"At 9:00 PM on August 1st, an unprecedented explosion shook the Wayne Enterprises Tower in downtown Gotham City, crippling the central transport hub."
"The vigilante known as Batman, revered by Gotham's citizens, reportedly responded to the scene within minutes. Commissioner Gordon later confirmed the recovery of a volatile molecular compound used in the attack. The chemist behind it remains unidentified."
"On August 2nd, at the Pacific East Island headquarters of the Earth Peacekeeping Coalition (TPC), the elite Victory Team successfully intercepted an unidentified meteorite descending at hypersonic velocity."
Just then, a voice calm and clear broke through Tony Stark's train of thought.
"You're recovering faster than I expected, Mr. Stark."
Tony spun around. His eyes locked onto a pair of cool, crystal-blue irises sharp, unreadable, and disturbingly serene.
A young man sat with practiced ease on a high-backed blackwood chair, draped in a pure white, perfectly pressed casual suit. In his hand: a glass of deep amber sherry, swirling slowly.
He was tall, lean, and strikingly symmetrical in his features. His appearance suggested he'd just graduated from high school, but there was something ageless in his presence. The jet-black hair was slicked neatly, framing his face with a clean edge. His skin tone hinted at a mixed heritage part East Asian, part Caucasian subtle but deliberate. Strong brow ridges, deep-set eyes, defined lips, and a high bridge nose every detail looked crafted rather than born.
The sleeves of his button-up shirt were casually rolled, exposing forearms corded with unnatural muscle—symmetrical, dense, but slightly… alien. No regular human's musculature developed like that. Not even Steve Rogers'.
Opposite him, a ten-meter-long marble table overflowed with food.
A whole roasted turkey, flame-seared Wagyu steak, steamed lobster tails, grilled tilapia, burgers stacked three-high, fried rice with golden yolk, foie gras, sweet and sour pork, a towering spread of Chinese and Western cuisine. Dishes fit for a royal banquet or perhaps a Saiyan feast.
Tony blinked. He hadn't seen this much food since his last gala in Dubai and even then, it wasn't for one man.
"I figured you'd regain consciousness tonight," the stranger said casually, slicing into the steak. "The dosage in the bio-regenerator was set to its lowest setting."
He spoke with a calmness that bordered on eerie detachment. His gaze was penetrating no arc reactor, no weapons, not even a scanner—and yet, Tony felt like the man saw straight through to the micro-shrapnel embedded in his chest.
"Who are you?" Stark asked, keeping a safe distance.
The man took another sip of wine, then said evenly, "Name's Kalroth El. Born in Kansas."
Tony narrowed his eyes. That name. Kalroth… Kal-El?
Kalroth turned to face him. His expression remained unreadable, but his eyes softened with a hint of nostalgic melancholy.
"Ten years ago, I crash-landed in a wheat field just outside Smallville. I remember looking up at the night sky from a haystack, wondering how far the stars really were."
His tone carried the weight of a memory lived too many times.
"Back then, I was like you always observing, always doubting, always guarding. I thought the stars were beyond reach. Now, I could punch a hole through Orion's Belt if I wanted."
He placed the glass down with a quiet clink.
"Funny how things change, isn't it, Mr. Stark? One minute you're a name in a Howard Stark Foundation science textbook. The next… you're sitting at my table, half-alive."
Tony frowned. The name Howard Stark struck a nerve. He didn't like how easily this stranger this Kalroth El—spoke of his father.
"Who are you?" Stark repeated, sharper this time. "Where is this? Why am I here? And more importantly… can I have a bite of that burger?"
Kalroth smirked, just barely.
Tony, noting the lack of objection, lunged forward and snatched a double cheeseburger off the plate. He took a savage bite.
"Oh, God," he mumbled with a full mouth. "This is better than the Stark Tower bistro!"
Each bite sent signals of delight to his starved brain. He groaned with gratitude, eyes shut, sinking into a seated position right on the pristine floor. For someone who'd been wandering the desert half-dead, this was nothing short of resurrection.
Across the table, Kalroth El dined with precise elegance. He had already cleared what must've been food for thirty people, yet showed no signs of bloating or strain.
He understood hunger. He had nearly starved once just after arriving on Earth when his cells hadn't yet learned to absorb solar radiation. If not for the Kent family's kindness, he might've consumed the livestock… or worse.
Kalroth silently poured a glass of rich, golden liquor and handed it to Stark.
"You can call me El," he said. "As for the rest well, you already heard it on the news."
"Right now, what matters is this: I saved your life."
Tony guzzled the drink gratefully. The burn in his throat was a reminder that he was alive.
"Thanks… El. For the burger and the booze. No matter who you are I owe you one."
He paused, squinting at Kalroth.
"Wait—you're the CEO they mentioned? Of the Universal Capsule Company? How the hell old are you? Shouldn't you be in some Ivy League dorm room?"
Kalroth chuckled, stabbing a roast chicken leg with his fork. "I earned my third Ph.D. two years ago."
Stark choked on his burger slightly. "Damn. I thought I was ahead of the curve."
He had no seat, so he sat cross-legged on the floor, chewing like a college kid at finals week. Right now, food was everything. Questions could wait.
"For such a young Ph.D., you're amazing. Still not in Stark genius territory… but close."
Tony grinned, ego flickering back to life.
"By the way, you said 'lowest power' earlier—were you talking about that fish-tank thing? What is that? Some chemical reaction chamber? Nanotech bioreactor? I'll give you $300 million for the patent."
Kalroth El raised a brow, dabbing his mouth with a napkin.
"I don't need your $300 million, Mr. Stark. And strictly speaking, you're already dead."
Tony froze.
Kalroth continued calmly. "Legally, you were declared missing. Obadiah Stane inherited Stark Industries. Pepper Potts organized your funeral. Your assets have been frozen."
"You don't own anything anymore. Not even your name."
The words hit harder than any punch. Tony sat in stunned silence, a half-eaten burger in hand.
He was a ghost. A relic. A man out of time.
But deep down, he felt something stir not fear, but the faint, burning ember of challenge.