The biting sea breeze, laden with the salty, dusty scent characteristic of the city's edge, fiercely whipped into Arthur's dark hoodie collar.
He hovered a hundred meters above the rusty rooftop of an abandoned factory in Brooklyn, a giant phantom blending into the night.
Below him, New York, the never-sleeping behemoth, was slowly awakening, lights twinkling on across countless homes, outlining the cold and prosperous silhouette of the steel jungle.
Vehicle taillights dragged streaks of red light across the streets, and the subway hummed dully deep underground.
Thousands of sounds converged into a blurry, noisy background wave, an incessant tide that even his super hearing could only partially perceive, which he had intentionally 'turned down.'
He was back.
He returned with a power capable of melting mountains, breaking peaks, and lifting stars, with eyes that could pierce through rocks ten kilometers away and see through walls, and with wings that could defy gravity and travel a thousand miles in an instant.
And, a resolute soul.
"Home…" This thought lingered in his mind, carrying a hint of weary warmth, but more so a cold, almost fearful sense of detachment.
That cheap, cluttered apartment, that creaky spring bed, that small world belonging to Arthur, the ordinary working man… Could he ever go back?
He slowly descended onto the dusty concrete at the edge of the rooftop, his movement as light as a feather, not stirring a single speck of dust.
His bio-field, like a second skin, perfectly restrained the force that could have shattered the floorboards upon landing.
He wanted to help those struggling to survive, to bring them hope, without disrupting the lives of ordinary people.
So what about the path ahead?
Superhero?
This thought abruptly popped up, carrying a comic-book absurdity. Yet in his current predicament, was there a slight possibility?
At least, it offered a direction, a way to use this power and try to integrate into this world.
"I need… a suit," Arthur mumbled to himself, his gaze instinctively sweeping through the shadows of the abandoned factory.
He couldn't go around 'doing good deeds' in this worn-out hoodie; that would be too ridiculous and too easy to expose him.
Moreover, he needed a symbol, one that people could recognize at a glance and associate with his power.
A symbol… that belonged to him, not the "Superman" from the comics?
No, he immediately dismissed that idea.
What he needed now was recognition, a "label" for quick identification.
That "S," that red and blue color scheme, that cape… It was the most direct and effective choice.
It could be a shield, temporarily obscuring the confused individual "Arthur," allowing him to hide behind the powerful symbol of "Superman" and clumsily try things out.
As for copyright?
In this Marvel world with DC comics, this attire would undoubtedly cause immense confusion and questioning.
But Arthur didn't care.
He needed an anchor, a belief that would allow him to adhere to his principles.
He recalled the almost pedantic persistence of that farm boy from Kansas in the comics.
That wasn't naivety, but a reverence for order—when you can wipe out others like swatting a mosquito, "not killing" becomes the reins that hold a wild horse.
Otherwise, what was the difference between him and the thugs with knives in the alley?
Just a more powerful thug.
No one could be above the law, and the power to decide life and death could not be held by an individual, even if he possessed the power of a god.
He had to act like a person, follow the rules, and hand criminals over to the law.
This was not only for order but also to uphold his own human bottom line—once he crossed that line, he would truly become the biggest criminal in a red and blue uniform.
He clumsily tried to understand and imitate that red and blue figure.
He descended into the abandoned factory.
The vast space was empty and cold, filled with the mixed scent of rust, machine oil, and dust.
In the corners lay forgotten broken machinery and discarded materials.
His super vision swept through, penetrating layers of obstacles.
In a derelict tool room deep within the factory, he "saw" his target.
A fire cabinet.
Red, heavy canvas fire hoses, neatly coiled and covered in dust, but tough in texture.
Blue, equally dusty, thick canvas covers for fire axes.
And a large piece of dark red, seemingly rainproof canvas previously used to cover large machinery; though its edges were somewhat worn, its area was sufficient.
Materials acquired.
Arthur walked over and easily tore open the rusty lock of the fire cabinet.
He picked up the roll of red fire hose; it felt heavy in his hand, the canvas thick and rough.
The blue fire axe cover was equally tough.
The large red canvas was even thicker and more durable.
Tools?
His mind stirred slightly.
Deep within his eyes, a burning sensation instantly condensed, and two golden-red beams of light, finer than hair and condensed to the extreme, shot out precisely.
