Clark woke up to the sound of someone aggressively trying to negotiate with a sliding door. The door rattled. The frame squeaked. A voice hissed, “Shhh, shhh, it’s fine,” as if sound itself could be reasoned with. Another voice—older, sharper—snapped back, “If you break it, you’re paying for it, Koji-san.” Clark opened his eyes to a ceiling that was not the Daily Planet’s, not his apartment’s, not the Fortress of Solitude’s crystalline nothingness. It was a low, beige ceiling with a faint water stain shaped like a crab. The crab stared back at him like it had opinions.

  He tried to sit up. His body responded with a clear and firm policy statement: absolutely not. Every muscle from his shoulder to his lower back lit up in protest. Clark made a sound that was meant to be a dignified grunt and came out as something closer to a wounded accordion. The door stopped rattling. Footsteps hurried in. Koji’s face appeared at the edge of Clark’s vision, looming like an angry moon. “You’re awake,” Koji said, equal parts relief and irritation. “Good. Don’t do that again.” Clark blinked. “Do what?” Koji stared at him like he’d just asked what rice was. “Faint. In front of everyone. Like a dramatic actor.” Clark tried to swallow and discovered his throat was also participating in the protest. “I… didn’t mean to,” he rasped. Koji snorted. “No one faints on purpose, Takumi.”

  Takumi. The name landed again—still wrong, still heavy, still attached to him like a label stuck to the wrong suitcase. Clark turned his head slightly and found the older woman sitting nearby, hands clasped in her lap. His—Takumi’s—mother. Her eyes were red like she’d been worrying hard enough to bruise herself from the inside. The moment Clark looked at her, her expression softened in a way that made something in his chest twist. “Thank goodness,” she whispered, and then she reached out, careful, as if he might crumble. Her fingers touched his forehead. “You’re burning up.” Clark, automatically, tried to reassure her. The habit was old and deep and honest. “I’m okay,” he said, then immediately regretted it because his voice was too weak to carry the lie. She didn’t believe him anyway. Mothers never did.

  A third person entered behind Koji: a nurse in a pale uniform with her hair neatly pinned back, holding a clipboard like it was both shield and weapon. She looked at Clark and smiled with professional calm. “Shibata Takumi-san?” she asked. Clark’s brain caught on the surname like a rope. Shibata. Takumi Shibata. The nurse checked something. “You scared everyone,” she continued, tone gentle but not indulgent. “Heat exhaustion, dehydration, and you strained your shoulder. You’re lucky you didn’t dislocate it.” Clark processed the words in order: heat exhaustion, dehydration, strained shoulder, lucky. Lucky. Superman had been called a lot of things, but he wasn’t used to “lucky” meaning “you didn’t permanently ruin your arm by saving a child from a canal.” He managed a careful nod. The nurse’s eyes narrowed a fraction, like she had filed away the fact that he moved like someone trying on a body for the first time. “We’ll keep you here a little longer,” she said. “Drink. Rest. And if you feel dizzy again, you tell us before you run outside like you’re trying to win a marathon.” Koji coughed into his hand like he was choking down laughter. Clark, because the universe loved timing, tried to sit up again. His body responded by stabbing him politely. Clark froze, then lowered himself back down like he’d planned it. “Understood,” he said with the solemnity of a man signing an international treaty.

  ◆

  The nurse left, sliding the door shut with an efficiency that suggested she did not trust Koji around architecture. Silence followed—an awkward, crowded silence where three people all stared at Clark like he was a familiar painting that had been slightly repainted overnight. Koji crossed his arms. Takumi’s mother—Mrs. Shibata, Clark decided—looked between them, then leaned forward. “Takumi,” she said softly, and the softness was worse than anger. “What happened?” Clark felt the question like a weight set gently on his chest. Not heavy enough to crush him, but heavy enough that he couldn’t ignore it. The truth rose in him like a tidal wave: I’m not him. I don’t know where he is. I don’t know if he’s alive. I don’t know if this is a curse or a gift or a mistake. Clark swallowed. “I… I’m not sure,” he said, choosing the smallest lie that could still fit inside reality. “I remember the field. Then… nothing.” Koji snorted. “You ‘remember the field.’ Great. Very helpful.” Mrs. Shibata shot him a look that could have peeled paint. Koji immediately found something fascinating about the floor.

