The air in New York smelled like stale pizza boxes mixed with car exhaust, topped with a layer of never-ending anxiety. Arthur huddled on a creaky spring bed in a cheap Brooklyn apartment, a thin blanket covering his overly broad chest, confirming for the umpteenth time that he wasn't caught in an absurd, endless nightmare.
His knuckles unconsciously tapped the mottled, peeling wall, but instead of a dull thud, there was a soft, almost inaudible 'poof,' like thick paper being punctured. The wall, centered on the point of impact, silently caved in, forming a shallow, bowl-sized dent, raising tiny dust motes in the dim light.
Arthur recoiled as if electrocuted. He stared intently at the dent, holding his breath. Old John, his landlord, his spittle-flecked, alcohol-laced roar still ringing in his ears. He couldn't afford it; he really couldn't.
"Damn it." A dry syllable scraped from deep in his throat, like sandpaper. The sound rolled around in his mouth, but he didn't dare to use force.
Last week, on another equally frustrating night, the couple downstairs had been arguing so loudly it shook the building. Unable to bear it, he yelled out the window, "Shut up!" The result? Half a street's worth of windowpanes—regardless of height or distance—simultaneously shattered, as if hearing a unified command of destruction. That sparkling, ear-splitting rain of glass...
What the hell is going on?
A month ago, he was just an ordinary office worker on Earth, buried in reports and mortgage payments. Then he woke up to find giant Stark Industries billboards everywhere.
The front page of the Daily Bugle stuffed in the subway...
A chill shot from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head. The Marvel Universe! This was a wholesale market for superheroes and disasters!
Accompanying this damned crossing was this cursed, increasingly uncontrollable body. At first, he just felt his strength had inexplicably grown a bit; carrying a water cooler bottle felt as easy as lifting an empty cardboard box.
Later, when he ran a few steps in a hurry, the wind whistling past his ears wasn't a gentle whoosh, but a sharp, air-tearing roar. A hundred meters? Maybe less than a second—everything around him became a blur of colors. And then, when he accidentally slipped in the kitchen, he instinctively braced himself against the greasy sink edge. The stainless steel sink crumpled like rubber squeezed by a mischievous child, emitting a teeth-grinding metallic groan, twisted and utterly ruined.
He had become an ordinary person trapped in Superman's body. Not metaphorically, but literally Superman—the Man of Tomorrow from DC Comics, the Kryptonian who could break through the atmosphere with his bare body, shoot heat vision from his eyes, and possessed immense strength! But he didn't know which version of Superman he was. Even Superman had varying levels of power.
Yet, he didn't have the warm Sun of Kansas and the earnest teachings of his simple farmer foster father, Jonathan Kent. He didn't have the resilient and humane love of Lois Lane as an anchor for his soul. Nor did he have that crashed Kryptonian spaceship to provide him with a detailed instruction manual for this body. All he had was this heart, belonging to Arthur, as ordinary as could be.
This power—it was still growing. Uncontrollably, continuously increasing.
Every day, when the bright sunlight shone on his exposed skin, he felt something deep within his body awakening, expanding, like blowing up an infinitely resilient balloon. A sense of power surged through his muscles and bones like a tide.
Yesterday, he'd accidentally crushed the handle of a mug. Today, he might unconsciously press several clear fingerprints into a tabletop with his fingertips. If he opened a door a little too eagerly, the rusty doorknob would twist into a pretzel like soft noodles. He didn't even dare to breathe too hard, always feeling his lung capacity was so great it could suck all the air out of the room or pull in the neighbors' laundry hanging outside their windows.
The four words "loss of control" hung over his head like a Sword of Damocles, its tip almost touching his scalp. He felt like a person holding a miniature nuclear bomb that could explode at any moment, walking gingerly through a porcelain shop filled with rare treasures. Every step he took was like treading on thin ice.
