Hello, my loves! We're here with another chapter to warm (or chill?) your hearts. I know this one is a bit short, but I'm trying to post more frequently for you all. Things are getting a bit heavier in Smallville, and our dear characters are having to navigate some rather turbulent waters.
And yes, for anyone wondering, the inspiration for our dear Professor Carrington came entirely from Cillian Murphy as Tom Buckley in Red Lights. I couldn't resist—blame it on that face sculpted by angels and the intensity of that melancholic gaze.
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The Torch office remained silent for a long time, only the hum of the fluorescent lights filling the void. The door had closed, and with it, the noise and the presence of her friends were gone, leaving Beth alone with her thoughts. The pen in her hand stopped moving. She looked at the incomplete equation in her notebook, the numbers and symbols blurred like her own vision of the future. She knew she had to get out of there before the thoughts swallowed her whole.
Beth threw the backpack over her shoulder, feeling the weight of the books against her ribs as she walked down the empty school corridor. Her worn-out sneakers squeaked lightly on the linoleum, the sound echoing in the night's silence. The maths lab was at the end of the building, an ordinary room with old desks and scribbled-on whiteboards, but for her, it was a safe harbour. As she opened the door, the smell of paper, chalk, and coffee enveloped her, as if the room had been waiting for her. Here, Beth wasn't the girl who went unnoticed. In this room, she was the one who unravelled equations, who brought order to chaos.
Mr. Thomas Cillian Carrington—or just Mr. Carrington to most—was there, arranging papers on the corner desk. He lifted his head and looked at her, his expression unchanged, almost melancholic. Beth noticed, as always, the way the light seemed to sculpt the prominent angles of his face: the sharp jawline, the high cheekbones, and the ice-blue eyes that seemed to see through things. His light brown hair fell over his forehead in a slightly messy way, and he wore a grey linen shirt with patched elbows, which somehow looked incredibly elegant on him. He had a presence that Beth found fascinating, a calmness that came from the mind, not the body.
"Late" he said, his British voice sounding dry and contained. He had no need for small talk. Beth felt an affinity for this directness. Why waste time on banalities when you could get straight to the point?
"Seriously? By two minutes?" Beth replied, her tone firm and slightly sarcastic. She liked her relationship with him: a direct communication, with no wasted words. He gave a minimal nod, a corner of his mouth rising in a micro-smile.
"The students are already in the room next door. I hope you're ready for the horror show," he said, handing her a pile of trigonometry exercises. The sheets were slightly crumpled, with crooked notes in the margins.
"Always ready," she answered, taking the papers. The smell of fresh ink rose as she gave the equations a quick glance, analysing them with ease.
"Your shoulders are tense," he commented suddenly, adjusting his shirt cuff as if the rolled fabric were an existential nuisance. He pushed his thin-rimmed glasses up with his index finger, and the movement caused a lock of hair to slide to the side. It was a beauty of angelic contours, but intensely masculine, as if his sharp intelligence had sculpted his glacial eyes and his face into features of a cutting elegance. Why, of all the schools in the country, did Smallville's, which was in the middle of nowhere, have so many attractive teachers? The headmaster must have an unusual selection criterion, she thought, with a touch of sarcasm.
"Just happy to be here, Professor Thomas," she said, her voice low, almost hoping he wouldn't reply, letting the subject die there. He nodded, as if he knew that, even without her saying anything, that was the purest truth she could express.
Beth couldn't be sure, but she was almost certain she was one of the few people Thomas liked—or the only one he bothered to strike up a conversation with—at school, at least. His loneliness seemed strangely familiar to her, perhaps because he accepted his without question.
She then found herself reflecting on his comment, noticing the opening he rarely showed. Maybe it was worth explaining, at least a little. Beth shrugged, the movement seeming awkward. "Just a long afternoon at the Torch," she finally said, her voice an echo in the lab's silence. Thomas nodded, understanding weighing in his gaze.
