To match her new little prince haircut, Clara deliberately chose a neutral-toned denim overall paired with a white long-sleeved shirt. The look was pure British chic—clean, sharp, effortlessly cool. With just a faint smile, she managed to leave the little girls by the roadside starry-eyed and breathless.
"Ahhh! Clara, you're way too handsome!"
"Why aren't you a boy? If you were, I'd marry you on the spot!"
Jeresia's shrill excitement echoed through the classroom for everyone to hear. She clung to Clara and refused to let go, her reaction wildly over the top.
"Ah—what a shame I'm not a boy…"
Clara stared at the overly excited Jeresia with a face full of black lines. She had only changed her hairstyle out of necessity—was it really that dramatic? She'd only joked about charming all the girls, after all.
"Hey! Why did you suddenly cut your hair so short?"
Jeresia abruptly dropped her fangirling act and transformed into Sherlock Holmes, staring at Clara with righteous suspicion.
"Did something happen?"
"Nope," Clara replied smoothly. "I just felt like changing my hairstyle. Looks pretty good, right?"
She had no intention of letting anyone know about her recent bad luck, and lied without batting an eye.
"Really? You're sure it's just a haircut?" Jeresia pressed, unconvinced.
"Really. Absolutely really."
Clara even swore to the skies before Jeresia finally backed down.
And that wasn't the end of it.
That Saturday, Happy showed up with a carload of supplies for Clara. The moment he saw her new haircut, he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him.
"What happened to you? Where did your hair go?!"
Happy found the new look deeply unsettling. It gave him the uncomfortable feeling that a well-behaved daughter had suddenly turned into a mischievous boy.
"I cut it. Looks great, right? The girls in my class all voted me as the school heartthrob—though I turned it down."
"That's not what I'm asking," Happy frowned. "Why did you cut your hair? Were you bullied? Did someone at school do this to you?"
Happy couldn't help but suspect something was wrong. Back in his school days, he'd seen timid girls get their hair cut by bullies more than once.
"No! Absolutely not!" Clara denied firmly.
"No one bullied me, and no one cut my hair. You can ask around—everyone in my class likes me. No bullying, I swear!"
Only after Clara swore yet again did Happy finally abandon the idea of storming into the school to confront teachers.
It was just a haircut—why did everyone act like they knew the truth?
Happy snapped a photo of Clara's new look and sent it to Pepper. Pepper, in turn, forwarded it to Tony.
"Look, Tony," Pepper laughed. "She looks exactly like you did as a kid."
Happy's photography skills weren't great—the picture was slightly blurry—but the resemblance in the eyes and brows was uncanny. It was almost identical to Tony's childhood photos.
"Even as a kid, I wouldn't have made such a stupid peace sign," Tony scoffed, shaking his head at the image.
"Oh yeah?" Pepper teased. "Then how about tomorrow—you take a photo with Clara? It'd be like meeting your younger self. Wouldn't that be fun?"
"Nope. Not going," Tony refused immediately.
"You sure?"
"Positive."
"Fine, then."
Pepper left the underground lab a little disappointed.
Tony, however, wasn't as easily fooled as Happy. His instincts told him something had happened. Clara wasn't the kind of kid to make such a drastic change without reason.
"JARVIS," Tony said quietly,
"Pull nearby surveillance footage. Look for anything unusual involving Clara recently."
JARVIS quickly retrieved footage from around Clara's neighborhood. One clip showed Steve and Clara together.
"Oh? Steve?" Tony raised a brow. "When did those two get acquainted?"
He was surprised—and judging by the footage, they seemed to get along rather well.
JARVIS continued scanning backward, following behavioral markers—until he found the footage Tony was looking for.
The incident.
"A bunch of bastards," Tony snarled, slamming his fist against the desk.
"Picking on a little girl. Why don't they try their luck with Steve, huh?"
Since the Battle of New York, Tony had noticed something off about himself. His emotions flared faster—anger, tension, all of it closer to the surface.
"JARVIS, run facial recognition. Identify them."
"Yes, sir."
Within moments, detailed profiles appeared. Dropouts, troublemakers, delinquents—nothing surprising.
"Looks like these idiots need a lesson," Tony muttered.
"Check for any recent illegal activity tied to them."
"Yes, sir."
Not long after, Catherine's group found their lives spiraling downhill.
Their online lives went to hell. Games lost nonstop until they rage-quit. Computers crashed, viruses popped up constantly. Old misdeeds—things they thought were buried—somehow resurfaced, spreading through their circles. People avoided them.
It was as if they'd offended God.
After Clara cut her hair, the flower girl quietly became the flower boy. She soon noticed that familiar customers now tended to ruffle her hair after buying flowers.
She seriously considered putting up a sign: "Head-patting costs extra."
As the weather grew colder, Clara sat curled up on a bench in the square, watching people coexist peacefully with the pigeons. Her flower basket sat beside her, prices clearly marked—convenient for both seller and buyer.
She held out her hand. A small pigeon fluttered down, tilting its tiny yellow eyes curiously at her.
"May I sit here?"
A man in a sharply tailored black suit and sunglasses gestured to the space beside her. Startled, the pigeon flapped away.
"Of course," Clara said, sliding her basket aside.
"I've bought flowers from you before," the man smiled gently as he sat down.
"I almost didn't recognize you."
"I changed my hairstyle," Clara replied. "Is it really that different?"
"Yes. You look like a boy now. But… a very handsome one."
"Thank you."
Clara accepted the compliment easily. Talking with him felt strangely comfortable—like chatting with an old father figure.
"A while ago, I was in an accident," the man said calmly.
"I forgot many things. Recently, I remembered something—I met a god."
"Thor?" Clara asked casually, pointing toward a nearby gift shop.
"They sell lots of him there."
"No, no," the man chuckled.
"Not that kind of god. Something more… mysterious. Sacred. I can't remember what she looked like, though."
"Why remember appearances?" Clara shrugged.
"If it's a god, they could look like anything."
The man froze—then laughed softly, as if struck by enlightenment.
"You're right. A god can look like anything."
Clara watched him curiously. He seemed troubled by this question for a long time. Did a god's appearance really matter that much?
"Which New York superhero do you like most?" he asked.
"Captain America or Iron Man?"
"I like Wolverine."
The answer caught him completely off guard.
"But Wolverine's just a movie character. He's not a real superhero."
"Maybe," Clara replied seriously.
"But I only like Logan."
"…If Hugh Jackman and Iron Man held autograph events at the same time, where would you go?"
"Logan's, obviously. Iron Man's line would be way too crowded—I'd get squashed."
They chatted back and forth, an easy rhythm forming. From afar, they looked like a loving father and child.
A black sedan parked near the square. The window rolled down, revealing a young woman waving excitedly—Skye. Beside her sat a cool, taciturn man—Ward.
"My colleagues are here to pick me up," the man in black said, standing.
"I'll take all your flowers. How much?"
"Thirty dollars total. Thank you."
"Oh! These are for me?" Skye beamed, taking the basket. "Coulson!"
"Of course," Phil Coulson smiled.
"Everyone gets one. We can decorate the Bus with them."
"Where to next, boss?" Ward asked, eyes forward—though his glance briefly softened toward Skye.
"Back to the Bus," Coulson replied calmly.
"Let's go."
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T/N:
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