Clark learned two important facts in the first ten minutes after leaving the clinic. First: rural Japanese grandmothers could generate guilt with the efficiency of a nuclear reactor. Second: “bed rest” was not a rule so much as a polite suggestion everyone ignored the moment inconvenience appeared.

  He was back at the Shibata house—Takumi’s house—sitting on a cushion like a fragile artifact while Mrs. Shibata hovered within arm’s reach, armed with a damp towel, electrolyte drinks, and the kind of watchful stare that said, If you fall over again, I will personally haunt your spirit into the afterlife. Clark tried to smile reassuringly and accidentally smiled too wide, which immediately made her narrow her eyes as if he’d just admitted to tax fraud.

  “Takumi,” she said, placing a bowl of rice porridge in front of him. “Eat slowly. Slowly.” She emphasized the word the way people emphasized “don’t sprint into canals.” Clark nodded with solemn seriousness, then took a bite and realized porridge could taste like both comfort and consequence. “It’s good,” he said honestly. “Thank you.” Mrs. Shibata’s expression softened—then immediately hardened again because she was a professional, and professionals did not relax.

  Koji, meanwhile, had sprawled near the doorway like a guard dog who pretended he wasn’t guarding anything. He was scrolling on his phone with the exaggerated casualness of a man who very much wanted to listen to every syllable. “The whole town’s talking,” Koji announced without looking up. “You’re trending.” Clark blinked. “I’m what.” Koji flicked his eyes up. “Not online. Here. ‘Takumi nearly died saving Yui.’ ‘Takumi is secretly a hero.’ ‘Takumi is an idiot.’ Lots of opinions.” Clark exhaled. “That’s… normal,” he said, then realized how much that sounded like he was comforting himself. Koji snorted. “Normal is you complaining about fertilizer prices. Not you doing a dramatic rescue and fainting like a soap opera lead.” Clark’s mouth twitched. “I didn’t faint for dramatic effect,” he said. Koji leaned closer, dead serious. “Then faint less dramatically.”

  Mrs. Shibata pointed her spoon at Koji like a weapon. “Koji-san,” she said sweetly, “If you keep teasing him, you will be eating porridge too. Without salt.” Koji visibly recoiled. “That’s cruel,” he whispered, and Clark filed it away: Koji feared Mrs. Shibata more than floods, debt, or social shame. Useful.

  Clark finished eating, slowly, because he valued his continued existence. Then he tried to stand and discovered his body still hadn’t forgiven him for yesterday’s sprinting. His shoulder twinged. His lower back complained. His legs, which had apparently been built in a different era by different engineers, made a soft cracking noise that sounded like a small fire starting. Koji watched with open satisfaction. “Listen,” Koji said, “I’m not saying you’re old. I’m just saying the sound effects are convincing.”

  Clark steadied himself and looked toward the window. Outside, the sun was bright and high. Somewhere beyond the houses, the rice fields waited. And in Clark’s mind, the same old impulse rose—I should be there. I should be doing something. It had been the rule of his entire life: if you can help, you do. But here, helping was not about lifting steel beams. It was about showing up on time, following the rhythm, not breaking social bonds with well-intentioned bulldozing.

  Mrs. Shibata’s voice cut gently through his thoughts. “You can’t go to the fields today,” she said, as if she had heard the entire internal monologue. Clark opened his mouth to protest and then stopped. Because the protest was reflex, not strategy. He didn’t know this life well enough yet to fight it. “Okay,” he said carefully. Mrs. Shibata’s eyes widened slightly, like she’d expected a battle. “Okay?” she repeated suspiciously. Clark nodded. “Okay,” he said again, and tried not to sound like a man agreeing to a peace treaty he didn’t fully understand.

  Koji rose. “Good,” he said, clapping his hands together. “Then you can do something useful that doesn’t involve drowning.” Mrs. Shibata’s eyes snapped to him. “Koji-san.” Koji held up both hands in surrender. “What? I’m being supportive.” He pointed at Clark. “He needs to learn the basics. He’s behind.” Mrs. Shibata frowned. “Behind?” Koji’s expression shifted—something like guilt flickering under the annoyance. “The co-op meeting is today,” he said. “He can at least listen.”

