Prologue

The dying sun cast long, skeletal shadows across Gotham's grimy streets. Jonathan tightened his grip around the takeout bag and quickened his pace. Him and Martha hadn't been living in the City of Shadows for long, but he had already heard rumors of dangerous gangs plaguing the neighborhood.

Another week in this concrete jungle, another reminder of the farm they'd lost. He missed it. All of it. The smell of freshly turned earth, not exhaust fumes. The lullaby of crickets, not the wail of sirens that now echoed in the hollowness of his chest.

The relentless expansion of Luthorcorp's corporate empire had swallowed their land whole, forcing them to this desolate corner of the Narrows. A lump formed in his throat as he glanced at Martha walking beside him. Her face, usually creased with smile lines, was a mask of strained cheer.

At least his wife had some luck. A struggling law firm had considered Martha's endless applications for a secretary gig. They had been desperate enough to take a chance on a farmhand with more calluses than city smarts. It wasn't much, but it was a roof over their heads. Jonathan, meanwhile, clutched the rejection letter from the shipping company in his pocket. He had to get a job soon.

Suddenly, an earth-shattering BOOM shook the ground beneath their feet, sending pigeons scattering in a flurry of gray wings. A split second later, a wave of heat and dust washed over them, followed by the smell of burnt earth. Martha gasped and Jonathan jumped, dropping the takeout bag with a yelp. A plume of smoke billowed from a vacant lot across the street, obscuring the source of the blast.

"What in the blazes was that?!" Jonathan blurted out, scrambling to pick up the scattered food containers.

"A gas leak?" Martha suggested.

He grabbed Martha's hand, but before he could urge her towards the safety of the next block, a heart-wrenching cry pierced the night, freezing him mid-step.

Martha's heart lurched. "Hold on," she breathed, ripping her hand away and sprinting towards the source of the sound.

"Martha, wait!" Jonathan cried, going after his wife. "This could be dangerous!"

But Martha was already running. With no-one around to help, she knew she had to rescue this little soul.

Martha skidded to a stop at the edge of the still-smoking crater. At its center lay a sleek and unscathed piece of metal that resembled some futuristic pod. Cryptic symbols were carved onto the metal, hieroglyphs that seemed out of place, glowing faintly in the growing darkness. It looked almost… alien.

A shiver ran down her spine. But the wails became even more insistent. Taking a shaky breath, Martha knelt beside the object. A hiss filled the air as a panel opened, revealing a bundle of blankets nestled inside. The fabric, a bizarre mix of sailcloth and silk, seemed almost too smooth to be real.

Confusion knitted her brow as she discerned a hint of pink emerging from the folds. Then, a tiny head, covered in the softest jet-black fuzz. A baby. Martha shook her head in disbelief – babies don't fall from the sky, she reasoned. But there, nestled in the wreckage, was living proof to the contrary.

"Martha!" Jonathan gasped, breaths heavy as he caught up with his wife. "Is that... a baby?" His bewildered gaze shifted from the baby to the pod, partially embedded in the ground, and the scattered earth around the crater's diameter. "Wait," His brow furrowed. "Did this thing crash here?"

Martha glanced at her husband, the same perplexed expression mirrored on her face. "How in the world is he alive?" she whispered almost to herself.

The sound of sirens grew louder and a sense of urgency washed over Jonathan. "We've gotta get out of here," he urged, "Now." They had to move quickly if they wanted to avoid the chaos that was sure to follow.

Without hesitation, Martha used her jacket to scoop up the miraculously unharmed infant, avoiding the hot metal, and turned to run. Martha pressed the baby close to her chest, feeling the tiny heartbeat against her own racing pulse. This was the miracle they had prayed for for so long, she was sure...

Chapter 1

The morning started like it always did: shitty.

Sunlight cut through the broken blinds, landing square on my face. I groaned, dragging the threadbare blanket over my head to block it out, but it was no use. The house was already stirring, every sound slamming into me at once. Pots crashing together in the kitchen, the TV droning with some inane morning show, and Jake's wet smoker's cough rattling the walls. That sound made me want to claw my own ears off.

The bed creaked as I sat up, rubbing my eyes. No point delaying the inevitable.

