"Two students have died, and six more were injured during the Smallville High School dance. According to the latest reports, the most critical patients are now out of danger."
Jonathan Kent repeated the news at the family's lunch table. As one of the parent representatives at the town's emergency meeting, he had heard the details directly from officials.
The atmosphere at the Kent household was somber. Smallville High was closed for two days, the school trying to recover from tragedy. For once, neither Clark nor Adrian had to go in.
Martha frowned as she set her fork down. "Jonathan, what really happened?"
Jonathan's sigh was heavy. "Clark told me earlier—Dan Brown from the football team was murdered. The same person responsible for his death caused the disaster at the dance."
"The killer?" Martha's voice tightened.
"His name was Jerome," Jonathan explained, lifting his coffee mug. "He disappeared three years ago, but for some reason he came back. This time, though, he won't be harming anyone else."
Clark's fork froze midway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"
"Jerome's dead." Jonathan took a slow sip, his brow furrowed as though the bitterness of the coffee mirrored the bitter truth. "They found his body on school grounds. Broken neck."
Clark's eyes flicked toward Adrian. He didn't need to say a word; the suspicion was already there. In all of Smallville, who else could have ended Jerome so quickly, so decisively, and without a sound?
Martha, oblivious to Clark's glance, asked cautiously, "I heard the victims were all football players. Is that true?"
"Mostly," Jonathan admitted. "Jerome had some history with the team, but the details are for the school and Coach Watts to sort out."
He cut the subject off and switched gears. "Clark, the tractor's down again. High-pressure line's leaking. I'll need your help later—unless we want another expensive replacement."
Clark nodded, lowering his head toward his fruit salad. "Of course, Dad."
Across from him, Adrian's gaze was unreadable. He said little, though in his mind he was already calculating. The money he'd taken from a local gang was still hidden away, and he needed to decide how to funnel it into the household without raising suspicion.
Later, out by the barn, Jonathan's hands were black with grease. He glanced at Clark, who was holding tools nearby. "Clark," he asked suddenly, "were you involved in what happened at the dance?"
Clark froze. His shoulders tightened before he shook his head. "No. I wanted to stop Jerome, but… I couldn't." His voice carried the weight of guilt. "If I'd been stronger, more mature, maybe none of it would have happened."
Jonathan placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder. "No one can carry the weight of every tragedy. If you try, it'll eat you alive. You've got to learn when to let go—whether it's pressure, responsibility, or people's judgment. Otherwise, it'll tear holes straight through you."
Clark lowered his gaze. "I thought I could change things… like Adrian. I've tried to change him, tried to get through, but nothing works."
"Then maybe you just need to talk to him," Jonathan suggested. "When I was your age, I fought with my cousin over a boxing glove. Stupidest thing. Your grandpa locked us in the corn silo until we got over ourselves. After two hours, all we could do was talk, and we came out better for it. Sometimes that's all it takes, Clark. Time and honesty."
Clark's lips pressed together in thought. "I understand, Dad."
That evening, after the tractor was running again, Clark resolved to talk to his brother. But as he approached Adrian's room, he realized he wasn't the only visitor.
Lana Lang was already inside.
She stood frozen, her eyes wide as she took in the sketches covering Adrian's walls. Each drawing was darker, stranger than the last. Stark pencil lines conjured images of things that didn't belong in the Kansas countryside.
One sketch showed a monstrous figure in a star-streaked void, its form twisting and grotesque, as if it hungered to swallow the universe whole.
Another depicted an ancient leviathan, drawn in heavy charcoal strokes, slumbering in black waters. Its vast wings were curled against its scaled body, moss and decay thick in the background. At the bottom corner, in Adrian's sharp handwriting, were the words: "Atlantis Karason."
But it was the painting in color that made Lana's breath catch. Scarlet bled into black, a haze of mud and blood swirling beneath dim yellow light. A looming structure sat hidden in the darkness. Across the crumbling facade, one word was scrawled in jagged letters: Arkham.
"This is Arkham?" Lana whispered to herself.
Her memory stirred. She had read about Gotham's infamous psychiatric facility, Arkham Asylum. Could this painting—this vision—be tied to that place?
Her heart pounded. These weren't doodles. They were obsessions. And Adrian's obsessions always carried a dangerous edge.
Behind her, the door creaked softly.
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