His toes had to tentatively tap the asphalt pavement first, using that almost instinctive touch to confirm that the ground beneath could bear the immeasurable mass of his body before he dared to very slowly, little by little, shift his center of gravity.
Sleeping became the most painful thing. He had to lie stiffly on the creaky spring bed, spread-eagled like a true corpse, not daring to turn over, not daring to curl up, fearing that one unconscious movement would completely collapse the rickety bed or punch a large hole in the wall.
Talking? It had become a highly focused technical skill. Every syllable had to be held back, using the slightest breath to push his vocal cords, producing a whisper-like hiss.
He desperately missed the days when he could laugh, roar, and even curse freely. Now, he had to control the force of even a sigh, afraid that if he didn't manage a stressed syllable, it would cause another catastrophic rain of glass or a wall collapse.
Outside the window, the night was like thick ink, completely swallowing the sky. The kaleidoscopic glow of neon signs stubbornly seeped through the narrow, dirty window, casting shifting, distorted shadows on the wall. From the street corner below came the slurred howls of a drunkard and a few sharp, ear-piercing car horns, tearing at the nerves of the night.
Arthur irritably ran a hand through his hair. His hair was also extremely tough, like his body, almost reaching the limit of density in the physical universe. He didn't even know how to get a haircut now.
"No, I need to get some air," he muttered, his voice as faint as a mosquito's hum. If he stayed in this small, cage-like space any longer, he feared he really would go mad. At least outside, the space was larger, the streets wider.
Like a bomb disposal expert bearing a thousand-pound burden and walking on thin ice, he cautiously pushed open the creaky, rickety door that seemed ready to fall apart at any moment.
The door hinges groaned under the strain. He turned sideways, slowly and painstakingly squeezing his overly tall and muscular body through the doorframe, inch by inch, afraid of scraping against it and causing another "accident." In the hallway, a dim yellow light bulb cast a struggling glow, stretching his shadow long and distorted, like a giant, silent monster.
Every step he took was exceptionally cautious, ensuring that the old concrete floor beneath didn't emit a dangerous groan before he dared to shift his weight ever so slightly. He carefully controlled the force of each step, afraid of accidentally stamping a huge dent into the ground.
He finally blended into the noisy street crowd outside. Brooklyn nights were always boisterous. Car exhaust, the charred aroma of hot dogs, the cloying sweetness of cheap perfume, the stench of rotting garbage, sweat, cigarette smoke... various smells mixed together, forming a unique and unpleasant urban scent. He breathed a slight sigh of relief.
The crowd and chaos, paradoxically, became his best camouflage. He mimicked the tired commuters and hurried passersby around him, trying to hunch his overly straight back slightly, attempting to hide his towering, crane-among-chickens physique in the shadows of the crowd.
However, his eyes, like two high-precision radars, nervously and quickly scanned every detail around him: the varying depths of potholes on the sidewalk, the seemingly fragile car doors and windows of parked cars, the glittering glass curtain walls of distant skyscrapers that appeared as fragile as soap bubbles in his eyes... Everything, in his perception, became potential, dangerous porcelain, and he, was the nuclear bomb that could lose control at any moment.
Arthur was carefully controlling his power every moment. He still couldn't use Superman's super brain, and one slip could cause excessive destruction. Because in his previous life, he was also an ordinary person, he understood how difficult ordinary life was. Some people were just living, already using all their strength, so he was carefully controlling his power to avoid harming others.
His nose was filled with a complex array of smells. The part of his sense of smell belonging to Arthur keenly picked up a faint, rust-like fishy smell, mixed with the charred aroma of hot dogs and the stench of garbage. This smell made his stomach churn; the memories of ordinary Arthur held an instinctive aversion and deep-seated fear of this scent. It was the smell of blood.
He subconsciously quickened his pace, wanting to escape the unsettling source of the smell, and turned into a relatively secluded back alley. The lighting here was even dimmer, with only a distant, broken streetlamp casting a pale, weak halo, barely dispelling a small patch of darkness.