Sizzle, sizzle… With soft sounds, the canvas edges were easily melted, the cuts smooth as a mirror, without a trace of charring, like the most precise laser cutter.
He carefully controlled the output power, cutting the red hose canvas and blue axe cover canvas into the desired shapes—the outline of a tight-fitting upper body, pants, boots, a cape, and most importantly, the large diamond-shaped shield for the chest.
The hardest part was the "S."
Arthur had no drawing skills.
He could only try to recall the images from comics and movies, carefully "etching" the "S" onto the red fabric with his heat vision.
Control was a tremendous test.
A little too much energy, and the red fabric would instantly turn to ash; too little, and it wouldn't penetrate.
He concentrated fully, fine beads of sweat appearing on his forehead, as if performing a delicate surgical operation.
Finally, a diamond-shaped red fabric with a slightly rough, not-so-smooth, but clearly structured and sharply angled "S" cutout appeared in its center.
Next was the sewing.
No needle and thread.
Arthur again turned his gaze to the pile of discarded materials.
He found several broken, thin iron wires with sharp barbs.
His mind refocused, and his heat vision, like a miniature welding torch, instantly heated and melted the sharp ends of the wires, then precisely "spot-welded" them to the edges of the fabric, replacing stitches, forcefully "nailing" them together.
The process was incredibly clumsy, crooked and uneven, with large, unsightly stitches.
Only his powerful micro-control ability and the protection of the bio-field on the fabric prevented him from burning through or tearing the entire cloth.
When the last piece of the large red canvas, cut into a cape, was secured to his shoulders and back with several thick "iron wire nails," Arthur looked at his "work" and fell silent.
Crude. Very crude.
The red and blue canvas was thick and stiff, completely inelastic, feeling like he was wearing a hard cardboard shell.
The diamond-shaped red fabric on his chest and the crooked "S" mark looked particularly cheap in the dim light.
The dark red cape was so heavy it felt like a door curtain, completely lacking any flowing elegance.
The overall look was clunky, simple, full of the roughness of a handmade product, a far cry from the sleek and cool tight-fitting uniform in the comics.
"...Forget it, as long as it's wearable," Arthur consoled himself, his voice dry.
He took off his hoodie and trousers, leaving only his close-fitting clothes, then laboriously pulled on the heavy canvas "battle suit."
His movements were stiff, the canvas rubbing against his skin with a rustling sound.
He tried to move his arms; the rough fabric caused discomfort, but for his current physical condition, a little discomfort was irrelevant.
He walked to an old glass window, covered in cracks, barely reflecting a human figure.
The figure in the mirror was tall and strong, but wrapped in the simple, clumsy red and blue canvas, it looked exceptionally… mismatched, like a strongman in a circus wearing an ill-fitting costume.
The "S" mark on his chest was crooked, with faint scorch marks along the edges.
The dark red cape hung heavily behind him, like a tattered rag.
His face—the face of "Arthur"—was exposed without cover in the dim light.
His heart tightened; identity exposure was the biggest hidden danger!
Just then, his internal bio-field seemed to sense his unease, flowing naturally like breath.
An invisible, flexible energy field not only covered and enveloped his entire body and the rough canvas battle suit, but also subtly acted upon the light around his head.
There was no dazzling glow, no distorted spatial ripples, just an extremely subtle visual interference, like a drop of water merging into a lake.
The image in the mirror underwent a subtle change.
His face was still his face, with distinct features.
But some subtle characteristics—the almost invisible shallow scar at the corner of his eye from climbing a tree as a child, the small mole on his left earlobe, even a few particularly coarse hairs at the base of his eyebrows—became blurred, faded, or unconsciously "ignored" by the viewer's gaze, guided by the subtle refraction of light caused by the bio-field and subconscious cues.
Instead, there was a more rugged, more sharply defined overall outline, a more symbolic "sense of power" that transcended specific details.
The person in the mirror was still Arthur, yet no longer the "Arthur" who would be scolded by Old John, but more like… a masked symbol, a resolute face, blurred of personal features, as a "Superman" should have.
The bio-field became his best disguise.
It didn't change his appearance, but subtly "blurred" the details, reinforced the overall impression, making even those familiar with him only feel "a bit like" him, but unable to be certain, instinctively attributing it to light, distance, or psychological effect.
The figure in the mirror instantly changed!
Now, ordinary people seeing his face would only feel warmth and steadfastness, but would not remember his facial features.
