Didi! Didi!
Red and blue police lights flashed violently through the streets as sirens wailed across the night. Within less than two minutes, heavily armed riot police arrived three blocks away from the building where the incident had occurred.
"Move, move! That guy's upstairs!"
One officer shouted as the tactical team poured out of their vehicles.
"He knocked out everyone and took Mr. Glen Morgan hostage!"
"Why hasn't he left yet?" another officer muttered nervously. "Is he waiting for us? Does he want to provoke the police?"
The leading sergeant rushed toward the entrance with a grim expression while his commandos followed close behind.
"Listen up, everyone," he warned in a low voice. "The hostage up there is Mr. Metropolis himself. Be careful. That man could get every one of us fired with a single phone call."
When they reached the floor where the incident had taken place, the scene stunned them.
Several gangsters lay scattered across the corridor like discarded garbage. Some had been thrown clear out of the room as if the door had been blasted open, while others hung awkwardly from the chandelier.
Two more were stuck between the window bars where a section of railing had somehow been bent and locked together. The sight was both ridiculous and humiliating.
"Help! That guy is inside!"
One gangster pointed toward the inner room with a trembling hand, his voice cracking with fear.
The police sergeant looked around at the wreckage with a dark expression. Raising his hand, he signaled his team to move into position.
The commandos quietly approached the door from both sides.
"He jumped straight to the twenty-ninth floor!" one frightened thug shouted. "Faster than the wind! He threw us around like toys—and his eyes shoot lasers!"
Hearing this, several officers exchanged uneasy looks.
"Stay alert," the sergeant said sharply. "Whatever we're dealing with here is unlike anything we've encountered before."
Then he kicked the door open and stormed inside with his weapon raised.
"Don't move!"
"Put down the hostage and surrender immediately!"
"Step away from the railing!"
Cold night wind swept through the shattered windows, sending the curtains flapping wildly.
Standing calmly on the narrow railing of the twenty-ninth-floor balcony was a young man in a blue shirt. One hand casually gripped the waistband of a terrified man's trousers, lifting him into the air as if he weighed nothing.
"Mr. Glen Morgan?"
"Save me! Please save me!"
Far below, the cars on the street looked like tiny boxes. Glen Morgan stared down at the dizzying height and turned pale.
From a small-time gang leader to a powerful crime boss, and eventually to a respected philanthropist known as Mr. Metropolis, he had faced countless enemies and survived many gunfights.
But this situation was different.
The man holding him was not human.
Bullets couldn't even scratch him.
"Put him down, you lunatic!"
Everyone present was stunned. Whether it was the sight of a man standing casually on the railing of a twenty-ninth-floor balcony or the fact that he could lift a grown man with one hand, the scene defied belief.
"Of course, officers," Clark Kent said with an easy smile. "I'll put him down shortly."
Even though he could not see them, he knew how many guns were currently aimed at him.
"The only condition," he continued calmly, "is that he confesses to every crime he has committed and accepts the punishment he deserves."
He tilted his head slightly.
"After all, the law shouldn't treat people differently based on their status. Wouldn't you agree?"
Clark lightly shook his arm.
Glen Morgan nearly had a heart attack.
But instead of confessing, he screamed hysterically.
"Protect me! He's a monster!"
"Put Mr. Glen Morgan down immediately or we will open fire!" one officer shouted.
"Young man," another warned urgently, "think about your family!"
The commandos tightened their grip on their rifles.
Clark's expression gradually hardened.
"So you still refuse to talk?"
His voice carried a faint chill.
Not long ago, a policewoman had narrowly survived an attack by gangsters. Someone had even dared to send a helicopter to kidnap her from the courthouse roof while she was under protection as a witness.
The audacity of that crime had shocked the entire city.
Clark had quietly followed the trail for days, using careful observation and investigation. Eventually he discovered that the mastermind behind the operation was none other than the city's beloved philanthropist—Glen Morgan.
"You had your chance, Glen Morgan."
Clark suddenly swung his arm.
