The World Without A Boy Called Soren Hargreaves (Part 1)

It took a long time before Dr. Manhattan's voice echoed from the distance void.

"...Very well, I will grant your wish."

Soren softly said, "Thank you."

Meanwhile, the frenzied, blood-soaked Superman stood where he was, still shouting Soren's name.

He could see nothing, relying only on his super hearing to barely pick up Soren's voice, roaring in rage, "Soren!! If you dare leave, if you dare walk away from me!! I won't allow it!! I'll kill everyone you've ever known!!"

Soren gazed at him from afar.

At the end of his life, he wanted to take one last look at the Clark he loved so deeply.

He would remember him forever, even on his journey to death.

This would be the last thread of love he could hold onto, his Clark.

He finally couldn't bear it anymore, and the tears fell in heavy drops.

Just before his consciousness faded, he summoned the last ounce of strength in his body, covering his face with his hands.

Before Clark Kent could notice, he gouged out his own beautiful, crystal-clear blue eyes.

"—Soren, what are you doing?!" Clark Kent shouted in panic.

In his bloodied hands, Soren held his two eyes.

"Give my eyes... to Clark. Let him see this world... through my eyes."

Darkness closed in as his voice grew fainter, his consciousness fading, his life draining away.

His soul, after a long and arduous journey, finally found its way to rest.

I can only walk with you this far, Clark.

Our lives were always meant to be different.

Your brilliant, radiant life, so full and long, is just beginning now.

...

Metropolis.

"Ring, ring, ring—"

The vibration of a phone on the bedside table jolted the tall man sleeping soundly on the single bed.

He scrambled to stop the alarm, but when he opened his eyes, he found himself floating five feet above the bed, nearly crashing into the ceiling.

It was only then that Clark Kent fully woke up.

He exhaled.

The experience of a Kryptonian brain dreaming all night was not a pleasant one, and as always, the moment he woke up, the details of the dream were already gone.

This strange phenomenon started a few months ago.

One night, without warning, Clark, who rarely dreamt, began to dream night after night.

He couldn't tell whether those dreams were good or bad, because not once could he remember them the next morning.

However, he could vaguely recall fragments of the dreams—like the golden fields of Smallville, the brilliant stars near the Watchtower, and the soft, fragrant cashmere blanket...

He always felt that, well, according to scientific theory, these dreams were probably bits and pieces from his daily life, stored deep within the hippocampus of his Kryptonian brain, only to be released again during sleep.

Because of this, he even went to the Fortress of Solitude to check his levels of acetylcholine and norepinephrine, trying to figure out what was wrong.

Why was it that a brain capable of perfect memory would forget the dreams of just a second ago?

But all the test results were normal—nothing was out of the ordinary.

—This had been the only thing troubling him in recent days.

Clark's mornings were the same every day, starting with the sharp, urgent ring of his phone alarm, followed by a trip to the bathroom for hygiene and grooming.

Then he'd put on his Superman suit over which he would carefully don the suit he wore to work at the Daily Planet.

Once everything was in order, he'd head to the kitchen to fry an egg and top it with the mayonnaise that Martha made for him, creating his favorite garden sandwich.

Of course, before leaving the house, he would also stand in front of the mirror and, as Martha had taught him, carefully tie his necktie—those same hands, capable of lifting entire cities, deftly working a plain, drab tie into a neat knot at the collar of his shirt.

In the mirror by the entrance, the reflection of Daily Planet senior reporter Clark Kent revealed a face both strong and handsome.

Behind his black-framed glasses, he had the clearest blue eyes in the world.

After leaving his apartment (he had finally saved enough after years at the Daily Planet to buy this small place), Clark would carry his sandwich up to the highest rooftop in Metropolis, where he would enjoy his breakfast in the clouds above the City of Tomorrow.

The glass bottle of milk was placed beside him.

This joyful Superman loved watching Metropolis awaken from this vantage point—the sky still carried a soft, rosy hue, with fluffy white clouds edging the horizon.

Occasionally, one or two birds would glide across the rising sun's sky.

The entire city of Metropolis, freshly awakened from sleep, was suffused with the dewy fragrance of morning.

From above, the steel jungle of the city resembled gleaming metallic canyons, with brightly colored vehicles traversing their base: red family cars, yellow school buses, green postal vans, blue trucks... They all transformed into interwoven colored lines, forming the living, breathing fabric of Metropolis.

This was his Metropolis.

The city he protected with his life.

Every day, Superman's red cape would soar over the skies of Metropolis.

As he was halfway through his sandwich, his super-hearing, spanning the globe, caught the sound of a distant scream from across the ocean.

…It was from a plane attempting to land at Moscow's Sheremetyevo International Airport.

The plane's braking system had failed, and it was now plummeting toward the runway in a terrifying nose-down position.

Clark quickly set down his sandwich.

With a burst of sound, the red-and-blue streak shot into the sky, ascending through the clouds.

At Moscow's airport, the entire aircraft shook violently.

Oxygen masks dropped from the seats.

A flight attendant, dressed in an orange-red uniform, lost her balance and fell into the aisle, dragging an entire cart of items with her, which clattered and scattered across the plane.

Passengers screamed, frantically pounding on the windows, desperate to avoid perishing with the plummeting plane.