The sour stench emanating from the dumpsters was more intense, almost overpowering all other smells. Several fat rats scurried in the shadows, making teeth-grinding gnawing sounds. On both sides of the alley were low, dilapidated brick walls, their plaster peeling, revealing the dark red bricks beneath, like ugly scars.
Just as he was about to pass through this alley and head towards another, slightly brighter street...
A burst of gunfire tore through the night's calm without warning! Like a string of cold, deadly firecrackers, it suddenly exploded less than twenty meters from his ear! This was followed by a woman's shrill, distorted scream, a man's, and the beast-like, malicious cackle of an aggressor!
The rust-like smell of blood instantly intensified tenfold, a hundredfold! Like a cold, sticky giant hand, it suddenly gripped Arthur's throat! The strong smell of gunpowder, like a tangible tide, surged in, assaulting his sensitive olfactory nerves.
Arthur's body instantly stiffened, as if frozen by invisible ice. His blood seemed to stop flowing. His heart pounded wildly in his Superman chest, the huge thumping sounding like thunder in his own ears. That was Arthur's fear of gunfire.
He instinctively wanted to turn around, to immediately escape this corner that had instantly transformed into a hellish battlefield.
But at that very instant, from deeper in the alley, a woman's cry reached the peak of despair, then was suddenly cut off as if by an invisible blade, stopping abruptly! The boundless fear and despair of impending death contained in that sound, like a red-hot steel needle, fiercely pierced the part of his humanity belonging to Arthur, deep in his soul.
He was nailed to the spot as if by a giant spike. His feet felt like they were filled with lead, too heavy to move an inch.
At the alley entrance, several large, foul-smelling, filthy metal dumpsters were piled up. Arthur, almost instinctively, clumsily and as silently as possible, squeezed his massive body behind one of the largest dumpsters.
The greasy, metallic touch came through his thin T-shirt. He held his breath, cautiously, revealing only one eye, filled with immense fear and a flicker of something he hadn't realized—ignited by that desperate cry—as he peered toward the source of the maniacal laughter.
The pale, faint halo of a streetlamp barely illuminated a small area deep in the alley. Three young hoodlums, dressed in tattered denim jackets with brightly colored hair, reeked of cheap alcohol and violence.
A woman in a faded dress was being savagely pulled by her hair by another hoodlum with a Mohawk and a menacing spider tattoo on his neck. Her cheeks were swollen, her lips cracked and bleeding. The Mohawk-wearing hoodlum had a sadistic grin on his face, while his other hand roughly groped her, trying to snatch a worn handbag she clutched tightly to her chest. The woman struggled desperately, letting out suppressed whimpers, her eyes filled with terror and helplessness.
The gunshot earlier was from a hoodlum firing a warning shot to intimidate the woman.
"Damn it! You bitch! Hand over the money!" The Mohawk-wearing hoodlum cursed, pulling harder on the woman's hair, forcing her to painfully tilt her head back. Beside him, a lanky hoodlum with a rusty iron pipe in his hand let out a lewd laugh, poking the woman's waist and abdomen, neither lightly nor heavily, with the pipe.
"Boss, why waste words with her? Search her!" The lanky hoodlum licked his lips, his eyes scanning the woman's body with a lascivious gaze.
"Exactly! Hurry up! Don't dawdle!" Another stocky hoodlum, who was kicking the man on the ground, yelled impatiently, then gave the man on the ground another vicious kick. The man let out a muffled groan and curled up even tighter.
The Mohawk-wearing hoodlum seemed to grow impatient with the urging. A fierce glint flashed in his eyes, and he suddenly released the woman's hair, pulling a gleaming folding knife from his lower back! With a snap, he flicked open the blade, the cold steel cutting a dazzling silver line in the dim light.
"Fuck! You refuse a toast only to drink a forfeit!" He spat viciously, the knife tip directly pressed against the woman's chest, which was heaving violently with fear. "The bag! Give it to me! Or I'll carve a few holes in you to let out some blood!"