  Clark’s stomach tightened. A meeting meant people. People meant eyes. Eyes meant someone noticing the tiny wrongnesses: the way he carried himself, the way he reacted, the way he paused too long before choosing words. In Metropolis, he had hid an alien identity behind glasses and posture. Here, he was hiding… an entire person.

  Still, the co-op meeting was also information. And information was how you saved people when you couldn’t punch the problem.

  Clark nodded. “I’ll go,” he said. Mrs. Shibata immediately began preparing a bag of water and snacks as if the meeting might spontaneously turn into a war zone. Koji grinned like he’d won a bet.

  ◆

  The community center smelled like old wood, tea, and paperwork. Clark had fought aliens. He had stared down cosmic entities. And yet nothing made him feel more exposed than walking into a room full of ordinary people who all knew “him” and expected him to be himself.

  Heads turned as he entered. Conversations dipped. Then rose again, louder, like people were trying to prove they weren’t staring.

  “Takumi!” a man called, smiling wide. “You’re alive!” “Barely,” Koji said under his breath. Clark shot him a look. The man approached anyway and bowed. Clark bowed back—slightly too deep—because the body’s memory gave him the motion but not the calibration. He straightened and realized he’d just bowed like someone apologizing for a national incident.

  The man laughed warmly. “We heard about Yui-chan. Good job.” His smile faltered. “But don’t scare us like that again, yeah? We can’t afford to lose workers.” Clark nodded, and the serious part of him winced at the blunt practicality. Then he remembered: this isn’t cruelty. This is survival. “Understood,” Clark said. He meant it.

  They found seats. Koji plopped down like he owned the place. Clark sat carefully, trying to mimic the casual posture of a rural farmer who had attended a hundred of these meetings, not a displaced alien trying to pass as one. A woman at the front began distributing papers. Clark took his and stared at it, heart sinking.

  Because it was a handout full of charts and schedules and numbers and kanji that were technically readable but arranged in a way that made his brain feel like it was trying to solve a crossword puzzle while jogging.

  Koji leaned over and whispered, “Don’t look like you’re doing math. It makes people nervous.” Clark whispered back, “I am doing math.” Koji nodded gravely. “Then suffer quietly.”

  The meeting began. Topics bounced from irrigation timing to pest control to shared equipment scheduling to something called “subsidy forms” that sounded like the villain in a horror movie. Clark listened hard. This was the “language of the fields” Koji had mentioned—not just Japanese words, but the social code behind them: who spoke first, who deferred, who pretended not to be angry while absolutely being angry. It was politics, but in work gloves.

  At one point, an older farmer raised his hand. “We still haven’t settled the boundary issue near the canal,” he said, voice calm but tight. “Last week’s water distribution favored the upper plots.” Murmurs. A younger man frowned. “That’s not true,” he said quickly. “The gate sticks. Everyone knows it sticks.” The older farmer’s jaw flexed. “Then fix it,” he said, as if the solution was as easy as declaring it.

  Clark’s mind lit up. A stuck gate. A distribution problem. A solvable thing. He leaned forward, already forming a plan—tools, leverage, inspection, maybe a new hinge system. He lifted his hand.

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  Koji immediately grabbed his wrist under the table and squeezed like a vice. Clark froze. Koji didn’t look at him. He smiled at the front like he was listening politely, and whispered through his teeth, “No.”

  Clark whispered back, “It’s a stuck gate. I can fix it.” Koji’s smile widened, the kind you wore when you were trying not to kill your friend in public. “You can’t even open a water bottle without a victory speech,” Koji whispered. “You’re not volunteering to fix anything in front of Old Man Hoshino unless you want him to adopt you out of spite.”

  Clark blinked. “Adopt me—” Koji’s grip tightened. “Takumi,” Koji hissed softly, still smiling, “you don’t offer solutions before the elders finish complaining. It’s… a ritual.” Clark stared. “That’s inefficient,” he whispered. Koji’s eyes crinkled. “Welcome to humanity.”

  Clark sat back, teeth clenched, and forced himself to observe instead of act. It felt wrong in his bones. In Metropolis, delay meant death. Here, delay meant social cohesion. The stakes were different, but they were still stakes.

  The discussion continued. A woman near the front mentioned fertilizer costs rising again. Groans. Someone joked darkly, “At this rate, we’ll be paying rice to grow rice.” Laughter, tired and real. Clark found himself laughing too, not because it was funny-funny, but because humor was how people carried weight without breaking.

