"Today is Clark's game day. Jonathan and I are going to watch. Adrian, are you coming?" Martha, scarf already wrapped around her neck, stood at the doorway with an expectant smile.
"No," Adrian replied flatly, his eyes locked on the files spread across his desk. He sifted through notes gathered from Chris, one of his reporter contacts. "Sorry, football doesn't interest me right now."
Jonathan Kent tugged his coat on, giving Adrian a look that carried the weight of a father's lesson. "Sometimes you need to bend, son. Look at me. I never liked Clark joining the football team, but I'm going to his game. That's what family does."
Martha adjusted Jonathan's scarf with gentle firmness. "Exactly. Just as we support Adrian's writing, you should support Clark's love for the sport."
Jonathan sighed. "That's not the same thing, Martha."
"It is to Clark," she countered softly. "This isn't about football. It's about trust. A father's trust."
Jonathan finally cracked a smile, raising his wrist to show her his watch. "If we don't get moving, we'll be late."
The door shut behind them, leaving Adrian alone. He leaned back, stretching his shoulders, before returning his gaze to the laptop. Most of his files were drafts of interviews, video clippings, and photographs. Hours of work collected and catalogued with precision.
But buried deep in a hidden folder, he found something different. Something unsettling.
The document opened with a nursery rhyme:
We killed it,
Who will be its priest?
Who will carry its coffin?
Who will sing its hymn?
The raven writes the prayer of Death.
The dove weeps, mourning the future.
The kite carries the coffin into the desolate night.
The thrush sings among the thorns.
All the birds sigh when the funeral bell tolls.
Beneath the rhyme came a notice, stamped with authority:
To all concerned,
The next Owl Council
Will judge all birds.
Then came the list. Dozens of names—politicians, businessmen, influential figures. Adrian's eyes scanned until one name stood out: Lex Luthor.
Adrian smirked, closing the laptop with deliberate calm. "The Court of Owls," he murmured. "Looks like the funeral bell tolls for everyone."
His eyes shifted, glowing faintly as his Super Vision stretched outward. Across the town, on the football field, he saw Clark warming up. A quiet flicker of affection touched his expression. For all his power, Clark still wanted something so simple as a game.
But not all was calm in Smallville.
In The Torch office, Chloe Sullivan typed furiously, racing against the clock. Clark's game was about to start, and she refused to miss it. Her fingers hammered the keys, her focus absolute.
That's why she didn't notice the shadow creeping closer.
"Whoosh!"
A sudden roar of fire erupted from her computer. Flames raced across the keyboard, monitor, and desk as if gasoline had been poured. Heat blasted her face, forcing her back in shock.
"Oh my God!" she cried out, stumbling.
But the fire moved like a predator, cutting off her escape. Documents curled into ash, smoke filling the room with suffocating speed. Chloe covered her mouth, coughing violently.
"Help! Somebody, help!" Her voice was swallowed by the crackle of flames.
Outside the office, Coach Walt watched through the glass. His lips curled in satisfaction. Turning away, he headed for the locker room. Today was his two-hundredth game, and victory mattered more than anything—more than morality, more than human life.
Inside the locker room, Clark Kent pushed the door open. His football uniform hung loosely on his frame, but his face was tight with anger.
"Clark?" Walt's brow furrowed. "The game's about to start. Get ready."
Clark didn't move. "I talked to Trevor. He told me what you've been doing. The abuse, the cheating. You've been hurting him."
The coach's smile turned sharp, venomous. "So the boy tattled. I should've punished him harder. Snitches like him deserve to burn." His tone dripped with venom. "I'm your coach, your mentor. You don't question me. Get dressed. Now."
"No." Clark's jaw tightened. "I'm not playing, and neither are you."
Walt's expression twisted. "Defiant, just like you defy your father. Keep it up, Kent, and your fate will be the same as your little newspaper girl."
Clark's eyes widened. "Chloe?!"
The coach struck before Clark could react. His fist drove into Clark's stomach, making him double over in agony. Pain ripped through him—real pain, something he wasn't used to.
"What—how?" Clark gasped. His defenses had never failed him like this.
The answer came in the haze filling the room. Walt's obsession with saunas, with steam—it wasn't just a habit. The heat was laced with powdered meteorite fragments. Kryptonite.
The coach's foot slammed into Clark's chest, sending him sprawling.
"You look weak, boy," Walt sneered, looming over him. "Just like Adrian. You both have something unnatural about you. Maybe you're monsters like me. The stones gave me power, more power than you can imagine." His eyes gleamed with madness. "And it feels good."
Clark coughed, struggling to focus his fading vision. His gaze cut through the walls until he saw Chloe, choking, her life slipping away inside the inferno.
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