Beth tried to focus on the papers, but her eyes caught the way he threw his head back, a quick, almost imperceptible movement that aligned his rebellious hair with disconcerting precision. It was such a simple gesture, almost a tic, but it made a faint blush appear on her face. Thomas's beauty was cold, with features so sharp they seemed drawn with a ruler and compass. Then, Clark came to mind, and the contrast was stark. Clark was a warm presence, with broad shoulders that exuded safety and a crooked smile that seemed to carry a private sun. Thomas, also tall but lean, had a beauty that was intriguing, but not inviting. The best analogy Beth could find to describe them was that Clark was a golden retriever: all heart and energy, always by your side with unwavering loyalty; while Thomas was a black cat, moving with a distant grace, his eyes holding mysteries that refused to be unravelled.
It was different, lighter, more... accessible, perhaps. But that only irritated her. Not because he was her teacher, or because any thought beyond angles and sines was impossible. What irritated her was her own brain, which seemed obsessed with Clark, as if she had to reserve all the space in her heart for someone who didn't even see her as more than a friend. Clark was nothing to her, and yet, there she was, unable to feel even a shred of excitement for someone like Thomas, who, whether he wanted to or not, was the type of person that made everyone stop and look.
"I saw what you lot were investigating. Crop circles, if I'm not mistaken it happened at old man Mackenzie's farm," he said, his voice reserved as usual. He seemed to have the ability to observe everything without actually being there, a skill Beth admired. "Fascinating, from a mathematical standpoint. The patterns, the symmetry... it's physics disguised as art. Or perhaps the other way around."
Beth felt relieved to steer the conversation away from herself and her feelings. "I went to observe it myself, you know, to get an idea of what really happened there," she replied, her voice regaining some of its strength, still looking at the papers in her hand. "I'm almost sure it's technology, professor, not aliens or something like that." She looked at him, the certainty in her voice echoing in her mind. "It might sound crazy, but I swear I've seen that before."
Thomas, however, showed no surprise at her answer. "Where did you see it, Harper? In one of your science fiction books?" he asked, the corner of his mouth curving into an almost-smile.
"Don't tease me, professor!" Beth exclaimed, crossing her arms with a smile she tried to contain by biting her lip, as the sheets rippled over her waistline. "I'm not talking about the circles. That, I swear, I've never seen anything like it!"
"What are you referring to, then?"
"The results... I mean, the equations, the calculations I made based on observation by tracing the circumference, the diameter, and there's also the chemical part, you know, the plant life..." Beth started talking and realised she'd gotten carried away when she saw the professor's quiet expression, one of his eyebrows raised. She sighed and uncrossed her arms, approaching the desk where he stood and resting her hands on it. "What I mean is," she began again, her voice lower and more focused, "is that the mathematical signature behind it... the energy distribution, the resonant frequency implied in the torsion patterns of the stalks... I've seen it. I'm not an engineer, so I could be wrong, but the results are incredibly familiar. It's the mark of a specific device, and I've seen a diagram with these same calculations somewhere, I just can't remember where."
Thomas's expression changed subtly, the amusement in his eyes replaced by a sharp curiosity. He leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers interlaced. "A mathematical signature," he repeated, the words sounding precise in his British accent. "Describe it to me."
Beth hesitated, but the validation in his tone encouraged her. "It's a pulsed magnetic field, but with a very particular frequency modulation. It isn't linear. It's designed to interact with organic matter rich in water, hence the way the cornstalks bent without breaking. The energy is distributed in concentric spiral waves, which explains the perfect circles." She paused, her breath caught in her throat. "The problem is, technology like this shouldn't exist, not openly. It's something out of an advanced research lab, maybe military."
Thomas was silent for a long moment, his ice-blue eyes fixed on her, seeming to assess not just her words, but perhaps the mind behind them. "What you've described," he said finally, his voice low and serious, "sounds a great deal like the theory behind planetary-scale geo-engineering technology. Experimental projects to manipulate ecosystems, or even the climate. Most of these studies are highly confidential, Harper. The work of DARPA, or... of corporations with unlimited resources."
