Sixteen years ago, Superman's ship tore through the skies and crashed in the quiet town of Smallville. It didn't come alone. Along with him came fragments of his dead world—Kryptonite. The green mineral, harmless to humans, was a poison to the Last Son of Krypton. It stripped away his strength, left him weak, and in high enough doses could kill him.
Adrian had known its value from the beginning. Where Clark lived with blind trust and naïve optimism, Adrian saw an opportunity. From the moment he became self-aware in this world, he made Kryptonite his priority. He collected the fragments scattered across Smallville, each shard sealed inside lead containers to shield them from Clark's eyes. Lead, after all, was the one thing that blocked Kryptonian vision.
Today, one of those lead boxes—packed with fragments he had painstakingly gathered over weeks—was gone. Stolen.
The quantity wasn't much, but the implication was troubling. Someone had slipped past his notice. That fact alone was enough to set every instinct on edge. Were hidden forces finally moving in the shadows? Was someone already aware of Clark's potential and laying the foundation for future control?
No. That didn't add up. Clark was still just a teenager, a farm boy playing high school student. Nobody beyond this town should have realized what he was destined to become. Which meant the thief was closer. Local.
Adrian closed the locker slowly, his expression unreadable, his thoughts sharper than blades.
Then—
Bang!
A desk slammed somewhere down the hall, followed by a furious voice that rattled against the lockers.
"I am the authority here! Twenty-five years! Twenty-five years of victories, of blood and sweat for this school, and you dare undermine me?! Shameless! Treacherous!"
Adrian's ears twitched. That voice belonged to Coach Watt, the football team's long-time commander. Adrian had met him more than once—the man was always trying to recruit him, convinced Adrian's build would dominate the field. Jonathan Kent's disapproval had made those conversations short, but Adrian remembered the desperation in Watt's eyes.
Now the coach sounded unhinged.
Adrian's gaze slipped through the wall effortlessly, his vision cutting past brick and wood as though it were paper. Inside, the coach towered over his players, face crimson, spittle flying as he berated them. Strange. The team worshipped Watt. For him to lose control like this? Odd.
He shook his head and turned away. Human tempers weren't worth his time.
The office door creaked open. Players filed out, their shoulders hunched, their pride wounded.
"Looks like Coach Watt's losing it," Chloe Sullivan's voice chimed from down the hall. The ever-curious reporter was clutching her camera with gleaming eyes. Pete Ross groaned as she shoved her books into his arms.
"Hold these. I need a shot of this meltdown."
Adrian watched, detached, as she lifted her camera—until the inevitable happened. A football spiraled through the air, hurled with spite by one of the bigger players. It slammed into Chloe's shoulder with a solid thud, knocking her back into Adrian's locker.
"Ugh!" Chloe winced, struggling to keep her camera from shattering against the ground.
Pete jumped in front of her. "Hey! Cut it out! You can't just throw things at people!"
The player, tall, broad, and smug, strolled over. He bent down to snatch up the ball, sneering as though Chloe were less than an insect.
"Just a warning," he said coldly. "Stay out of the team's business."
Chloe clutched her sore shoulder but still managed to glare. "What's the matter? Did I hurt your feelings? Let me guess—you're also the genius who sent me that threatening letter last month. The grammar was atrocious, by the way. I thought it was written by a drunk vagrant."
Pete muttered under his breath. Chloe never knew when to stop.
The jock ignored her comeback, turned—and froze. His eyes caught the nameplate on the locker.
Adrian Kent.
"So you're Adrian. Coach never shuts up about you," he drawled, extending his hand with a mock-friendly smile. "Dan. Dan Brown."
Chloe frowned instantly. She could smell the setup. His smirk screamed trick.
Adrian didn't bother. He glanced at the hand as though it were a dirty rag, then turned on his heel. He didn't say a word.
Dan's smirk faltered, leaving him hanging with his hand in the air. A flush of embarrassment painted his cheeks, quickly replaced by fury. He gripped the ball tighter and hurled it with all his strength.
The ball cut through the air, aimed squarely at the back of Adrian's skull.
Gasps rippled through the hallway. Lana Lang, arriving just in time to witness it, instinctively covered her mouth.
The ball never landed.
Adrian's hand snapped up, snatching it effortlessly. Not a wobble, not a stagger. His movements were lazy, almost bored. The ball might as well have been a feather.
Then, without a word, he flicked it back.
The ball shot forward like a cannon round, striking Dan square in the stomach. The impact drove the air from his lungs and launched him back into the lockers.
Bang!
He collapsed, clutching his abdomen, wheezing, his face twisted in agony. The sound of metal rattling down the corridor only emphasized his humiliation.
Adrian watched him for a beat, his expression calm but his eyes glacial. Then he shook his head, dismissing Dan as one would a dog too stupid to learn. He turned away.
If this weren't a crowded hallway, Adrian would've left the boy broken in a hospital bed. Mercy, after all, was a luxury.
Chloe stared in shock. Clark's brother wasn't just unusual—he was terrifying. To catch a football like that, to return it with such casual cruelty… it was inhuman.
And yet her pulse quickened. The reporter in her smelled a story, but another part of her—quieter, more dangerous—felt an inexplicable pull toward him.
Pete noticed the gleam in her eyes and groaned inwardly. Adrian was about to be hunted relentlessly by Chloe's brand of investigative journalism.
Before Adrian could leave, a sharp voice rang out.
"Stop!"
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