  Mrs. Shibata’s hands tightened in her lap. “You’ve been working too hard,” she said, and Clark heard something behind it—fear, guilt, exhaustion. “You’ve been pushing yourself and pushing yourself, and you won’t tell me anything.” Clark’s throat tightened. He didn’t know what the original Takumi had been like, but he could see the outline of it in her words: a man carrying too much, saying too little. Clark wanted to fix it. He wanted to fix everything. That was the problem. “I’m sorry,” he said, and it was the most honest thing he could offer. Her eyes flickered. For a second, she looked like she didn’t know whether to be comforted or terrified by the apology.

  Koji cleared his throat, as if deciding to contribute something useful for once. “The clinic said you’re on bed rest,” he announced. “Which means you’re not going to the fields today.” Mrs. Shibata’s face tightened. “We can’t afford—” Koji held up a hand. “I know. I know. But you also can’t afford him collapsing into the canal again.” Clark tried to sit up, forgot pain existed, and immediately remembered. He winced. Koji pointed at him triumphantly. “See? That.” Clark glared weakly. “I didn’t collapse into the canal,” he said. “I collapsed after the canal.” Koji stared. Then, somehow, he smiled. “Oh good,” he said. “He’s joking again. Maybe he’ll survive.”

  Mrs. Shibata stood carefully, smoothing her apron as if doing so could smooth the world. “I’ll go home and bring your phone,” she said. “And your wallet. You came out without anything, you know.” Clark’s stomach dropped. Phone. Wallet. Identity. Evidence of a life he hadn’t lived. That was either a lifeline or a disaster. “Thank you,” Clark said, and meant it. She hesitated, then reached out and lightly squeezed his hand. The touch was small, warm, and devastating. “Don’t scare me,” she whispered. Clark didn’t know how to answer that, so he did the only thing he had ever been good at. He tried. “I won’t,” he said, and the promise felt like it weighed as much as the sky.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  After she left, Koji leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Okay,” he said, eyes sharp now. “Real talk. You’re acting weird.” Clark gave him a tired look. “I fainted,” Clark said. “I’m allowed to be weird.” Koji’s eyebrow twitched. “You’re ‘allowed’ to be weird in the normal ways. Not the ‘forgot where you are’ ways.” Clark’s mind raced for a safer path. “I’m… disoriented,” he offered. Koji nodded slowly, then surprised Clark by softening. “You’ve been under a lot,” Koji admitted. “Everyone knows that. But if you’re hiding something…” He trailed off. Clark held his gaze. Koji sighed. “Just—don’t do anything stupid, okay?” Clark stared at him. “Koji-san,” he said, voice dry. “I ran toward a canal in sandals and fainted in front of a small crowd.” Koji grimaced. “Don’t do anything stupider.” Clark considered that. “I’ll try,” he said solemnly. Koji rubbed his face like he regretted knowing any humans at all.

  ◆

  When Mrs. Shibata returned, she brought the phone, the wallet, and a plastic bag with an electrolyte drink that looked like it was scientifically engineered to taste like resignation. Clark watched her place the items on the small table beside the futon. She hovered. “If you need anything, call,” she said, then left again with Koji, who promised—loudly—that he would “check on the irrigation gate” and not, in fact, “interrogate Takumi like a suspicious police detective.” The door slid shut. The crab stain on the ceiling resumed its silent judgment.

  Clark stared at the phone. Modern. Slightly scuffed. He reached for it carefully, as if it might explode into consequences. His thumb found the power button. The screen lit up. A lock screen photo appeared: Takumi—this body—standing in the rice field with an older woman and a younger man (Koji, probably) at a festival, all squinting into sunlight. Takumi’s smile was small and tired, like he didn’t trust happiness to stay. Mrs. Shibata looked proud anyway, the kind of pride that hurt because it was earned through worry.