The unspoken name hung in the air between them: LuthorCorp.
A chill ran down Beth's spine, cold and sharp. The puzzle pieces spun in her mind with dizzying speed, fitting together with a sickening and terrifying click. The advanced technology. The astronomical cost. The fact that the only time she had felt so out of her element, so surrounded by power and money, was at the LuthorCorp gala. Where she met Alexander. Where her father spent his days, hunched over the same numbers she now worried could be hiding the funding for such a project.
The air seemed to grow denser, heavier. The smell of stale chalk and coffee in the maths lab suddenly became suffocating. She felt a wave of nausea, the implications of that connection unfolding like a disaster map in her mind. Involving her father, risking his job, their security... it was an abyss she wasn't ready to face. Not now.
She swallowed hard, pushing the panic and the torrent of theories into a dark corner of her mind. She needed a distraction. She needed something solid, logical, something she could solve. She needed maths.
"Professor," she began, her voice a little lower than usual, a slight tremor she hoped he wouldn't notice. She cleared her throat, forcing a more casual tone. "Since we're here... could you take a look at my calculations? About the circles. Just to... see if my approach is correct." She held out her notebook, the pages filled with equations and diagrams, using the task as a shield.
Thomas Carrington watched her for a moment, his ice-blue eyes seeming to notice the change in her posture, the way she subtly shrank into herself. He didn't comment. Instead, a flicker of something that wasn't pity, perhaps recognition, crossed his gaze. "Of course, Harper," he said, his voice calm and dry as ever. He took the notebook. "Let's go to the room next door. Tutoring is about to begin. We can review this while the others kill themselves over trigonometry."
Beth felt a wave of relief. "Thank you," she murmured, following him out of the lab.
The tutoring room was an annexe to the lab, a smaller, more welcoming space. The late afternoon light streamed through the high windows, painting the linoleum floor with long golden stripes. A few high school students were already there, sitting in pairs, whispering over their exercises with expressions of pure confusion. The air smelled of pencil erasers and teenage anxiety.
Mr. Carrington sat at his desk in the corner and immediately picked up a red pen and a stack of tests to mark. The sound of his wrist moving across the paper was the only constant noise in the room, a rhythmic and precise scratching. He said nothing more, immersing himself in his work, creating an island of calm and concentration that, somehow, anchored Beth.
She took a deep breath and began to circle the room. It was a role she played with ease. Here, she didn't have to try to fit in.
There was a right answer. There was a clear path. It was the opposite of life.
As she moved through the room, the low hum of the students' conversations and the scratching of pencils on paper became a comforting background noise.
The tutoring room was a microcosm of academic despair. A group of about ten students was scattered at the tables, their postures ranging from slumped shoulders in defeat to a panicked rigidity. The late afternoon light, thick and golden, didn't seem to warm the room, only to highlight the dust particles dancing in the air and the sheen of sweat on concentrated foreheads.
"No, Whitney, you can't just cancel out the cosine," she said patiently to a blond boy who was staring at the sheet as if it were a text in Aramaic. Whitney Fordman was one of the football team's linebackers, a blue-eyed giant, arrogant with many but kind to Beth, whose brain seemed to shut down as soon as he entered a maths classroom. "Remember the Pythagorean identity. What does sine squared plus cosine squared equal?"
He blinked, his blue eyes confused. "Uh... one?" he hazarded, as if guessing the weight of a melon.
"Exactly," Beth encouraged, a small smile appearing. She leaned over his desk, her hair falling over her shoulder, and wrote the formula in the corner of his sheet. "So, you substitute that into the equation. You can't just... erase parts of it because they look complicated." Her voice was low, calm, breaking the problem into logical parts.
As she explained the logic behind the equation, part of her mind clung to the order, the predictability of mathematics, while the boy tapped his head with his pencil. Whitney Fordman, the team's linebacker and, as far as Beth knew, Lana Lang's boyfriend. Or maybe ex-boyfriend. Beth wasn't exactly the type to keep up with high school gossip, but given how explicitly Lana had been hitting on Clark lately, it was likely they had broken up.
