Prologue

Gotham had a way of swallowing people whole.

Jonathan Kent had known that the second he set foot in this rotting carcass of a city, but knowing it and living it were two different things. The Narrows weren't just dangerous, they were a death trap. Gang tags sprawled across the walls, each one a silent warning. This block belonged to someone. Cross the wrong line, and you'd be lucky to wake up with just a broken nose.

Jonathan tightened his grip around the takeout bag and quickened his pace.

Another night in this godforsaken city. Another reminder of everything they'd lost. He didn't belong here. Neither did Martha.

He missed it. All of it. The smell of freshly turned earth, not exhaust fumes and stale piss. The lullaby of crickets, not the wail of sirens that now echoed in the hollowness of his chest.

LuthorCorp had bulldozed their farm, chewed it up, and spat them out into this rotting corner of the city. 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.

BOOM!

A sound like the sky splitting apart cracked through the night, followed by an explosion that sent a shockwave rattling through his ribs. Pigeons shrieked as they took off in a flurry of wings. A car alarm screamed down the block.

Jonathan barely had time to react before a wave of heat and dust slammed into them, stinging his eyes and stealing the air from his lungs. He stumbled back, coughing. The takeout bag hit the pavement, noodles spilling across the concrete.

His ears rang.

Smoke billowed from across the street, curling up from the vacant lot they were passing.

"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 smoke.

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

But Martha was already running.

Jonathan cursed under his breath and tore after her.

She skidded to a stop at the edge of the still-smoking crater. And there, at its center, lay something impossible.

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 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. 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.

Without hesitation, she yanked off her jacket, bundled the infant into it, and lifted him from the pod. He had stopped crying.

"Martha," Jonathan rasped, stepping closer. "We don't know what this is. We don't—"

The distant wail of sirens cut him off. Gotham PD was getting closer.

His stomach clenched. If they got caught here, if someone saw—

"We need to go. Now." He grabbed her waist.

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 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.

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.

I ignored him, stabbing my fork into the eggs.

"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.

My grip tightened on the handle harder than I meant to. A faint creak told me I'd already bent it. 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?"

Mom shrank a little, 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 Mom was stuck here. The reason she couldn't work. The reason she had to tiptoe around this bastard like a goddamn prisoner in her own home.

My hand slid into my pocket, closing around the lump of metal I always carried. It had started as a little elephant figurine 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 and reshaping it for years now.

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, sending the cutlery rattling. "'cause you, sure as hell ain't payin' for the shit your useless son keeps breakin'."

Mom winced, but she was fast at hiding it. Like always. 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 handle snapped clean off one night when I wasn't paying attention.

And then, the one nobody could see.

The one 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.

Jake 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 crawled up my spine, pooled in my chest. My fingers tightened around the lump in my pocket until the edges dug into my skin. It would be 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 vision punched straight through the floorboards, 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 hallway 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.

Mom was against the counter, lip split, hand shaking against her face. A single tear tracked down her cheek.

My upper lip curled back in a snarl. I don't remember crossing the room. But suddenly, Jake wasn't standing anymore, he was off his feet. Slammed 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 wrist, 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.

"Clark—"

Mom's hands, clawing at my fist.

"Please, you're killing him!"

She sounded terrified. And not of Jake.

Of me.

Something in my chest cracked.

"Don't make me do it," Mom had implored.

I didn't get it at first.

Then I saw her fingers wrap around the cabinet handle.

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, sobbing. 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, Jake's hand closing around the green rock inside.

And then—

Pain.

Not the burning kind. The inside-out kind.

It swallowed my ribs, flooded my veins, every cell in me screaming wrong, wrong, wrong.

My legs gave out.

Jake's fist cracked against my skull.

I hit the ground, my head ringing with agony. Jake's shouts reached me, but the words were muffled and distant. Another blow landed on my stomach, stealing the remaining air from my lungs. The rest was a haze. He kicked me. Hard. Again. Then again. Until I didn't even feel it anymore.

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.

After that day, 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. Better me than Mom.

The real threat wasn't him. It was me.

Every shove, every taunt, every twisted fucking smirk fed the thing inside me. That demon in my chest. The one that flared behind my eyes whenever he pushed too far.

I could already see the headlines.