  Then the topic shifted. A man in a clean shirt—too clean—stood and cleared his throat. “We’ve also been approached,” he said, voice smooth, “by representatives offering assistance with financial burdens for certain families. Options that could be beneficial if anyone is struggling.”

  Clark’s chest tightened. He felt Koji stiffen beside him.

  The clean-shirt man smiled like he was offering candy. “Of course, it’s voluntary,” he continued. “But with harvest unpredictability, it might be wise to consider secure arrangements.”

  Clark’s mind flashed to the call: LAND BROKER — KAWASAKI OFFICE. The voice that smiled without warmth. The phrase: be reasonable.

  Mrs. Shibata’s worried eyes from the clinic. The FINAL NOTICE. The guillotine calendar.

  Clark raised his hand again, slower this time.

  Koji grabbed his wrist again, faster.

  Clark looked at him.

  Koji leaned closer and whispered, “No speeches.”

  Clark whispered back, “I’m not making a speech.”

  Koji’s brow furrowed. “Then what are you doing?”

  Clark’s voice stayed low, steady. “Asking a question.”

  Koji hesitated, like his internal rulebook couldn’t find a clear section for “Takumi asking normal questions without accidentally starting a feud.” Finally, Koji loosened his grip by a millimeter. Clark took that as permission and stood.

  The room quieted slightly—not fully, but enough that Clark felt every eye touch him.

  He bowed, correctly this time—small, respectful, not apologetic-for-existing. “Excuse me,” Clark said. “What kind of assistance? And what does it require in return?” His tone was calm. Reporter-calm. Superman-calm. The calm that said, I’m not attacking you, but I am absolutely not letting you hide behind vague words.

  The clean-shirt man’s smile didn’t change, but something in his eyes sharpened. “Just standard agreements,” he said lightly. “Land use rights. Long-term security. It prevents… unfortunate incidents.” He chuckled as if debt was a funny story.

  Clark’s stomach turned. Koji muttered, “Told you,” like he was watching a man walk toward a trap.

  Clark nodded slowly. “And if someone doesn’t agree?” he asked.

  The clean-shirt man’s smile widened half a degree. “Then they keep their burdens,” he said. “We can’t help everyone who refuses help.”

  Clark met his gaze. He wanted, for one reckless second, to stand up and tell the room exactly what predation looked like. To name it. To burn it under sunlight.

  But sunlight wasn’t inside him anymore.

  So he did what he could.

  He bowed again. “Thank you for clarifying,” Clark said, and sat down.

  Koji leaned in. “That,” Koji whispered, “was a speech.”

  Clark whispered back, “It was four sentences.”

  Koji’s eyes narrowed. “That’s how it starts.”

  ◆

  After the meeting, people drifted out in clusters, talking quietly. A few approached Clark, offering thanks for saving Yui. One older woman pressed a bag of tomatoes into his hands like it was a medal. Clark accepted with a grateful bow and immediately panicked because he didn’t know the correct number of bows for Tomato Honor Ceremony. Koji watched him, amused. “If you bow any deeper,” Koji said, “you’ll plant yourself.”

  Then Yui’s father approached. He was the man who’d been kneeling by the canal, hands shaking. He bowed so deeply his spine might have filed a complaint. “Shibata-san,” he said, voice thick, “thank you. Really. My daughter…” His eyes shone. “I don’t know what I would have done.”

  Clark’s chest tightened in a familiar way—heavy, warm, painful. He reached out instinctively, then stopped himself. He had to be careful with touch here. He settled for a small bow and a steady voice. “She’s safe,” Clark said. “That’s what matters.”

  Yui’s father nodded hard. “Still,” he insisted, “please accept this.” He offered a small envelope.

  Clark’s heart lurched. Money? A reward? His instincts flared. In his old life, he avoided personal gain from rescues like it was kryptonite. But here, refusing might be an insult. Accepting might be necessary. Clark’s brain ran through the options too slowly.

  Koji swooped in like a veteran of social landmines. “He can’t take that,” Koji said quickly, laughing as if the idea was ridiculous. “Takumi is too stubborn. But—” Koji grabbed the envelope and shoved it back gently. “Bring rice balls later. He’ll accept food. He’s weak.”

