[Whispering Pines Valley, North Carolina]

The morning was quiet, the kind of quiet that nestled deep into the bones and settled there, warm and reassuring. Rowan Stratos, known to the world outside the valley as nothing more than a reclusive farmer, moved through the farmhouse with the practiced ease of someone who had found peace in the routine. The air was crisp as it drifted through the open kitchen window, carrying with it the scents of dew and freshly turned earth.

"Rowan, are you sure you've got everything?" Martha's voice called from the other room, gentle but tinged with the concern of a mother who had spent years ensuring every small detail was accounted for.

"Yes, ma'am," Rowan replied, his voice deep and steady. He checked the baskets one last time, making sure the eggs were cradled safely in straw, the jars of honey sealed tight, and the bundles of vegetables neatly arranged. He lifted the heavy load with ease, his strength a quiet thing, never displayed more than necessary.

The sun was just beginning its climb over the horizon as Rowan set out for the market. The path was familiar, winding through the forest that bordered the farm and out onto the dirt road that led into town. The trees whispered in the early morning breeze, their leaves brushing against one another like old friends sharing secrets.

[Pine Hollow(town)]

Rowan walked with a purposeful stride, each step in tune with the rhythm of the world around him. The market was already coming to life when he arrived, the usual hustle and bustle of townsfolk setting up their stalls, greeting one another with the camaraderie of those who had known each other for years.

"Morning, Rowan!" called out Mrs. Hawkins, the baker, her round face splitting into a warm smile. She always made sure to set aside a loaf of bread for him, fresh from the oven, its crust golden and inviting.

"Morning, Mrs. Hawkins," Rowan replied, his lips curling into a small smile. He exchanged the produce for the bread, as he did every week, with a few bits of change for her troubles.

Rowan spent the next few hours at the market, selling the farm's goods with a quiet efficiency that belied the power within him. He was a familiar face here, if a bit of an enigma. The townsfolk knew him as Rowan Stratos, the Stratos' son who had returned to care for his aging parents. He kept to himself mostly, but his presence was steady, dependable—a fixture in their small community.

As the day wore on and the baskets grew lighter, Rowan bid farewell to the market-goers, collecting the few unsold items and packing them away. The walk back home was just as peaceful, the weight of the world's problems held at bay by the simplicity of life in the valley.

[Stratos Homestead]

When he reached the farm, he noticed Henry out in the field, hands gripping the old plow with determination that far outstripped his physical strength. Rowan's brow furrowed in concern as he approached, the sight of Henry struggling with the heavy task tugging at something deep within him.

"Henry," Rowan called out as he neared, his voice gentle but firm. The older man looked up, his face lined with age but still holding the stubbornness that had seen him through years of hard work.

"Rowan, you're back," Henry greeted him, though his voice was strained with effort. "Just trying to get this field ready before the next rain."

Rowan reached Henry's side in a few strides, placing a hand on the older man's shoulder. "You shouldn't be doing this, Henry. You're not as spry as you used to be."

Henry sighed, the sound carrying with it the weight of years. "I know, I know. But these old bones still have some fight left in them." He tried to laugh, but it came out more as a cough.

"Come on," Rowan said gently, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Let's get you back inside. I'll take care of the field."

Henry didn't protest this time, too tired to put up much of a fight. Rowan supported him as they walked back to the house, the older man leaning heavily on him. When they reached the porch, Martha was waiting, her eyes softening with concern as she saw the state her husband was in.

"Thank you, Rowan," she said quietly, as Rowan helped Henry into his favorite chair by the window. "I'll make him some tea."

Rowan nodded and returned to the field, picking up where Henry had left off. The plow moved easily in his hands, the soil turning over with each pass. The work was simple, straightforward—something Rowan found comfort in. The rhythm of it allowed his mind to settle, his thoughts to focus on the moment rather than the weight of the past.

As the sun dipped lower in the sky, Rowan finished the field and moved on to the other chores. He fed the livestock, mended a fence that had fallen in the last storm, and gathered the eggs from the coop. All the while, his thoughts lingered on Henry's labored breathing, the weariness in his steps.

