The LexCorp Plaza loomed like a jagged crown against Metropolis's stormy sky, its glass facade reflecting the city's neon veins—reds and blues bleeding into the rain-slicked streets. Clark Kent gripped the steering wheel of Lois's beat-up sedan, his knuckles white beneath the gloves. The anonymous text had come from a burner number, promising an exclusive with Elias Thorne, Verdant Extraction's elusive CEO. Lois, ever the bloodhound, had leapt at it, her eyes alight with the thrill of the chase. But Clark knew better. The air hummed with danger, a faint green tingle that set his teeth on edge. Kryptonite. It was here, somewhere, waiting.
"Relax, Smallville," Lois said, snapping her notebook shut as she checked her recorder. "Thorne's a ghost, but ghosts give good quotes. This could crack Verdant wide open."
Clark forced a nod, his mind racing. The sewer lab from last night still haunted him—the creature's dying plea, the files on "Emerald Genesis." Verdant wasn't just mining; they were weaponizing his homeworld's corpse, turning fragments of Krypton into tools of terror. And now, Thorne wanted Lois alone. If Clark hadn't insisted on tagging along as "moral support," she might have walked into it blind.
The plaza's underground garage was a concrete tomb, lit by flickering fluorescents that cast long shadows. Clark parked in a far corner, his super-hearing picking up the distant drip of water and the low hum of generators. "Lois, wait. Let me scout."
She rolled her eyes but paused, hand on the door. "Scout? You're not the Boy Scout here, Clark. I'm the one with the press pass."
Before he could argue, a soft whirr echoed from the shadows—a cloaked figure materializing from nothing, their form shimmering like heat haze. Sci-Fi stealth tech, the kind Verdant peddled to their black-market clients. The assassin lunged, a Kryptonite-laced whip cracking through the air like a serpent's tongue. The weapon's tip glowed emerald, its edge humming with refined radiation.
Clark shoved Lois behind a pillar, the whip slicing the air where her head had been. "Run!" he shouted, but she didn't. Instead, she drew her pepper spray, eyes fierce.
The assassin laughed, a metallic rasp through their visor. "The Lane woman first. The alien watches."
Clark blurred forward, his fist connecting with the assassin's chest plate. The impact dented it, but the whip coiled around his arm, green energy surging. Pain exploded—a venomous burn that made his vision swim. Kryptonite, pure and weaponized, sapping his strength like a leech. He gritted his teeth, ripping free, but the damage was done. His arm went numb, his flight faltering.
Lois sprayed the assassin's visor, buying Clark a second. He tackled them, slamming the figure into a support beam. The whip lashed out again, grazing his side, drawing a line of fire across his ribs. He could feel the radiation creeping in, whispering doubts: You're not invincible. You're dying.
The assassin recovered, their suit's servos whining as they activated cloaking. They vanished, reappearing behind Lois. Clark spun, heat vision flaring—but the Kryptonite aura disrupted it, the beams scattering like fireworks. The whip cracked, wrapping Lois's ankle. She yelped, tumbling, the recorder skittering across the floor.
"No!" Clark roared, depowering in a heartbeat. He charged, grabbing the whip and yanking with all his might. The assassin staggered, visor cracking under his free fist. The suit sparked, cloaking failing in bursts of static. Underneath was a woman—scarred, eyes cold—Shadow Syndicate enforcer, from the tattoo on her neck.
"You think this ends it?" she spat, voice distorted. "Thorne's just the messenger. The ice buries all aliens."
Clark pinned her, zip-tying her wrists with a length of cable from the garage. Lois scrambled up, rubbing her ankle, her face a mix of fury and fear. "Clark, that whip—it's glowing. Like the stuff from the bank."
He nodded, the burn in his side a dull throb. The Kryptonite's curse lingered, a fantasy poison from his shattered world, twisting science into nightmare. He pried the whip from her grip, its handle warm, pulsing. Embedded shards gleamed, shattered remnants of Verdant's mines.
Sirens wailed above—Metropolis PD, alerted by the plaza's alarms. Clark helped Lois to her feet, his arm heavy. "We need to get out of here. Before more show."
But as they moved, her phone buzzed. Another text, from the same number: Nice save, Lane. But the interview's off. Check your recorder.
Lois frowned, retrieving it. She hit play, and Thorne's voice filled the garage—smooth, cultured, laced with menace. "Miss Lane, if you hear this, know Verdant sees all. Our Antarctic heart beats strong. Emerald Genesis awakens. Tell your alien friend: the shards will claim him."
The message cut off, replaced by blueprints—digital files, hacked into the recorder. Clark's eyes widened. Schematics of the glacier base: vast labs, Kryptonite refineries, and a central chamber labeled "Phase Two." No details on the subjects, but the scale chilled him. An army, waiting under the ice.
Lois pocketed the device, her jaw set. "Thorne's toying with us. But this? This is gold. We hit the Planet with it."
Clark hesitated, the pain a reminder of his limits. Drama gnawed at him—how long could he protect her without breaking? "Lois, this is bigger than a story. Verdant's coming for us. For me."
She met his gaze, unflinching. "Then we fight back. Together."
Above, Green Lantern's ring-signal beeped in Clark's ear. Hal's voice, urgent. "Clark, Syndicate's hitting Gotham hard. Kryptonite mechs tearing up the docks. You need backup?"
Clark glanced at Lois, the green glow fading from the whip. The trap had sprung, but they'd survived. For now. "Negative, Hal. But keep eyes on the ice. Thorne's just getting started."
As they slipped into the night, the plaza's shadows swallowing them, Clark felt the weight of the empire closing in. Kryptonite's shards weren't just weapons—they were a crown of thorns, and he was the one wearing it.