The girl pressed her eye to the crack in the door, recognizing the gang members who had harassed her before. These were the same thugs who had tried to extort protection money while she was selling flowers. She had fought back with a swift kick and escaped, never expecting they would track her down so fast, or find her home.
Her breath caught as panic rose in her chest. She stepped back, clutching the small dagger tightly, her other hand darting around the room in search of anything else she could use as a weapon.
"Open the door! Open it now, you little coward!" one of the men yelled from outside.
The gang pounded on the door, their voices growing more impatient by the second, threatening to break through at any moment.
Her heart raced. The windows were barred so tightly that no ordinary person could slip through them. Escape was impossible.
"I already called the police!" she yelled back, trying to hold on to some hope, "If you break in, they'll arrest you!"
"Police? Don't make us laugh," one of the men shouted, "We already cut your phone line. You really think we're stupid?"
Bang!
The door groaned under a hard kick.
"Bastards!" she muttered under her breath, gritting her teeth.
Bang, bang, bang!
Every blow made the old wooden door tremble, and with each one, her heart thudded faster. Dust fell from the edges of the splitting wood, and she knew it wouldn't hold much longer.
Her eyes squeezed shut. She lifted the dull dagger, determination fueling her as she prepared to charge forward and fight.
Then suddenly, the pounding stopped.
Silence fell.
Moments later, screams erupted from outside, echoed by the sound of flesh slamming repeatedly into a wall. The heavy thumps reverberated through the floorboards.
She froze, startled.
The noise didn't last long, and soon only groans remained.
Unsure but desperate to know what happened, she carefully put her eye back to the crack in the door.
What she saw stunned her.
The gang members were sprawled on the floor, groaning and clearly beaten. Standing above them, tall and calm, was Superman, one of the heroes she had admired.
Her back hit the door as she swayed, disbelief and relief flooding her.
"No way…" she whispered to herself.
Her eyes widened as confirmation washed over her. It was really him, her idol, Superman.
Excitement threatened to burst out of her, but she forced herself to remain composed as she turned carefully and opened the door.
"It's Superman!"
"I'm not," Clark replied with a gentle smile, "My name is Clark Kent. You can call me Clark."
"Seriously?" she said, wide‑eyed, her voice trembling with excitement, "I'm Emily Wells, but you can just call me Amy!"
Her grin was so big it almost split her face.
"So, you came here just to save me?" she blurted out.
Clark paused thoughtfully, then nodded, "Yes, I saw some men following you, and I wanted to make sure they weren't up to anything good."
"You're amazing," Amy gushed, nearly breathless with gratitude. "I don't even know how to thank you."
Then she remembered something. She raced into her room and came back holding a small pink wallet.
Clark raised an eyebrow, surprised.
"It's the money you paid for my flowers earlier," she said, breathless as she thrust it into his hand, "Just take it back. Those flowers were my gift to you!"
Clark tried to refuse, but Amy wouldn't let him. She pressed the wallet into his hand with such determination that he had no choice but to accept it. Later, after she was safe, he tucked the money into a hidden corner of her room.
After the police took the gang away, Amy invited Clark inside.
"It's small, right?" she said cheerfully, waving at the broken blinds, the cracked walls, and the mismatched furniture. "But I think it's fine."
She handed him a glass of water, proud of her modest space despite its shabby condition.
Clark's eyes drifted over the posters on her walls. There were pictures of him, of Adrian, and of illustrations from books Adrian had published. It was clear that she was a big fan of both.
"Amy, do you live here alone?" Clark asked gently, concern in his voice.
She nodded with a small smile. "Yes. I ran away from home."
Clark's brow furrowed.
"Ran away?"
Amy's eyes softened but quickly shifted the topic. "Do you think there are devils in this world?"
Clark blinked, taken off guard by the sudden change in subject.
"I asked my pastor about it once," she continued, "He said not to believe every spirit. But I told him, Genesis mentions the serpent, Job mentions Satan, and the Gospels record Jesus being tempted. Revelation names the great dragon as the devil. So why deny it?"
She paused, her voice flat but tinged with hurt.
"My mom… she always said she was afraid of me," she said, looking away. "She said I was defiled, that I was the source of fear. She told me I shouldn't have been born. That I was a devil."
Clark listened, thoughtful, as her story spilled out.
"What's your age, Amy?" he asked after a quiet moment.
"Twelve," she said, a little defensively. "If you send me to a children's home, they'll just make me go back. I can't do that."
Clark paused, reconsidering. He had thought she was older, maybe fifteen or sixteen. The news tightened his chest with concern.
"I won't do that," he said firmly.
Relief washed over her face.
Amy hesitated, then asked quietly, "Do you want to know why my mom says I'm a devil?"
Clark reached out and gently stroked her reddish hair, a reassuring gesture that calmed her more than words could.
"You are not a devil," he said sincerely.
"Thank you," Amy whispered, her voice soft. Then, she hesitated before speaking again, "They gave me a nickname."
"What nickname?" Clark asked.
"Robin," she said, and her voice dropped.
"Why Robin?" Clark asked, puzzled.
"I can… see Death," she admitted quietly. "When I touch someone's skin, I see the last moment of their life. It doesn't always work. Sometimes there's nothing. My mother took me to pastors and even to people in Metropolis once, but no one could help me. And then I just… I ran away."
Her eyes met his, bright with a mixture of fear and hope.
"Can I… touch your hand?" she asked, immediately looking away. "No, I shouldn't have asked that. I'm sorry, Clark. That was rude."
She paused, embarrassed.
Clark simply smiled, calm and understanding, letting her know it was okay.
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