The rivalry between him and Clark could be explained by this reason, something that had always seemed like a small-town cliché to Beth: the popular athlete versus the quiet farm boy. But now, the pieces fit together in a clearer and somewhat melancholic way. She wondered, remembering countless times when, even when Whitney and Lana were an official couple, the girl was always flirting with Clark and then playing innocent, as if her attention were just a harmless reflex. Obviously, this had caused the rivalry between the boys. Beth realised that, deep down, they could have been good friends; Whitney wasn't a bad guy, just a teenager trying to navigate the pressures of sports and first love. But, once again, Lana had managed to leave them confused and insecure, fuelling a competition that perhaps neither of them really wanted.
Beth felt sorry for them both.
Whitney blinked, pulling her from her thoughts. "Oh... I get it. I think," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "So, I can't just... get rid of what I don't like?"
"In maths and in life, Whitney, usually not," Beth replied with a half-smile, feeling a pang of affection for his simplicity. She moved away, letting him try to solve the equation on his own, and moved to the next table, the rhythm of tutoring pulling her back to a place where things, at least, made sense.
Across the room, Megan, a girl with dark brown hair, tan skin, and a light pink sweater, let out a frustrated groan that caught Beth's attention. "I just don't get this! How can the sine of an angle be negative? Angles aren't... negative."
Beth approached, the scent of vanilla perfume and desperation hanging over Megan's desk. She suppressed a sigh. It was always the same thing: the students couldn't visualise the concept. They saw numbers and symbols, not the elegant dance of geometry.
"Think of the unit circle," she said, her voice calm. She took a pencil and quickly drew a circle in the margin of the girl's notebook. It was an almost perfect circle, drawn with the ease of someone who had traced it a thousand times. "Imagine this is a map. The centre is the origin, (0,0). The sine is the y-coordinate, right? It's how high or low you are on the map."
Megan stared at her, her eyes blank.
Beth tried again, simplifying it even further. "Okay, forget the coordinates. Think of it like a elevator. The x-axis is the ground floor. If you're above the ground floor, your level is positive. If you're in the basement, your level is...?"
A light of understanding flickered in Megan's eyes. "Negative?"
"Exactly!" Beth smiled, feeling a small victory. "If you're in quadrants three or four, you're in the 'basement' of the map. Below the x-axis. So the y-value, the sine, has to be negative. Make sense?"
The girl blinked, and then gave a slow nod. "Oh... I think so. Thanks."
A genuine, discreet smile curved Beth's lips. There was something gratifying in that simplicity. Megan was a charismatic girl, one of Lana's many friends, and helping her was easy. Navigating the universe of female friendships, however, had always been a challenge for Beth. Not because she preferred the company of men or for some other sexist nonsense, but out of a constant fear of not connecting, of saying or doing the wrong thing. She suspected that much of this difficulty came from having grown up without a mother figure to guide her.
Her friendship with Chloe was the exception. Beth really liked her, despite knowing she wasn't part of the core of trust that united Chloe, Clark, and Pete. She admired the girl's energy, which was fun and kind, even if her extroversion sometimes drained Beth's social battery and her curiosity made her a bit nosy. That's why it hurt; Beth wished she could be closer, to have the same connection she saw Clark and Pete share with her, without secrets or barriers.
She glanced at Mr. Carrington's desk. He was immersed in his marking, the red pen moving with surgical precision. For a moment, their eyes met over the students' heads. He gave an almost imperceptible nod, a silent acknowledgement of her competence.
The hour passed in a blur of equations and explanations. She helped a boy understand radians by comparing them to slices of pizza and explained inverse functions to another student using the analogy of rewinding a film. She was a translator, turning the abstract and intimidating language of mathematics into something they could touch and visualise. And with every small epiphany on a student's face, every "Oh, now I get it!", the chaos in her own mind seemed to recede a little.
When the last student left, dragging his feet and grumbling about Friday's test, the room fell silent again. The setting sun was now a deep orange band on the floor, and the shadows grew long, dark, and mysterious.