The woman trembled uncontrollably with fear, desperate tears mixed with blood streaming down her face. She clutched the tattered bag tightly, as if it were her only lifeline, letting out incoherent whimpers from her throat, her eyes unfocused and filled with terror.
A rush of hot blood surged to Arthur's head! The helplessness he once felt when facing injustice...
Seeing the woman's desperate plea felt like whips lashing at his heart! The suppressed anger and instinctive revulsion towards the brutality instantly took over! His body moved faster than his mind, and he suddenly leaned out halfway from behind the dumpster, controlling his voice with all his might, and shouted:
"Stop!"
The voice wasn't loud, but in the dead silence of the alley, it was exceptionally clear.
Instantly, all eyes "swished" and focused on him!
The Mohawk-wearing hoodlum's counting stopped abruptly. He sharply turned his head, the knife tip still pressed against the woman's chest, glaring ferociously, yet with a hint of astonishment, at Arthur, who had suddenly appeared. When he saw it was just an Asian man in a plain T-shirt, tall but clearly nervous and hesitant, the astonishment quickly gave way to brutal contempt.
"Fuck, where did this busybody come from? Get lost! Or I'll bleed you dry too!" The Mohawk-wearing hoodlum cursed, his eyes like poisoned daggers. The lanky hoodlum also sneered, weighing the iron pipe in his hand. The stocky hoodlum even directly aimed his gun at Arthur, his finger on the trigger, his eyes fierce.
"Boss told you to scram! Are you deaf?" The stocky hoodlum roared, his gun barrel shaking.
"Damn it, you're looking for death!" The Mohawk-wearing hoodlum was completely enraged. A seemingly cowardly guy dared to meddle? He gave the stocky hoodlum a look.
A cruel excitement flashed across the stocky hoodlum's face, and he pulled the trigger without hesitation! A flash of gunfire!
Bang!
This time, it was no longer a warning or a stray bullet! The bullet, carrying a scorching airflow, like a venomous snake, shot straight toward Arthur's left eye!
Too fast! So fast that Arthur didn't even have time to close his eyes! He could only watch, wide-eyed, as that fatal glint of brass rapidly enlarged in his vision!
Pffft.
A soft sound, like a small stone hitting a thick rubber tire.
That bullet, full of murderous intent, squarely hit his fully open left eyeball!
There was no imagined sharp pain or impact. Only an extremely slight, extremely strange dull sensation—like a heavy drop of water falling onto an absolutely smooth, absolutely hard glass surface.
The moment the bullet's sharp tip touched his iris, all its kinetic energy seemed to be swallowed by an invisible black hole. The rotation stopped abruptly. The hard metal casing, centered on the point of impact, silently and very noticeably deformed and flattened!
Then, this flattened, twisted metal lump, having lost all its power, obeyed the simplest law of gravity and slid vertically off his smooth eyeball.
Clink.
A faint, crisp sound.
The flattened bullet, still carrying a trace of gunpowder's residual warmth, dropped onto the cold, dusty, and sewage-stained ground at Arthur's feet. It rolled twice, then stopped.
Dead silence.
A silence deeper and more suffocating than before the gunshot, instantly swallowed the entire alley. The air seemed to solidify into ice.
The three hoodlums' movements were as if they had been struck by a freezing spell.
The brutality and contempt on the Mohawk-wearing hoodlum's face instantly froze, twisting into an incomprehensible horror. His hand, holding the knife against the woman's chest, was suspended in mid-air, the drop of blood on the knife tip forgotten. His eyeballs were bulging, almost bursting, staring intently at Arthur's perfectly intact left eye, which hadn't even blinked, and at the twisted, deformed bullet on the ground! His mind was blank, only one thought screaming frantically: This is impossible! What kind of monster is this?
The sneer on the lanky hoodlum's face completely froze, turning into extreme bewilderment and bone-deep fear. The iron pipe in his hand crashed heavily into the sewage with a "clank," splashing dirty water.
