When the transport landed at JFK Airport in New York, it was three in the afternoon local time.
Carrying his military backpack, Leo Vance walked out of the terminal and paused for two seconds at the arrival hall exit.
The New York sky was overcast and gray, the air thick with exhaust fumes and the smell of hot dog stands.
Having spent so long in Afghanistan, the noise and density of the city reflexively heightened his senses—too many people, too many cars, too many directions, like a mesh pulled too tight.
He looked down at the key in his hand.
It hadn’t been used in nearly two years; the metal surface was slightly dull, but the teeth were clean and sharp.
He took the subway to Queens, transferred to a bus, and got off near Forest Hills.
He had walked this route many times before and could recite it with his eyes closed: a twelve-minute walk from the station to that street, passing a small church, a row of neat townhouses, the entrance to a community park, and then turning onto a quiet street lined with old oak trees.
Forest Hills was the most suburban part of Queens.
Most of the houses lining the street were single-family homes with front and back yards and neatly trimmed lawns.
Some were Tudor-style brick houses, while others were two-story Colonial-style homes.
Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the tree canopy, casting dappled shadows on the sidewalk.
He slowed his pace as he turned onto Ingram Street.
It was a quiet residential street, not particularly wide, with comfortable spacing between the houses, each boasting its own front lawn and driveway.
Flowers bloomed in some yards, while children’s bicycles sat parked in others.
He stopped in front of one of the houses.
A two-story Tudor-style home built with brownish-gray brick, featuring a steep roofline, a modest front lawn, and a manicured shrub.
The second-floor windows faced the street, framed by drawn curtains of faded beige fabric.
The stone steps leading to the front door had a thin hairline crack along the edge that had been there since he was a kid.
The entire house looked as though time had frozen it at a specific moment.
It hadn’t grown newer, nor had it aged significantly.
The lawn had grown a bit tall, but it was far from overgrown—perhaps the neighbors across the street had given it a quick trim now and then.
Leo Vance stood before the front gate for a few seconds before pushing open the low picket gate and stepping inside.
Inserting the key into the lock, he turned it with a click, and the door opened.
The entryway was dim.
He paused in the foyer to let his eyes adjust to the indoor darkness.
The scent of dust hung in the air—not heavy, but present.
The living room curtains were drawn, allowing light to leak through the gaps in the fabric and project a blurry beam across the floor.
The sofa was still draped in its old fabric cover, and a half-read magazine sat on the coffee table, dated a few months before his departure.
A bookshelf stood in the corner, holding old books and a few framed photographs, one of which was obscured by a thin layer of dust.
Time inside the house seemed to operate on a different scale from the outside world.
Two years had passed out there, but only two days seemed to have passed in here.
Leo Vance set his backpack down, walked over to the window, and pulled back the curtains.
Sunlight flooded in, instantly illuminating the living room.
The photograph in the frame became clear—three people, two adults and a child, posed before a carousel at an amusement park.
He picked up the frame, wiped it clean, and placed it back on the second shelf.
Then he began cleaning.
His movements weren’t rushed, but they were methodical: opening windows for ventilation, checking the status of water, electricity, and gas—all were still connected and functional.
He locked his discharge papers and bank card inside an old drawer in the second-floor bedroom.
Going to the kitchen, he put a kettle on to boil, leaning against the windowsill to look outside while waiting for the water.
Across the street stood 20 Ingram Street—a similar single-family home with a front lawn kept neater than his own and an old bicycle parked by the entrance.
A middle-aged man was bending over to pack away tools in the driveway, his back turned to the street.
Ben Parker.
That bicycle wasn’t his; it was a bit small, clearly meant for a kid around ten or twelve.
Leo Vance knew who it belonged to.
He withdrew his gaze, picked up his water mug, and took a sip.
Toward evening, while he was organizing and categorizing books on the old bookshelf, someone knocked at the door.
The sound was soft—two taps, spaced a few seconds apart.
Leo Vance opened the door.
Ben Parker stood outside holding a ceramic baking dish covered in aluminum foil, wearing a faded blue apron as if he had come straight from the kitchen.
“Thought you just got back and probably haven’t cooked anything yet,” Ben said, holding out the dish.
“May made lasagna, and there was an extra portion.
If you can’t finish it, stick it in the fridge and heat it up tomorrow.”
Leo Vance took it; even through the foil, the dish was piping hot.
“…Thanks.
I was just wondering what to do about dinner.”
“Don’t mention it.
We’re neighbors, after all.” Ben smiled, not leaving immediately, and glanced at the living room behind Leo Vance.
“How’s the cleanup going?
Nobody’s lived here for two years—are the pipes and everything working okay?”
“Everything’s fine.
“Good to hear.” Ben nodded and turned to head back, but after two steps he paused and looked back.
“By the way, if you’re not busy tomorrow night, come over and join us for dinner.
May said she’d love to catch up—your parents used to be close with us, so it’s about time we had a real chat.”
Leo Vance held the dish, silent for a second.
“Sure.
Tomorrow night.”
Ben nodded, gave a brief wave, and pushed open his own front gate to head back inside.
Leo Vance closed the door and set the dish on the kitchen counter, peeling back a corner of the foil—steam gently rose from the surface of the lasagna, the cheese layer baked to a golden brown with traces of tomato sauce bubbling at the edges.
Standing in the kitchen, staring at the lasagna, a thought surfaced in his mind.
Ben Parker.
He knew this man from the movies—not through deep characterization, but through an inevitable outcome: Ben dies.
Before Peter becomes Spider-Man, on some random night, an armed mugger fires a gun on the street, leaving Ben bleeding out in an alley.
By the time Peter arrives, it’s already too late.
That single event alters Peter Parker forever, forging a kid with superpowers into a hero burdened with responsibility.
Leo Vance knew this would happen.
He couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment, but he knew the tragic end.
He stood in the kitchen as steam continued to drift from the lasagna on the counter.
Looking down at his hands, he saw the faint calluses worn into his knuckles from the Afghan sand.
His identity was Leo Vance Lin—a discharged soldier, a neighbor who had just moved back.
But in the house across the street, a man was destined to die in the near future.
He knew what was coming.
But what could he do?
He couldn’t say it directly.
He couldn’t just walk up and say, “Ben, in a few months, you’re going to run into a mugger.” No one would believe him, and even if they did, it wouldn’t help—it would disrupt the timeline, turning him into an unpredictable variable, and the last thing he needed right now was everyone’s eyes on him.
Yet there were things he could do.
He could alter subtle conditions through his very existence—perhaps a timely reaction, a different choice, an extra presence in an alley where no one was supposed to be.
Because he was still Batman.
One of Batman’s core principles was: you cannot change what is set in stone, but you can alter the conditions under which it unfolds.
Leo Vance covered the dish with foil once more, placed it in the refrigerator, and shut the door.
Standing in the kitchen, he listened to the low hum of the refrigerator compressor kicking in.
Then he walked back into the living room and turned off the lights.
Outside, warm yellow light shone through the living room windows of 20 Ingram Street.