Glen Morgan shot through the air like a broken kite, screaming as he plummeted toward the hard asphalt street dozens of meters below.
"You're insane!"
The police sergeant's eyes widened in disbelief.
Hadn't the reports said that Superman had never seriously harmed anyone since he first appeared a month ago?
"Ahhh—!"
Wind roared past Glen Morgan's ears as he fell. His heart rate surged beyond two hundred beats per minute, and sheer terror made him feel as if he were already dead.
The ground rushed up toward him.
In another second he would smash into the pavement and burst apart like a sack of meat and bone.
Whoosh!
At the final moment—less than ten centimeters above the ground—a powerful arm shot out and grabbed his clothing.
The immense momentum of a two-hundred-pound body falling from dozens of meters vanished instantly. The arm holding him didn't even sway.
Clark stood calmly on the street, holding the man like a chicken.
"So," he said casually, "how was the roller coaster ride just now?"
His tone sounded almost like an amusement park attendant recommending a popular attraction.
"If you'd like, sir, we can go again."
"I'll talk! I'll talk!"
Glen Morgan's lips had turned white. Barely able to control himself, he clutched his head and screamed hysterically.
Clark dropped him onto the ground with a dull thud.
"Start talking."
"I—I used to be one of the biggest gang leaders in Metropolis," Morgan stammered while kneeling. "I shot dozens of people myself. I bribed city officials. I deceived the public. I…"
The once-celebrated Mr. Metropolis trembled as he confessed his crimes one by one.
Clark nodded slightly.
In the past, he would never have used such extreme methods. This approach felt dangerously close to intimidation.
But he had learned something from his younger brother.
Sometimes reasoning politely with certain people simply didn't work.
Click. Click. Click.
Outside the police cordon, reporters swarmed like sharks smelling blood. Cameras flashed nonstop while recording every second of the scene.
Several television cameras had already been aimed at Clark since the moment he appeared.
"You know the rules, Mr. Metropolis," Clark said, pointing a finger toward the camera.
"Treat the citizens of this city properly."
"Because if you don't… I will find you."
Behind him, Glen Morgan trembled on the ground.
The transformation from feared gang leader to celebrated philanthropist had once earned Morgan the honorary title of Mr. Metropolis. That title was supposed to represent the moral standard of the city.
Now the corruption exposed before the cameras was shocking.
Clark didn't want the city he grew up in to slide down the same path as Gotham, the dark metropolis just across the bay.
With that, he bent his knees and leapt upward.
His red cape snapped behind him as he soared above the buildings and disappeared into the night sky.
A helicopter hovering nearby recorded the entire event with an ultra-high-definition camera.
Clark assumed it was just another news broadcast.
In reality, the station operating that helicopter belonged to the powerful Luther Group.
…
When Clark returned home later that evening, the clock was already approaching eight.
Before he even touched the doorknob, his enhanced hearing caught a familiar heartbeat.
His face lit up instantly.
"Victor… you finally decided to come back."
He pushed the door open and spoke casually, though his tone carried unmistakable relief. His brother had been gone for an entire month.
Inside the house, Victor was chatting with their parents about his travels.
"A paradise-like island," he was saying calmly.
When Clark entered, Victor turned his head and raised an eyebrow.
"Looks like you're adapting pretty well to life as a reporter's assistant."
Clark was wearing a suit.
After only a month, he seemed noticeably more mature. His handsome face, paired with those simple glasses, gave him the air of someone carrying many untold stories.
"I've been waiting for you both," Jonathan suddenly called out.
He wrapped an arm around each of his sons and laughed warmly.
"Go wash up. Dinner's ready."
The table was already set.
Jonathan looked at the two young men beside him with obvious pride and happiness. His face was flushed with emotion as if he had been drinking.
Nearby, Martha smiled gently while arranging plates and utensils.
In the past, the entire family had always been together, so none of them had thought much about it.
But now things were changing.
Their older son had begun working and was rarely home. Their younger son had spent a month traveling far away.
The house suddenly felt much emptier.
They knew it was only the beginning. Sooner or later, both boys would enter society fully and build their own lives.