Although the material was still cheap canvas, the overall outline became sleek and upright!
The red and blue color scheme even showed a rustic solemnity in the dim light.
The stiff chest plate and flowing cape gave him a dignity that transcended the material, stemming from power itself!
The crooked "S," enhanced by the force field, no longer appeared ridiculous, but instead carried a primal and resolute sense of power!
And that face, subtly refined by the bio-field, exuded an undeniable, impersonal sense of strength.
"So… that's how it is…" Arthur looked at his transformed self in the mirror, a flash of understanding in his eyes.
The bio-field not only restrained power and protected contact objects, but also could "activate" coverings, giving them forms and characteristics beyond their physical properties, and even subtly interfere with light and perception, blurring personal features!
This simple canvas, enveloped by the force field, had become an extension and symbol of his power!
Confidence, like a faint spark, quietly ignited a warmth on the icy plains of confusion.
He took one last look at the figure in the mirror—red and blue interwoven, cape gently fluttering, face as resolute as a sculpture—and tried to force a smile at his reflection.
The person in the mirror also smiled, the curve of his lips a bit stiff, but deep in his eyes, the coldness born of power seemed to melt a little, revealing a clumsy, wanting-to-be-close warmth.
Perhaps hope could begin to be conveyed with a smile?
He pushed open the heavy iron door of the abandoned factory and stepped into the dimly lit alleyways of New York.
His tall figure was stretched long by the faint yellow streetlights, the red cape silently fluttering behind him.
The night of heroes began, in a very low-key, even somewhat furtive, yet clumsily warm way.
---
Queens, a relatively quiet street.
Several streetlights were out, and the light was dim.
The air carried the sour, decaying smell characteristic of dumpsters.
Arthur, like a streak of light blending into the shadows, silently hovered twenty meters above the ground, his bio-field perfectly nullifying the airflow disturbances caused by flight.
His super hearing, like an invisible radar net, filtered the city's vast background noise, capturing potential "signals" needed.
"…Money! Wallet! Phone! Hurry up! Don't you dare drag your feet!" A rough male voice, accompanied by panting and greed, rang out harshly, about three hundred meters away at the entrance of an alley.
"Please… I… I don't have any money… I just got off work…" A tearful, trembling female voice immediately followed.
Target acquired.
Arthur's mind stirred, his figure instantly blurred, disappearing from his original spot.
There was no sonic boom, only an extremely faint hiss of air being displaced.
The next moment, he appeared at the edge of the rooftop of a five-story apartment building diagonally above the alley, looking down from above.
In the alley, the scene was as clear as a daytime theater performance.
A young woman in a cheap suit and skirt, clutching a worn briefcase, was cornered against the wall by two tall men.
Her back pressed against the cold brick wall, her body trembling like a sieve, her face streaked with tears mixed with fearful sweat, her makeup long since ruined by crying.
One of the men, wearing a dirty hoodie and with a scar on his face, was holding a switchblade to her neck, the blade glinting coldly in the dim light.
The other man, wearing a leather jacket and a baseball cap, was roughly tugging at her shoulder bag strap.
"You bitch! No money? This bag looks good! Give it to me!" The baseball cap man yanked hard, and the shoulder bag strap snapped.
The woman let out a short shriek.
Scarface grinned, the tip of his knife lightly tracing the skin on the woman's neck, leaving a faint red mark: "Scream again? Scream again and I'll cut your face open too! Just like your bag!" He was clearly referring to a noticeable old scratch on the woman's shoulder bag.
Rage, a cold rage not stemming from a lofty sense of justice, but from an instinctive revulsion towards such bullying and trampling on others' dignity, instantly ignited in Arthur's chest. It was mixed with a certain urge to "test" the power within him.
Now!
He didn't shout "Stop!" and descend from the sky like in the movies. He just moved.
Silently, like a predatory owl, his figure suddenly vanished from the rooftop edge, and in the next instant, he appeared less than a meter behind the two robbers! His landing was as light as a feather, not stirring a single speck of dust.
"Who?!" The baseball cap man seemed to feel a slight disturbance in the air behind him and sharply turned his head, alert.
What greeted him was a hand, encased in rough blue canvas, yet containing the mighty power of stars.
This time, Arthur's nerves were highly taut. His bio-field not only enveloped himself but also extended a portion of his will to the target he was about to touch—the opponent's knife-wielding wrist! Control! Absolutely no loss of control! Absolutely no excessive harm! His life, let the law judge! This was his ironclad rule!
