Queens, New York — Year 1995
Queens General Hospital was never known for its silence. There was always a nurse wheeling a squeaky cart, a doctor scurrying to answer a frantic call, or the occasional baby's cry piercing through thin walls. But tonight, in Room 307, a rare calmness lingered.
Aunt May lay in the hospital bed, her face pale, her breaths shallow but steady. The soft beeping of the heart monitor pulsed rhythmically beside her, filling the room with a strange sense of life. Nestled in her arms, wrapped tightly in a sky-blue blanket, was a newborn boy.
"Aaron…" May whispered, her voice tender and fragile, as if speaking his name aloud might shatter her. "Aaron Parker."
She looked down at the tiny face peeking from the folds of the blanket. He was beautiful. Dark tufts of hair already unruly, his skin glowing with a healthy warmth, and his lips curled into a content, sleepy pout. His tiny chest rose and fell in perfect rhythm with the beeps.
The chair beside her bed remained empty.
May's eyes flickered to it, and for a moment, her composure wavered.
Ben should've been here.
She had imagined this moment so many times—Ben by her side, cracking jokes to ease her nerves, grinning like a proud fool when Aaron finally arrived. But life had its own cruel timing. Ben's health had deteriorated rapidly in the last few months. The doctors had said he wouldn't make it to see his son's birth.
They were right.
She closed her eyes for a moment, letting the weight of it settle. There was a heaviness in her chest, a grief so vast and consuming it threatened to drown her. But then, Aaron stirred, a soft yawn escaping his tiny lips, and May remembered why she had to keep breathing.
"Your father would've loved you, Aaron," she whispered, brushing her fingers against his cheek. "He would've told you the dumbest jokes. And you would've laughed at them anyway."
A soft shuffle echoed near the door.
May turned her head slowly.
Standing there, peeking nervously into the room, was a small boy no older than three. His brown hair was ruffled, his clothes slightly oversized, as if hand-me-downs didn't quite catch up with his growth spurt. His eyes, however, were what drew attention—wide, innocent, and laced with a sorrow far too heavy for someone his age.
"Peter," May called gently, her tone soft, beckoning.
The boy hesitated, his small hands gripping the doorframe like an anchor. For Peter, the hospital had become a place of confusing memories—his parents were gone, taken by an accident that he barely remembered. And now, Uncle Ben… the man who had stepped in to be his father, was gone too.
But May… May was always here. And so, when she called, Peter's feet found the courage to move.
He padded softly across the room, approaching the bed where May waited with a warm smile. Her eyes were tired, but when she looked at him, they sparkled with a fierce, undying love.
"Come here, sweetheart," she said, shifting slightly to make space.
Peter climbed onto the chair beside her bed, his small frame awkwardly balancing as he peered over the edge of the blanket.
Two tiny hands reached up.
Aaron's fingers, small and delicate, latched onto Peter's index finger with surprising strength.
Peter's breath hitched.
"He's strong," he whispered, eyes wide in wonder.
May chuckled, the sound easing the tension in her chest. "He'll need to be."
For a few precious moments, the hospital walls faded away. There was no grief, no empty chair, no gaping holes left by those who had gone. There was only this moment—two brothers meeting for the first time.
"You're his big brother now, Peter," May murmured. "Take care of each other, okay?"
Peter nodded, a determination settling into his young features. "I will."
Aaron's grip tightened, his tiny hand clutching Peter's finger as if he understood every word.
And then, the world shifted.
It was subtle—so subtle that even May's watchful eyes missed it.
The lights above flickered, a brief pulse in the sterile glow of the hospital room. The air shimmered near Aaron's body, like a soft heatwave distorting reality for the briefest second. And then it came—a voice, cold and mechanical, devoid of emotion, whispered into the fabric of existence:
"Infinite Sun Template... successfully installed. No further assistance provided."
And then, silence.
No guides. No missions.
The voice was gone, as if it had never existed.
Aaron yawned, his face scrunching adorably as he nuzzled deeper into May's arms.
She smiled, oblivious.
Peter, still holding Aaron's finger, tilted his head. "He's warm, Aunt May. Really warm."
May brushed it off with a gentle laugh. "That's because he's special, Peter. Just like you."
But the air near Aaron's tiny fist shimmered again, unseen. A soft pulse of energy radiated outward, bending the space around him so faintly that only the universe could feel it.
The metal frame of the hospital bed creaked. Not from weight, but from a pressure that shouldn't exist. May adjusted her posture, thinking nothing of it.
Peter didn't notice.
But the anomaly had begun.
Aaron Parker had been born—a boy who should never have existed.
May leaned back against her pillow, exhaustion pulling at her bones. But in this moment, holding Aaron in her arms and Peter by her side, she felt... at peace.
"This family's been through enough," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "We're not losing anyone else."
Peter rested his chin on the bed's edge, watching Aaron's slow breathing with fascination. In his young heart, a promise was made. He didn't understand the world's cruelty, but he knew this—Aaron was his little brother now. And that meant something.
Outside the hospital window, Queens continued to breathe—oblivious to the anomaly born within its walls. The city lights blinked, casting a warm, golden glow into Room 307, as if blessing the small family inside.
Aaron stirred again, his tiny hand loosening its grip on Peter's finger, only to settle back into a peaceful sleep.
Peter smiled.
May smiled.
And Aaron, the boy who shouldn't exist, slept on—unaware of the power that now slumbered within him.
The world didn't know it yet.
But in a small, quiet hospital room in Queens,
a mistake had been made.