The kitchen smelled like stale coffee and cigarette smoke. Mom stood at the sink, her shoulders hunched like she wanted to disappear into the pile of dishes. Her auburn hair was doing its best impression of a bird's nest, strands sticking out in every direction. She shot me a tired smile as I kissed the top of her head.

"Morning, hon," she murmured.

Jake sat at the kitchen table, peeling an apple with his pocket knife. The blade scraped against the fruit in slow, deliberate strokes, the sound setting my teeth on edge. His permanent scowl deepened when I walked in, his beady eyes drilling into the back of my skull. Likely waiting for the slightest misstep to pounce. The stench wafting from his mug made my nose twitch. It sure as hell wasn't coffee.

I grabbed a plate of cold scrambled eggs from the counter and slid into the chair farthest from him.

The scrape of Jake's knife stopped.

"What's that look for, boy?" Jake barked. "And watch it with that damn fork, ya hear me? Break it, you're payin' for it." All the while pointing his cutting knife at me.

Gods give me strength… no, on second thought, take some of it back before I shove this fork where he can't complain about it.

I glanced down, realizing too late that my grip had bent the tines. Shit. A shallow breath hissed through my teeth as I forced my fingers to relax, one by one.

"Jake..." Mom said softly.

He snorted, flicking the apple peel onto the table. "Oh, I'm sorry, should I send you the bill for all the damages then?"

Her shoulders tensed, her gaze dropping to the floor.

"Or nah." His glare swung back to me. "Since neither of you has a goddamn penny to your names."

Her shoulders hunched further.

"Thought so," he spat.

Jake's words were a blade, gutting me over and over where the blood pouring out was the bile held in. I was the reason she was unable to work, the reason she was trapped in this nightmare.

My hand slid into my pocket, gripping the metal lump I always carried. It had started as a little elephant Mom gave me for my seventh birthday. Now, it was nothing more than a blob with ears. Poor little dude has been through a lot. I'd been crushing it for years now, remolding it every time Jake opened his fucking mouth.

"Please" Mom implored again, reaching out to touch Jake's arm.

He jerked his arm away with a scowl. "Quit yer whinin', Martha!" he spat, slamming his fists on the table, causing the cutlery to rattle. "'cause you, sure as hell ain't payin' for the shit your useless son keeps breakin'."

Mom winced, but quickly composed herself. My fists clenched under the table. But as much as I hated him, Jake wasn't wrong. I'd ruined this house, one accident at a time.

Hidden under a place mat was the jagged scar in the table, from a single slip of my fingers during one of Jake's tirades. The pantry doorknob, warped beyond use, hung limp. The fridge door wore a dent like a badge of shame. And those were just the ones you couldn't ignore. The house was littered with my fuck-ups, each crack, dent, and splinter screaming my failures louder than words ever could.

The incident that left my mother in a perpetual state of agony would haunt me for the rest of my days. Her broken ribs had healed, but not right. The ache was something she carried every day, a ghost of my own making. A permanent scar caused by a forceful embrace.

Even so, not a goddamn thing gave this bastard the right to talk to her like that.

"Leave her alone." The words left my mouth before I could stop them.

He sneered back at me, his hand inching menacingly toward his pocket. "Oh, what's that? You gonna hit me, boy? You gonna beat me up?!" he taunted, his yellowed teeth bared in mockery. "Go on, freak. Let's see it."

Heat built in my chest, my fingers tightening around the lump in my pocket until the edges dug into my skin. It would've been so easy. One punch. One fucking punch, and he'd be out cold.

"Just cut it out," I said through gritted teeth.

Jake barked out another laugh. "That's what I thought. Useless, just like your damn mother." He jabbed his empty glass toward me. "Pour me some juice, boy. Might as well do somethin' useful for once."

For a moment, I didn't move, the urge to snap almost excruciating. But I couldn't.

My gaze caught on the faint crack in the plaster, just above the counter. A cold knot tightened in my stomach. I could still feel the heat of Jake's throat in my hand.

Senior year finals had been a week away, and I was holed up in my room, surrounded by textbooks. Studying itself wasn't hard, half the time, I just had to flip through the pages once, and it was all there. The real challenge wasn't absorbing information, it was forgetting it strategically. Straight A's were a spotlight I couldn't afford. I didn't need that kind of attention.

