As an ordinary genius

Ethan leaned against his workbench, staring at the neatly completed project before him. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear but from the sheer magnitude of his realization.

The memories were no longer fragments—they were vivid, like watching a film of his previous life. He remembered the world he came from, his passions, his failures, and now this new life. It was as though two identities merged into one, giving him a unique perspective on the world.

And with that perspective came clarity.

Late into the night, Ethan sat at his desk, running through calculations and scribbling notes in his journal. His mind worked faster than ever, connections forming instantly, ideas flowing without pause.

"This isn't normal," he murmured, flipping through pages of data he'd just processed in a matter of hours.

It hit him like a jolt. The lightning, the particle accelerator explosion—it had done something to him. Just as Barry Allen became the Flash in the stories he vaguely remembered, Ethan realized he had changed, too.

But unlike Barry's speed, his ability wasn't physical. It was cerebral.

"I'm a metahuman," Ethan whispered, the words both exhilarating and terrifying.

He closed the journal and stared at it, knowing the significance of its contents. But he also knew he couldn't share this with anyone—not yet.

"No one would believe me," he said aloud, pacing the room. "And even if they did, what then? Experiments? Labs? No... it's better this way."

Ethan decided then and there to keep his newfound abilities a secret. He would continue his normal life, at least on the surface, while exploring the limits of his intelligence in private.

As he sat in front of his computer, researching the particle accelerator explosion, a name flashed on the screen: S.T.A.R. Labs.

He leaned back in his chair, a sense of familiarity washing over him. "Barry Allen," he muttered. "This is his story, isn't it?"

Digging further, he calculated timelines based on his memories. The explosion had already occurred, and if his recollection was accurate, it would be another nine months before Barry Allen awoke from his coma and became the Flash.

"Nine months," Ethan repeated, his mind already racing with possibilities.

By morning, Ethan had made peace with his situation. He wasn't Barry Allen. He wasn't destined to be a superhero. But he had been given a gift, and he intended to use it—not for glory, but to make the most of his life.

As the sun rose, Ethan stepped out of his garage and into the crisp morning air. He looked up at the sky, determination etched into his features.

"This is my story," he said quietly. "And I'll write it my way."