In the days that followed, the world seemed the same — but Ryan saw it with different eyes.
The mornings were still marked by the smell of pancakes and the soft sound of Becca's voice calling him for breakfast. The sun still poured through the kitchen window, painting the wooden floor golden. But now, every detail carried a new weight. A meaning he could only understand because he remembered.
He remembered the other world.
The old life.
The screens, the news, the episodes — the scenes where Becca died, where Homelander found out everything.
And above all, he remembered the pain of watching it all as a spectator… and now being inside that story.
Becca sensed something different, though she didn't know how to describe it.
"You've been quieter lately, sweetheart," she remarked one morning, pouring orange juice. "Is everything okay ?"
Ryan lifted his gaze from his plate. His big, pure blue eyes seemed to hesitate. He smiled, but it was a practiced smile — the kind learned by someone who hid too many thoughts behind a simple expression.
"I'm just… thinking," he replied.
"Thinking about what ?"
He looked out the window, seeing the backyard, the swing, the white fence surrounding that small refuge.
"About how big the world is," he finally said.
Becca chuckled softly, amused by her son's sudden maturity. She approached and ruffled his blond hair.
"Good thing it's big, right ? That way we have room to make lots of friends."
Ryan returned the smile, but his chest tightened.
He knew exactly what she was trying to do — encourage him, make him feel free. But he also knew how much that freedom was an illusion. That house, that yard, that peaceful neighborhood… everything was a cage.
He remembered: Vought kept her hidden.
And he knew what would happen when Homelander discovered the truth.
In the days that followed, Ryan began to observe everything more closely. The disguised cameras on the streetlight. The Vought agents pretending to be gardeners or phone technicians. The way Becca always glanced at the fence before letting him play in the yard — that fear masked by a smile.
Now he understood.
And it tore him apart inside.
At night, while Becca read bedtime stories, he watched her face illuminated by the lamp's soft glow. Her warm voice was real — so real it seemed impossible to think he could one day lose her.
"Mom…" he murmured one night.
"Yes, honey ?" she replied, marking the page and turning toward him.
"Do you… think my dad is a good person ?"
The question caught Becca off guard. She froze for a moment. A faint tremor passed through her expression before she composed herself.
"Why do you ask ?"
Ryan lowered his gaze.
"I just… thought that if he's my father, maybe I should know."
Becca sighed softly, sadness flickering in her eyes.
"Not everyone who brings us into this world deserves to be part of it, love," she answered gently. "What matters is who chooses to stay."
Ryan nodded slowly, his heart tightening.
She really believes that, he thought. She still tries to protect him, even though she hates him, just so she won't poison me with the same hate.
There was something deeply human and tragic in that.
That night, after she left the room, Ryan lay in silence, staring at the ceiling. The distant sound of wind passing through the trees felt like a constant reminder that time was moving — and the inevitable was approaching.
He had two lives inside him:
The innocent boy who loved his mother and wanted to learn to ride a bike.
And the man who knew too much — who knew the future, the tragedies, the deaths, the monsters hiding under capes and fake smiles.
But he hadn't taken Ryan's place.
He was Ryan.
His old memories weren't invaders; they had simply been asleep, waiting for the right moment to awaken.
Now, with them resurfaced, he had to decide what to do with what he knew.
Protect Becca ?
Try to run ?
Find a way to change what was coming ?
He wasn't a hero.
Nor a villain.
Just a boy who, by chance, carried the mind of someone who had already seen the end of this story — and the quiet courage to try to write it differently.
Outside, Becca stood by the window, gazing at her son's room with a mix of love and worry. Something inside her whispered that Ryan was growing up too fast.
And inside, in the darkness, the blue-eyed boy clenched his fists under the blanket, trying to feel something — any superpower — anything at all.
A reminder of who he was — and the blood that ran through him.
But unlike his father, Ryan didn't see power as a weapon.
He saw it as a burden.
One that, this time, he would carry with awareness.
And maybe, use for something good.
The moon illuminated the quiet house, and in that moment, a new thought echoed in his mind:
'If I know what's going to happen… maybe I can change everything.'