"Yes, Clark's brother. I never imagined Adrian would have such talent. Strange, absurd, even incomprehensible, yet filled with a kind of power that feels… otherworldly."
Lana handed Aunt Niel a bundle of manuscripts. "These are illustrations Adrian drew. Look at them—don't you think they mirror the tone of his writing?"
"The drawings and the words carry the same weight," Niel muttered, her brow furrowed as she flipped through the pages. "It's as if he isn't creating them, but simply pulling something straight from his mind and spilling it onto paper."
Lately, Lana had been reading Adrian's work obsessively. She spent her evenings poring over his stories, cross-referencing them with anything she could find online, and the excitement left her restless.
"Especially this one—'The Shadow Over Innsmouth,'" Lana said, pointing at the title. "It describes merfolk living deep in the ocean trenches. I even found accounts online of people claiming to have seen similar creatures."
"Lana." Niel's tone cut sharply, silencing her. She could see the intensity in Lana's eyes and knew her niece was pushing too far.
"These writings are not for you, not now. They're… heavy. Madness bleeds from them. They're like staring into an abyss, and the longer you stare, the more it stares back. At your age, you shouldn't drown yourself in that kind of darkness."
"Like the investigators he writes about? Chasing the truth, only to lose themselves when they get too close?" Lana asked, her voice calm, not frantic. She wasn't as unhinged as Niel feared.
She continued, almost smiling. "Do you remember the diary Mom showed me? From when she was my age? That summer she and her classmates went looking for the Goatman outside Louisville? They never found anything, but she wrote the whole adventure down. Maybe I inherited her curiosity."
"But unlike Mom, I'd rather bury myself in books than go hunting for monsters. So don't worry—I won't be running into the woods after shadows."
"You've always been sensible, Lana." Niel softened, brushing her niece's hair gently.
Lana's smile returned. "By the way, Aunt Niel, you know someone at Metropolis Publishing, don't you? Could you ask if they'd take a look at Adrian's work? Maybe he could be published."
Niel hesitated, then nodded. "The quality is there, both in art and writing. I'll ask. But don't expect too much—I can't promise anything."
"I know," Lana said, beaming. "But I knew you'd help me."
---
That night at the Kent farm, dinner carried an unusual weight.
Adrian sat calmly, enjoying the thick soup Martha had prepared—potatoes, onions, pepper, and oysters simmered together. He ate without hurry, savoring every bite. Across from him, Clark sat with his head bowed, poking at a plate of onion rings.
"I saw you out there, Clark," Jonathan said as he cleared his plate. His voice carried the tone of warning he often used. "You have to be careful. Your strength makes it too easy to hurt someone."
Clark's head shot up. "But I didn't! Why do we keep going in circles about this?"
"Because it matters," Jonathan snapped back.
Clark's jaw tightened. "You don't trust me."
Adrian didn't intervene. He quietly set his spoon down and moved on to the fried shrimp, watching his father and brother argue with the kind of detached calm he always carried. He'd grown used to their endless back-and-forth.
But soon, Jonathan dragged him into it.
"Adrian turned down Coach Watt, and so can you, Clark."
Adrian's voice was steady, cutting through the tension. "Actually, Coach Watt couldn't handle me skipping practices."
When he'd first entered Smallville High, Coach Watt begged him to join the football team. Adrian had agreed, but only on the condition that he never attend practice. Football, to him, was a game without challenge. Naturally, the coach refused.
His sharp words silenced the room. For a moment, the house was filled only with the faint clatter of dishes.
Then the phone rang.
Jonathan exhaled, clearly glad for the interruption, and picked it up. After a short exchange, he returned with his coat in hand. "Old Harris crushed his finger messing with his tractor. The thing's thirty miles out. I need to drive it back for him."
"Let Adrian go with you," Martha urged, eyeing the stormy sky. She handed Adrian the keys. "It's going to rain. Don't be late."
Jonathan smiled faintly. "Depends how bad the job is."
Moments later, Adrian was behind the wheel of the old Ford, his father riding shotgun.
Jonathan leaned back with a sigh. "Your mother's probably at home smoothing things over with Clark right now. She sides with him more often than not."
Adrian's eyes stayed on the road. "Men and women reason differently. Their perspectives won't always align. That doesn't mean she's against you."
"Maybe. But sometimes it feels like she plays both sides." Jonathan shook his head. "One minute I'm the rude one, the next she's lecturing Clark."
He didn't finish. Adrian's senses sharpened suddenly. Without warning, he slammed the brakes and yanked the steering wheel.
The Ford screeched sideways, tires burning against asphalt.
Then they saw it.
A blazing fireball tearing across the sky, crashing straight toward the road ahead.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. His hands steadied the wheel.
The falling star wasn't a star at all. It looked like… a burning car.
---