  Clark’s chest tightened. This wasn’t just a body. It was someone’s son. Someone’s neighbor. Someone’s… person.

  The phone unlocked with a fingerprint without hesitation. Clark froze. The device accepted him. As if saying, yes, you are him. Clark exhaled slowly and opened the messages app. Names and threads scrolled by. Family. Farmers’ co-op. A group chat titled “Harvest Team ??” that already contained fourteen unread messages and at least three stickers that looked aggressively cheerful. Clark tapped the latest. The screen filled with frantic updates: who was covering which field, who was bringing lunch, someone complaining about Koji’s driving, someone posting a photo of Clark—Takumi—being hauled away by Koji with the caption: “HE DID IT AGAIN ??” Clark closed his eyes. Somewhere, in a cosmic office, a deity was laughing.

  He opened the wallet next. It was worn, stuffed with receipts like it had been trying to physically contain the concept of “problems.” Inside was an ID card with Takumi Shibata’s name, an address, and a face that matched the mirror he hadn’t dared to look into yet. There was also a folded letter stamped in red ink: FINAL NOTICE. Clark unfolded it carefully. His eyes moved over numbers and dates. Payment overdue. Interest. Deadline. The kind of paperwork Lex Luthor would have called “just business,” except here it wasn’t a villainous monologue. It was a quiet guillotine hanging over a family.

  Clark’s stomach sank. This was the enemy now. Not a monster. Not an alien. A calendar.

  He sat back, and his shoulder reminded him that he had, in fact, become a fragile bag of bones with optimism. Clark stared at the ceiling crab and whispered, “Okay,” like he could negotiate with reality. “No powers,” he murmured. “No allies. New name. Debt. And I’m… on bed rest.” He paused, thinking. “Bed rest is my kryptonite,” he decided.

  He tried, because old habits died hard, to test something. Anything. He held out a hand, stared at it with intense focus, and attempted to… do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t thinking about it. Nothing happened. He frowned, tried again, and strained so hard that his shoulder flared with pain and he hissed through his teeth. “Amazing,” he muttered. “I can’t even be dramatic correctly.” He looked around to make sure no one had seen him attempt to summon nonexistent super strength like an idiot in a clinic room. The crab stain, as always, offered no comment.

  Clark forced himself to breathe and think like Clark Kent, reporter, not Superman, symbol. What were the facts? He was Takumi Shibata now, in a rural village on an Earth that had no superpowers. The body had relationships, responsibilities, history, and debt. He had saved a girl named Yui and fainted. He had a mother who loved him and a friend—Koji—who cared in the way people cared when they didn’t know how to say it nicely. He had a harvest schedule he didn’t understand yet, and a world that would not forgive him for being confused.

  Clark stared at the FINAL NOTICE again. Then he looked at the phone, at the co-op chat, at the picture of Takumi’s tired smile. He made a decision, the way he always did: not with certainty, but with commitment. “All right,” he whispered. “If I’m here, I’m here. I can’t lift mountains.” He paused, then added, very quietly, “But I can carry today.”

  The phone buzzed in his hand. An incoming call. The screen flashed a name he didn’t recognize, but the label beneath it made Clark’s blood run cold even without super hearing.

  LAND BROKER — KAWASAKI OFFICE.

  Clark stared at the screen like it was a bomb with a polite ringtone. The call kept vibrating, insistent, patient. Businesslike.

  Clark swallowed. He couldn’t punch the problem. He couldn’t fly away from it. He couldn’t even stand up without wincing.

  So he did the only thing left.

  He answered.

  “Shibata Takumi speaking,” Clark said, voice steady on a prayer, “How can I help you?”

  On the other end, a man’s voice smiled without warmth. “Takumi-san,” the voice said, smooth as oil on water. “I heard you had a little incident today. How unfortunate. I was just calling to remind you about your deadline. We can still make this easy… if you’re willing to be reasonable.”

  Clark stared at the crab stain on the ceiling, felt the weight of a borrowed life settle onto his shoulders, and realized the first real fight on this Earth wasn’t going to involve fists at all.