Muted shouts came from downstairs and I sighed. Just another fight… Focus, Clark. Focus. Silence the damn world. I tried to block out the noise, but the shouts escalated into a heated back-and-forth.

"You stupid bitch!" my stepdad's voice exploded downstairs.

My gaze snapped down, burrowing through the floorboards beneath me, turning the wood translucent.

Jake loomed over Mom, his arm cocked back, a fist aimed at her head. Red flooded my vision. The next thing I knew, my bedroom door was splintering against the wall as I slammed through it. The sickening sound of flesh connecting with bone reached me just as I hit the foot of the stairs, drowning out Mom's choked gasp. "Fuck," I breathed. Too late.

By the time I reached the living room, Jake was winding up for another swing.

"I'll fucking wreck you, woman!" he boomed.

My eyes whipped to Mom, crumpled against the counter, her hand pressed to her jaw, a crimson stain blooming on her bottom lip. A single, silent tear tracked down her cheek.

My upper lip curled back in a snarl. Before Jake could so much as blink, I had him pinned against the wall, my grip locked around his throat like an iron vise.

"Say that again," I'd dared, heat building behind my eyes."SAY THAT AGAIN!"

He thrashed, his nails scraping against my arm, but I held him tight.

"You think you can hurt my mother?" I seethed, the words escaping through clenched teeth. "You got a fucking death wish?!"

"Let… go, monster," he'd rasped as adrenaline crackled beneath my skin. His eyes bulged as he futilely attempted to pry my fingers apart, his face turning a splotchy red.

And God help me, it felt good. The same asshole who'd spent years reminding me of my status as an aberration was now a whimpering mess at my mercy. He always got a sick kick out of my inability to keep my powers in check, using it as a way to mess with my head. He'd be thrilled to know how much self-control it took not to snap his pathetic neck.

But as satisfying as it was to have the upper hand for once, a knot of unease tugged at my gut. The monster I feared to become was lurking way too close.

"You touch her again and I'll fucking bury you," I'd warned. He made a choking sound, and I loosened my grip, just enough to let him catch his breath.

The memory of my mother's pleas rang in my ears. "Please stop, you're killing him!" she'd begged, clawing at my fist. But I could not bring myself to uncurl my fingers.

"Don't make me do it," Mom had implored, her voice a blend of warning and desperation, as she slowly reached inside the cabinet. The one where he kept it. I froze.

I reluctantly dropped my stepdad, who fell to the floor clutching his neck, and gasping for air.

"Give me the damn box, Martha!" he'd croaked with a look of pure rage in his eyes, "This is over, I'm gonna finish him!" he wheezed, struggling to speak between coughs.

Mom collapsed to her knees, her sobs echoing through the room. Jake shoved her aside, scrambling to retrieve the metal box. Panic gripped me, and I stumbled backward until my back met the wall. The container snapped open and a searing pain ripped through my chest. My breath caught as Jake's hand closed around the green rock inside. Before I could react, his fist connected with my temple.

The force of the blow sent me sprawling to the ground, my head ringing with agony. Jake's shouts reached me, but the words were muffled and distant. I tried to push myself up, but my arms refused to cooperate. It was as if my body had turned to lead, trapping me in place. Another blow landed on my stomach, stealing the remaining air from my lungs. The rest was a haze. Blows rained down on me, punches and kicks that felt like being stomped by an elephant.

The morning after that fateful day, bruises faded, evidence erased, but the memory of the pain clung to me like a shadow.

Jake hadn't said a word to me at breakfast the next day. Didn't have to. His smirk said it all, like he knew exactly how to keep me leashed.

And he did.

Ever since that incident, Jake carried that metal box on him at all times. He'd draw it out of his pocket like a gunslinger. The moment he thought I might step out of line, I'd be back writhing on the floor.

He didn't wave it around, he didn't have to. One pat of his pocket when I so much as breathed too loud, and I'd feel the phantom burn of the green rock tearing through me all over again. He had power over me, and he fucking loved it.

Sure, I could crush the man. Easy. He wouldn't stand a fucking chance. But fighting back now meant a worse beating later.

