Watching Clark bolt out of the cafeteria in a panic, Felicia froze for a split second—
Then burst into a light, bell-like laugh.
Clearly, she hadn’t realized just how completely clueless this “sunny boy” was when it came to romance.
“A pure, innocent type…” she murmured, swallowing lightly, her eyes gleaming like a hunter spotting prey.
“How… delightful.”
She stood up, shot Gwen a provocative look, and walked away like a proud, elegant cat.
Among the onlookers who had just witnessed the whole scene, Harry was the first to comment:
“He ran away?
Your brother’s… interesting, Peter.”
Peter scratched his head awkwardly.
“Yeah… he’s always been… bad with girls.”
But the moment he noticed Gwen silently stabbing her pasta with a fork—
He wisely chose not to continue.
No need to risk MJ teaming up for revenge.
The afternoon came quickly.
American schools didn’t really have lunch breaks—classes resumed early, but dismissal also came early.
And today’s first class after lunch—
Was gym.
For Clark, who was still mentally recovering—
It was borderline torture.
His strength had always been something he had to suppress.
Every moment.
Every action.
And today, with everything already throwing him off balance—
That control became even harder.
He looked at the shot put.
Let out a quiet sigh.
Then—
With textbook-perfect form—
He threw it.
Just a little too hard.
The metal ball soared past the full-score line effortlessly—
Then kept going.
And going.
Until it flew completely out of the field—
Before finally crashing into a distant metal gate.
The gate didn’t survive.
Silence.
Total silence.
Everyone stared—
Too stunned to even speak.
The whistle slipped straight out of the teacher’s mouth.
As for Flash Thompson—he looked like he’d just seen death itself.
At the same time, a wave of relief washed over him.
Clark stood there, silent, his mind racing.
How do I make this look normal?
It was only a few dozen meters… with some “training,” it could be explained, right?
He scratched his head, putting on his most honest, harmless expression.
“Teacher… could it be that the school’s shot put is just… kind of old?
And I’ve trained a bit before, so this result shouldn’t be too strange, right?”
The teacher looked at Clark.
Then at the destroyed gate in the distance.
After a long pause, he chose to believe the equipment was outdated.
It sounded ridiculous.
But at least his worldview remained intact.
After school, Clark declined everyone’s invitation to head home together.
He needed to vent.
Years of suppression—physical and mental.
He couldn’t let his emotions swing too far.
Sometimes he didn’t even dare laugh too loudly or get angry.
Because if he lost control, even for a moment, the difference between him and everyone else would be exposed.
He was like a bomb, carefully living inside a fragile porcelain shop.
And honestly, that description fit him perfectly.
At dusk, Clark arrived alone at an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, miles away from anyone.
He took off his jacket, revealing a physique like a perfect Greek sculpture.
Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath.
Then—
His eyes flared.
Twin beams of heat vision burst out, slicing through a massive rusted machine.
The edges glowed molten, metal dripping like liquid fire.
He turned, opened his mouth, and exhaled.
A freezing gust erupted, instantly turning the red-hot metal into solid ice.
It could never return to what it once was.
Then he leapt forward, throwing a punch.
Followed by a barrage of strikes.
The machine shattered into countless fragments, scattering across the ground.
When it was over, Clark stood there, breathing heavily.
Looking at the destruction around him.
What he felt wasn’t satisfaction.
It was fear.
He leaned against a pillar and slowly slid down, burying his face in his hands.
He was afraid.
Every time he used his power, he was reminded that with even the slightest shift in mindset, he could take over a country… maybe even the entire world.
He had seen stories like that before.
Worlds where someone with absolute power lost their humanity and became something monstrous.
He didn’t want that.
Not ever.
This world had powerful criminals.
HYDRA lurked in the shadows.
No heroes strong enough to stop him.
If he ever lost control… who could?
“With great power…” Clark murmured, “…comes less responsibility.”
A twisted version of a familiar line, but it reflected his current state of mind.
By the time he calmed down, the sun had fully set.
Night blanketed New York.
Clark brushed the dust off his clothes, put his jacket back on, and stepped out of the factory.
Just as he was about to return to Queens, his super hearing caught something he didn’t want to hear.
“Hand over the money!
I need it!”
A rough, aggressive voice.
Then a girl’s voice—shaky, but trying to stay composed.
“I… I don’t have any more money.
This… this is for helping people…”
Clark froze.
That voice—
MJ.
MJ’s family wasn’t rich, but she always tried to help others—working part-time, even using her own money to support people in need.
Clark didn’t hesitate.
He bent his knees and launched himself forward.
He couldn’t fly yet.
But he could jump.
Far.
In a narrow alley in Queens, MJ pressed herself against a brick wall, clutching her backpack tightly.
In front of her stood three burly men.
Worse—
Each of them wore metallic gauntlets.
Not something you could buy legally.
Modified.
Weaponized.
The kind of high-tech gear Ben had mentioned that morning.
“Don’t make this hard, sweetheart,” the bald leader sneered, raising his gauntlet.
“We’re the Shocker Gang.
We want money, not your life.”
He adjusted the device.
“If I activate this, you’ll be out cold.
So be smart… and hand over the bag.”
MJ bit her lip.
Her stubbornness wouldn’t let go.
That money—she had earned it herself, working long hours.
She had planned to use it with Peter to help people.
The bald man lost patience, cursing as he raised the gauntlet and aimed.
MJ closed her eyes in despair.
Right then—
Something moved.