The late morning sun spilled through the classroom windows, painting the room in a soft, golden haze. Rows of wooden desks stretched across the floor, each one etched with faded initials and doodles from years of restless students. The air carried a faint mix of chalk dust, worn paper, and the distant whiff of cafeteria food—something oily and sweet, like a village stall frying snacks on a busy day. Students trickled in, their voices a lazy buzz of chatter about weekend plans, their backpacks thudding against chairs like small drumbeats.
At the front, Mr. Harrington stood hunched over his desk, his glasses slipping down his nose, a coffee cup trembling slightly in his hand. He flipped through his lesson notes with a sigh, the kind of tired sound you'd hear from someone who'd long given up on sparking excitement in a room full of teenagers. "Alright, settle down," he said, clearing his throat. "Let's get started."
In the middle of it all, Clark Kent sprawled across his chair, legs kicked out, arms crossed tight over his chest. His dark hair hung messily over his forehead, and his blue eyes stared ahead, dull and uninterested. School was a cage—a pointless game for someone like him. He wasn't here to scribble notes or chase grades. His mind, sharp and restless, belonged somewhere bigger, somewhere beyond this small-town classroom. Still, today had a flicker of promise. A chance to stir things up.
Mr. Harrington tapped his marker against the blackboard, the sharp click cutting through the room's hum. "Let's start easy," he said, scratching out a question in uneven letters: Which element has the highest electronegativity?
A hand shot up two rows ahead, quick as a dart. "Fluorine," Gwen Stacy said, her voice crisp and steady, like she'd known the answer before the question even landed.
Mr. Harrington gave a small nod, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. "Correct."
Clark's gaze slid toward her. Gwen leaned back in her seat, a smug little smirk curling her lips. She was good—sharp, confident, the kind of girl who thrived on being the brightest in the room. He'd noticed her before, but today, she was starting to look like more than just background noise.
The class rolled on, questions piling up, and Gwen kept firing off answers like it was a sport. Then Mr. Harrington paused, his fingers brushing over a creased page in his notes. "Alright, something trickier," he said, a glint of mischief in his tired eyes. He scribbled: If a train is traveling at 80 miles per hour and needs to stop within 400 meters, what force must be applied to bring it to a halt?
Gwen's hand went up again, but this time, there was a tiny hitch in her movement. "It depends on the mass of the train," she said, her tone still firm.
Mr. Harrington nodded. "Go on."
She flipped open her notebook, her pen scratching quick numbers across the page. Her brow furrowed, just for a second. "If it's an average passenger train… maybe 10,000 Newtons?"
The room went quiet, waiting. Mr. Harrington shook his head, his voice gentle but firm. "Not quite."
Before Gwen could recover, a slow, easy voice broke the silence. "15,000 Newtons."
Every head turned. Clark didn't move, just sat there with his arms still crossed, his face blank like he'd barely bothered to speak. Mr. Harrington blinked, adjusting his glasses. "That's… correct, Mr. Kent."
Gwen's eyes snapped to Clark, narrow and searching, a spark of something—annoyance, maybe, or curiosity—flashing in them. Clark met her stare, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. Caught your attention, didn't I?
The bell rang, and the courtyard erupted into life, like a school fair bursting open after hours of quiet. Students spilled out under the wide, shady trees, their laughter ringing sharp and free. Some sprawled on the grass, sharing snacks—crisp packets rustling, the faint smell of spices floating in the air—while others kicked a ball around, their shouts bouncing off the brick walls. It was warm and chaotic, the kind of scene that felt alive and messy in the best way.
Clark wandered through it, hands stuffed deep in his jacket pockets, his steps slow and deliberate. He didn't care about the gossip swirling around him or the games unfolding in the dust. To him, it was all noise—childish, small, beneath him. He was here for something else.
"Kent!"
The voice cut through the chatter, bright and teasing. He didn't need to look to know it was Gwen. She strode up, her blonde hair glinting in the sunlight, her posture loose but sure, like she owned every inch of ground she walked on.
"You didn't raise your hand back there," she said, crossing her arms, a playful edge in her tone.
Clark leaned against the wall, his smirk lazy and unbothered. "Didn't need to."
Gwen huffed, but her lips twitched, fighting a smile. "So, what's your deal? You just sit there, looking bored, waiting for someone to slip up?"
Clark's eyes glinted, his voice dropping low. "Not someone. Just you."
She laughed—a short, sharp sound—but her gaze lingered, sizing him up. "You don't strike me as the school type," she said, tilting her head.
He shrugged, meeting her eyes without flinching. "I'm not."
Her brow arched, curiosity winning over. "Then how'd you pull that answer out of nowhere?"
Clark leaned in just a fraction, his smirk deepening. "Maybe I'm not as simple as I look."
Gwen held his gaze, her arms still crossed, then let out a quick breath, like she'd made up her mind. "Alright, mystery boy." She nodded toward the street beyond the courtyard. "I'm studying after school. You in?"
Clark tilted his head, dragging out the moment like he was weighing his options. "Depends. Can you handle studying with the guy who just showed you up?"
Her smirk flashed back, quick and sharp. "In your dreams, Kent."
He chuckled, pushing off the wall. "Guess I'm in, then."
"Good," she shot back, already turning to walk away, her voice carrying over her shoulder. "Try not to slow me down."
Clark watched her go, her ponytail swinging with each step, a quiet satisfaction settling in his chest. Step one: done.