Jake's fists, his taunts, they stung, but they were bearable. My body healed fast. So, I played human shield. Took his punches, his insults, anything to keep him away from Mom.

The real threat wasn't him. It was me. Every insult, every shove, every taunt lit a match inside me, feeding the monster I was terrified to let out. That demon fire that flared up behind my eyes whenever he pushed too far. And it scared the hell out of me.

I could already see the headlines. Student Freak Levels Home in Fit of Rage. Mother Among the Dead.

That's why I stayed quiet. That's why I let him win every time. Because as long as I was under this roof, the risk of becoming the monster Jake always said I was was a million times worse than the satisfaction of putting him in his place.

"Hey! Juice!" Jake's bark yanked me out of my head.

I blinked, my fingers clenched so tightly around the warped metal lump in my pocket that it had taken on a new, twisted shape. Slowly, I stood, careful not to touch anything else.

"Move faster, freak," Jake snapped. "God knows you can do it."

With painstaking precision, I reached for the glass, carefully wrapping my fingers around the rim. Glasses were the bane of my existence, why did they have to make them so damn fragile?

"Any day now, genius." Jake spat.

Each step back to the table was precise, deliberate, the juice sloshing cheerfully in the glass.

Jake snatched the glass out of my hand, and I let go just in time. His eyes narrowed, probably disappointed, no doubt, that I hadn't fucked it up. Probably wanted me to crush it so he could tear into me for ruining another thing in this goddamn house. His lips twisted into a smirk, silently daring me to make the next mistake.

The restraint it took to keep myself in check had become second nature. I moved through this house like a bomb technician, avoiding explosions by the skin of my teeth. Normal people didn't have to weigh every damn action against a scale of potential destruction. Normal people didn't have to worry about accidentally ripping the fridge door off its hinges or leaving finger-shaped dents every-fucking-where.

But I wasn't normal.

I sat down again, forcing myself to focus on the cold eggs on my plate, but my thoughts were already spiraling. Packing a bag. Disappearing. I'd imagined it a hundred different ways—taking the first bus out of town, hitchhiking to nowhere. But every single time, Mom's face stopped me cold.

I couldn't leave her. Not with him.

I loved her deeply, but it was hard to comprehend why she stayed shackled to this alcoholic monster. And yet, I knew. Her silence wasn't just resignation, it was her way to protect the secret that bound us to Jake.

"Why do you stay with him, Mom?" I'd asked her once, years ago as I carefully dabbed at the cut on her lip, my hands trembling with the effort of being gentle.

Her fingers traced the fading black eye I'd earned defending her. "It wasn't always like this, Clark," she'd said softly. "After your father... after I lost him, I was barely holding on."

I listened, a knot forming in my chest at the mention of my father.

"When I first met him, he was charming and kind. He helped me through a difficult time, made me feel like I wasn't alone." She fell quiet for a moment, lost in her memories. "But then he started drinking," she said, her voice trembling. "The alcohol... it changed him, corrupted him, making a beast from a man," she hesitated, "Especially when I tried to get between him and his bottles." I could sense that there was more to the story, that she was holding something back.

"I don't get it," I'd muttered, suppressing my anger. "Why do you stay now?"

Her touch lingered on my arm, her eyes searching mine for understanding. "He knows about you, Clark," my mother had said. "He threatened to tell the world if I ever dared to walk away."

The sound of Jake scraping his chair back against the tile snapped me out of the memory. He was done with his juice, muttering something under his breath as he stomped off to the living room.

Without a word, I stood and headed to the bathroom, closing the door firmly behind me.

My reflection stared back at me, frantic blue eyes that seemed to beg for escape. It was like staring into the abyss, except the abyss had better hair today. I braced my hands against the cold porcelain sink and let my head fall between my shoulders.

Keep it together. Keep. It. Together.

The words had become a mantra, one I repeated over and over, hoping it would carve itself into my brain.

Being a scholarship kid at Gotham Academy was a shitstorm all on its own. Coming from the Narrows, I'd already been written off before I even stepped foot in those manicured hallways. But with each passing day, my powers grew stronger, making it harder to keep up the act. I had already blown my entire monthly allowance on pens. Couldn't help the involuntary winces whenever the chalk screeched across the board, and I was starting to get more and more weird looks. Pretty sure the whole class thought I had Tourette, though I got a bit better at hiding it. The mere thought of anyone finding out the freakish truth about me turned my stomach into knots.