Still, the thought brought a touch of melancholy.
Victor had spoken with them frequently over the phone during his trip, but hearing a voice was never the same as seeing someone in person.
After dinner, Victor stepped onto the second-floor balcony and gazed quietly at the night sky.
Diana remained on Paradise Island to supervise the Amazons' dance training.
From the moment Victor defeated them, she had insisted that they treat him as their rightful king. She carried out every order he gave with strict seriousness—from dancing to practicing the harp.
"Judging by the emotional points still refreshing steadily," Victor thought calmly, "Diana doesn't seem to be showing any favoritism."
The wooden stairs creaked softly behind him.
Clark walked up slowly.
"The telescope is gone," Victor remarked without turning.
The spot where Clark used to keep his telescope—once used to secretly watch Lana—now stood empty.
Clark shrugged slightly.
"Lana is gone," he said quietly. "And my situation is different now."
Without his sight, the telescope had lost its meaning.
"Your eyes still haven't recovered?"
Victor frowned.
A month had passed. With Clark's Kryptonian physiology, ordinary injuries should have healed long ago under sunlight.
"It's not just physical damage," Clark replied after a moment. "It might be a curse… or magic."
"There hasn't been any improvement. It may stay like this."
Victor raised an eyebrow.
But what caught his attention was Clark's calm tone.
"Have you been doing what I told you?" Victor asked suspiciously. "Opening your eyes and letting sunlight reach them occasionally?"
Clark's expression turned slightly awkward.
He turned his head away as if staring into the night sky.
For ordinary people, blindness would be devastating.
But for Clark, it wasn't entirely unbearable.
Victor could guess the real reason.
Guilt.
The Wish Stone always demanded a price, usually something precious to the person making the wish. Clark had probably spent the last month fearing that his careless wish might bring disaster upon his family.
Blindness felt like punishment.
But that punishment also eased his conscience.
"It reminds him to think before acting again," Victor thought quietly.
"People have to look forward," Victor said aloud. "Living in the past only traps you."
Then his tone changed slightly.
"And don't assume that because your body is stronger than steel, losing your eyesight doesn't matter."
"You're walking on the edge of danger."
Clark stiffened.
"Victor… did you see the news about me?"
Victor shook his head.
"No. I smelled the gunpowder on you."
He leaned against the railing casually.
"You were shot by several people earlier. Enough bullets to kill an African elephant."
Clark scratched the back of his head awkwardly.
"You're still as sharp as ever."
Even after changing clothes, the faint scent of gunpowder remained.
Clark had believed his secret identity was flawless. Yet once again, his younger brother had seen through him immediately.
Still, Clark didn't seem overly concerned.
"The meteorite that used to weaken me is gone from this world," he said calmly. "The guns of criminals can't hurt me anymore."
Victor shook his head slowly.
"That weakness didn't disappear."
Clark froze.
"What… do you mean?"
…
Inside the towering Luther Building, a man sat silently in the office at the very top floor.
Lex Luther.
Moonlight illuminated only half of his bald head while the rest of his face remained hidden in shadow.
His hands were folded together as he replayed a video recording again and again. The footage remained perfectly clear even when slowed down a thousand times.
His eyes glinted with fascination.
Not long ago he had woken up in his mansion with no memory of what had happened during a certain period of time.
The Wish Stone had vanished.
From the fragments he could piece together, he had apparently made a wish—one that granted him extraordinary scientific talent.
That same night, terrible news arrived.
His father, Lionel Luther, the powerful leader of the Luther Group, had died in a car accident while returning home.
By the time Lex reached the hospital, it was too late.
He never even saw his father alive again.
Only a cold body beneath a white sheet.
"Was this the price of my wish?"
Now Lex Luther sat behind his desk as the new head of a multinational corporate empire.
The father who had spent his life controlling businesses and ignoring his son was gone.
Yet the expression on Lex's face was far from simple grief.
Complex emotions twisted across it—resentment, confusion, and something darker.
And deep in his eyes, a faint shadow of gloom slowly grew.
....
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