The windmill.
Dio was curled up in the corner of the topmost loft, his secret hideout. He'd set it up to mimic Clark's, a place only he knew about. A few tattered books, a flashlight, some moldy biscuits, and walls covered in charcoal doodles—most of them chibi versions of Clark with words like "idiot" and "dumbass" scrawled nearby.
The boy hugged his knees, his messy blond hair falling over his eyes. A burning pain radiated from the star-shaped birthmark on his shoulder, and his fingers trembled uncontrollably. That wild, uncontrollable power, that name etched deep in his memory, called out instinctively. Dio replayed the moment Clark's shocked face flew backward from his punch.
Honestly? It felt good.
Sure, he'd only meant to mess with that goody-two-shoes, but when his fist actually connected with Clark… "Damn it!" Stone chips flew as his knuckles grazed the wall, blood trickling from the scrapes. But the sting was nothing compared to the chaos in his heart.
What scared him most wasn't the loss of control—it was the look in Locke's eyes. Shock. Disappointment. "Dad must think I'm a monster," Dio muttered, burying his face in his arms, his throat tightening.
He thought of Clark's confused eyes, how he didn't even try to dodge. With Clark's reflexes, how could he not have avoided it? There was only one explanation: he couldn't see it. The world Dio saw was one only a monster like him could perceive.
He remembered Locke's patient voice teaching him to read, those rough but warm hands when he was sick, and just this morning, Locke ruffling his hair with a grin, praising his physics homework. Now, it was all ruined. He'd ruined it.
Creak!
The windmill's weathered blades groaned in the breeze, casting shifting shadows. A noise outside made Dio freeze. "The World!" he shouted, and the air behind him rippled. A golden figure materialized, standing like a guardian.
But… no one was there.
Dio slumped, a mix of relief and disappointment washing over him. He wished it was Locke coming to chew him out, or even Clark with Uncle Jonathan to scold him. Anything would be better than this.
As expected, Dio was the least needed in this family. He wasn't strong like Clark, couldn't cook like Aunt Martha, didn't know machinery like Uncle Jonathan, and couldn't run a farm like Dad. "Jerks! They're all jerks!" he yelled. "I'll become a villain!"
At eight years old, Dio was going dark.
"Muda!" he shouted, mimicking a line from Vampire Hunter D. He summoned The World and set it to… grind flour. "Muda! Muda! Muda!"
His childish cries echoed in the abandoned windmill as the golden figure obeyed, pounding furiously. Boom! Boom! Boom! Under The World's relentless strikes, the millstone—normally turned by wind—spun on its own. Flour sprayed like snow, turning the air white.
Cough, cough. Dio's eyes watered from the dust, but he laughed harder, standing in the center of the flour storm. His blond hair and shirt were caked white, like he'd crawled out of a flour bin. "Not enough! Not enough!" He leaped onto the millstone, commanding The World to slam a fist into the driveshaft. With a screech of twisting metal, the millstone spun wildly, roaring like it was on its last legs.
"Hahaha! Wryyyyy!" Dio spread his arms for balance atop the shaking millstone. Flour erupted like a volcano, engulfing him. In that moment, he wasn't the good kid pretending to fit in, or the jealous little brother. He was Dio, the one-of-a-kind master of a mysterious power. "Muda! Muda! Muda! Muda! Muda!"
Boom!
With one final punch, the rickety windmill gave way. The millstone collapsed with a deafening crash, sending a wave of flour several feet high. As the dust settled, Dio sat atop the rubble, his golden bangs framing glowing red eyes. Breathing heavily, he stared at his flour-covered hands, noticing the burning in his star-shaped birthmark had stopped.
"Hmph." He smirked, ready to climb out of the wreckage. He'd been bad—really bad—using his powers to lash out at Dad. Would a bad kid like him even get into heaven? Feeling a pang of guilt, he wondered if he should apologize to Clark first.
Sigh.
A sudden sigh made Dio freeze. He looked up to see a familiar figure perched on a broken beam at the top of the windmill, holding his Basic Physics textbook, staring down at him through the falling flour.
Silence.
Long, heavy silence.
Finally, Locke wiped flour off his face and said dryly, "Well, at least we won't need to buy flour tonight."
Dio blinked, then burst out laughing—a genuine, mischievous eight-year-old's laugh, no pretense or scheming. But the laughter turned to tears, his eyes reddening.
"We need to talk," Locke said.
Dio's throat tightened. He wanted to yell "Get lost!" or "Leave me alone!" or even summon that golden monster to drive Locke away. But instead, the eight-year-old bit his lip and nodded.
"Before we do," Locke said, crouching to meet Dio's eyes, "let's figure out what that yellow thing is."
Dio gave a weak laugh. "As you can see, dear old Dad, I'm not exactly a normal kid, just like Clark."
"You think I don't know that?" Locke said with a wry smile. "Dio, why do you think I know it's yellow?"
Dio froze. "Because The World is yellow—"
"Exactly," Locke cut in, his voice soft. "Star Platinum!"
A purple figure materialized behind him. Its outline, muscles, even the sharp lines around its eyes were nearly identical to The World, save for the color and hair. "This is a Stand," Locke said. "And we… we're Stand users."
Dio's eyes widened, staring at the purple figure. The same energy pulsed between them in the dim windmill, flour still drifting down, catching on his trembling eyelashes. His voice cracked with excitement. "So I'm really your—"
The word caught in his throat. Eight years of questions about his origins, his blond hair, his red eyes—all of it surged into burning hope. If they had the same powers, what could that overgrown Clark even compete with?
Seeing Dio's blazing red eyes, Locke gave a bittersweet smile, brushing flour from his hair. "I'd love to say yes," he said, pausing to lightly tap Dio's forehead. "But I can't lie to you, Dio."