Crrr

The faint sound made me freeze. My eyes snapped to the sink. Panic jolted through me as I quickly released my grip. Thanks fuck for small mercies. Another close call avoided by a hair's breadth. My stomach twisted as I stared at the hairline cracks spreading through the porcelain.

Goddammit. How the hell do I fit into a world that can't survive my touch? Jake's default setting was already stuck somewhere between pissed-off and ready-to-blow. The last thing I needed was to provide him one more reason to light the fuse.

A tear rolled down my cheek, and I quickly brushed it away. I couldn't allow myself to falter. But I could feel it, a dark stain spreading, something giving way, like that slow crack in the porcelain sink.

I splashed cold water on my face and slung my backpack over one shoulder.

I could do this. I had to. After all, in a world where chaos danced at my fingertips, finding a way to belong was a challenge I couldn't afford to lose.

The sun peeked over the horizon, casting its gentle glow on the drowsy streets as I made my way to college. The early morning hush wrapped around me like a comforting blanket. But just when I thought I had the streets all to myself, an eerie sensation slithered up my spine, prickling the hairs at the back of my neck.

It was as if a pair of invisible eyes were fixed on me, observing me with intense scrutiny. I strained my senses, attempting to pinpoint the source of unease, but there was nothing. No shady figures, no ominous whispers, nada. I kept glancing over my shoulder, but nothing stood out. The sensation persisted, like an itch that refused to go away. I quickened my pace, hoping to outrun the feeling.

Reaching the immaculately manicured grounds of the campus, I struggled to block out the hushed whispers and side-glances of my peers. Their disdainful gazes lingered on my second-hand clothes and my worn-out backpack. Though I took comfort in the fact my baggy clothes helped dodge unwanted attention in the more… physical areas. It wasn't exactly a secret that I couldn't afford a gym membership.

Amidst the judgmental sea, my radar suddenly honed in on Helena, as she stepped out of a sleek black limousine. Her butler shot me a glare that I swore could freeze fire as he held the car door. Something was seriously off about her family. But it wasn't just the butler giving me the stink eye; it was her brother too, thinking he was all slick, tracking our every move. Little shitstain didn't know, with my heightened senses, I could practically sniff his lurking ass out from a mile away.

Whatever it was, I couldn't help but wonder if there was more to their disapproving glances than met the eye. It wouldn't be a stretch to assume they saw me as a stain on their precious daughter's reputation, or worse, a potential threat. Because at the end of the day I lived in the Narrows, Gotham's own little hell.

Helena strutted toward me, prompting my heart to do a little somersault. She'd been a constant since I joined the Academy, and no matter how weird her family was, she was my breath of fresh air. But then everything just stopped, my gaze zeroing in on the fresh, angry gash on her face.

"What happened to your face?" I blurted out, concern slipping through the cracks before I could attempt to sound casual.

Helena shrugged nonchalantly. "Ah that," she replied, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the bruise forming on her cheek. "Just a little scuffle with a bunch of Neanderthals at the bar last night. They were getting a bit too handsy and just couldn't take no for an answer, so I did what any good citizen of Gotham would do, and 'recommended' them to see a doctor and reflect," she snarked with an exaggerated wink.

Anger surged through me at the thought of those creeps laying their dirty hands on her. My hands balled into fists, itching to serve those bastards a dose of their own medicine.

"They did that to you?" I tried to keep my tone calm. "Those jerks had no right to touch you, much less attack you like that," I gritted out.

Helena, seemingly unfazed by the storm in my eyes, flashed that familiar cocky grin of hers. "What, worried about little ol' me, Clarkie? How sweet." Her voice took on a teasing edge. "I know it might not look like it, but I can take care of myself just fine, you know."

I let my features ease into a stoic mask to cover up the warmth traveling up my ears. "I— I know that," I sighed, struggling to keep my voice firm. "But that doesn't make it right. Please, just promise me you'll call me if those assholes dare to show their faces again."

Helena's eyes flickered with something that I couldn't quite decipher. "Thanks" she said. "That means a lot to me."