"Whitney?!"
Lana turned toward her boyfriend, confused why he had suddenly called out to Adrian.
Whitney placed a hand on her arm, signaling for her not to worry.
The gathered students shifted their attention toward him. Whitney Fordman, the blond and handsome captain of the football team, stepped forward with all the bravado his reputation afforded him. Yet despite his outward confidence, he was clearly walking into the path of someone taller, stronger, and infinitely more intimidating.
Adrian stood by the lockers, relaxed but radiating a presence that smothered the air in the hallway. Whitney glared at him, but the imbalance between them was obvious.
"This looks like the showdown everyone's been waiting for," Chloe muttered under her breath, unable to contain her excitement. She slipped a five-dollar bill into Pete's hand.
Pete shook his head, doubtful. "Don't be so sure. He's a Kent. Maybe he'll fold like Clark does when the pressure's on."
Chloe rolled her eyes, but her smirk never left.
Whitney stepped closer. "Be careful, Kent boy. You don't know who you're messing with."
Adrian tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing. For a brief moment, a crimson light flickered across his pupils. The weight of his killing intent pressed down on Whitney like a glacier collapsing.
"Really? Was that threat supposed to impress me?" Adrian's voice was quiet, cold, and utterly dismissive. "Or is this concussion-addled idiot actually talking to me?"
The change was immediate. Whitney froze, his bravado melting away. His body locked up as though submerged in an ice bath. Even breathing seemed to betray him.
The onlookers—Pete, Chloe, and half the hallway—had no idea why the football captain suddenly looked like prey staring down a predator.
"Whitney…" Lana whispered, worry written all over her face. She stepped toward him, only for her vision to blur for an instant.
Clark had appeared behind her boyfriend.
"Adrian," Clark said softly, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. His eyes were pleading, almost desperate. "Don't do this. Not here, not at school."
Adrian frowned, irritated by the weakness in Clark's tone. He let the killing intent slip back into the shadows, though reluctantly.
Sixteen years in this world, and he had already learned that Smallville wasn't enough to sharpen him. That was why he traveled to Metropolis in secret—hunting criminals in alleyways, smashing drug operations, breaking bones of gangsters, snapping necks of robbers. That was his "training." And from all that bloodshed, his aura carried death with it. Ordinary people like Whitney couldn't stand against it.
But Clark, ever the saint, dared to interrupt him.
Adrian's eyes narrowed. "Clark, do you think all this is worth it?"
"What?" Clark blinked, caught off guard.
"Never mind," Adrian said flatly, his voice sharp enough to cut. "Just don't play the hero in front of me again. My patience is limited."
He brushed past Clark, leaving behind a trembling Whitney, a stunned Lana, and dozens of students whispering as the tension finally broke.
Whitney clenched his teeth, his pride in shambles. Chloe muttered to Pete, "Well, that was… something."
Pete sighed. "Looks like Chloe's mad Clark stepped in."
"Mad?" Chloe spun on him. "The football team practically tried to assassinate me! Whitney's their captain, and he's supposed to take responsibility. If Adrian had kept going, that jerk would've been lying in the nurse's office by now. And honestly? He'd deserve it."
Clark, ever the peacemaker, offered a sheepish apology. "Sorry, Chloe."
Chloe glared for a moment, then waved him off. "Fine, apology accepted. But next time Lana's around, try thinking with your brain instead of your heart."
Pete quickly tried to change the subject. "So why is the football team targeting you, Chloe?"
Chloe smirked faintly, though her shoulder still ached from earlier. "Might have something to do with that article I wrote: 'Football, Sport or Abuse?'"
Pete winced. "Yeah, that'll do it."
As the conversation drifted, Clark's gaze followed Lana. She walked away, arm linked with Whitney's, though her eyes lingered on Clark for just a moment. There was gratitude in them—gratitude Clark clung to like a lifeline. Whitney, however, looked back at him with nothing but pure resentment.
Adrian, meanwhile, had already moved on. He entered the classroom, his mind not on Whitney or Chloe, but on the missing lead box.
The locker hadn't been broken into. That meant someone used a key. Which meant the thief was from inside the school. Someone who knew enough to go after him directly.
Suspicion burned through his mind. He tapped into his Super Hearing, letting the chaotic flood of voices across campus slam into him. Every conversation, every laugh, every whisper pressed against his skull until his temples throbbed. The noise was unbearable. If he kept listening, he would spiral into madness long before finding a clue.
With a sharp exhale, Adrian cut it off.
Next, he turned to Super Vision. His gaze stretched across walls, through brick and mortar, scanning for the faint signature of Kryptonite. But his vision wasn't yet perfected. Unlike Clark, lead couldn't stop him, but zinc could. And while his eyes could pierce through most barriers, they weren't sharp enough to pick out everything.
Seventy percent. That was how far he had unlocked of the "Homelander template" burning within him. His strength was godlike, but his mastery wasn't yet complete.
Nothing. No Kryptonite at school.
The bell rang, classes ended, and still he had no answers.
By the time the sun set, Adrian walked home alone, his backpack slung lazily over his shoulder. The school bus was out of service, sent off for inspection after yesterday's fiasco. It didn't matter. He could move faster than the bus even at a casual stroll.
When he reached the Kent Farm, the familiar smell of Martha's cooking drifted from the kitchen.
"Adrian, didn't Clark come back with you?" Martha asked, poking her head out.
"No," Adrian replied coolly, dropping into a chair and opening the school newspaper, The Torch. Its cheap print didn't hide the sharpness of its writing.
"I wonder where Clark went. If he went to a friend's house, he would have called." Martha stepped out, wiping her hands on her apron, her voice lined with worry.
The clock ticked past seven. By now, Clark should have been home.
Jonathan rose from his seat. "I'll call his classmates. Adrian, check the farm. He might be nearby."
Adrian folded the paper and stood, his expression unreadable. Whoever stole his Kryptonite was out there, hiding in the shadows. And Clark, his ever-naïve brother, might already be in danger.
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