His movements were as swift as lightning, yet carried a precisely calculated fluidity. It was no longer a panicked, instinctive reaction, but a precise catch assisted by his biological field!
Snap!
A crisp striking sound, accompanied by a cry of pain!
Arthur's palm, like an iron vice, struck precisely on the side of the baseball cap man's knife-wielding wrist joint! The force, constrained by the bio-field, erupted precisely like a high-pressure water gun, instantly impacting the nerve plexus in the opponent's wrist! The intense numbness and temporary loss of strength made the baseball cap man groan, and his fingers involuntarily loosened! The switchblade clattered to the ground!
Almost at the same time, Arthur's other hand was not idle. He leaned slightly forward, his other hand, with fingers joined like a blade, swiftly and accurately struck the funny bone behind Scarface's knife-wielding arm! The position was precise, and the force was just right.
"Ugh!" Scarface felt as if his entire arm had been instantly hit by a high-voltage electric shock, from his elbow to his fingertips, it was numb! He could no longer hold the switchblade, and it clanged to the ground! He looked at the red and blue figure before him, terrified, his mind blank: Is this a human or a ghost? So fast? Why can't I exert any strength at all?
The battle ended in a flash. There were no broken bones, no desperate screams, only the two robbers clutching their instantly numb, aching, and painful arms, looking in terror at Arthur, who had appeared like a phantom, like lambs to the slaughter. The two robbers, clutching their arms, collapsed against the wall.
Arthur stood still, a slight sigh of relief in his heart. He had controlled it! No one was hurt! The biological field's restraint and precise transmission of power were more effective than he had anticipated. He no longer looked at the two incapacitated robbers and turned to the woman, still shaken, cowering in the corner.
The woman's eyes were wide with terror, staring at the red and blue figure who had suddenly appeared and instantly subdued the two thugs. The moonlight and the distant streetlights outlined his tall and imposing silhouette, and the red cape billowed behind him without a breeze. The "S" emblem on his chest appeared mysterious and powerful in the dim light. She recognized this image! Although the clothes were so rough they looked self-made, those iconic elements... was it Superman? The Superman from the comics? A living one?! No, that's impossible! It must be a hallucination! Or... an angel sent by God? Extreme fear and the immense shock of surviving such an ordeal left her mind in a jumble, her lips trembling, unable to utter a single word.
Arthur didn't leave immediately. He took a deep breath, trying to suppress the awkwardness belonging to "Arthur," and attempted to mimic the gentle demeanor befitting the Kansas farm boy in his memory. He took a step forward, deliberately slowing his movements to appear less imposing. Then, he slowly crouched down, bringing his tall frame to the same level as the trembling woman in the corner. The biological field silently operated, dispelling any potential coldness from his body.
"It's alright now." His voice, slightly muffled by the biological field, was low, yet he deliberately slowed his speech, conveying a carefully cultivated steadiness and reassurance. "You're safe." He pointed to the two temporarily incapacitated robbers on the ground, then gestured towards the alley entrance. "They can't move for now. Don't be afraid." He extended his hand, his movements extremely slow and gentle, as if afraid of startling a frightened bird. With two fingers, he carefully picked up the old shoulder bag whose strap had been torn—the biological field perfectly constrained his strength, and his canvas-wrapped fingers left no marks on the cheap synthetic leather.
He handed the shoulder bag back to the woman.
The woman instinctively took it, her fingers cold and trembling, her eyes still filled with fear and bewilderment. But when she saw Arthur squat down to meet her gaze, saw the face that appeared exceptionally resolute under the biological field, now trying to convey gentle concern, and heard that low but deliberately softened voice, her taut nerves seemed to be gently stroked by an invisible hand, relaxing slightly. "Tha... thank..." She finally managed to squeeze out two broken syllables, her voice trembling uncontrollably.
Arthur looked into her eyes, trying to curve his lips into a smile. Although the smile might have seemed a bit stiff due to the blurriness caused by the biological field, he tried his best. "Call the police." He spoke again, his voice clearer and firmer than before, with an undeniable authority. "Let the police handle them. The law will punish them." He pointed to the robbers on the ground, then to the alley entrance, signaling that she was safe. "Can you do that?" he asked softly, with encouragement.