"You're good at this," Mr. Carrington said, without looking up from his papers. His voice, with its precise British accent, cut through the silence. "You have a knack for simplifying the complex."
"Thank you," Beth murmured, feeling a blush creep up her neck. She wasn't used to compliments, especially from someone she respected so much. The warmth that spread through her skin was more than simple shyness; it was an ancient, deep hunger being sated. It was almost shameful how desperately a part of her craved this kind of validation from an older, intelligent male figure. Her father, though physically present, was an emotional ghost, his praise as rare as an eclipse. And so, without realising it, she sought fragments of that approval elsewhere. There was something almost Freudian about it, an unconscious search for the father figure who would see her, who would validate not her appearance, but her mind. Mr. Carrington's praise hit that vulnerable spot with a painful and gratifying precision, and she hated herself a little for needing it so much.
She started gathering her things, the sound of her backpack's zip cutting the silence.
"Harper," he called, and she stopped, turning to look at him. He finally raised his head, and his ice-blue eyes fixed on her with an intensity that made her hold her breath. "Your calculations are correct. The approach is sound. But you're missing a variable."
Beth frowned, approaching the desk. "Which one?"
He leaned back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, the movement stretching the fabric of his linen shirt across his chest. "You're treating the magnetic field as an isolated anomaly. A piece of technology. But what if it's not? What if it's a reaction? A response to something else?"
Beth's mind raced. "Like... a response to what?"
"The 1987 meteors didn't just bring exotic minerals to Smallville, Harper. They brought energy. Traces of radiation that still permeate the soil, the water... even the people. If your 'mathematical signature' is familiar, perhaps it's because you've seen it in a different context. Not in technological diagrams, but in... biological records. Mutations. Genetic anomalies."
A shiver ran down Beth's spine. The mention of genetic anomalies immediately brought to mind Chloe's obsession, her collection of bizarre Smallville stories. The Wall of Weird. The meta-humans. People with abilities that defied physics. She had considered the possibility but had never connected the dots this way. "Are you saying that... the circles could be caused by a person? A meta-human with magnetic abilities?"
The corner of his mouth rose again in that enigmatic micro-smile. "I'm saying don't limit your variables. You're looking for a machine, something constructed. But biology is also a machine, the most complex of all. The most elegant answer isn't always the simplest. Sometimes, the truth is chaotic... but you're also right about the device, in any case." He stood up, the moment of connection broken. "It's getting late. You should be heading home."
Beth nodded, her mind spinning with the new possibilities. She put the notebook in her backpack, feeling the weight of her own theories. "Thank you, professor."
"Don't thank me," he replied. His ice-blue eyes, normally impassive, glinted with a spark of genuine intellectual interest. Beth realised that, for him, this wasn't an obligation; it was stimulating. "I enjoy a challenge," he added, before turning sharply to the board, as if to hide his satisfaction. "Just solve the problem."
--
As she walked home under Smallville's starry sky, Mr. Carrington's words echoed in her mind. The truth is chaotic. The simplicity of the maths lab had vanished, replaced by the tangled complexity of real life. Her friendship with Clark, her unrequited feelings, the mystery of the circles, the shadow of LuthorCorp... everything seemed interconnected, an equation with too many unknown variables.
As she neared her street, she saw a tall, familiar figure sitting on her porch steps. Clark. Her heart gave a painful leap. He was waiting for her, his dark silhouette against the porch's faint light.
The cold night air enveloped Beth, a sharp contrast to the suffocating heat of her thoughts. Clark stood up slowly, the movement hesitant, as if unsure of his right to be there. The fabric of his flannel shirt stretched over his broad shoulders, and he shoved his hands into his jeans pockets, a gesture Beth knew as a sign of uncertainty.
"Beth, about last night..." he began, his voice low and hoarse, avoiding her gaze. His blue eyes, usually so clear, looked troubled under the porch light.
