From Where

The man saw Shane's nerves still taut, and those eyes brimming with vigilance. The smile on his face did not fade; instead, it took on a gentler, more soothing quality.

He slowly lowered his hands, palms facing forward, clearly showing he carried no weapon, then turned and walked toward the kitchen.

His steps were steady yet carried a certain fisherman's easygoing rhythm.

The old wooden floor let out a faint "creak—" underfoot.

"Looks like Superman wasn't wrong. You're a very alert kid."

The man spoke as he tidied up a few scattered seashells and a rag stained with sea mud by the stove.

"My name's Tom. I'm a friend of Superman's."

Shane's heart stirred, his ears perking up.

"When he found you in space, you were barely holding on. Your vital signs were so weak they were almost undetectable."

"He specifically brought you here to recover—I live by the sea. It's quiet, good for healing."

Tom moved lightly, careful not to make too much noise as he cleared the clutter.

Tom?

Shane silently repeated the name in his mind, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

His gaze swept over Tom like a radar scan.

A faded blue work shirt, a few barely noticeable salt stains at the collar, sleeves casually rolled up.

His exposed forearms were covered in fine scars.

Some were shallow, others deep—some looked like they came from fishing nets, others from cuts on coral reefs.

At first glance, he really did seem like an authentic fisherman living off the sea.

But why?

Whether Superman actually had a fisherman friend, Shane couldn't verify from his memory.

After all, with so many comics, TV shows, movies, and multiverse settings, just thinking about the messy worldviews from his past life left his mind tangled.

But for Shane, this was a new reality.

Long illness makes a doctor. Over ten years, he had suffered more than a dozen life-threatening and non-life-threatening injuries, so he knew exactly how severe his wounds were before he passed out.

They were deep, bone-shattering traumas—nothing a simple bandage could fix.

A tearing wound across his chest and abdomen went deep enough to see bone, the muscle tissue around the edges already necrotic;

Four broken ribs, two of which had punctured the pleura, making even a slight breath pull at his lungs with piercing pain;

A spinal sprain so dangerous it could press on his central nervous system at any moment, leading to paralysis;

Plus over twenty wounds of varying depth across his body, some hitting blood vessels, others grazing organs.

Even with his self-healing ability far beyond an ordinary human's, without targeted medical equipment, there was no way he could be walking around in just a few days.

Forget ordinary bandaging—even the best medical resources from Earth in his past life would have struggled to save him then.

Superman must have stepped in.

The one with the Fortress of Solitude in the Arctic, wielding Krypton's advanced technology, backed by a massive hero team like the Justice League.

Before he passed out, Shane had assumed he'd wake up in some high-tech place.

Like a medical pod in the Fortress of Solitude, or the Justice League's satellite base.

But this place didn't even have basic disinfectant or hemostatic medicine.

Countless questions churned and clashed in Shane's mind.

He almost blurted out a demand, asking where Superman was, asking what the real purpose was for taking him in.

But the words reached his lips and he forced them back down.

Behind this man might stand that unfathomably powerful "Black Superman."

That was someone he absolutely couldn't provoke right now.

Tom walked over carrying a steaming bowl of soup.

It carried a light seafood aroma, mixed with a familiar fragrance.

"I made some seafood soup. Simmered it with fresh little shrimp and clams. Didn't add too much seasoning."

Tom gently set the soup on the old wooden table in the living room, pushing it toward Shane.

His knuckles were thick, and a bit of sea mud still clung to the crevices of his fingers, adding to the fisherman's authenticity.

Shane's gaze fell on the bowl. The milky-white soup was dotted with a few red shrimp and white clam meat, looking appetizing.

He looked up at Tom. The man's eyes were open, without a trace of evasion, and the concern in them didn't seem fake.

As if he really were just a helpful fisherman, doing his best to care for an injured stranger.

Shane lowered his head in silence for a moment, then picked up the spoon resting by the bowl.

A small sip of soup entered his mouth. The warmth slid down his throat, bringing a fleeting sense of comfort.

"Thank you."

Shane set down the spoon and coughed lightly twice, trying to make his voice clearer.

He didn't bring up any doubts about his injuries or Superman, simply expressing gratitude.

For now, he needed to observe, to find a foothold in this unfamiliar environment as quickly as possible.

Pretending to be a weak, grateful "alien refugee" was the safest choice for the moment.

Only like this could he buy enough time to understand this world, to investigate whether traces of Viltrum existed in this universe.

Tom smiled, a very warm smile, like sunlight by the seaside.

He pulled out the chair across from Shane and sat down, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a harsh sound.

His gaze was gentle as he looked at Shane, carrying a hint of probing, yet not overly direct, enough not to make anyone uncomfortable.

"Don't mention it."

Tom's voice was still low and hoarse, but very approachable.

"When Superman brought you over, he gave me a brief word—said you were from another planet, ran into some trouble, and asked me to take good care of you."

"You don't look that old, drifting alone through space must have been tough—can you tell me about yourself?"

Shane's hand holding the spoon paused slightly, a faint stiffness in his fingertips, but he knew in his heart that this question had finally come.

He had long anticipated that, although the other party had taken him in, they would still want to know his background.

"About me?"

Shane's eyes went a little vacant, as if sinking into memories at just the right moment.

"Well, like which planet you're from? And, back on your homeworld, did something bad happen?"

Tom's inquiry seemed casual, like an elder asking about a younger person's everyday life, but in truth, every question carried a probing edge, hitting key points with precision.

He didn't use an interrogative tone, but a concerned demeanor, making the probing less abrupt.

After all, a sudden alien visitor was a potential threat to any planet.

And Shane also needed to use Tom to pass some "useful" information to Superman, and to whatever team might be behind Superman, in order to earn their trust.

Only by gaining trust could he have the chance to access Superman's technology, to figure out the questions that mattered most to him.

He didn't answer immediately, but slowly set down the spoon.

"I come from Viltrum."

Shane's voice carried a faint, barely noticeable weariness and hoarseness, along with an indescribable disgust.

"It's a planet... that prides itself on battle and conquest."