The woman looked at him—at the eyes trying to convey warmth, at the "S" on his chest, at his outstretched, steady, and unthreatening hand. An incredible sense of trust, mixed with immense gratitude and a nascent, almost religious reverence, quietly grew amidst the ruins of her fear. She nodded vigorously, her voice still trembling but with a touch more strength: "Yes... I can! Thank you... Superman!"
Arthur nodded slightly, his awkward smile seeming a little more natural. He stood up, no longer lingering. "Go quickly." With that, he turned, took a step, and his figure instantly shot upwards, transforming into a red and blue streak of light that merged with the night, disappearing between the buildings.
Only the two groaning robbers in the alley remained, along with the woman clutching her shoulder bag, staring blankly at the night sky, murmuring repeatedly: "Superman... it's Superman... He saved me... He told me to call the police..." Her hands trembled, but she firmly dialed the emergency number on her phone.
---
Brooklyn Bridge Park, by the waterfront bench area. Night was deepening, and visitors were sparse, with only the distant lights of Manhattan casting brilliant reflections on the river.
Arthur hovered low, not far from the river surface, his red cape hanging down. The night wind carried the faint smell of the river and the distant city's hustle and bustle. The recent encounter had somewhat calmed his mind. The initial control of his power was successful; no irreversible harm had been done. The nascent trust in the woman's eyes, like a faint candlelight, brought a touch of warmth to his cold confusion.
Just then, a suppressed, intermittent sobbing sound, mixed with the night wind, pierced his super hearing.
He followed the sound with his gaze.
About two hundred meters away from him, near the edge of a small, dimly lit wooden viewing platform extending out toward the water, a figure in a thin trench coat stood with their back to the shore, facing the dark, surging waters of the East River. Their shoulders trembled slightly in the night wind, and the suppressed crying came from there.
A young woman. Arthur's super vision easily penetrated the dim light. Her face was haggard, her eye sockets sunken and tear-stained, her gaze hollow as she stared at the churning black river below, filled with desperate stillness. Her fingers tightly clutched the cold wooden railing, her knuckles white from the effort. At her feet, an empty, cheap medicine bottle lay scattered.
A bad premonition instantly seized Arthur's heart.
Almost the instant the thought arose, the woman seemed to make her final decision. Her body suddenly leaned forward, her hands releasing the railing, and her entire being, like a broken puppet, plummeted toward the dark river below!
"No!" A low growl rumbled in Arthur's throat; he didn't even have time to think.
Instinct drove his power!
Boom!
The air beneath his feet was instantly compressed and exploded! Arthur's figure suddenly vanished from his original spot! No arc, no trajectory! His speed, exceeding physical limits, made him appear as if teleporting, materializing beside her the moment her body left the platform and had fallen less than half a meter!
Time seemed to stretch.
Arthur saw the resolute determination frozen on her face, saw the fleeting bewilderment of the unknown in her eyes, saw the trajectory of her disheveled hair fluttering in the night wind. He stretched out his arm, and his biological field instantly expanded, like the most resilient buffer net, precisely and steadily enveloping her falling body! It was no longer a panicked grab, but a calculated support!
The woman, still in shock, felt her body tighten, and her descent abruptly stopped! A powerful and stable force held her, as if she had fallen into an invisible, warm embrace. She looked up in terror, and what met her eyes was a face, chiseled and strong like a sculpture in the night, yet now carrying an undeniable concern and power. Red and blue tights? A huge "S" on the chest? A flowing red cape? Extreme shock made her brain instantly shut down: Superman? Is this really Superman?! Did DC comics come true? Or did I die when I jumped? Is this a hallucination of heaven?
Arthur held her, her waist so slender it felt like it would break if he squeezed too hard. The biological field, like the gentlest cushion, enveloped her, absorbing all impact. He held her, his body slowly ascending, then steadily descending back onto the safe viewing platform. His feet touched the ground as light as a whisper.
As soon as he landed, Arthur immediately released his embrace, stepping back as if burned, creating distance. He didn't want to cause any unnecessary misunderstandings or panic.
The woman's legs were weak, and she stumbled before regaining her balance, instinctively clutching her trench coat to her chest. She stared, still shaken, at the tall red and blue figure before her, the moonlight outlining the "S" on his chest and his flowing cape. Fear, bewilderment, and the immense shock of surviving such an ordeal left her speechless for a moment; she just gasped violently, tears welling up again. "You... you are..." She looked at Arthur's resolute face, which in the moonlight and subtly enhanced by the biological field, appeared exceptionally real yet also had a certain sacredness. Her voice was barely a whisper.
