Chapter 1 – "The Kind of Strong We Need"
The sun peeked between the tangled electric wires and dented rooftops of Elias Cruz's neighborhood, casting long shadows across the crowded Manila streets. The air was already filled with the sound of vendors unpacking wares and the choking cough of jeepneys struggling through traffic. Barking dogs echoed from alleys. It was chaotic, loud, and imperfect, but alive.
Elias crouched on the cold tile floor of his family's cramped apartment, carefully tightening the fraying laces of his running shoes. He moved quietly, so as not to wake his father, who lay snoring in a plastic chair, arms crossed and face angled toward the creaking fan. The scent of instant coffee and papaya drifted from the kitchen.
His mother stood there with weary eyes, one hand stirring coffee, the other correcting quiz papers with red ink that had already bled through the thin paper.
"You slept maybe two hours?" Elias asked gently as he walked over, grabbing a thermos from the rack.
"Grading doesn't wait, anak," she replied with a tired smile.
He leaned down and kissed her cheek. "Neither does life. I'll get pan de sal. Be back before he wakes up."
She glanced up, noticing the thin shirt he wore. "Bring a jacket. It's still cold."
"I've got tougher skin than that," he grinned, slipping through the door.
He hit the pavement running, jogging past narrow alleyways and rusted fences, nodding at neighbors who called his name with sleepy waves. Kuya Joel, still in grease-stained overalls, adjusted a bike chain outside a repair shop. An old woman swept dust into neat piles in front of her store, and three barefoot kids played basketball with a bottle cap. Elias greeted them all by name.
He passed by the elementary school and slowed as he noticed a mural painted by the children. It showed cartoonish figures, a fireman, a nurse, a street sweeper, beneath big painted words: "Ang tunay na bayani ay naglilingkod, hindi nang-aapi."
A true hero serves, not oppresses.
He paused, placing a hand against the warm wall, feeling the paint blistering under the rising heat. Then he jogged on, the words echoing behind him.
By noon, he was in his university law classroom, hunched over his weathered notebook as the professor droned at the front. The classroom was air-conditioned, the air sharp with toner and chalk. The seats were filled with students in branded shoes and pressed blazers. Elias sat in the back, collar wrinkled, backpack scuffed, eyes sharp.
"In the Philippines, the presumption of innocence is a cornerstone of criminal law," the professor lectured. "But"
Elias raised his hand.
The professor sighed. "Yes, Mr. Cruz?"
"What good is presumption if the innocent don't have access to defense? Half the detainees in Quezon City Jail can't afford a lawyer."
"That's beyond the scope of today's lesson."
Elias leaned back in his chair and said nothing more. He didn't argue. Not here. Some truths weren't welcome in classrooms.
After class, he walked five blocks through humid streets to a cramped legal aid clinic behind a church. There, he spent hours reviewing eviction notices, listening to accusations of unpaid wages, and comforting people who could barely read their contracts. Most of them never remembered his name. That was fine. He didn't do it to be remembered. He did it because it needed to be done.
It was past six when he left the clinic, the sun already turning the sky orange behind the skyline. He turned into a familiar alleyway shortcut when he heard it, shouting.
Three teens, maybe seventeen or eighteen, had surrounded a boy no older than ten. The child clutched a plastic bag of cheap bread like it was treasure.
"You stole from my dad's store," one of the teens growled. "Little rat."
"I didn't!" the boy shouted, terrified. "I paid! Look, I!"
A slap cracked through the air.
"Hey!" Elias's voice thundered.
The teens turned toward him, annoyed, then wary.
"This your business?" the largest one asked, stepping forward.
Elias didn't flinch. "It is when cowards gang up on someone half their size."
The next few seconds weren't cinematic. They weren't graceful.
Just fists and pain.
The boy ran. Elias stayed.
When it was over, he staggered out of the alley, lip bleeding, ribs bruised, and sleeve torn. He felt every step of the walk home.
His father didn't ask questions. Just handed him a frozen pack of peas and muttered, "You're not made of steel."
His mother didn't speak at first. She simply took a wet towel, cleaned the blood, and then sat down beside him with trembling hands.
"You're not a superhero," she whispered. "You don't have to keep saving people."
Elias looked at the bandage wrapper in her hand.
"I don't do it to be a hero, Ma," he said quietly. "I do it because I couldn't live with myself if I didn't."
The next day, he was walking home from a neighbor's when it happened.
A boy, maybe six, ran out from a sidewalk vendor. His toy ball bounced into the road. He chased it blindly.
A jeepney roared around the corner. The mother screamed.
Elias dropped his groceries and sprinted.
He caught the boy in his arms and twisted to shield him.
The headlights consumed him.
There was no pain. No sound. Just white.
It wasn't empty. It was vast and warm, like floating in sunlight.
He couldn't move his body, but he felt… present.
Then came the voices.
"You had no Quirk. No gifts. Yet you still chose to act."
"He died to save someone… again."
"Not power-hungry. Not selfish. Just… right."
A glowing figure stepped forward. Human-shaped, yet shining with pulsing, controlled energy. A man with fierce, noble eyes.
"You don't know us yet," the voice said. "But we've been waiting for someone like you. Someone who acts not because they can, but because they must."
The light grew, rushing toward his chest. Elias didn't resist.
"This is not a gift," the voice said. "It is a burden. A torch. But you've already carried it your whole life without even knowing."
The world twisted.
He opened his eyes.
His lungs pulled in air as if for the first time.
He was in a small bedroom, warm sunlight poured through light curtains, illuminating a cluttered desk filled with books, old comics, and science kits. The ceiling fan spun lazily above, casting a slow-moving shadow on the wall. He sat up on the lower bunk of a wooden bed, and the blanket that slid off him was soft, clean, and unfamiliar.
Footsteps pounded in the hallway, and the door suddenly burst open.
"Get up, big bro! You promised we'd practice baseball before school!"
A boy with messy brown hair and oversized glasses rushed in. His grin was wide and dorky. He looked no older than thirteen. There was something pure in his eyes intelligent, but unsure of the world. A kid who liked science more than sports, who probably got picked on for answering too many questions in class.
Elias blinked, frozen.
The boy's name came to him before he heard it.
Peter. Peter Parker.
Still just a boy. Still untouched by tragedy. Still innocent.
He looked down at his own hands younger, stronger than before. No bruises. No calluses. No pain.
But something pulsed in his chest. A heavy, ancient power. Not magic. Not divine.
Earned. Waiting. Watching.
The boy tugged his sleeve again.
"You okay?" Peter asked. "You were mumbling in your sleep. Sounded like you were fighting someone."
Elias managed a soft smile. "Just a dream."
Peter tilted his head. "Well, Aunt May made pancakes. But she said if we're late again, we'll both walk to school."
He turned and ran off again, calling down the hall. "Hurry up! You're supposed to be the responsible one!"
Elias stood slowly.
The window looked out over suburban Queens, rows of houses, laundry on lines, cars pulling out for the morning commute. The world was so normal, so calm. And yet… he could feel it.
Change was coming. This world would need people willing to stand between chaos and innocence. It would need protectors. Heroes.
And this time, Elias Cruz had a power to match his will.
He wasn't a chosen one. He wasn't a god.
He was just a man who refused to stay down.
And now, he had a second chance.
End of Chapter 1