Chapter 24: The Magical Glasses and Stubborn Jonathan

It was quite some time before Martha MacDonald could suppress the terror in her heart and peek through a crack in the door.

By the faint moonlight, she saw several corpses lying scattered across the floor. The man who had attempted to assault her was sprawled face-down, blood pooling beneath him. The pungent stench of iron filled her nostrils, making her fight the urge to retch.

She looked toward the sofa where her two unconscious friends lay. Only after confirming they were unharmed did she let out a long, shaky breath. With trembling hands, she rummaged through her friend’s pocket, retrieved a cell phone, and dialed the emergency services.

Ten minutes later, officers from the Metropolis Police Department finally arrived.

"Name?"

"I’m Martha MacDonald, twenty-two years old, a teacher by profession."

Martha hugged herself, her body still shivering as she replied to the female officer, "My friends and I were at a bar, and I don't know why, but when I woke up, I was here."

The officer nodded and continued taking notes. "Did you see the suspect's face?"

Every bullet had struck the gang members with lethal precision; to the officer, the perpetrator was clearly no ordinary individual.

"No, he..." Martha MacDonald swallowed hard. "He was wearing black-rimmed glasses. It was too dark, I couldn't see clearly."

"Are you certain?" The officer eyed her suspiciously. "You couldn't see his face just because he was wearing glasses?"

"Y-yes, I am." Martha nodded, feeling a pang of guilt.

***

"Is this for real, Godfather?"

At the Kent Farm, Clark asked, feeling uncertain as he wore the black-rimmed glasses Peter had given him. "If I wear these, people won't recognize me?"

"Of course." Peter adjusted the frames for him. "Glasses will help you conceal your identity."

There is an age-old mystery surrounding Superman: once he puts on his glasses, no one recognizes him. Some have even theorized that Superman's greatest superpower is his eyewear.

Peter, naturally, did not subscribe to the "glasses are his greatest power" theory. He preferred to believe that the general public simply suffered from "spectacle-induced face blindness."

"Godfather, why do glasses hide one's identity?" Clark asked.

"Because they diminish people's ability to identify strangers." Peter was determined to teach him, helping him adapt to his future life as a superhero. "You and Azu can use this prop, combined with subtle body language, to convey a completely different persona. Like this."

Peter put on the glasses and hunched his shoulders, leaning forward slightly. After demonstrating the "glasses" posture, he took them off, straightened his back, relaxed his shoulders, and adopted a steady, composed demeanor.

"Body language also conveys different messages. It works even better with glasses. Did you get it?"

Watching Peter effortlessly switch between two distinct personas, Clark’s eyes widened. He felt his godfather was like a magician, possessing strange and incredible abilities. He took the glasses from Peter, determined to master this magical skill. At the very least, if he made a mistake in the future, he could use this to slip away.

Watching Clark dash off in excitement, Peter turned and pulled a money bag from under the bed, dropping it onto the table with a heavy thud. The illicit cash taken from Frank’s gang amounted to about a million dollars—enough to sustain him for a while. After gunning down the gang members, he had raided their safe. Aside from cash, the safe contained a ledger of transactions between Frank’s gang and various prominent political figures.

Peter flipped through the book, revealing a series of sordid dealings. "Underage girls, councilmen, the mayor, and even the church..." He shook his head and tossed the ledger aside. He hadn't expected these people to be so degenerate. If every politician and power broker in that book were taken out and shot, not one would be innocent.

However, the item held no immediate value to him. Unless he wanted to run for Governor tomorrow, it was merely a potential piece of leverage. After locking the cash and the ledger in a drawer, he looked toward the dark, swampy marshes in the distance. By tomorrow, he should have the deed to that land.

***

The next morning, Jonathan accompanied Peter to the town hall.

"Honestly, I don't understand why you're buying that dried-up swamp," Jonathan said, puzzled. "What kind of crops do you intend to grow? If that’s the plan, Peter, it’s not a good idea." He sighed. "With crop prices falling, our income barely covers our expenses. Martha and I are thinking about taking out a bank loan."

"Those people at the bank are sharks." Peter frowned while driving. "Jonathan, I have some money set aside; you can take it to tide things over."

"No, your farm isn't doing great either. I can't trouble you." Jonathan, unaware that Peter often "robbed the robbers" in Metropolis, assumed Peter was as dependent on the farm’s income as he was.

"I did some other business before, so I have some savings, Jonathan."

"No, Peter. I know you want to help, but I can't take your money. You still need to pay for that swamp." Jonathan appreciated the gesture, but he refused. "I can't take it."

"You’re always so stubborn, Jonathan." Peter knew his temperament well and wasn't surprised by the rejection.

Jonathan’s father-in-law was a man of some means; if he only asked, he could provide Clark with a much higher quality of life. Resolving the farm's financial woes would be effortless for a man like that. Yet, stubborn as he was, Jonathan never reached out to him.

"You know why Clark loves coming over to my place? It’s because you set a standard for him, and that standard never changes—like not letting him watch more than two hours of TV, or not allowing him to be a picky eater... Jonathan, sometimes being stubbornly unchanging isn't a good thing." Peter said while driving, "People should be like a fountain, not a drainage ditch; like leaves drifting in a stream, not a dam that restricts their freedom. Am I right?"

Jonathan nodded thoughtfully. "Sometimes I do overlook what’s on Clark’s mind, but, Peter... I still can't take your money."

*Peter: So, I wasted my breath?*

Just as he was getting a headache from Jonathan's stubbornness, he noticed a large crowd gathered on the street ahead, with several police cars flashing red lights parked by the curb. He stepped on the brakes and frowned, looking ahead.

What happened?