Arthur didn't leave immediately. He could clearly "hear" her heart pounding like a drum, and "see" the bottomless ashes of despair in her eyes. Simply saying "live" wasn't enough. He needed to do more. He mimicked his earlier actions in the alley, slowly and cautiously taking a small step forward, then slowly crouching down, making his large frame appear less imposing. The night wind rustled his red cape, making a slight flapping sound.
"Hey," he began, his voice low, but he tried to soften it, like he was comforting a frightened kitten. "Can you tell me... what happened?" He didn't ask a hollow question like "Why did you jump?" but simply "What happened?" He clumsily tried to understand, to approach that despair.
The woman stared at him blankly, at this being who seemed to have stepped out of a fantasy, crouching before her. On that face, resolute yet gentle under the biological field, in those deep eyes, there was no judgment, no pity, only a clumsy yet exceptionally genuine concern. Tears broke free again, and she choked out, her voice fractured: "He... they... all left... my job... my apartment... everything's gone... the medicine... it ran out... I'm so tired..." Fragmented words, like broken glass, cut through the night.
Arthur listened quietly, without interrupting. He couldn't fully comprehend her specific pain, but he understood the feeling of being abandoned and crushed by the world. He remembered his landlord throwing out his packed luggage, he remembered that bone-deep loneliness. He extended his hand, not to touch her, but to point toward the distant, glittering lights of Manhattan, flowing like a river of stars.
"Look over there," his voice was very soft, yet carried a strange penetrative power. "So many people, so many lights. Everyone has their own dark night, their own abyss." He paused, clumsily organizing his words, as if trying to persuade her, and also himself. "But... as long as you're alive, the lights will always turn on again. Maybe slowly, maybe hard to find, but... there's always a chance for them to light up again. If you die, then it's truly... only darkness left."
He spoke slowly, very earnestly, even with a certainty that he himself found a little silly. He pointed to the "S" on his chest, that crooked mark appearing somewhat comical in the moonlight, yet extraordinarily conspicuous. "I am not a god; I cannot promise you anything. But tonight, at least… you are alive. That's enough, isn't it? Being alive means there's a chance… to try again?"
The woman looked in the direction of his finger, at the brilliant, sparkling sea of lights representing countless possibilities. Then she looked down at her own empty palm, and back at this "Superman" squatting in the moonlight, wearing a ridiculous canvas uniform, clumsily trying to comfort her. A tremendous sense of absurdity washed over her, followed by the exhaustion of surviving a disaster, and… a faint, almost imperceptible warmth of being understood and "seen." That warmth was like a pebble dropped into an icy lake, rippling gently in the frozen depths of her heart.
"…Mm." She finally let out a muffled sound, tears still flowing, but the dead grayness in the depths of her eyes seemed to crack open with a tiny sliver of light. She looked at Arthur, her voice hoarse: "Are you… are you really… Superman?"
Arthur didn't answer directly. He gave an awkward smile, which, softened by his biological field, appeared gentle and firm. "Who I am isn't important. What's important is that you're alive." He pointed to the empty pill bottle on the ground, then to the increasingly close wail of police sirens in the distance; Arthur's enhanced hearing picked up the sound of a patrol car approaching. "The police will be here soon. Let them help you, okay? Live on, try again." He stood up, took a step back, creating distance, but his gaze remained gently on her, offering silent encouragement.
The woman looked at him, at the symbol of "hope" on his chest, at the clumsy yet incredibly genuine warmth in his eyes. She slowly, deeply nodded, clutching the front of her clothes tightly, as if grasping onto something. "…Okay. I… I'll try." Her voice was very soft, yet carried a newfound strength.
Arthur nodded slightly, giving her one last encouraging look. "Take care." With that, he didn't linger. Under the woman's complex gaze, and as the distant police sirens became clearly audible, he suddenly turned, stepped off the edge of the platform, his red cape flapping in the night sky, and his figure instantly transformed into a streak of light, merging into the dazzling sea of lights in the direction of Manhattan, disappearing from view.
