The apartment was silent.
It was the kind of silence Aaron preferred — complete, undisturbed, absolute. Aunt May had gone to bed hours ago, her bedroom door closed, her soft breathing a distant, steady rhythm. Peter, as usual, wasn't home yet. He had left with his usual excuse: "Library research," though Aaron knew it meant following Spider-Man rumors across Queens.
Good.
That left Aaron alone.
In the quiet of his room, Aaron Parker sat at his desk, a simple notebook open before him. The desk lamp glowed dimly, casting sharp angles across the room's minimalist order. His laptop was running a set of self-coded simulations, but his focus wasn't on the screen.
Tonight wasn't about equations on a screen.
Tonight was about him.
Aaron flexed his fingers slowly, feeling the tightness in his knuckles. It wasn't discomfort — it was density. Every fiber of his body felt… heavier. Denser. As if his muscles, his bones, even his cells had outgrown the metrics he'd always trusted.
His eyes drifted to the side.
On the desk sat a thin metal rod, once part of an old curtain rail. He picked it up with deliberate slowness, his fingers curling around its smooth surface. No emotion. No adrenaline. Just a simple, controlled grip.
The rod bent effortlessly between his fingers.
He didn't grunt. Didn't strain. The metal yielded like warm clay.
He laid the bent rod down, jotting into his notebook.
Super Strength atleast 10× human peak.
Next was reflex.
He plucked a small rubber ball from his desk drawer, tossed it gently into the air, and let it fall.
Before it dropped six inches, his hand snapped up, catching it with unerring precision.
Aaron frowned.
He hadn't even consciously moved. His body had acted, his mind merely observed. He repeated the test with variations — changing angles, speeds — but his hand never missed.
He wrote it down.
Super Reflexes — reaction time beyond measurable human threshold.
His gaze shifted to a pin lying beside the notebook. A simple sewing needle.
With a calculated press, he attempted to push the pin into his forearm.
It didn't break the skin.
He applied more pressure. The pin bent, but his skin remained unmarked.
He recorded it calmly.
Super Defense — Skin and tissue density immune to puncture at small scale.
He sat back for a moment, letting the silence settle over him again. His breathing was slow, controlled, but beneath his skin, he could feel it. A constant hum. A pulse not of his heart, but of his cells, working, refining, evolving.
He turned to a blank page in his notebook, wrote at the top in clean, sharp letters:
Current Power Status — Stage 1
Beneath it, he listed:
1. Super Strength — 10× peak human.
2. Super Senses — Hearing, sight, touch amplified tenfold; senses can be opened or muted at will.
3. Super Defense — Dense muscle and skin layers resist sharp force.
4. Super Jump — Estimated vertical leap capacity 10× human average.
5. Super Healing — Accelerated minor injury regeneration.
He underlined each point once. Clean. Precise.
Aaron leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly. The numbers, the observations—they weren't surprising. He had been feeling it for weeks. But now, written plainly, it was undeniable.
What intrigued him wasn't the strength, or the senses, or the defense. It was how these enhancements seemed to evolve on their own.
No external triggers. No emotional surges. No mystical unlocks.
It was sunlight.
He could feel it — the difference between days spent under an open sky and days spent indoors. The more sunlight he absorbed, the denser his body became. The faster his reflexes sharpened. It wasn't a theory. It was fact.
He scribbled into the margin of his notes:
Energy Source: Solar Radiation Absorption.
Not magic. Not a system. Just energy — converted and refined by his body at a rate beyond human comprehension.
He closed his eyes for a moment, running scenarios in his mind.His mind processed calculations fifty times faster than any human, dissecting every problem before the world even realized there was one.
His Super Brain wasn't something he flaunted; it was simply his default state of being. Projections, possibilities, patterns—it all unfolded in perfect clarity.
If the sunlight was the fuel, then the progression had no upper limit. There were no "stages" defined by external measures. His body evolved continuously, subtly adjusting with each exposure, each calculation.
But that also meant control was his only boundary.
His eyes opened slowly.
If I can't cap the growth, I must master the rate of adaptation.
He stood, moving to the mirror fixed to his closet door. His reflection stared back—an ordinary sixteen-year-old boy. Lean, wiry, sharp-featured. His hair was messy, his posture relaxed.
But Aaron knew better.
He pressed his fingers against the mirror's edge.
The glass creaked under the subtle force.
To the world, he was still "normal." But mirrors lied. Glass didn't reflect density. The desk didn't reflect pressure thresholds. People didn't see what they weren't trained to see.
He did.
He always had.
The apartment remained silent.
Peter was still out there, chasing someone else's problems. Aunt May was asleep, unaware that under her roof, something was evolving—something no one had asked for, and no one could undo.
Aaron wasn't afraid.
He wasn't overwhelmed.
But he was calculating.
If his body was designed to refine itself endlessly through solar absorption, then every moment he existed became a race—between control and escalation.
He wouldn't lose that race.
He sat back at his desk, flipping to a fresh page.
At the top, he wrote:
Objectives:
1. Map Sunlight Absorption Thresholds.
2. Develop Reflexive Control Mechanisms.
3. Maintain Appearance of Normalcy.
Three steps. Simple. Clean.
Because that's what Aaron did. He solved problems. And right now, his own body was the most important equation on the board.
His fingers drummed against the table.
He couldn't afford Peter's heart-driven impulsiveness.
He couldn't afford May's concern.
This was his problem.
And he would solve it alone.
As the clock struck midnight, Aaron closed his notebook. He stood, stretching casually, though his muscles required no release. His body no longer adhered to mundane fatigue. His mind was sharp, his senses could pierce through walls if he allowed them to.
But he wouldn't.
Control was the key.
As he turned off the desk lamp, his reflection caught his eye one last time. The boy in the mirror didn't glow. Didn't radiate power. He looked human.
Aaron smirked faintly.
That's the point.
He would remain unseen. Unbothered.
But he would be ready.