The man saw Shane's still-tensed nerves and those eyes full of vigilance, yet the smile on his face did not diminish; instead, it gained a bit more of a gentle, soothing quality.
He slowly lowered his hands, palms forward, clearly showing that he carried no weapons, and then turned to walk toward the kitchen direction.
His pace was steady yet carried a bit of the casualness unique to fishermen.
A slight, creaking sound came from the old wooden floorboards.
"It looks like Superman was right, you're a very cautious kid."
The man spoke while tidying up a few scattered seashells by the stove and a small rag stained with sea mud.
"My name is Tom, I'm a friend of Superman."
A spark ignited in Shane's heart, his ears perking up.
"When he found you in space, you were already at your limit, and your vital signs were so weak they were almost undetectable."
"He specifically sent you to me to recover—my place is by the sea, quiet, suitable for recuperating."
Tom's movements were very light, avoiding making too much noise while tidying up the clutter.
Tom?
Shane silently recited the name in the bottom of his heart, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.
His gaze swept over Tom's entire body as quickly as radar.
A washed-faintly-white blue jumpsuit, the collar still stained with a few unnoticeable salt spots, the cuffs rolled up casually.
The exposed forearms were covered in dense scars.
Those scars varied in depth; some looked like they had been constricted by fishing nets, while others looked like they had been scraped by reefs.
Just looking at him, he truly resembled a genuine fisherman born of the sea.
Yet why?
Whether Superman had fisherman friends, Shane was truly unable to verify from his memories.
After all, with the existence of so many comics, television shows, and movies, not to mention the multiverse setting, just considering the messed-up worldviews from his past life alone left his mind in a tangled, unmanageable mess.
But this place was a new reality for him.
Prolonged illness makes a patient, and for ten years Shane had suffered more than a dozen kinds of fatal and non-fatal injuries, which was why he was clear on his condition before losing consciousness this time.
That was a severe trauma penetrating deep into the marrow, by no means something that surface-level bandaging could handle.
The tear spanning his chest and abdomen was deep to the bone, and the muscle tissue at the edges of the wound had long since necrocratically died;
Of the four fractured ribs, two had even punctured the pleura, and breathing with the slightest force would tug at his lungs, bringing a heart-wrenching pain;
The spinal sprain was even more perilous, capable of compressing the central nervous system and leading to paralysis at any moment;
Coupled with more than twenty wounds of varying depths across his whole body, some injuring blood vessels, others grazing the edges of internal organs.
Even though he possessed a self-healing ability far exceeding that of earthlings, without targeted medical equipment assisting him, it would have been utterly impossible for him to get out of bed and walk within a few days.
Let alone ordinary bandaging, even the top medical resources of his past earth life would have been hard-pressed to save him at that time.
It should have been Superman who made a move.
That entity who possessed the Arctic Fortress of Solitude, mastered Krypton's advanced technology, and had a massive hero team like the Justice League backing him.
Originally, before losing consciousness, Shane had thought he would wake up in some place full of black-technology elements.
For example, a medical pod inside the Fortress of Solitude, or the Justice League's satellite base.
Yet in this place before his eyes, not even the most basic disinfectant or hemostatic medicine could be seen.
Countless questions churned and collided in Shane's mind.
He almost blurted out an interrogation to the other, demanding to know where Superman actually was and what his true purpose in taking him in was.
Yet the words reached his lips, only to be forcibly suppressed by him again.
Standing behind the other person might also be that unfathomably powerful Black Superman.
That was an existence he absolutely could not provoke at present.
Tom walked over carrying a steaming bowl of soup.
It carried a faint seafood fragrance, mixed with a certain familiar fresh scent.
"I boiled some seafood soup, brewed with fresh small prawns and hard-shell clams, without adding too many seasonings."
Tom gently placed the soup on the old wooden table in the living room, pushing it in front of Shane.
His finger joints were thick, and a bit of unwashable sea mud remained in the gaps between his fingers, adding even more to the realism of a fisherman.
Shane's gaze fell upon that bowl of soup, the milky-white broth dotted with a few small red prawns and white clam meat, looking quite appetizing.
He raised his eyes again to look at Tom, whose expression was open and untroubled, without the slightest evasion, and the concern in the depths of his eyes did not look feigned.
He seemed truly to be just a warmly helpful fisherman, wholeheartedly taking care of an injured stranger.
Shane lowered his head in silence for a moment, picking up the spoon placed beside the bowl.
A small mouthful of soup was sent into his mouth, the warm liquid sliding down his throat and bringing a trace of long-lost warmth.
"Thank you."
Shane put down the spoon and coughed lightly a couple of times, trying to make his voice sound a bit clearer.
He did not mention any doubts regarding his injuries or Superman, merely expressing thanks simply.
Right now he needed to observe, needing to find a foothold in this unfamiliar environment as soon as possible.
Disguising himself as a frail and grateful alien refugee was currently the safest choice.
Only in this way could he have sufficient time to understand this world and investigate whether the universe harbored any traces of Viltrum.
Tom smiled, that smile very gentle, like the sunlight by the sea.
He pulled over the chair opposite Shane and sat down, the chair legs scraping against the floor to emit a harsh sound.
His gaze looked warmly at Shane, a hint of exploration in his eyes, yet not overly direct, keeping it from making one feel averse.
"You're welcome."
Tom's voice remained deep and raspy, yet possessed a strong affinity.
"When Superman sent you over, he briefly told me a sentence, saying you came from another planet and ran into some trouble, and asked me to take good care of you."
"I see you're not very old, wandering alone in space must have caused you to suffer quite a bit—can you tell me about your situation?"
Shane's hand holding the spoon paused slightly, a trace of slight stiffness transmitting from his fingertips, but in his heart he understood that this question had finally arrived.
He had long anticipated that although the other had taken him in, he would still want to understand his origins.
"My situation?"
Shane's gaze was somewhat vacant, timely falling into reminiscence.
"Uh, for instance, which planet do you come from? Also, did something bad happen over in your hometown?"
Tom's inquiry seemed casual, like an elder caring for a junior's everyday chatter, but in truth every question carried a probing intent, piercing precisely at the critical spot.
He did not use an interrogative tone, but rather adopted a caring posture, making this probing feel less abrupt.
After all, a suddenly appearing extraterrestrial visitor was a potential threat to any planet.
And Shane happened to need to convey some useful information through Tom to Superman, and perhaps to the team potentially existing behind Superman, so as to gain their trust.
Only by gaining trust could he have the opportunity to contact Superman's technology and figure out those questions he cared about most.
He did not answer immediately, instead slowly putting down the spoon.
"I come from Viltrum."
Shane's voice carried an unnoticeably faint exhaustion and hoarseness, alongside a trace of indescribable aversion.
"That is a... planet that prides itself on battle and conquest."
Before you continue