Jerry woke before the alarm.
That alone would have unsettled him once.
Now, it felt… correct.
Morning light filtered through the curtains in careful lines, painting the ceiling with pale gold. His breathing was steady. His body felt rested—not the artificial rest of collapse, but something deeper. Something earned.
He lay still, eyes open, cataloguing sensation.
No lingering pain.
No stiffness beyond the expected.
No racing thoughts clawing for attention.
For the first time in years, his mind felt quiet.
That was what unsettled him.
Jerry sat up slowly, letting his feet touch the floor. Cool marble grounded him. He waited—half a second, a full one—for something to surge. Power. Instinct. Anything out of place.
Nothing happened.
Good.
He dressed without hurry, choosing simple clothes. Nothing that drew attention. Nothing that announced status. Control, he had learned, often came from invisibility.
When he stepped into the dining room, Alfred was already there.
As always.
"Good morning, Master Jerry," Alfred said, placing a cup of tea on the table. "You slept seven hours and forty-two minutes."
Jerry raised an eyebrow. "You tracked that?"
"Habit," Alfred replied mildly.
Jerry took a seat. The tea was warm, precisely steeped. He took a sip.
"Anything urgent?" Jerry asked.
"No," Alfred said. "Which, I suspect, you will find suspicious."
Jerry allowed a small smile. "Correct."
Alfred slid a thin tablet across the table. "Board stability remains intact. Mr. Harrington will be addressing investors later today. He recommends you remain out of public view until speculation dies down."
"Agreed," Jerry said without hesitation.
Alfred hesitated, then added, "There has also been an increase in… unusual data requests across your information networks."
Jerry paused.
"From me?" he asked.
"Yes."
Jerry nodded once. "That's intentional. Don't worry, Alfred".
Alfred didn't ask why.
That, Jerry knew, was not loyalty born of obedience.
It was trust earned over years of restraint.
After breakfast, Jerry retreated into the study.
The room was built for control. Soundproofed. Shielded. Offline options layered beneath digital ones. His parents had designed it that way—not out of paranoia, but foresight.
Jerry activated the console that his Father had created before his death and he completed the rest before he collapsed.
"Archive search," he said softly. "Ten-year range. Global anomalies. Prioritize metropolitan areas."
The screen came alive.
He didn't rush.
That was the difference now.
Before, Jerry would have consumed information relentlessly, chasing certainty like oxygen. Now, he let it come to him. Let patterns emerge rather than forcing conclusions.
Names appeared.
Companies.
Locations.
Some were familiar in ways that made his spine straighten.
Others were… close. Almost-right.
Stark Industries.
Oscorp.
Roxxon.
Names he recognized—but not precisely where they should be.
Jerry leaned back, fingers steepled.
This was the problem.
His memories—the other ones—didn't align cleanly.
Some belonged to a world where heroes were public icons.
Others came from a time when they were whispers and rumors.
Some events contradicted each other entirely.
Different Spider-Men.
Different outcomes.
Different deaths that should—or should not—have happened.
And yet, here he was.
In a world that carried echoes of all of them.
"That's dangerous," Jerry murmured.
Assumptions killed faster than ignorance.
He cross-referenced dates.
Incidents flagged as "unverified."
Security footage classified, buried, erased.
Urban legends dismissed as hoaxes.
Patterns formed.
Not proof.
But direction.
"Alfred," Jerry said.
"Yes, sir?"
"Have there been any… irregular requests from government agencies in the past decade?"
Alfred adjusted his glasses. "Define irregular."
Jerry smiled faintly. "The kind that pretend they're routine."
Alfred tapped his tablet. "Several. All redirected to subsidiaries designed to absorb attention."
Jerry nodded. "And?"
"And all originated from organizations that prefer acronyms to names."
Jerry exhaled slowly.
"So they're watching," he said.
"Yes."
"Openly?"
"No."
That confirmed it.
This wasn't a world that had already accepted heroes.
It was a world bracing for them.
Later that afternoon, Jerry took a call from Harrington.
The man's face appeared on the screen—older now, lines etched deep by stress and years of responsibility. But his eyes were sharp.
"Good to see you vertical," Harrington said.
"Good to see you didn't let them tear the company apart," Jerry replied.
Harrington chuckled. "They tried."
"I'm sure they did."
Silence followed. Not awkward. Measured.
"You pushed too hard," Harrington said eventually.
Jerry didn't deny it.
"I know," Jerry said. "It won't happen again."
Harrington studied him. "That's not what concerns me."
Jerry met his gaze. "Then what does?"
"This city," Harrington said carefully. "It attracts things. Always has."
Jerry felt the weight behind those words.
"You've noticed," Jerry said.
"I've survived," Harrington corrected. "That usually requires noticing."
Another pause.
"Stay quiet for now," Harrington continued. "Let the noise pass. If you move too early, you'll draw attention you don't want."
Jerry nodded. "I won't."
Harrington smiled faintly. "Good. You sound… steadier."
"I am."
"I'm glad," Harrington said. "Your parents would be too."
The call ended.
Jerry sat back, eyes unfocused.
Everyone knew something.
No one knew everything.
That was how this world worked.
Night fell again.
Jerry returned to the study, lights dimmed, screens dark. He didn't need them now.
He closed his eyes.
And stepped inward.
The stone floor greeted him.
The doors stood as they always had.
Silent. Waiting.
He did not approach them.
Instead, he stood at the center of the space and focused on the sensation beneath his awareness.
The spheres drifted into view.
Subtle.
Controlled.
Each pulsing with restrained potential.
They didn't demand.
They didn't tempt.
They waited.
Jerry felt the system's presence—distant, observing.
He ignored it.
Secrecy wasn't just about hiding from others.
It was about discipline within oneself.
He opened his eyes.
Returned to the study.
Outside the window, the city glowed—vast, indifferent, alive.
Somewhere out there, someone was swinging between buildings.
Somewhere else, something older was watching.
Jerry stood, hands in his pockets, expression calm.
"So," he said quietly. "This is the world."
Not a declaration.
A confirmation.
He turned off the lights and left the room.
Tomorrow, he would plan.
Soon, he would train.
Eventually, he would act.
But not yet.
Not until the world showed its hand first.