When the chores were done, Rowan returned to the house, the smell of dinner wafting through the air. Martha was in the kitchen, stirring a pot of stew on the stove, her face lined with worry that she tried to mask with a smile.

"How's Henry?" Rowan asked as he began to set the table, his movements careful, deliberate.

Martha hesitated before answering, her eyes not meeting his. "He's getting weaker, Rowan. He won't admit it, but I can see it."

Rowan's heart clenched at her words. "We should take him to the hospital," he said, his voice laced with quiet urgency.

Before Martha could respond, Henry appeared in the doorway, his presence almost unnoticed until he spoke. "I'll be alright," he said, his voice steady despite the frailty in his frame. "Just a little tired, that's all."

Rowan wanted to argue, to insist they take him to a doctor, but he knew Henry too well. The man's stubbornness was as much a part of him as the land he'd worked all his life. So instead, Rowan nodded, hiding his concern behind a small smile.

They had dinner together, the three of them, just as they had for the past few years. The conversation was light, Martha and Henry sharing stories from their youth, while Rowan listened with quiet contentment. These moments, these simple, unremarkable moments, were what Rowan had come to cherish most.

After dinner, they all retired to their rooms, the farmhouse settling into the deep quiet of the night. Rowan lay in his bed, staring up at the ceiling, his mind restless despite the exhaustion that tugged at him. It was a long time before sleep finally claimed him.

It was the sound of Martha's distressed voice that jolted him awake. The fear in her tone was like a sharp blade cutting through the darkness. Without thinking, Rowan was out of bed and storming down the hallway, his heart pounding in his chest.

He burst into Henry and Martha's bedroom, the sight before him freezing the breath in his lungs. Henry was convulsing, his body wracked with violent tremors, while Martha stood helplessly by his side, her hands trembling as she tried to soothe him.

"Henry!" Rowan's voice was filled with panic as he rushed to the bed. He didn't hesitate—there was no time. He scooped Henry up into his arms as if the older man weighed nothing at all. "I'm taking him to the hospital," he said firmly to Martha, his voice leaving no room for debate.

Martha nodded, her eyes wide with fear but filled with trust in Rowan. She knew he would do whatever it took to save Henry. "Please," was all she could whisper.

Rowan didn't waste another second. He moved through the house with a purpose, the front door slamming open as he stepped out into the cold night air. Without a moment's pause, he lifted off the ground, his body cutting through the darkness as he flew toward the nearest hospital, Henry cradled securely in his arms.

The wind whipped past him, but Rowan barely noticed. His only focus was on the man in his arms—the man who had become a father to him, who had given him a home when he had none. The fear gnawed at him, a fear he hadn't felt in years, not since the days when he was known as Superflare.

But now, he wasn't just a weapon. He was a son. And he would do whatever it took to save his father.

As he flew through the night, faster than the eye could see, Rowan prayed to whatever powers existed that he wouldn't be too late.

[Pines Hollow]

The lights of the small town hospital came into view as Rowan descended from the sky, landing softly in the parking lot just outside the emergency entrance. The automatic doors slid open with a quiet hiss, and Rowan strode inside, Henry still convulsing in his arms.

A nurse at the front desk looked up, her eyes widening in shock as she took in the sight of the massive man holding an elderly patient. Before she could ask a question, Rowan's voice cut through the air, firm and unwavering.

"I need help! Now!"

The urgency in his tone snapped the staff into action. A gurney was quickly brought out, and Rowan gently placed Henry onto it, his hands lingering for a moment as if afraid to let go. Henry's convulsions had slowed, but his breathing was shallow, each breath a struggle.

"What's his name?" one of the nurses asked as they began wheeling Henry down the hall.

"Henry Stratos," Rowan replied, his voice tight with worry. "He's been getting weaker over the past few weeks. I... I don't know what's wrong."

"Are you family?" the nurse asked as they moved into a private room, her eyes scanning Rowan with a mixture of concern and curiosity.

"I'm his son," Rowan said without hesitation. The words felt both foreign and right on his tongue.

The nurse nodded, accepting the answer without question. "We'll take care of him. You can wait in the family room down the hall."

Rowan stood there for a moment, watching as the medical team worked to stabilize Henry. The beeping of machines and the quiet murmur of medical jargon filled the room, and for the first time in a long while, Rowan felt powerless.

