quietly, within the vastness of space. Below him, the blue Earth turned slowly, and the line dividing day and night was breathtakingly beautiful.
He spread his arms, feeling the solar wind, sensing the pulse of the universe.
This was pure, unmasked freedom.
This was the most primal desire buried deep within his soul.
And this—
was his very first flight.
---
Returning to the present, tears once again slipped from his eyes.
It was the autumn of 2001.
The Twin Towers had just fallen. Fear gripped New York—no, not just New York, but the entire United States. And in its wake, the war on terror had begun.
This year, Clark Parker was ten years old.
Peter Parker was nine.
At ten, Clark had already shot up to 1.5 meters tall, his build strong and sturdy.
To make him look less conspicuous, May had given him an honest-looking bowl cut and insisted he wear those plain black-framed glasses. Altogether, it made him look like a gentle—perhaps even slightly clumsy—big kid.
As for Clark's own opinion?
Ridiculous!!!!!
Peter, at nine, was the complete opposite—nothing like someone of the same bloodline.
He was small, sensitive, always trailing behind Clark. He had inherited his father Richard's scientific mind, already dismantling anything he could get his hands on at such a young age.
A black sedan pulled up in front of the Parker house.
This wasn't a S.H.I.E.L.D. vehicle.
Clark could tell—it had been modified for speed and silence, sacrificing comfort in the process.
Richard Parker and Mary Parker stepped out.
They looked far more haggard than the last time he had seen them. Richard's eyes were sunken, stubble untrimmed along his jaw. Mary's brown hair was hastily tied back.
They carried no luggage—only a small, heavy-looking briefcase, handcuffed to Richard's wrist.
Ben and May came out to greet them, but the smiles on their faces froze the instant they saw their condition.
"Richard? Mary? What's going on?" Ben asked, his voice filled with concern, lowered instinctively.
"We don't have time to explain, Ben." Richard spoke rapidly, his eyes scanning the street with sharp vigilance. "We have to leave immediately—to somewhere… far away. It could be years, or even… we may never come back."
Mary crouched down and pulled Peter—who had just run out of the house—into a tight embrace. Tears slipped silently down her face, falling onto Peter's small shoulders.
"Oh, my baby… my little baby…" she choked, pressing her forehead against his. "Listen to Uncle Ben and Aunt May. Get along with your brother Clark. Mommy and Daddy love you. We always will."
Peter was too young to fully understand such a parting. He only felt an overwhelming sadness, instinctively wrapping his small arms around his mother's neck, unsure what to do.
Clark stood in the doorway, watching everything in silence.
His super-vision pierced through the car's steel panels, revealing weapons and forged passports hidden in the trunk.
His super-hearing caught the abnormal rhythm of Richard's heartbeat, as well as the encrypted commands coming from the miniature communicator in his pocket.
"…Hydra… Winter Soldier… target exposed… initiate purge protocol… continue Winter Soldier program…"
An indescribable sorrow gripped Clark's heart.
He knew this wasn't a simple mission—or a temporary escape.
This was a doomed flight, a tragedy already set in motion, unfolding before his eyes.
He wanted to do something.
He could rush out, defeat the agents tailing them. He could take Richard and Mary to the other side of the planet, hide them away.
But he couldn't.
Right now, he was only a ten-year-old child.
His power was still growing, his control far from precise. He could lift a car—but he couldn't accurately catch a speeding bullet.
He could leap high—
but he still couldn't fly.
Most importantly, if he exposed himself, not only would he fail to save Richard and Mary, he would drag Ben, May, Peter—even all of Queens—into the conflict between S.H.I.E.L.D. and Hydra.
This helplessness…
was something he couldn't face.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he understood with painful clarity:
Having the power of a god does not make one a god.
No one is truly omnipotent.
And no one can truly be called a god.
Richard removed a camera from around his neck and placed it over Peter's.
It was the keepsake he left behind.
"Listen, Peter." Richard crouched down, gripping his son's shoulders, his gaze serious. "Your mother and I have to complete a very important mission. Inside this camera… there's something important. But you can't look at it yet. Remember—never let it leave your side. Not unless one day, you meet someone you can absolutely trust… someone willing to give everything for you."
Richard's gaze shifted past Peter's shoulder, landing on Clark in the shadows.
There was complexity in his eyes—trust, apology, and… a plea.
Richard and Mary stood, embracing Ben and May one last time.
"Take care of him, Ben. Please."
Then they turned, got into the car, and quickly disappeared down the street.
Peter stood there, staring blankly at the now-empty neighborhood.
He looked down at the camera hanging on his chest, then up at Aunt May's tear-streaked face. His lips trembled—
and finally, he burst into loud, uncontrollable sobs.
That cry was filled with the fear and confusion of being abandoned, wrenching at the hearts of everyone who heard it.
May rushed forward to hold him. Ben stood to the side, lighting a cigarette he hadn't touched in years since having children. His eyes were heavy with thought, his heart silently praying.
Clark stepped out from the shadows.
He walked over to Peter and said nothing.
He simply reached out his warm hand and gently rested it on Peter's head.
He didn't say "Don't cry."
He didn't say "Everything will be okay."
Because he knew—
in the face of overwhelming grief, words were powerless.
He only let his presence convey a silent message:
"I'm here."