Marvel Is Still Different

The park fell into a brief silence again.

Everyone stared, dumbfounded, at that pile of "protein powder," then looked at the black figure standing quietly there as the white light in his eyes had just faded.

A few seconds later.

"Whoa—!!!"

Deafening cheers and applause erupted like a tsunami!

"My God! He—he just looked at it with his eyes!"

"That monster just—just turned into powder?!"

"He's too strong! As expected of the invincible Superman!"

"I knew it! With Superman here, there's nothing to be afraid of!"

People rushed out from behind cover, waving their arms excitedly, their faces filled with pure worship and joy. The applause was thunderous, whistles rang out everywhere. Some people even hugged each other in excitement, celebrating their survival.

And amid this ocean of jubilation, a discordant yet somehow strangely harmonious note joined in.

Beside a park bench, a homeless man in ragged clothes, with his hair and beard tangled into a mess but eyes unusually clear, pulled out from somewhere a violin that looked quite old but well maintained. He expertly set it on his shoulder, rested his chin on the chin rest, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and then the impassioned, cheerful, celebratory prelude of Csárdás flowed smoothly from his fingers! The sound of the violin was clear and bright, instantly overwhelming part of the noise, adding an extremely artistic—and absurd—background score to this "Superman Victory Celebration."

The homeless man played with utter immersion, his body swaying gently with the rhythm, completely lost in his own musical world, as if he were not in a park where a monster attack had just taken place, but performing a solo in Vienna's Golden Hall. The shared-glory expression on his face had a very American style.

As if Superman's victory was his own victory.

"Uh—"