The woman stood there blankly, the night wind ruffling her disheveled hair. The cold, despairing heart within her, because of that brief but powerful uplift, those clumsy but warm eyes, those simple yet deeply impactful words, once again felt a faint but incredibly real current of warmth.
She slowly crouched down, picked up the empty pill bottle, clutching it tightly in her palm, and gazed in the direction Arthur had disappeared. Tears streamed down her face silently, but this time, it was no longer pure despair. A sense of post-disaster, almost faith-like trust, quietly took root in her heart. "Superman… thank you…" she whispered to the night sky, her voice carrying a faint, nascent strength. "I will… try again…"
---
Manhattan, Midtown, an alley on the edge of Times Square.
The shimmering neon lights were cut by towering buildings, casting a few shifting patches of light. The air was mixed with the greasy smell of hot dog stands, the choking fumes of car exhaust, and the complex scent of human sweat.
Arthur hovered in the shadow of a narrow fire escape platform, a dozen meters off the ground. His super hearing filtered out the clamor of the street below. He needed more "practice," and even more… money. His stomach rumbled faintly at an inopportune moment. A Kryptonian body also needed energy, and he was currently penniless.
"…Hurry up! Grab everything valuable! The cops are coming!" A deliberately hushed, yet undeniably tense male voice came from behind the counter of a 24-hour convenience store below. The sound of breaking glass, the clinking of loose change.
Convenience store robbery. Clear target.
Arthur moved. His figure descended silently, like a giant bat, landing precisely at the convenience store entrance. He pushed open the door, controlling his strength so the doorbell only chimed faintly, and stepped inside.
The lights inside the store were stark white. Two robbers wearing ski masks; one was violently smashing the lock of the cash register with a crowbar, the other was frantically stuffing cigarettes from the shelves into a large sports bag. Behind the counter, the young clerk, a Latino boy who looked like a high school student, was pale as paper, squatting on the ground with his hands over his head, his body trembling like a leaf in the wind.
"Who?!" The robber smashing the cash register heard the movement and spun around, instinctively pointing the crowbar at the door. When he saw the tall figure in the crude red and blue bodysuit and red cape at the entrance, his movements instantly froze, his eyes, peering through the eyeholes of his ski mask, filled with extreme shock and absurdity.
"Holy crap! What the hell is that thing?!" The robber stuffing cigarettes also saw him, and the cigarettes in his hand clattered to the floor. His voice, distorted by shock, rose in pitch, thick with a street accent: "Bro… is… is that freaking Superman? Did we hit our heads or something? Did you drug my drink?"
The first robber reacted, fear instantly replaced by a furious sense of being mocked: "Get lost, you freak in a Superman costume! Get out or I'll blow your head off!" He violently pulled an old revolver from his waistband, the dark muzzle trembling as it pointed at Arthur's chest.
The clerk also saw Arthur; his mouth hung open, his eyes instantly shifting from despair to extreme shock and bewilderment: "Superman? Oh my god… I must be dreaming… or did I hit my head?"
Arthur ignored the astonished stares and the gun pointed at him. He simply looked at the trembling clerk. That fear of violence by the weak, he had once felt it himself, and he moved.
Not toward the robbers, but toward the shelf filled with snacks next to the cash register. He reached out, his movements seemingly casual, sweeping across the dazzling array of shelves. Target: a few heavy, brightly packaged energy drinks. "Hey! You bastard! I told you to get out!" The armed robber, seeing Arthur ignore him, became even more furious, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Arthur picked up a can of drink, weighed it in his hand, as if testing its feel. Then, his wrist gave an almost imperceptible flick.
Whoosh—!
A piercing whoosh of air!
The metal drink can, like a cannonball, shot out with a tearing shriek, striking the armed robber's gun-holding hand with pinpoint accuracy! The force, precisely transmitted by his biological field, erupted at a single point!
"FUCK—!" The robber let out a gut-wrenching scream, his hand instantly red, swollen, and numb as if hit by a sledgehammer! The revolver could no longer be held, flying from his grasp, hitting the wall and bouncing to the floor. He clutched his throbbing hand, doubling over in pain, cold sweat instantly soaking his mask.
The other robber was stunned speechless, his sports bag falling to the floor, cigarettes scattering everywhere. He stared at Arthur in horror, then at his companion's miserable state, let out a yelp, and turned to flee out the back door.
Arthur didn't even turn his head; he simply picked up another can of drink from the shelf and flicked his wrist again.
Bang!
