"Sour radish…!" Jonathan cursed as he clutched his thumb, blood seeping through the skin. His face twisted in pain.
Adrian, who had been lounging in the living room with the Daily Planet spread across his lap, heard the outburst and immediately set the paper aside. He strode to the barn, his boots crunching against the floorboards.
There he found his father standing stiffly, pressing his thumb with his other hand. A trickle of blood stained the hay.
"Dad?" Adrian's sharp blue eyes scanned the wound.
Jonathan gave him a helpless look. "An owl. Thing was hiding in the haystack and struck before I even saw it."
"An owl?" Adrian frowned. He didn't like the sound of that.
"Barn's got rats," Jonathan said with a shrug. "Owls hunt rats. Makes sense they'd show up here. Doesn't mean I have to like it."
Martha arrived just in time to hear the excuse, drying her hands on a dish towel. Her brows knitted. "If you had worn gloves, you wouldn't have been pecked in the first place."
Jonathan shook his head, already fumbling with the bandage roll. "Doesn't matter how thick the gloves are. A sharp beak like that can pierce leather. Besides," he added with a thin smile, "maybe it's a good sign. Fewer rats in the barn, less mess for me."
Martha gave him a pointed look. "You always manage to spin your mistakes into wisdom."
"Nature always has its reasons." Jonathan winked at his son as he finished bandaging the wound. "Right, Adrian?"
Adrian's lips curved faintly, though he said nothing. His father always tried to play the optimist, but Adrian noticed things others ignored. Rats, owls, shadows gathering where they shouldn't. He didn't believe in coincidences.
"Your father's good with words, isn't he?" Martha said with a gentle smile. She placed the towel aside, then added softly, "Do you know why I left Metropolis for Smallville? Not for the bright lights or the promise of wealth. I stayed because your father once told me we wouldn't have much, but I'd have his love for a lifetime. And I believed him."
Jonathan smirked, pretending to sigh. "Sounds like someone misses Metropolis again."
"Sometimes I do," Martha admitted.
Adrian watched the exchange, a faint smile flickering on his lips. The warmth of their banter tugged at something in him. For all his godlike power, for all the superiority that burned in his chest, their humanity was a strange anchor.
"Speaking of family," Martha said, "Clark's still not back?"
Jonathan exhaled through his nose. "Football practice. I swear, sometimes I think he stays late just to avoid me. Can't blame him. Silence is easier than my lectures."
"Don't say that," Martha scolded softly, squeezing his arm. "Clark will understand, eventually."
"I hope so," Jonathan muttered.
Adrian said nothing, though the thought lingered in his mind. Clark was his brother, and in some ways, the only one who could ever come close to understanding him. He'd be kind to Clark—gentle even—but the world outside? It would feel only his dominance.
Dinner came and went. As the house settled into its nightly rhythm, Adrian's attention shifted. His vision cut through walls and trees, finding the man he had been tracking for days.
The reporter.
Chris.
The moment the man left Lex Luthor's estate, Adrian stood, stretching his arms lazily. A gust of air rippled through the curtains as his figure vanished from the living room.
Far away, Chris drove down the uneven roads of Smallville's outskirts. His car rattled along the dark path until he finally pulled into the driveway of a lonely, decaying villa. The house loomed like a corpse—aged wood, broken shutters, a silence so deep it pressed on the lungs.
Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of rot. Chris's footsteps echoed hollowly on the warped floorboards.
Paintings lined the corridor walls. Adrian, unseen, followed with his vision.
The first painting: an owl perched on a branch, its crimson eyes peering into a lit window. Watching. Waiting.
The second: a biblical scene. Nadab and Abihu, sons of Aaron, consumed by divine fire for offering profane sacrifice. Their bodies twisted in agony, flames licking their flesh.
The last painting was simpler but more disturbing. A black owl mask, ancient patterns etched into its surface.
Chris entered a dim room, placed his briefcase down, and carefully pulled a mask from a cabinet. Its design mirrored the painting, eerie and lifeless. He slid it over his head before opening his laptop and activating a projection system.
The image flickered to life, revealing a council chamber cloaked in shadows. Black seats arranged in precise formation. Stained glass windows threw fractured light across the walls, where murals of knights and angels seemed to watch silently.
Figures filled the seats. Aristocratic men and women, clad in immaculate black suits, each wearing a mask identical to Chris's.
The Court of Owls.
"Chris," a voice rumbled from the head of the chamber. A man cloaked in black robes, his mask marked with subtle golden inlay. "You were tasked with observing Lex Luthor. Have you gathered intelligence worthy of the Court's attention?"
Chris bowed his head. "Yes, Speaker. Lex has placed his trust in me."
"Good." The Speaker's tone dripped with authority. "We are the roots of Metropolis. Once, no decision was made without our approval. Every shadow belonged to us. Every secret passed through our hands. Then LuthorCorp rose, cutting off our influence. But blood is the foundation of all power, and the Luthor family will learn that destruction is the only path left to them."
The Court murmured their agreement, the sound like a whispering storm.
Chris continued. "Lex initially tasked me with investigating the Smallville High School prom incident. But recently, he ordered me to focus on two students."
The Speaker tilted his head. "Students?"
"Yes, Speaker. He seems unusually wary of them. Afraid, even."
The chamber stirred. The Speaker's voice hardened. "Lex Luthor, afraid? You told us before that his mind is pure calculation, nearly devoid of emotion. Yet he fears?"
"It sounds impossible," Chris admitted, "but I saw it myself."
The Speaker leaned forward. "Then tell us the names of these students."
Chris drew a breath. "The first is from Smallville—"
The screen went black. Connection severed. The projector died with a hiss.
Chris froze.
Adrian, standing in the shadows beyond the window, let a cold smile spread across his face.
"The Court of Owls," he whispered to himself. "Interesting."
____
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