At that very moment—while corporate eyes in Metropolis dug through every surveillance feed to investigate the mysterious man who cut through undead like a hurricane—Peter had no idea he was being hunted.
He was far too busy scolding Adam.
Clark, ever the innocent bystander, stood nearby with his hands behind his back, trying to look invisible.
Peter sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Why were you two fighting again?" he asked, voice low and tired.
Clark hesitated.
"Adam said the leaf I drew looked like a... dog's butt."
Peter blinked. He slowly turned his head toward Adam, who was clutching his backside with a wounded look—likely still sore from an earlier spanking.
"Is that true?"
Adam glanced at the floor, then up at Peter, face scrunched in guilty confusion. "Yes, Father... but I wasn't lying."
Peter walked over, picked up the crayon drawing from the table, and examined it with all the seriousness of an art critic.
Yep.
It kind of did look like a dog's butt.
But that wasn't the point.
"Adam, there are lots of things in this world that look like a dog's butt. That doesn't mean you go around saying it out loud."
Adam tilted his head, confused. "Why not?"
"Because some things are better kept inside. Words can hurt more than fists." Peter closed the sketchbook and handed it back to Clark. "It's not about being right, it's about being kind."
Clark's face twitched. His godfather definitely thought his drawing looked like a dog's butt too.
The shame was real.
Peter sank into the couch, gesturing for both boys to sit.
They scrambled onto the cushions beside him, their legs swinging.
"Do you two know why I haven't let you go to school yet?"
Clark and Adam looked at each other. They'd wondered, of course. Other kids their age were already in school, learning multiplication tables and raising their hands for bathroom breaks.
"No idea," Adam finally said, frowning.
Peter leaned back. His gaze was distant, almost haunted.
"Because neither of you are ready—not ready to be hurt, and not ready to stop yourselves from hurting others."
He saw the frown forming on Clark's face. Before the boy could ask more, Peter continued.
"You're not like the other kids in Smallville. You haven't been scratched, bruised, or broken. And you don't know your own strength. If someone pushes you the wrong way... Adam, I'm worried you'd break someone's spine before realizing what happened."
Clark's breath caught.
So did Adam's.
Peter wasn't angry—he was scared. Scared for them.
He'd seen what happened when people like them were pushed too far. What happened when power was mishandled without guidance.
"Father..." Adam said hesitantly. "Are we... human?"
Peter turned his head sharply. "Of course you are."
Adam chewed his lip. "Then why are we so different from everyone else?"
Peter gave a small smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Because being different is our gift. And with that gift comes responsibility. You don't get to be careless anymore. You protect those around you, even if they never know it."
Clark's heart stirred. The word protect echoed through him like a bell.
He liked that word.
Adam tilted his head. "But why do we need to hold back all the time?"
Peter was silent for a moment, running a hand through his hair.
He remembered something Jonathan Kent had once said to him in another life—a philosophy he'd mocked back then. But now? Now it felt like wisdom carved into stone.
He looked at the boys, eyes soft.
"Because your hearts aren't strong enough to carry the consequences of your strength yet."
Clark leaned forward, eyes wide. "So... you're going to teach us how to be strong the right way?"
Peter chuckled.
"I'm going to be your first teacher."
Clark's whole face lit up.
"Then can you teach me how to draw better too?" he asked eagerly, completely forgetting the earlier humiliation.
Peter looked at the dog-butt leaf again.
He exhaled slowly.
"Clark," he said, "I think a better future for you might be journalism."
Clark blinked.
"What's that?"
"Someone who writes about the world. You see what others don't, and you tell the truth."
Clark seemed to seriously consider it.
Peter smiled.
You'll be good at it one day.
---
The Next Day – Funeral at Smallville Church
The old church bell tolled in slow rhythm, cutting through the chilled morning air.
Peter stood at the back in a black suit, hand resting on the shoulder of a solemn Clark.
Adam stood beside him, posture straighter than usual.
The funeral was for the victims of the Great Hall fire and the zombie rampage—officially labeled by authorities as a biochemical terrorist attack. Over a dozen dead. More than twenty wounded.
It was the worst tragedy to hit Smallville since the 1950 tornado.
Peter's expression was unreadable.
This was the second funeral he'd brought the boys to.
But this time?
They didn't squirm. They didn't ask when they could go home.
They stood still.
Like men.
Martha Kent walked up, eyes red, Jonathan behind her.
"Peter," she whispered, choking up. "Thank you. If it hadn't been for you... we might've lost our son."
Peter shook his head softly. "Clark is part of my family too. I did what any father would've done."
Jonathan gave him a firm nod. "The world's changing, Peter. What happened out there... those weren't men. They were monsters. You were right. Zombies."
Peter tilted his head. "And how's the government spinning it?"
"Governor's ordered an official inquiry. The media is calling it a gas leak and drug-induced frenzy." Jonathan's voice dropped. "But we know. They're hiding the truth."
Peter gave a faint smile. "They always do."
Before they could continue, a voice called from nearby:
"Mr. Patrick. Mr. Kent."
A man with slicked-back shoulder-length hair, dressed in a suit far too elegant for rural Kansas, approached with an air of confidence.
Leno Luther.
Peter's eyes narrowed.
"Mr. Patrick," Leno said with a smile, "we've crossed paths before. Business dealings, remember?"
Jonathan frowned immediately and stepped back.
He hated Luthor's kind.
Corporate vultures pretending to care about people's lives.
Peter, however, stood his ground.
"Are you here to buy my farm again, Mr. Luther?" he asked.
Leno raised both hands in peace.
"No, no, Mr. Patrick. Quite the opposite. We've scrapped the chemical plant plans. We're pivoting toward an agricultural support program. Helping local farmers—boosting infrastructure."
Peter raised an eyebrow.
That... didn't sound like the LexCorp he knew.
"You trying to buy hearts now, Mr. Luther?"
Leno's smile didn't falter. "I'm just a man trying to do good business in a town I love."
Behind that smile, Peter could almost feel the gears turning.
This was no ordinary businessman.
And somewhere behind those eyes... Lex's shadow was alrea
dy forming.
---