Clark parked the truck in front of the Talon. No cars nearby, no lights on the lower floors. The "Closed" sign, hanging from its crooked chain, swayed slightly. He stepped out slowly, shutting the door carefully. His eyes scanned the windows before crossing the sidewalk.
The Talon being closed was good. Discretion. Fewer questions. No witnesses.
He stopped on the sidewalk, hands in his coat pockets, staring at the façade for a few seconds. The silence inside brought no relief. Only expectation.
He activated x-ray vision.
The first floor walls vanished from his sight. Stacked chairs. Clean counter. Nothing of note. He moved up to the second.
The room.
Lana was on the floor, sitting against the wall, her legs drawn in. Arms crossed over her chest. Her body hunched forward as if shielding herself from something invisible. Her face hidden behind her hair.
Her back exposed.
The tattoo.
Its glow wasn't constant. It pulsed slowly. Green. Warm. Reactive. Each beat like a silent response to something that only existed in the girl's mind.
Clark fixed his gaze there a moment longer.
The energy built around the symbol's center, as if it breathed on its own. The edges of the mark vibrated with heat. The damp fabric of her sweat-soaked shirt no longer hid anything. The mark was alive.
He switched to super-hearing.
The sound of the room was muffled, static — except for one detail. Lana's breathing. Unstable. Weak. Uneven. And between gasps for air, a phrase.
"I'm not you."
Low. Almost swallowed by the effort it took to say.
Clark didn't move.
The words repeated. Weaker now. As if meant only for herself.
"I… am not… you…"
Her hands dug into her sleeves. Her body shrank, still resisting. Her mind clinging to every second of autonomy left.
Clark stayed still.
She's conscious.
The tattoo's glow reacted to the words. The pulses grew stronger for a few seconds, then slowed again.
She's fighting. Neither rejecting nor surrendering.
He zoomed in again. Analyzed the neck muscles, the thermal signatures in her shoulders, the faint electrical activity in her limbs. Everything indicated tension — resistance.
Isobel is close. But hasn't won yet.
A thought surfaced without warning.
No hesitation. No weight. Clark knew what it meant. And, unlike anyone would expect… he felt satisfied.
If she awakens… I can talk. Track Bruce. Identify the crystal. Use what she knows.
The plan had always been simple. Risky, but direct.
Convince Isobel to cooperate.
Or manipulate her into thinking she was in control.
And for that… she needed to step out of the shadows.
Lana's resistance was a blessing. It meant Isobel would have to show herself, negotiate space, fight for a voice.
The ideal scenario.
Clark leaned back against the truck, eyes still fixed on the second floor.
Her mind flickered like a badly tuned radio. At times Lana. At times nothing. Then an echo. Then a thought that wasn't hers.
The green glow of the tattoo's edges gained a faint amber tint.
Emotional transition. A half-open door.
Next time she blacks out… Isobel might try to take command. I just need to be nearby when it happens.
Cruel irony. While everyone worried about Lana's safety, he was preparing to invite the witch in.
Ah, the hero.
But justice wasn't born of pure morals. And Clark knew that better than anyone.
If he wanted to stop Bruce… he would need monsters.
And since Zatanna wasn't answering, the next best name came from the seventeenth century.
Lana's heart rate spiked again. A brief fluctuation. Her body trembled, even at rest.
Clark smiled inwardly.
The help he needed might finally be on its way.
And it would arrive… with an old accent, hollow eyes, and centuries of hatred.
But hey — at least she didn't demand a Wi-Fi password.
Clark glanced once more at the second floor, his vision still tuned to the invisible layer of energy hovering around Lana.
If I wait longer… I could lose control of the situation.
The hesitation lasted half a second. Then became a step. His feet moved firmly, crossing the sidewalk, climbing the three steps to the side door. He didn't knock.
The lock clicked from within, turning under a faint push of force. The knob gave way without resistance.
The door opened silently.
Clark entered.
No rushed steps. No hurry. He knew every inch of this place.
The old floor under his feet. The smell of coffee embedded in the walls. The lights off.
Everything just as it needed to be.
He crossed the first-floor hall, ignoring the echo of his own footsteps. He stopped at the stairs, switched his vision again.
Lana was still in the same spot.
But her heartbeat had spiked.
Emotional instability. The line between them is starting to blur.
Clark climbed the steps softly, almost inaudibly. At the top, he felt the air change.
The temperature dropped half a degree. The humidity rose faintly. The field around the tattoo pulsed, as if something inside Lana was trying to emerge… and failing.
He approached the bedroom door. Stopped just inches away.
Didn't touch it.
Closed his eyes for a moment.
If I use psychic powers here… I could trigger a magical reaction. Not safe.
Magic was gray territory. And when it came to mind and soul… he knew how easily it could turn into a minefield.
So… words. No direct manipulation. Just the old Kryptonian method: speech layered with hidden purpose.
Clark brushed his fingers along the wooden door, feeling the vibration beyond.
Lana trembled.
Her mind was no longer alone. Isobel circled its edges. Curious. Watching.
Time to start the play.
The plan was simple: approach as if to help. Speak as if he cared. Plant ideas like flowers — pretty on the outside, poisonous within.
Some lies. Some half-truths.
And voilà. A witch collaborating without realizing it.
He turned the knob.
Entered.
His eyes found the figure curled in the corner. Hair plastered to her forehead. Breath ragged. The pulse of the mark sending out small waves that rippled along the floor as if seeking connection.
Clark stepped in slowly.
No words. No rush.
His presence filled the room, but didn't overwhelm.
Just enough to say: I'm here.
And indeed, he was.
But not for her. Not anymore.
Now it was for the witch who wanted to borrow her mind.
And with luck… borrow the responsibility of guiding Clark straight into the hell Bruce had dug.
Nothing like entrusting the world's fate to the woman once burned alive for defying priests. Who now, hopefully, could defy gods.
Because in the end, if good wasn't enough… then let the necessary come.
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