The drink can accurately struck the side of the fleeing robber's knee! The perfect amount of force and point of impact instantly destroyed his balance! The robber felt his leg give way, cried out, and fell to the ground, curling up in pain, clutching his knee.
The fight was over. Faster than the previous two, and more… "economical." Arthur hadn't even gotten close. The two robbers, one wailing with his hand, the other groaning with his leg, were both incapacitated.
He walked to the cash register, glancing at the scattered change on the floor and the smashed register. He didn't touch the money. He simply bent down, took two cans of the same energy drink from the shelf, and casually grabbed the cheapest-looking, most simply packaged sandwich. His movements were slow, deliberately allowing the clerk to see.
The clerk was still squatting on the ground but had now looked up, his mouth agape wide enough to fit an egg, the fear in his eyes replaced by huge, almost absurd excitement and adoration: "You… you saved me! Are you really… Superman? The real Superman?!" His voice trembled with excitement, his gaze fixed on the crooked yet strikingly conspicuous "S" on Arthur's chest, as if seeing a miracle.
Arthur, holding the drinks and sandwich, walked over to the clerk. He awkwardly pulled at the corners of his mouth, trying to offer a reassuring smile, which, blurred by his biological field, appeared somewhat indistinct but carried a strange gentleness. He didn't answer the question of his identity, simply placed the items on an undamaged corner of the counter, then pointed to the two groaning robbers on the floor, and then to the increasingly close police sirens outside the door. The meaning was clear: call the police, deal with them.
"Call… call the police! Got it! Thank you! Thank you so much, Superman! Oh my god! You're real! You're really here!" The clerk was incoherent, nodding frantically like a pecking chicken, his eyes filled with undisguised, almost fanatical adoration and gratitude for Arthur. He scrambled to his feet, fumbling to press the alarm button under the counter, shouting excitedly into the microphone as he pressed: "Police! Send police! Convenience store on the corner of 42nd Street! Robbery! But… but it's okay now! Superman is here! He stopped them! He's real! Superman really exists!"
Arthur nodded slightly, picked up the two drinks and the cheap sandwich. After paying, he turned, pushed open the convenience store door, and walked out. He ignored the crowd that had begun to gather outside, pointing at him and exclaiming and discussing. His figure soared into the air, his red cape flashing in the shifting neon lights of Times Square, quickly disappearing among the labyrinth of skyscrapers.
In the night sky, Arthur flew at high speed, the night wind whipping across his face. He twisted open a can of drink; the cold liquid slid down his throat, sweet with artificial flavoring, but temporarily alleviating the emptiness in his stomach. He looked down at the cheap sandwich in his other hand, then at the bright and noisy city below. The "S" symbol on his chest reflected a faint glow, illuminated by countless lights.
The confusion had not dissipated. The fear still existed. The abyss of power remained bottomless. The risk of losing control was ever-present.
But tonight, he had clumsily, stumbled his way through the first steps. He had saved the robbed woman, saved the suicidal person, stopped the convenience store robbery, and incidentally taken his "payment," and made a desperate clerk exclaim, "Superman really exists." Dressed in this simple red and blue canvas, he had, for the first time as "Superman," intervened in the city's night.
He saw fear, and he saw nascent worship and trust, and he also saw the faint but real light of "hope" brought by upholding his bottom line of "no killing" and "control." That clumsy squat, that awkward comfort, those gentle eyes, were like pebbles dropped into a dark lake, spreading ripples of "possibility."
It wasn't about becoming a hero. It was more like clumsily rowing a boat toward a vague lighthouse in an endless fog. The name of the lighthouse might be "living," or "trying," or perhaps, simply to find a way to prevent this inhuman power within him from completely devouring the small, real soul named "Arthur." Each successful act of control, each message of "live" and "try again" he conveyed, was like a tiny spark, illuminating an inch of the path ahead in his cold labyrinth of power.
He flew deeper into the city's night, his red cape trailing a brief arc behind him. More sounds flooded his ears—sirens, cries for help, arguments, the babbling of drunks… The city's night was still long. And his clumsy yet real path to heroism had just begun. Was it deeper darkness ahead, or the faint light of dawn? He didn't know. He only knew to hold tight to his power, to guard his bottom line, to protect that faint glow of "hope" that he had clumsily ignited, as if protecting his last shred of humanity.
Tonight, Superman appeared before people for the first time.