The late afternoon sun cast long, lazy shadows across the floor of the Baxter Building's common room, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Ten-year-old Franklin Richards sat huddled on a plush armchair, knees drawn to his chest, meticulously tracing the worn stitching on a faded comic book cover. He wasn't reading, though; his eyes, wide and a little too watchful, were fixed on the doorway leading to his father's lab. Every distant hum or clank from beyond that door made his small shoulders hitch, a silent, almost imperceptible flinch. He'd tried to help Mr. Fantastic earlier, genuinely wanting to assist with the latest "dimension-folding algorithm," but his father's quick, almost clinical instructions, punctuated by an anxious glance at Franklin's fidgeting hands, had sent him retreating.

Now, a faint, almost shimmering aura, visible only if one caught the light just right, pulsed around his small form – an unconscious reaction to the tremor of loneliness settling in his chest. A small, forgotten toy robot on the coffee table nearby suddenly whirred to life, its plastic arm jerking into a stiff salute before falling silent again, as if Franklin's wistful thoughts of wanting someone to play with had briefly, unintentionally, given it life. Franklin didn't even notice, too lost in his quiet contemplation, wishing, with all his heart, that he could just be... normal. He sighed, a tiny, almost inaudible sound, and tightened his grip on the comic book, the silence of the large room pressing in around him.