Before he could continue, she cut him off, her voice devoid of anger, but tired and distant. "How was karaoke?" The question seemed to catch him by surprise; the abrupt change of topic left him visibly disoriented.
He blinked, taking a moment to answer. "It was... loud," he said, sounding a bit lost. "Pete sang Bon Jovi. It was as bad as you can imagine." He attempted a half-smile, but the gesture faltered. "How was tutoring? How's Professor Carrington?"
"It was productive. He's fine," Beth replied, the words short and precise, offering nothing more. The silence that followed was heavy, laden with everything they weren't saying.
Clark sighed, the sound mingling with the chirping of crickets. "Look, I didn't come here to fight again," he said, finally meeting her gaze. There was a raw sincerity in his eyes that disarmed her a little. "I came because... I found something."
He took a hand out of his pocket, and in it was a small, dark object. He held it out to her. "In the north field. Near where the circles start. I was checking the fences this morning."
Beth's curiosity, always her compass, overrode her caution. She stepped closer, taking the dark, irregular stone from him. Her fingers brushed against his, the touch a fleeting shock, and she saw his subtle flinch, mirroring her own. The stone was strangely light in her palm, with a smooth, non-reflective surface that seemed to absorb the light. There were no marks of rust or welding. It didn't look like anything from a tractor or any farm equipment she had ever seen—and yet it emanated a strange magnetic feeling.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice low, as she turned the object over, examining its sharp edges.
"I don't know," Clark admitted. "It's not just any rock. I tried to break it in half with my hands to see what was inside, but I couldn't. Which is... weird. Because it has almost no weight." He watched her, and she felt his gaze as the tired frown on his face shifted to one of concentration. "I know you're investigating with Chloe. I thought maybe... you could figure out what it is. You're good with this stuff."
It was a peace offering, wrapped in a mystery. He was here to ask for her help, to return to the familiar ground of puzzles and solutions, where they always worked best. Beth felt the knot in her throat loosen a little.
"So, just so I'm clear on the process," Beth began, her voice dangerously calm, "you found a piece of maybe-alien rock. And the first, and apparently only, solution that crossed your mind to open it was brute force. With your own hands."
She paused, her gaze fixed on his, almost daring him to present a logical defence. An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Clark opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. The serious and slightly confused expression on his face, as if he didn't see the fundamental flaw in his plan, was the answer.
Beth pinched the bridge of her nose, letting out a long, pained sigh. "Why am I still surprised?" she muttered. "Okay, Clark. I'll take it. I'll have a look," she said, closing her hand around the fragment. "We have some equipment in the science lab that might help identify its composition."
The conversation about the object eased the mood, easy and technical, a refuge from the emotional storm of the previous night. But the tension still lingered beneath the surface.
"Look, Beth," Clark interrupted, his voice serious again. "I know you don't want to talk about it, but I have to say it. I'm sorry. Really. I was an idiot, and there's no excuse for what I said."
Beth looked at his face, at what seemed to be guilt in his eyes. Her anger had dissipated, leaving behind only a deep weariness. She didn't want to fight anymore.
"It's okay, Clark," she said, and the words sounded hollow even to her own ears. After a few seconds of silence, she added, "We're fine."
An expression of relief seemed to wash over Clark's face, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a shadow of uncertainty. "Are we?"
"We're fine," she said, trying to convince herself.
Beth had the feeling he didn't believe her, that he could hear the chasm her words were trying to cover. She saw in his face that her "we're fine" had sounded like a fragile lie, a bandage placed over a wound that was still open. But he didn't press her. He just nodded, his jaw tight.
"Alright," he said softly. "Well, I should go. My parents will start to worry." He turned to leave, the movement stiff and awkward, but stopped on the last step, looking back at her over his shoulder. "Take care, Beth."
"You too, Clark."
He hesitated for another moment, his gaze fixed on her. Beth felt the weight of that pause, a silent question she didn't know how to answer. He seemed to be waiting for something, a glimpse of the old ease that existed between them, but she remained motionless, unable to offer what he was looking for.
