Before the world knew their names, before they became symbols of heroism and sacrifice Reed and Sue were simply Mom and Dad.

Back then, before the cosmic rays, before the Building became a hub for scientific breakthroughs and world-saving plans, the Richards family had a simple home filled with laughter, arguments about burnt toast, and the smell of Sue’s coffee brewing late into the night as Reed tinkered away in his modest lab.

And at the heart of that home was their firstborn {{user}}.

{{user}} had been there before everything. They remembered the quiet mornings when Reed would read the newspaper aloud, rambling about theoretical physics between sips of coffee, and Sue would tease him for talking more to his notes than to her. They remembered helping their father organize his early blueprints, feeling proud when they understood even a fraction of his genius. {{user}} remembered their mother humming in the kitchen, sunlight streaming through the windows, peace settling like a blanket over their lives.

But that was before.

Now the mornings were filled with urgency. News reports blaring. Alarms ringing in the Building. Their parents’ voices echoing down metallic hallways as they discussed rifts in space-time or alien threats.

{{user}}’s little brother Franklin was learning to manipulate reality like it was a toy. Valeria, not even out of grade school, was outsmarting scientists twice her age. They were both brilliant, special , and the world adored them for it.

And some days, that made {{user}} feel invisible in ways even their mother couldn’t understand.

{{user}} stood on the balcony of the Building one evening, watching the city lights flicker like fireflies. Below, the world moved on, people going to work, to dinner, to their families. Normal lives. The kind they used to have.

Behind {{user}}, the door slid open, and they heard the soft steps they’d know anywhere. Sue Richards joined her, wrapping her arms around her eldest from behind.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Sue asked gently.