Lana was still on the floor. Short breaths, her fingers pressed against her own arm as if holding on to a piece of herself that could slip away at any moment.
Her eyes stayed down. Her mind drowned in a sea of confused images, memories, and voices that weren't hers.
The soft sound of footsteps filled the room.
A calm movement. No sudden cracks. No words. Only presence.
Lana felt it. First as a weight in the air. Then as an inner vibration.
Slowly, she lifted her gaze.
From the ground, her eyes rose up along the legs. First the dark jeans. Then the light jacket, the still posture.
She thought of Jason.
'He's back? He's here?'
But it wasn't him.
Clark.
Standing. Silent. Looking at her.
His eyes were there as they had always been — direct, steady, impossible to read.
Lana swallowed hard.
Part of her felt relief. Another part… fear.
Clark saw it too.
He wasn't dumb. Nor blind. And far from sentimental enough to pretend.
But this — this he hadn't expected.
He was no longer the light that shone against the darkness. He had accepted that. Chosen that.
But seeing fear in her eyes…
That wasn't part of the plan.
He took a slow step.
Not threatening. Not imposing. Just present.
Lana's eyes didn't look away. But her body recoiled, even if only by reflex.
Clark crouched down, posture careful. One knee against the floor, the other holding his weight. His arms visible. His breathing contained. He knew how not to look like a threat. He knew because he had once been one.
"It's alright, Lana. I won't touch you."
The voice came low. Direct. Without forced sweetness, but with the cadence of someone who had calmed people far more dangerous with half a sentence.
"You don't need to say anything. Just… let me stay here a while."
He waited. No gestures, no approach. Just presence.
Lana's mind was a battlefield, but he didn't need to win it now. Just let her notice: he knew what was happening. And he wouldn't run from it.
"You're tired. And this… this is taking more out of you than it should."
He tilted his head slightly, his eyes still on her, but without pressing.
"You don't have to fight alone."
The glow of the tattoo flickered again. Stronger. As if reacting to his words.
Clark observed. Measured the time between pulses. Counted the milliseconds between the electric oscillation and the muscular tension in her arm.
'Isobel's mind is closer now. She hears this.'
"I know you're listening. Not Lana… you."
His tone didn't change. Nor his volume. Only his focus.
"I didn't come here to fight you. And I didn't come to save anyone either. I came because I need something only you have."
Lana's breathing shifted. Less irregular. Enough to show that part of her… or someone else… was starting to pay attention.
"I know what you feel. Even if you don't admit it."
"You're trapped in a body fighting against you. In an era that burned everything you were. In a place that still repeats the same pyres, only now with different words."
"I didn't come to apologize for that. Or promise it'll get better. I just came to say… I understand."
Clark didn't dramatize. Didn't beg. Didn't lie. He only said what was necessary, with the calm of someone who had seen the world end twice and thought it wasn't enough.
"You're trying to survive. And for that, you need space."
"I can give you that space. But I want something in return."
If it were a legal deal, terms were still missing. If it were a demonic pact, it would've already burst into flames. But this was Clark. Talking to a witch. Trapped in a teenager. In Smallville.
Who needs logic?
"There's someone out there. With something I need to find. And you… can sense things no one else can. Ancient magic. Spiritual traces. Forgotten bonds."
"I can't track it alone. You can."
"In return, I'll keep this body stable. I'll stop the seal from unraveling. I'll help you keep control without erasing the girl in the process."
This wasn't a favor. It was diplomacy.
"You know what happens if you take control by force. You'll burn fast. You'll draw attention. You'll lose."
Clark still didn't blink. His tone didn't rise. But every word was carved as if shaping the scene with hot iron.
"But if you do it my way… you don't have to run. Or hide. You can exist. You can act."
"I give you stability. And you give me… tracking."
The tattoo pulsed. One of the edges gained a darker, almost purplish shade, as if the response was trying to form.
"I'm not stupid. I know you don't trust anyone."
"But neither do I. And that can be our beginning."
Lana's mind still floated behind. The body was still hers, but the border was no longer clear.
Clark said no more. Just stayed there.
Waiting.
And thinking that fooling a vengeful witch was never easy.
But if it were easy… it wasn't worth the game.
He slowly raised his hand to the side of her head, his fingers inches from her temple. Lana didn't recoil. No hesitation.
Clark felt the warmth of her skin and the tremor beneath the surface. His palm rested with firmness, but no weight.
'Let's begin.'
His eyes fixed on the center of her forehead. The subtle touch became connection.
The mental layers opened in sequence, like ancient iron gates.
First, fragments of recent memories from school, from voices, from Jason. Then the pain. The ancestral burn of execution, of voices, of fire.
And at the center of the storm… a presence watching.
Clark didn't speak to her. He only showed.
Image. Face. Exact profile.
Bruce Wayne.
Clark shifted part of his focus to Lana. Her body slowly relaxed. Her chest rose and fell more evenly.
He expanded his mental strength, spreading stabilizing energy within the synapses. An induction of sleep. Not hypnosis. Not command. Just rest.
Lana slept.
But in the lower plane, someone watched everything with half-closed eyes.
Would the witch believe Clark's good intentions, or was she also pretending?
Because if anyone there knew how to play with time, it was her.
And Clark… was betting she had already chosen to play by his side.
Or pretend so well it made no difference.
The witch watched.
Not in haste. Not in fear. But with something older — the coldness that only develops after centuries buried in ashes. Clark Kent had called her. With respect, yes. But also with calculation. And that, more than any word spoken, was what caught her attention.
She hadn't expected that. A man… talking to her. Not shouting, not trying to exorcise, not fearing. Talking.
Most of the living still believed she was just a legend or worse, a forgotten curse. But Clark treated her as a real entity. As a force in negotiation. As an equal.
Almost a courtesy.
And then came the powers. The psychic reading, the way he crossed Lana's mental barriers without damaging her emotional structure. How he kept both in balance. Like someone holding two copper wires in tension and still not getting shocked.
Isobel paid attention.
That wasn't just raw strength.
It was intelligence.
Tactics.
And that intrigued her more than any speech.
She saw the gesture. The touch at the temple. The mental transmission. The projection. The man's face — Bruce Wayne — fixed in an ethereal space even she couldn't access with such clarity. Clearly important. Clearly hated.
And if he was hated by someone like Clark… maybe it was worth listening further.
Isobel didn't trust him. Of course not.
He had the eyes of contained judgment. The posture of a predator that doesn't need to run because it already knows it wins in the end. And the calm of men who had seen hell and learned to live in it like a house with a fireplace.
But he stabilized Lana.
And as much as she pretended otherwise, Lana was… important.
Not out of affection. Not out of compassion. But because that body worked. And finding a host with ancestral ties and magical resistance wasn't simple. She had spent centuries searching for one that didn't break.
Clark preserved that body.
With surgical precision.
And above all, with intent. He knew what he was doing. Knew where he stepped. Knew when to stop.
Isobel had been fooled by smooth words before. Men of faith, men of war, men of books. All promised something. All wanted something. All betrayed her when it was convenient.
But Clark… offered something real.
Stability. Permission. Access.
And all in exchange for a face.
A name.
A trace.
Bruce Wayne.
The name she didn't yet know. But the face was now marked within her like a fresh scar.
Clark wanted to track him.
And she, of all creatures in this plane or the next… maybe she really was the only one capable of doing that.
She hadn't decided yet. Not yet.
But one thing was certain.
If hell was waiting, Clark was the only man she knew who would walk in standing… and smiling.
'This strange man of the modern world is not trustworthy at all. He betrays his friend in exchange for benefits, how wicked.'
'But I like that.'
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