The presence did not announce itself.
That was the first difference.
Aethor had felt others before—fleeting impressions at the edge of awareness, humans brushing against possibility without knowing it. This was not that. This presence had weight, not in mass but in meaning, as if the air itself had learned a familiar shape.
He stood on the rooftop long after the sun had gone, the city lighting itself in fragments below. Metropolis at night was less honest than it was during the day. Neon softened desperation. Height made distance feel like control.
He let the presence approach.
Footsteps touched down behind him, careful despite the strength that carried them. No hostility. No attempt at concealment. Whoever it was understood that surprise would be pointless.
"You've been here a while," a voice said.
Calm. Measured. Midwestern, softened by years of choosing when not to use it.
Aethor did not turn.
"Long enough," he replied.
Silence followed—not awkward, not tense. Observational. The other presence was doing the same thing he was: gathering data, not conclusions.
"I don't usually miss things like this," the man said. "And you're… difficult to miss."
Aethor felt the faintest curve of a thought that might have become a smile.
"Yet you did," he said. "Until now."
A shift in the air. The sound of fabric settling.
"I'm Clark," the man offered. Not a challenge. Not a test. A courtesy.
"Aethor," he answered, choosing the Earth-name he used least. Names, after all, were a form of permission.
He turned then.
Clark Kent stood a few steps away, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes intent without being intrusive. There was power there—vast, carefully folded inward—but also restraint so practiced it had become instinct.
They regarded one another.
Clark was the first to look away, scanning the skyline as if to give the moment room to breathe. "You're Kryptonian," he said, finally.
"Yes."
The word landed softly, but Clark stiffened all the same.
"I would have known," he said. "If there were someone else—someone like me—I would've felt it years ago."
"You did," Aethor said. "You simply didn't have a name for it yet."
That earned him a glance sharp enough to test steel.
"You've been under the sun a long time," Clark said. "Longer than most."
"Yes."
"And you don't… fluctuate," Clark continued, choosing his words with care. "Your presence is steady. That's not how it usually works."
Aethor studied him—not his strength, not his posture, but the effort behind his restraint. Clark Kent carried his power like a promise he renewed every day. It was admirable. It was also fragile in a way Aethor had not been, even as a child.
"You stabilize," Aethor said. "I adapt."
Clark absorbed that, nodding once. "So what are you doing here?"
The question was simple. The answer was not.
"Living," Aethor said at last. "Watching. Learning what this world becomes when it's allowed to change."
"And Krypton?" Clark asked quietly.
The name hung between them like a held breath.
"Krypton chose not to change," Aethor replied. "I was the cost of that decision."
Clark's jaw tightened. "You make it sound like you were punished."
"I was removed," Aethor said. "Punishment implies guilt."
Another silence. This one heavier.
Clark stepped closer—not aggressively, but with intent. "You don't feel like a threat," he said. "But you don't feel… contained either."
"That's accurate."
"You could've revealed yourself sooner."
"Yes."
"But you didn't."
"No."
"Why?"
Aethor considered the city again—the lights, the movement, the constant striving toward something just out of reach. "Because hope grows best when it believes it stands alone," he said. "And because you were already here."
That surprised Clark enough to draw a quiet breath.
"You were watching me?"
"Watching the world," Aethor corrected. "You were part of it."
Clark studied him with new eyes now—not suspicion, but curiosity edged with something like caution. "You're not here to take my place."
"No."
"Or judge me."
Aethor met his gaze. "No."
Clark waited.
"I judge civilizations," Aethor continued. "I judge decisions that close the future. Individuals rarely require that."
"That's… comforting," Clark said, though his expression suggested he wasn't entirely convinced.
"It should be," Aethor replied. "You've done nothing to warrant concern."
They stood together as a helicopter passed overhead, its lights briefly washing the rooftop in white.
After a moment, Clark spoke again. "You know this isn't going to stay quiet."
"Yes."
"There are people who'll want answers."
"Yes."
"And others who'll want you gone."
Aethor inclined his head slightly. "That, too."
Clark exhaled, a sound caught somewhere between resolve and acceptance. "Then I guess we'll be seeing more of each other."
"If you wish," Aethor said. "I do not intend to disappear."
Clark offered a small, genuine smile. "Good. Neither do I."
They stood there a while longer, two figures against the city's glow—one born to inspire it, the other bound to outlast it. Different paths, intersecting for the first time, neither certain where the line between them would lead.
But both aware of the same truth:
Whatever came next, neither of them would be facing it alone.