A violent explosion rocked Smallville High School. Local radio carried the breaking news:
"Three fire trucks were dispatched to the high school auditorium during tonight's dance after a sudden blaze. The fire, now largely under control, destroyed several hydrants. Pressure in the town's main water pipeline, from Prince Street to Gus Square, has dropped to zero, making it harder for firefighters to respond."
The grim report crackled over the speakers inside Jonathan Kent's speeding pickup. He gripped the steering wheel tightly, his expression steady, though his wife beside him was on edge.
"Don't worry, Martha," Jonathan said, his eyes fixed on the road. "Adrian and Clark will be fine. They're not ordinary kids anymore."
Martha tried to hold her composure, but the sight of more police cars racing toward the school deepened the furrow on her brow. "I know, Jonathan. I just… I'm worried they'll get pulled into something worse. They're still young."
"They're stronger than you think," Jonathan reassured. His voice carried the calm of a father who wanted to believe it himself. "Our sons are far more mature than most give them credit for."
By the time they reached the campus, the fire had been put out. The auditorium stood scarred, surrounded by flashing red and blue lights. Ambulances lined the grounds, medics tending to dozens of shaken students.
The so-called Bloody Dance would not be forgotten. Some kids clung to their parents in tears; others sat wrapped in blankets, dazed from the ordeal.
Martha's eyes swept across the chaos until they found Clark. He was seated on the steps with Chloe and Pete on either side of him, both trying to ease his guilt.
"Clark, you can't blame yourself," Chloe said gently. "Even if you're… different, you can't control everything."
"Pete's right," she added as her friend nodded firmly.
Pete leaned forward. "Bad things happen every day, Clark. You can't save everyone."
The pair avoided bringing up the earlier clash between Clark and Adrian.
Clark's gaze lingered on the paramedics tending to the injured. His voice was low, almost a confession. "If I'd realized Jerome was the one sooner… if I hadn't wasted time clashing with Adrian, maybe—"
Chloe exchanged a glance with Pete, then made a decision. "Clark… Adrian actually hinted to me that Jerome might be behind Dan Brown's murder. I didn't think much of it at the time."
She explained how Adrian had been looking into news reports in the editor's office yesterday.
Clark fell silent, confusion clouding his expression. Had he misjudged Adrian all this time?
Before he could process it, Martha rushed over. "Clark!" she called, relief flooding her face.
"I'm fine, Mom," Clark said quickly, standing to ease her worry.
Jonathan joined them, his large hand landing firmly on Clark's shoulder. "Good. That's all that matters. Where's Adrian? He wasn't with you?"
Clark hesitated, his answer brief. "No."
Jonathan frowned, scanning the crowd until—
"There!" he breathed in relief. Adrian was speaking calmly with the police, his composure intact despite the chaos around him.
"Adrian!" Jonathan strode over, clasping his younger son's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, Dad. Just a little torn up," Adrian replied smoothly with a faint smile, gesturing at his damaged shirt. His calmness contrasted sharply with Clark's turmoil.
Jonathan let out a breath. "That's all that matters. Martha and Clark are waiting—let's go."
Nearby, Lana Lang approached with her aunt. A blanket draped over her shoulders, a smear of blood visible on her forehead.
Martha immediately embraced her. "Lana, thank goodness you're safe."
"I'm okay," Lana assured with a weary smile. "Just a bump, nothing serious." Her gaze shifted across the group, lingering with unspoken disappointment when Adrian wasn't immediately in sight. She said nothing, hiding the truth she had witnessed—that Adrian had ended Jerome's life.
Instead, she excused herself, claiming she needed to check on Whitney at the hospital.
Clark watched her go, troubled by her distant manner. Chloe and Pete exchanged knowing glances—his unspoken crush was obvious.
The night ended with relief but little comfort.
---
The following morning, in Metropolis, Lex Luthor set down the latest edition of the Daily Planet with a smirk. The headline screamed:
"Metropolis's Wild Youth – Playboy Lex Luthor and the Zero Club Scandal!"
Lex scoffed. "A genie outside its bottle isn't a genie anymore. Gossip that's fully reported isn't gossip at all—it's just noise."
Bald, sharp-eyed, and fresh from an intense fencing session, Lex exuded energy and confidence.
"So you admit the report's false?" Audrey, his fencing coach, asked bluntly.
Lex picked up his fencing mask, turning it in his hand. "Do you know why fencing is considered refined, Audrey? In 1776, Master La Boëssière invented the mask. It stopped accidents. For me, the mask isn't just for fencing—it's protection in life's battles too."
Her eyes narrowed. "And who exactly are your opponents? Your father? His empire?"
"Maybe neither," Lex said with a smile that gave away nothing. "Maybe both."
As he flipped the page, a smaller article caught his eye.
"Tragedy at Smallville High School Dance. Lightning? Explosion?"
Lex's interest sharpened instantly. He leaned back in his chair, lips curling.
"Smallville…" he murmured. "Now that's interesting."
____
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