*Man In The Mirror*
Fourteen years had passed in the blink of an eye.
By the Venetian blinds, John Kent stood languidly before a full-length mirror, shirtless, admiring his perfect physique.
All told, he had spent a full eighteen years basking in the Kansas sun.
The foundation of V1, the mutation of Compound V, and the daily sunlight soaking into his cells—these strange elements had all stirred together, casting his body into its current form.
It was like molten bronze poured into a mold; once cooled and the cast stripped away, this was the result.
His shoulders were broad by a good inch and a half, his trapezius muscles flowing smoothly into the base of his neck.
The lower edge of his pectorals was carved clean and sharp.
His abdominals weren’t like the artificial rows of chocolate bars seen in Playboy magazines; instead, they looked like natural grooves of varying depths chiseled into a solid bronze plate.
The linea alba cut a sharp line from the bottom of the sternum to the navel, with the obliques tightening toward his waist to form a steep V-shape.
His skin had been scorched by the sun into an uneven bronze—darkest at the nape of his neck, then his forearms, with a pale streak remaining along his side.
Having finished his daily admiration, John pulled on his bar work shirt and buttoned it up.
Just last year, John had started working in a town in Kansas called Mooney.
His job was at a bar, where he was responsible for washing and mopping.
It was worth mentioning that Jonathan had introduced him to this bar; the couple had both worked there in their youth.
Mooney was less than forty miles from Smallville, with a population of eight hundred.
The bar had no name; the sign out front simply read: BAR.
The work required no technical skill.
The beer glasses coming out of the dishwasher were still hot and had to be wiped clean with a white cloth.
There was always a layer of sticky, unidentified substance on the bar top that required vigorous scrubbing.
John did his work diligently.
In his previous life, his mind had never known peace.
The schedule Vought had arranged for him ran from six in the morning until two in the morning.
Every minute of every day, someone was telling him where to stand, what to say, and which camera to smile at.
Over time, he had grown weary of that life.
He found he exceptionally enjoyed this state of leisure.
Night fell.
There weren’t many people in the bar tonight.
It was raining outside—a sparse, drizzling Kansas spring rain.
A few familiar faces sat at the bar.
Old Sam was huddled in a corner drinking stout, and a couple was eating fish and chips in a booth.
They were Black.
At the table by the wall, there were three truck drivers.
They hadn’t changed out of their work clothes yet, which were stained with grease and sweat.
They were likely on their third round of drinks.
One of them had a bushy beard and a neck as thick as a tree stump.
When he laughed, his entire chest vibrated.
John found him annoying.
His voice was the loudest, and his language the filthiest—every sentence revolved around reproductive organs or someone’s blood relatives.
Even from his position behind the bar, John could smell the foul stench of alcohol spraying from the man’s mouth.
John gave him an extra glance while wiping a glass.
The man didn’t look like a decent sort, but there were plenty of people like that in a bar; as long as they paid and left, it didn’t matter.
He ignored him.
After all, he had promised Pa Kent that he would keep himself hidden. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
Besides, for a low-life like that, a single blast of heat vision could send him straight to God.
Yes, heat vision.
You heard that right.
At present, John had recovered to the peak state he held before the V1 injection.
This included, but was not limited to, enhanced hearing and observation, flight, an invulnerable body, and heat vision.
There was also a part of his newly awakened abilities that remained unknown—something akin to force field manipulation.
It was essentially an invisible protective layer that he could feel, capable of shielding himself or other materials from harm.
Moreover, John wasn’t some dimwit.
The reason his adoptive father feared him using his powers was likely because he feared those powers being exposed.
Having lived two lives, John was far more restrained than he had been in the first.
However, if some blind fool actually provoked him, he wouldn’t mind making them physically vanish.
After all, only dead men tell no tales.
Well, as long as he didn’t expose his powers.
Furthermore, the technology of this era was far less advanced than in his previous life.
Street surveillance was barely a-tier quality; as long as he found a blind spot, no one could possibly discover him given his absolute observation skills.
He was very confident in that.
*Squeak—*
The door pushed open.
John, who was mopping, glanced over.
Not regulars.
Two sexy girls, probably in their early twenties, ran in to escape the rain.
Half of their hair was wet, and there were a few splashes of mud on their denim hot pants.
One had long blonde hair and wore a light blue sweatshirt; the other had short hair and wore round-rimmed glasses.
They sat at the bar and ordered two lemonades.
When the blonde one smiled, she revealed two canine teeth.
The short-haired beauty pulled a map from her bag, spread it on the bar, and pointed to a red circle, asking the nearest person—John:
“Excuse me, how do we get to this campsite?”
*Why is this my problem?*
Since recovering his powers, John possessed a photographic memory.
With a single glance at the map, he could determine it was a state park campground, about fifteen miles from Mooney.
“Go north out of town, cross the bridge, and turn left.”
“Thank you, handsome.”
Folding the map, the blonde girl took a large sip of lemonade and turned to look at the old license plates decorating the wall.
There were plates from various states; some were so rusted that their original colors were indistinguishable.
“You aren’t locals, are you?” John asked, wiping a glass.
“We’re from Wichita.
Out camping for spring break.”
They sat at the bar for about half an hour, drinking half their lemonades and chatting about the weather and road conditions.
The blonde girl, perhaps having drunk too much, felt a strong urge to urinate and stood up to go to the restroom.
But as she passed the table in the corner, the bearded man suddenly dropped his hand from the table.
He deliberately pressed his palm against the girl’s buttocks, curled his fingers, and gave a barely perceptible squeeze.
“Ah!”
The blonde girl leaped away as if scorched by hot water and whipped around.
All the lightness vanished from her face, replaced by an expression of disgust, anger, and fear.
She opened her mouth to curse, but the bearded man beat her to it.
“Oh…
what’s wrong, American sweetheart?
Did I bump into you?”
He grinned, revealing large teeth stained yellow by tobacco.
His two companions joined in the laughter.
One thin man even raised his hand and made a vulgar gripping motion.
“Little lady, why is there a toll just for passing by?
Nice scale you’ve got there~”
“Pervert!”
The blonde girl’s face flushed deep red.
At that moment, her companion stood up from the bar, grabbed her arm, and whispered, “Forget it.”
“I…”
The blonde girl clearly had a fiery temper and couldn’t swallow this insult.
Her chest heaved, and she trembled with rage.
Why?
Because the opponents were three hulking men smelling of engine oil, and she was less than 165 centimeters tall.
Among girls, that height was considered tall.
But in front of three men who were 180 centimeters, it was nowhere near enough.
It was then that John set down the glass in his hand.
The bottom of the glass hit the rack with a dull thud.
He stepped out from behind the bar, walked to the table in the corner, and stood beside the blonde girl.
John wasn’t some bleeding-heart altruist.
He simply remembered that Jonathan had once told him that when you see someone in trouble, you can lend a hand.
It wasn’t out of some bullshit sense of justice—he hated that kind of high-and-mighty rhetoric the most.
It was an instinctive, subconscious desire to “align” himself with Joe.
It was the same logic he’d used when he followed Soldier Boy in picking out cocktails.
“Hey, I said…
apologize to her.”
The bearded man looked up at him.
He paused for a moment, then burst out laughing.
“Who the fuck are you?
The bartender?”
He looked John up and down.
“You little brat, you haven’t even grown your fuzz yet.
Go back to wiping your glasses.
You actually think you’re playing the hero saving a beauty?”