Clark ultimately resisted the temptation of his new power. He didn't use his X-ray vision to spy on Lana.
A telescope was one thing—it felt harmless, even normal. But X-ray vision? That was an invasion, and Clark couldn't bring himself to cross that line. He had powers beyond anything human, but he still clung to a simple principle: never let desire dictate his gifts.
---
The next day, the football field of Smallville High was alive with noise and color. Cheerleaders danced with practiced energy, the crowd roared, and the Smallville Crows ran out from the tunnel, helmets gleaming under the sunlight.
The memory of the humiliating "Bloody Ball" still lingered, but under Coach Watt's relentless discipline, the team had clawed its way back. They looked sharper, stronger, hungrier.
Among them was Clark Kent, number 32. The heat rising off the turf mixed with the smell of dirt and sweat as he jogged out, heart racing.
His eyes swept the field. He searched the cheer squad for Lana, but she wasn't there. A flicker of disappointment cut through his focus. Then his gaze drifted to the stands. That was when he froze.
Jonathan Kent was there.
Clark's face lit up with relief. "Dad!" he shouted, grinning as he waved. "I'm glad you came—it means a lot."
But Jonathan's expression stayed stern, unmoved. "I still don't support you playing football, Clark. I'm only here to make sure you don't hurt anyone."
The smile slipped from Clark's face. The words hit harder than any tackle could. He had thought maybe—just maybe—the silent war between them was over. But his father's walls still stood high and unyielding.
Clark turned away, a storm of anger, hurt, and disappointment twisting in his chest.
Coach Watt's bark cut through his thoughts. "Kent! Eyes forward!" The grizzled coach clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "No daydreaming. If you get sacked, punt it. No hero plays, you got it?"
"Understood," Clark said, forcing his focus back to the game.
The whistle shrieked, the crowd erupted, and the ball snapped. Clark tucked it under his arm and sprinted forward. A blur of motion slammed into him a heartbeat later, sending him crashing to the turf.
"Kent!" Coach Watt stormed over, grabbing his helmet and yanking him up. "Stop staring into the stands! Your father isn't the coach—I am! Either play the game or get off my field!"
The fury in his voice shook Clark more than the tackle had.
The second play began. This time Clark tightened his grip, tuned out the noise, and charged with determination. A receiver dove at him like a predator, but Clark lowered his shoulder and hit back, knocking the larger player to the ground as if he'd run into a wall.
"Good job, Kent!" Coach Watt roared, clapping. "That's what I'm talking about!"
The crowd cheered as Clark crossed into the end zone. Touchdown. He ripped off his helmet, chest heaving, scanning the stands for his father.
But Jonathan was gone.
The triumph faded instantly. The empty space in the bleachers felt heavier than the cheers.
---
Meanwhile, far from the noise of the field, Lana Lang sat in her living room, a manuscript resting on her lap. Her aunt Niel entered, surprised.
"Lana? Home already? What happened to cheer practice?"
"I quit," Lana said softly but with conviction. "It's a little sad, but I don't regret it."
Niel frowned. "Quit? You loved cheerleading. I remember when you joined, you were so excited you couldn't even sleep."
"People change, Aunt Niel," Lana replied. "I realized waving pom-poms for players who cheat and chase empty victories… it doesn't mean anything to me anymore."
Her eyes lowered to the manuscript. "I found something more important. One of my classmates—Adrian Kent—has a gift. He writes and paints like no one I've ever seen."
Niel blinked. "Adrian Kent? The youngest Kent boy?"
Lana nodded, pushing the manuscript toward her. "Read it. His work is… it's hard to explain. It's raw, unsettling, brilliant. When I read it, I felt like I was standing on the edge of something vast and dangerous, a dark ocean whispering secrets I wasn't meant to hear. Adrian's a genius, Aunt Niel. I've never read anything like this."
Niel raised her brows, intrigued. She turned to the first page.
Whispers of the Night.
The opening lines pulled her in immediately:
The broken pier stretched out into the black sea, its rotten end blurred by shadows. A long, jagged silhouette against the horizon, heavy with menace. The air itself seemed to breathe dread, as though unseen eyes stared back from the abyss.
A shiver ran through her. It was Gotham, she thought. This was Gotham as it truly was—the city where fear lived in every corner.
She kept reading, and the deeper she went, the heavier the words pressed on her. By the end of the final piece, Brain in a Vat, her hands trembled. A coldness seeped into her chest, a strange dizziness pressing on her rational mind.
It was haunting, incomprehensible at times, but it was powerful. Too powerful to dismiss as teenage imagination.
Slowly, Niel lowered the manuscript. "And you're saying Adrian Kent wrote this?"
"Yes," Lana said firmly, eyes glowing with admiration. "I don't know how to describe it. It feels… dangerous, but true. Like he's reaching into places the rest of us are afraid to look."
Niel looked at her niece, concern flickering beneath her curiosity. Adrian Kent was no ordinary boy—that much was now undeniable.
____
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