The stocky hoodlum was even more thunderstruck! He had seen with his own eyes the bullet he aimed and fired... hit the opponent's eyeball... and then fall down like a piece of scrap metal?! His finger, still on the trigger, maintained its position, but his entire arm was trembling violently, his face ashen, his mouth open wide enough to fit an egg, and a guttural "gurgle" escaped his throat, as if he were being strangled.
The woman, with tears still on her face and the knife pressed against her, shifted her eyes from extreme despair to utter bewilderment and incomprehensible shock. She even forgot the stinging pain in her chest.
All eyes, as if firmly held by an invisible magnet, were fixed on the tall figure standing silently beside the huge dumpster. The streetlamp's pale light slanted across half of his face, outlining a rugged, rock-like profile and deep-set eyes.
He stood there like an iron tower. His eyes, which appeared exceptionally deep in the shadows, calmly swept over the hoodlums. In those calm eyes, there was only a change in his self-perception and anger at these hoodlums for oppressing ordinary people.
The muscles on the Mohawk-wearing hoodlum's face twitched wildly; immense fear, like ice water poured from above, instantly permeated his bones.
His knife-wielding hand trembled like a leaf in a gale; with a clang, the knife fell into the sewage. A hot stream uncontrollably gushed from his crotch, and a strong stench of urine filled the air.
He let out a hoarse, rattling sound from his throat, like a broken bellows. The immense terror completely destroyed his will. He scrambled, using both hands and feet, to turn and flee, not even noticing when he knocked over the nearby dumpster, only wishing his parents had given him two more legs!
Arthur's clear voice echoed in the alley: "Put your things down, then get out."
The lanky and stocky hoodlums were even more terrified! That bizarre scene completely shattered all their ferocity and courage.
As if they had seen a ghost coming for their lives, they let out a short, piercing, inhuman shriek, abandoning the iron pipe and handgun. They didn't even spare a thought for their groaning companion on the ground, scrambling and stumbling, running for their lives toward the other end of the alley! Their speed was so great that they left behind only two blurry afterimages and a trail of splashing sewage!
The man on the ground struggled to sit up, still shaken but looking at Arthur with inexpressible awe. The woman finally awoke from her extreme shock, frantically grabbing the tattered bag from the ground. She didn't even dare to look at Arthur, and with the immense fear and bewilderment of having survived a catastrophe, she stumbled like a frightened rabbit toward the light at the alley's mouth, disappearing into the night.
In the alley, only Arthur remained.
The smell of gunpowder was still pungent. The twisted bullet on the ground gleamed faintly. The cold touch of the dumpster was still there. Arthur stood in place, his tall figure appearing solitary in the dim light. He slowly raised his hand and touched his left eye. Smooth, unharmed. Everything that had just happened was as fast as an illusion.
But the flattened metal lump at his feet coldly proved its reality.
He looked down at his hands. These hands, capable of easily crushing steel, had just, unintentionally, stopped an act of brutality? A very complex emotion surged within him: a deeper understanding of power, but also a faint, hard-to-grasp feeling—something he himself barely understood.
He slowly, deeply inhaled. This time, he didn't deliberately control it. The feeling of air rushing into his lungs was so clear, carrying the foul smell of the alley. Then, he slowly exhaled. A white mist dispersed into the cold night.
The night wind blew through the alley, stirring up dust and paper scraps from the ground, making a wailing sound. In the distance, police sirens faintly sounded, growing closer.
Arthur cast a final glance at the groaning hoodlum on the ground, his eyes still unruffled. He said nothing, turned, and began to walk. This time, his steps were still steady, still carefully avoiding the potholes and debris underfoot, but he no longer seemed so lost.
His tall figure merged into the darkness at the alley's entrance, as if he had never appeared. Leaving behind only a chaotic alley, a twisted bullet, a groaning thug, a bewildered passerby, and a hope that had just begun to sprout in the darkness.