Faced with her silence, he gave one last, brief nod, a gesture that, to Beth, seemed final. She watched him descend the steps and be swallowed by the darkness, his silhouette dissolving into the shadows of the quiet street until nothing was left.
Beth remained on the porch for a short time after he was gone, feeling the cold, light rock fragment in her palm. The whirlwind of thoughts in her mind finally settled, leaving in its place a painful, undeniable clarity. They weren't fine. For the first time, his expression before he left made her feel that he knew it too—that neither of them had any idea how to fix what had been broken, how to go back to the way they were before.
With a sigh that seemed to carry the weight of the entire night, she turned and went inside, closing the door softly behind her. The click of the lock sounded final in the oppressive silence. The only light came from a small lamp in the corner, casting long, dancing shadows across the living room. And there, on the sunken sofa, was her father, Tom, asleep. He was still in his work clothes—the creased dress shirt, the loosened tie, his dress shoes still on his feet, one of them hanging precariously off the edge of a cushion.
A familiar sigh escaped Beth's lips. It wasn't the first time. She approached silently, the wooden floorboards creaking slightly under her feet. Exhaustion was etched on her father's face, even in sleep, the lines around his eyes deeper than she remembered. With a care that came from years of practice, she knelt and untied his shoelaces, sliding the shoes gently from his feet. Then, she took an old wool blanket from the back of an armchair and unfolded it over him, tucking the edges in to cover his shoulders. He stirred, a low murmur escaping his lips, but he didn't wake.
In the kitchen, the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound. Beth opened the microwave and heated a leftover slice of pizza, her hunger finally making itself known. As she ate, leaning against the counter, her gaze wandered back to the living room. On the coffee table, next to a half-empty bottle of beer, was her father's briefcase, open. And beside it, a file folder with the unmistakable LuthorCorp logo stamped on the cover.
Her heart skipped a beat. She dropped the pizza onto the plate, the melted cheese suddenly tasteless. The fastest path to answers about the crop circles—perhaps the only way—was right there, just a few feet away. The temptation was a physical force, pulling her forward.
She looked at her father. His breathing was deep and regular, his chest rising and falling under the blanket. He wouldn't wake up. No one would know.
But hesitation paralysed her. This was his life. His career, his integrity. The non-disclosure agreements at LuthorCorp were notorious. One slip-up and he'd be out on the street, maybe facing worse. To betray the trust of the only pillar she had left... or to live with the agony of doubt?
Slowly, as if moving underwater, she walked to the coffee table. Her fingers hovered over the folder, trembling slightly. All she had to do was open it. A quick look at the budgets, the expense reports... she would know what to look for. With her heart hammering against her ribs, her hand descended, her fingers brushing the cold cardboard of the cover.
BZZZT.
A sharp, metallic buzz cut through the silence.
Beth snatched her hand back as if she'd touched something scorching, her heart leaping into her throat. It was her phone, forgotten on the kitchen counter, vibrating with a notification.
On the sofa, her father stirred. "Mm... Mary...?" he mumbled in his sleep, turning onto his other side, the blanket slipping from his shoulder.
She froze, her breath held in her chest, waiting for him to wake up, for his eyes to open and find her there, hovering over his secrets like a thief. But he just settled back into sleep, his breathing returning to its steady rhythm.
A wave of relief and shame washed over her. It was a warning. A sign to back away.
It was better this way.
She moved away from the table, grabbing her plate and phone, and went up the stairs to her room. The sound of her footsteps was muffled by the hallway carpet. Lying in bed, the dark, quiet room enveloped her. She stared at the ceiling, the shadows dancing with the moonlight filtering through the blinds. The rock fragment Clark had given her was heavy in her pocket, a mystery waiting to be solved. But that wasn't what was on her mind.
It was the look in Clark's eyes before he turned and walked away. There was no anger, not anymore. There was defeat. Confusion. A sadness that seemed to mirror her own.
Was this the end of them?
In the silence that remained, where easy laughter and whispered secrets once were, childhood took its last, tired breath, and perhaps, along with it, so did they.