Listening to his parents’ conversation downstairs, Clark couldn’t help but recall something that had happened when Peter was just over a year old.
It had been deep in the night.
From the small bed beside his, a soft murmur had drifted over—
“Clark… Clark…”
Slurred, indistinct, still carrying the sweetness of a child’s voice.
That was the first meaningful word Peter Parker had ever spoken.
Not “Dad.”
Not “Mom.”
But—
“Clark.”
At the memory, tears welled up in Clark’s eyes.
The teenage soul within him felt something mend completely in that moment.
He was no longer a lonely transmigrator.
No longer a stranger burdened with secrets.
He was a brother.
He was a Parker.
That overwhelming surge of emotion caused something within him—something rooted deep in his Kryptonian blood—to slip out of control for the very first time.
He fell asleep in that warmth.
And he dreamed.
In the dream, he was no longer bound by the weight of his body.
He felt light.
Weightless.
With just a thought, his feet left the bed, and his body slowly began to rise.
He passed through the ceiling and emerged onto the roof of his home.
Below him, Queens stretched out like a patchwork of glowing tiles.
In the distance, he could see Manhattan’s endless lights, and the flowing stream of traffic across the Brooklyn Bridge.
He tried to move forward.
There was no sound.
No resistance.
It felt as natural as a fish swimming through water.
The wind brushed against his face—though he couldn’t truly feel it.
Higher and higher he flew, piercing through the clouds and reaching the stratosphere.
Up here, the stars no longer flickered—they simply existed.
Below him, the blue Earth turned quietly, and the line dividing day and night was breathtakingly beautiful.
He spread his arms wide, embracing the solar winds, feeling the pulse of the universe itself.
This was freedom.
Pure.
Absolute.
The most primal desire of his soul.
His first flight.
When he returned to reality—
Tears slipped down his face once more.
It was now the autumn of 2001.
The aftermath of the September 11 attacks had cast a shadow of fear over all of New York—no, over all of America.
The war on terror had begun.
This year—
Clark Parker was ten.
Peter Parker was nine.
Ten-year-old Clark had already grown to nearly 1.5 meters tall, with a solid, sturdy build.
To make him stand out less, May had given him a simple bowl cut and insisted he wear plain black-framed glasses.
The result made him look gentle… even a little slow or clumsy.
Clark’s own opinion?
Nine-year-old Peter, on the other hand, was the complete opposite.
Thin.
Sensitive.
Always trailing behind Clark.
He had inherited his father Richard Parker’s scientific mind—already taking things apart and tinkering with anything he could get his hands on.
A black sedan pulled up outside the Parker house.
This wasn’t a S.H.I.E.L.D.
vehicle.
Clark could tell immediately—it had been modified for speed and silence, sacrificing comfort.
From the car stepped Richard Parker and Mary Parker.
They looked far more worn than the last time they’d visited.
Richard’s eyes were sunken, stubble covering his jaw.
Mary’s brown hair was hastily tied back.
They carried no luggage.
Only a small, heavy briefcase—handcuffed to Richard’s wrist.
Ben and May came out to greet them, but their smiles froze the moment they saw their condition.
“Richard?
Mary?
What’s wrong?” Ben asked, his voice low and tense.
“We don’t have time to explain,” Richard said quickly, his eyes scanning the street with sharp vigilance.
“We have to leave.
Immediately.
Somewhere far away.
It could be years… or we may never come back.”
Mary knelt down and pulled Peter into a tight embrace, tears silently falling onto his small shoulders.
“Oh, my baby… my sweet boy…”
Her voice trembled as she pressed her forehead against his.
“You have to listen to Uncle Ben and Aunt May.
Stay close to your brother Clark… Mom and Dad love you.
We’ll always love you.”
Peter was too young to fully understand what was happening.
But he could feel it—
That heavy, suffocating sadness.
He wrapped his arms around his mother’s neck, instinctively clinging to her, not knowing what else to do.
Clark stood quietly on the porch, watching everything unfold.
His super-vision pierced through the car’s metal frame, revealing weapons and forged passports hidden in the trunk.
His super-hearing picked up Richard’s irregular heartbeat—
And the faint transmission from a concealed communicator in his pocket.
“…HYDRA… Winter Soldier… target exposed… initiate purge protocol… continue Winter Soldier program…”
Clark’s heart sank.
He understood.
This wasn’t a simple mission.
This wasn’t just hiding.
This was a doomed escape.
A tragedy already in motion.
And it was happening right in front of him.
He wanted to do something.
He could rush out right now—defeat whoever was tracking them.
He could take Richard Parker and Mary Parker to the far side of the Earth and hide them away.
But he couldn’t.
Right now, he was just a ten-year-old boy.
His power was still growing.
He could lift a car—but he couldn’t reliably catch a bullet in flight.
He could jump incredibly high—
But he still couldn’t truly fly.
Most importantly, if he revealed himself now, he wouldn’t save them.
He would only drag Ben, May, Peter Parker—even all of Queens—into the conflict between S.H.I.E.L.D.
and HYDRA.
That kind of consequence—
He couldn’t accept it.
For the first time since arriving in this world, Clark truly understood something:
Having the power of a god did not make him a god.
No one was omnipotent.
No one could save everyone.
Richard removed a camera from around his neck and placed it gently over Peter’s.
“Listen to me, Peter,” he said, crouching down and gripping his son’s shoulders, his voice firm.
“Your mother and I have to complete a very important mission.
Inside this camera… there are things that matter.
But you’re not ready to see them yet.”
“Remember this—never let it leave your side.
Not unless one day… you meet someone you can trust completely.
Someone who would give everything for you.”
His gaze lifted—past Peter’s shoulder.
And landed on Clark.
That look…
Held trust.
Regret.
And a silent plea.
Richard and Mary stood, then embraced Ben and May one last time.
“Take care of him, Ben… please.”
Then they turned, got into the car—
And were gone.
Peter stood there, frozen, staring at the now-empty street.
He looked down at the camera hanging from his neck.
Then up at May’s tear-filled face.
His lips trembled—
And finally—
He broke.
A loud, desperate cry burst from him, filled with fear, confusion, and the raw pain of being left behind.
It was the kind of cry that made anyone who heard it ache inside.
May rushed forward and pulled him into her arms.
Ben stood nearby, lighting a cigarette—something he hadn’t done in a long time since having children.
His eyes were heavy with thought… and quiet prayer.
Clark stepped out from the shadows.
He walked over to Peter.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t say “Don’t cry.”
He didn’t say “It’ll be okay.”
Because he knew—
In the face of such overwhelming grief, words meant nothing.
Instead, he simply reached out and placed his warm hand gently on Peter’s head.
And through that silent gesture, he conveyed a single message—
“I’m here.”