  Clark shot Koji a look. Weak? Koji mouthed, You fainted.

  Yui’s father looked relieved, like he’d been given a rule he could follow. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll bring something.” He bowed again and left.

  Clark exhaled. “Thank you,” he murmured to Koji.

  Koji shrugged. “You’re welcome,” he said, then smirked. “Try not to cause an international incident with gratitude.”

  As they walked back toward the Shibata house, Clark’s arms full of tomatoes and paperwork, Koji talked like he always did when he didn’t want silence to become too serious. “Anyway,” Koji said, “everyone thinks you got hit on the head and became… better.” Clark blinked. “Better?” Koji snorted. “Like, ‘Takumi is suddenly polite.’ ‘Takumi smiled.’ ‘Takumi asked a question without swearing.’ People are terrified.” Clark stared. “That’s… not reassuring.” Koji grinned. “It’s hilarious.”

  Clark’s amusement faded as they neared the canal. He looked at the water, clear and shallow, and remembered the girl’s wrist in his hand. The tremor in his arm. The panic when his strength wasn’t enough.

  For the first time since waking up in this body, the fear hit him cleanly: I can’t guarantee outcomes anymore. He couldn’t hear trouble coming. He couldn’t arrive in time. He couldn’t catch the world when it fell.

  Koji glanced sideways at him, catching the shift. “Hey,” Koji said, quieter. “You did good yesterday.” Clark didn’t answer immediately. He watched sunlight ripple on water like broken glass. “I did what I could,” Clark said. Koji nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s the job.”

  Clark looked down at the papers from the meeting. Numbers. Schedules. Costs. And tucked among them, a glossy pamphlet someone had “helpfully” slipped into the stack—clean fonts, smiling stock photos, promises of relief. At the bottom was a familiar logo and a phone number he recognized from the call.

  LAND CONSULTATION — KAWASAKI OFFICE.

  Clark’s jaw tightened. The enemy wasn’t a monster. It was a smile and a signature line.

  Koji noticed the pamphlet. His expression darkened. “Throw that away,” he said.

  Clark folded it neatly instead. Koji stared. “Takumi,” Koji warned, “why are you keeping—”

  “Evidence,” Clark said calmly.

  Koji blinked. “Evidence of what?”

  Clark looked up at the sky—bright, ordinary, uncaring—and felt the weight of Takumi’s life settle a little more firmly onto his shoulders. “Evidence,” Clark repeated, “that someone is trying to make this village ‘reasonable.’”

  Koji stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. “Okay,” Koji said at last, voice cautious. “Now you’re acting like you’re about to pick a fight.” Clark looked at the pamphlet again. “I’m not picking a fight,” Clark said softly. “I’m learning the rules.”

  Koji muttered, “That’s worse.”

  Clark’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out. A new message flashed on the screen from an unknown number.

  Takumi Shibata-san. We should talk. Today. Alone.

  Below it, a location pin dropped like a stone.

  Clark stared at it. Koji leaned in, read it, and immediately swore. “No,” Koji said. “No, no, no. Absolutely not. Alone is how people get trapped.”

  Clark’s shoulder ached. His body still felt fragile. His world still felt too quiet.

  But Clark also knew something he hadn’t known yesterday: in this world, the fight started with meetings, paperwork, and private “reasonable” conversations.

  He slipped the phone into his pocket. “I’ll be careful,” Clark said.

  Koji grabbed his sleeve. “Takumi,” Koji snapped, voice suddenly sharp, “you don’t even know what careful looks like anymore.”

  Clark met his eyes. “Then I’ll learn,” Clark said.

  Koji’s grip tightened, then loosened, frustration warring with fear. “Fine,” Koji said through his teeth. “But if you go, I’m going too.”

  Clark hesitated. He wanted to protect Koji from danger. He also couldn’t afford to face this alone.

  So he nodded once. “Okay,” Clark said.

  Koji exhaled like a man who had just agreed to wrestle a bear in a business suit. “Great,” Koji muttered. “Harvest week. Debt. Secret meetings. And you’re still wearing sandals.”

  Clark glanced down at his feet and, despite everything, felt a flicker of humor. “I’ll buy shoes,” he promised.

  Koji stared at him like he’d announced he was moving to the moon. “Now that,” Koji said, “is the most suspicious thing you’ve said all day.”