"Something's wrong with Clark."
Pete's voice broke the quiet hum of The Torch's office as he stepped inside, his tone edged with worry.
Chloe barely looked up, her attention fixed on a red-glowing stone in her hand. "You won't believe what I found, Pete! The rings the school sold us are fakes."
Pete frowned. "We can talk about that later, Chloe. Clark's been acting really strange lately."
Chloe's expression shifted, curiosity overtaking her excitement. "Strange how?"
"The motorcycle. The way he's been talking to his dad. It's like he's... someone else. I just spoke with Mr. Kent—he's seriously worried. They even thought maybe drugs."
Chloe scoffed lightly. "Clark, on drugs? Come on, Pete. He's always been weird; maybe his weirdness just leveled up."
Pete sighed. "Yeah, I wish it were that simple. Anyway, what's with that rock?"
Chloe's eyes gleamed as she held it up. "This! I found out the school's graduation rings aren't real rubies. The jewelry company's been swapping them with red meteorites to cut costs."
Pete raised an eyebrow and glanced at his own ring. "Meteorites? Chloe, the ones in Smallville are green, not red."
"Not all of them," Chloe corrected. "The ones near Hobbs Lake are crimson. Same markings as our rings. I'm publishing this tomorrow on the front page."
Pete took the stone from her, studying the eerie glow. "You think this could be affecting Clark? He gets weird around the green ones—what if the red ones do something different?"
Chloe's brow furrowed. "You mean... like an enchantment? It's possible. If the red meteorite has similar properties, maybe it's messing with his mind."
---
Meanwhile, at the Kent Farm, tension hung thick in the air.
Martha Kent pressed a warm towel against Jonathan's bruised back, her hands trembling slightly. "I can't believe Clark would lash out like that," she whispered, her voice filled with both worry and disbelief.
Jonathan exhaled sharply through the pain. "He's not himself, Martha. It's like something inside him snapped."
"What are we supposed to do? Just stand by while he loses himself?"
Jonathan shook his head. "I wish I knew. If anyone can bring him back, it's Adrian."
At the mention of the name, Martha's expression tightened. "Adrian's powers awakened earlier than Clark's. He's stronger... faster... maybe too much so."
Jonathan turned, meeting her gaze. "That's exactly the problem. Adrian's not just powerful. If he steps in now, things could spiral. You saw what he can do, Martha. He can fly faster than a jet. And Clark only just learned heat vision because Adrian taught him."
Martha's eyes glistened with worry. "If they fight—"
"Then God help Smallville," Jonathan interrupted, pulling on his shirt. "We can't risk it. If there's a confrontation, it won't end with words."
He turned to look out the window, where the distant barn light flickered. "They're brothers, but right now, that might not be enough."
---
Far away, beneath the sprawling depths of Wayne Manor, Bruce Wayne sat in front of a wall of glowing monitors. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot—he hadn't slept.
"I know what I'm doing, Alfred," Bruce said, his voice steady despite the exhaustion. "The collapse yesterday was physical, temporary. I can handle it."
His fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard. "Computer—voice retrieval, second processor."
The screen flickered.
"Voice retrieval failed."
Bruce slammed his fist against the console. "Damn it!"
Alfred approached quietly, placing a steaming cup beside him. "I've set your coffee here, Master Bruce. Might I remind you—bats aren't nocturnal by choice. Even they rest."
Bruce ignored the quip, eyes still fixed on the replay of the alley fight. The mysterious figure he'd encountered—flying faster than he could track, strength that defied logic. And despite the footage, the face remained hidden. Only the voice lingered.
But even after hours of analysis, it yielded nothing.
"I can't find a match," Bruce muttered. "It's like he doesn't exist."
Alfred raised a brow. "Perhaps he doesn't—at least, not on any record we have."
Bruce's jaw tightened.
The air hung heavy in the room.
Alfred looked thoughtful. "A ghost, then. Perhaps even Gotham's shadows aren't dark enough to hide him."
____
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