Sophie's Apartment – Gotham
The door opened slowly. No kick. No rush. Just the click of the handle and the creak of the hinges.
Arthur didn't stop laughing.
The hallway lights flooded the room, slicing across Sophie's sprawled body on the floor. The blood around her head had dried. Her robe askew. Her eyes open, but empty.
Three men entered. All in black. Plain masks, no symbols. Pistols in chest holsters. One held an iron baton, still stained with rust.
"Is this the freak?"
The second man stepped in, looking straight at the woman's body.
"Yeah. The clown."
Arthur was kneeling, hands in his lap. His face smeared with paint and saliva. The laughter now a constant wheeze, trapped in his throat.
"It stinks."
"He killed her?"
"Looks like it."
The third man closed the door with his foot. Approached, eyeing the room with disdain.
"This place isn't worth the cigarette I tossed downstairs."
Arthur lifted his gaze. The smile still plastered on his face.
"You… you guys here for the party too?"
The first man scoffed.
"Enough."
He drew his gun. Smacked the handle against the side of Arthur's head.
THACK.
Arthur fell sideways. His body trembling. The laughter turned to a groan.
The man wiped the gun on Arthur's shirt.
"Shitty mission."
"Hood had us tail this loser for days. For what?"
"Said he wanted him in one piece. Didn't say why. We didn't ask."
The second man crouched. Nudged Arthur with his foot.
"The guy's practically drooling. Still thinks he's in a circus."
"Where's the meet-up?"
"Near the tracks. Warehouse 12."
"Let's go."
They dragged Arthur by the shoulders. His body limp, but still muttering disjointed words. The laughter came and went, like a radio out of tune.
As they passed Sophie, none of them looked.
One bumped her arm, turned his face in disgust.
"Woman died for nothing."
"Think he'll remember?"
"Nah. But he'll laugh about it for weeks."
They hauled Arthur to the end of the hallway.
A shoe fell off.
No one picked it up.
The door stayed open.
Inside, only Sophie's body remained. The blue flower fallen by her head. A fragment of Arthur's laughter still echoing, trapped in the walls.
---
Kent Farm
The light from the corner lamp flickered faintly. Outside, the wind slipped through the wooden slats, carrying the scent of wet earth. Jonathan sat on the edge of the bed, hunched, elbows on his knees. His hands clenched as if holding something threatening to slip away.
Martha finished folding a blanket. Her fingers slow but steady. Her gaze shifted from the window to her husband, then to the floor.
"You're not going to sleep?"
"Not tonight."
She draped the blanket over the chair.
"You need to rest."
"What I need is to understand how we got here."
Martha leaned against the dresser. Her hand rested on her belly. Silence filled the space between them for seconds too long.
"He did what he thought was right."
"That's not what worries me."
Jonathan stood. His face was tense, but his eyes held no anger. They held fear.
"I know my son. I watched him grow. I taught him right from wrong."
"You still know him."
"You don't kill someone on impulse and stay the same."
Martha breathed slowly.
"She was dangerous."
"I know. And that's what's tearing me apart. Because part of me understands… and the other part refuses."
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing the room as if something there could answer for Clark.
"What if this is the start? What if next time it's not out of necessity? What if it starts feeling easy?"
"Clark isn't like that."
"He wasn't. Now… I don't know anymore."
Martha stepped closer.
"I talked to Diana. She understands this better than we do. She lives in a world where sometimes… there's no other way."
"But this isn't a war. This is our home."
"You can't separate them anymore."
Jonathan stopped. Stared at the wall, as if he were far away.
"He should've come here. Talked to us."
"He's scared."
"Scared of what? Of what we'll say?"
"Scared of seeing in our eyes that we don't look at him the same way."
The words hung in the air. Jonathan swallowed hard.
"Do you look at him differently?"
"I look at him with more pain. But he's still my son."
He sighed.
"I miss the kid who'd come running in with muddy feet, saying he loved us more than cereal."
Martha touched his arm.
"He still loves us."
Jonathan turned his face, his eyes damp.
"I just don't want to lose him… inside."
Martha nodded, her voice low.
"Then we hold him here. Even if he tries to pull away."
She tugged Jonathan's hand, guiding him to sit on the bed again.
"You don't have to understand everything. Just keep loving him."
He looked at her belly. Then at her hands resting over it.
"This baby's gonna grow up in a world where their brother is… a god."
"Or someone who makes mistakes too."
"And if he messes up again?"
"Then we'll be here. To remind him who he is."
The wind rattled again.
The lamp's light wavered once more.
Jonathan rubbed his face. Stayed silent. Then, in a tired voice:
"I'll try."
"That's all I ask."
They sat side by side, listening to the night. Nothing changed in the world. But there, for now, there was calm.
And that was enough.
---
Luthor Mansion
The rhythmic tap of the cane on the wooden floor echoed steadily. Lex crossed the office with slow steps. His left leg dragged slightly. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, illuminating the muted sheen of the dark wooden furniture. The air carried the scent of old leather and strong coffee.
Lana stood near the bookshelf. Her hair tied back, a light coat folded over her arm. Her eyes scanned the books as if searching for something familiar.
"You cut your hair."
"I needed a change."
"It's not just the hair that's changed."
She turned her face, unhurried.
"It's time. It does that to people."
Lex approached the desk. The cane rested against the side of the armchair. He sat carefully, his face free of tension but attentive.
"You didn't say you were coming back."
"I told Chloe."
"That doesn't count."
She sat in the armchair across from him. Hands in her lap, fingers interlaced. The tattoo on her shoulder burned slowly, like a warning she pretended not to feel.
"I want to go back to the Talon. The job. The room."
"It's still yours."
"Even after I disappeared?"
"You don't owe explanations. Just take back what you want."
Lana nodded. Her face calm. But her stomach tightened.
"Thanks."
Lex watched her. His eyes lingered for a second on her arm, where the sleeve hid part of the tattoo.
"There's something different about you. Something… quieter."
"Paris made me think."
"Paris, or what took you there?"
She looked away.
"Maybe both."
Lex rested his elbows on the chair's arms. His left hand discreetly massaged his leg.
"This town has a knack for swallowing good people."
"I didn't come back to be swallowed."
The pain in her shoulder sharpened. A hot spike, as if her skin were trying to tear open. Lana didn't flinch.
Lex leaned forward slightly.
"You look good. But… are you sure you want to return to the same place, with everything so different?"
"I don't want things the same. I want to start over where I still feel like I belong."
The room fell silent for a few seconds.
Lex looked out the window. Then back at her.
"If you need, the name still carries weight in Smallville."
"I hope I won't need it."
"So do I."
Lana stood. Her shoulder throbbed. Her hands trembled faintly.
"I'll stop by the Talon this afternoon. See if I still remember where the keys are."
"Same drawer as always."
She nodded.
"See you, Lex."
"Welcome back."
Lana walked out with steady steps. But as she crossed the threshold, heat rose up her neck. The tattoo burned like metal beneath her skin.
She didn't look back.
Lex stayed still, staring at the spot where she'd been.
'Paris changed her. And it's got nothing to do with fashion.'
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