He backed out of the room slowly, his heart heavy with the weight of uncertainty. The family room was just down the hall, a small, sterile space with a few chairs and a coffee table cluttered with old magazines. Rowan sat down heavily, his mind racing with thoughts of what might come next.

Minutes felt like hours as he sat there, staring blankly at the walls. He could hear the distant hum of the hospital, the soft voices of nurses and doctors as they went about their duties. But everything felt distant, like he was trapped in a bubble of his own making, unable to reach out or do anything but wait.

Martha arrived not long after, her face pale and drawn with worry. She had driven the old pickup truck into town as fast as she could, and when she entered the family room, Rowan stood to meet her.

"Is he...?" she began, her voice trembling.

"They're taking care of him," Rowan said, his voice steady, trying to be the pillar she needed right now. "He was stable when I left the room."

Martha nodded, but her eyes filled with tears as she sank into one of the chairs. Rowan sat beside her, his large hand covering her smaller, frailer one. They sat in silence, their fears and hopes tangled together in the heavy air between them.

"I should have noticed sooner," Martha whispered after a long stretch of silence. "I should have... he never tells me when he's in pain. He's always trying to be strong for me, but I should have seen it."

Rowan shook his head, his voice softening. "It's not your fault, Martha. Henry's always been stubborn. He didn't want to worry you."

Martha's eyes, glassy with unshed tears, met his. "What if we lose him, Rowan? What if this is it?"

Rowan's heart ached at the sight of her pain. "We won't," he said, though the words felt more like a prayer than a promise. "He's strong, Martha. He'll pull through."

The minutes ticked by slowly, and the only sound in the room was the rhythmic ticking of a clock on the wall. Rowan's thoughts drifted, memories of the life he had built here mixing with the darker memories of his past. He had done many things, some unimaginable, but nothing could prepare him for this. The quiet, the helpless fear of losing someone he genuinely cared for.

Eventually, a doctor entered the room, his expression serious but not grim. Rowan and Martha stood, their eyes locked on him, searching for any sign of hope.

"Henry's stable for now," the doctor said, and Rowan felt a small surge of relief. "We need to run some more tests to determine exactly what's going on, but it looks like his heart was under significant stress. We've given him medication to help regulate his heartbeat, but we'll need to keep him here for observation."

"Can we see him?" Martha asked, her voice trembling with both hope and fear.

The doctor nodded. "Of course. He's resting now, but you can sit with him."

Martha turned to Rowan, her eyes asking him to come with her. Rowan nodded, and they followed the doctor back to Henry's room.

Henry looked small and frail in the hospital bed, surrounded by machines that beeped and whirred softly. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady but weak. Martha sat beside him, taking his hand in hers, her thumb gently stroking his knuckles.

Rowan stood at the foot of the bed, his heart heavy with emotions he rarely allowed himself to feel. He wanted to protect Henry, to take away his pain, but there was nothing he could do but be there, a silent sentinel watching over the man who had taken him in without question.

Hours passed in quiet vigil. Rowan checked on Martha and Henry often, ensuring they were comfortable, his presence a constant reassurance. The night stretched on, and eventually, Martha drifted off to sleep in the chair beside Henry, her hand still holding his.

Rowan remained awake, his mind restless, replaying the events of the day over and over. The fear that had gripped him when he heard Martha's cry, the rush of urgency as he carried Henry to the hospital... it was all still so raw, so immediate in his mind.

But as he watched the steady rise and fall of Henry's chest, a new resolve began to form within him. He would protect them, both Henry and Martha, with everything he had. They had given him a home, a family, and he would not let that be taken away.

Sometime in the early hours of the morning, as the sky outside began to lighten with the first hints of dawn, Rowan finally allowed himself to sit down. His body was weary, but his mind was still alert, keeping watch over the two people who meant more to him than anything in the universe.

Even so, a fleeting but terrifying though kept creeping at the edges of his mind. He could protect them from physical threats, threats that he could shield them from. Yet, what could he do now? Henry was in a bed with a problem that Rowan couldn't fix. He was being attacked by something that Rowan couldn't protect him from.

This feeling, so foreign, so new... the feeling of being powerless.