Student Freak Levels Home in Fit of Rage. Mother Among the Dead.

That's why I let him win every time.

Because the risk of becoming the monster Jake always said I was was a million times worse than the satisfaction of putting him in the ground.

"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, 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.

Normal people didn't have to measure every step, every twitch of their hands, didn't have to stare at a glass before picking it up and think: Don't break it. Don't break it. Don't break it.

Normal people didn't have to worry about 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. Anywhere but here.

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.

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.

I didn't move. Just listened as his weight sank into the recliner. The crackle of the TV. The first swig from his bottle.

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 on campus. Even the janitor gave me looks like he was just waiting for me to pocket some fancy soap dispensers.

And that was before we got to the real problem.

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.

Hell, maybe that would've been easier to explain.

Because the truth?

The truth would land me in a fucking lab.

Just the thought of it twisted my stomach in knots.

Crrr

The sound made me freeze. My eyes snapped to the sink.

Panic jolted through me as I ripped my hands away.

For a second, I didn't breathe. Just stood there, staring at my fingers. At the faint cracks webbing out across the porcelain.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

I flexed my hands, shaking them out. Like that would fix anything.

Thanks fuck for small mercies. Another close call. One more inch of pressure and the whole thing would've crumbled under my fingers.

I swallowed hard.

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 deep inside me, something giving way.

Like that slow crack in the porcelain sink.

The sun showed up for once as I made my way to college. Gotham must've been feeling cute. It wouldn't last.

I kept my head down, adjusting my bag higher on my shoulder when it hit. At first, it was just a flicker of unease. Then it sank claws into my spine, making my hairs stand on end. That itch, that slow-crawling weight of being watched.

I stretched my senses outward, scanning. A heartbeat too fast. Another too slow. A hundred different rhythms overlapping. Morning commuters, a couple rushing for a bus, a guy on a smoke break.

Nothing unusual.

But the feeling wouldn't go away. I glanced over my shoulder. Nothing. No lingering shadows. No out-of-place figures ducking behind street corners.

Just Gotham waking up.

I forced my muscles to relax, but the itch stayed. Something wasn't right.

Gotham Academy's gates loomed, black iron swallowed in ivy. Inside, gothic arches and stained-glass windows framed courtyards so pristine they didn't even look real. This wasn't a school. It was a breeding ground for Gotham's next generation of power-hungry assholes.

Most students rolled up in chauffeured cars, stepping out in designer everything, last names heavy enough to tip the stock market. Half had Wikipedia pages. The other half had buildings named after them.

I walked in alone, with a backpack held together by duct tape and a uniform that had already been "gently used" before it got to me.

The whispers started before I even hit the steps.

I didn't need super-hearing to catch them.

I was the scholarship kid from the Narrows. The one that didn't belong. The one whose presence made these trust-fund babies clutch their overpriced bags a little tighter.

The stares dragged over me, pausing at my scuffed shoes and my worn-out backpack. A stray gust of wind would probably do more damage to my jeans than my washing machine ever could.

I ignored it. Didn't change the fact that I felt it.

At least my clothes were baggy enough to keep the questions away from the fact that I clearly wasn't 'skipping gym'.

A sleek black limousine slid up to the curb like it was arriving at the goddamn Met Gala. I didn't need to see the crest on the door to know who it belonged to. The Wayne family didn't exactly blend in.

Helena stepped out of the limo, tossing a casual "See you later, Alfred" as she slung her bag over one shoulder. Alfred barely nodded, glaring at me like I'd personally wronged his ancestors as he held the car door. Classic.

But it wasn't just the butler giving me the stink eye; it was her brother too, heir to the family empire and professional stalker. Little shitstain had a habit of tracking our every move, probably thinking he was subtle about it. He wasn't. With my senses, I could pick up his lurking ass a mile away.

Could've just been the usual rich-people side-eye. But something about their looks made the hair on my neck prickle.

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 bad side of town, Gotham's own little hell.

Helena strode toward me, all casual grace. But something was off.

She was wearing a bandage near her mouth.

The moment I noticed it, my brain worked on instinct. A slow blink. A shift in focus.

Peering past the layers.

And just like that, the bandage wasn't there. Beneath it, a fresh gash split the skin just beside her mouth. Deep. Ugly. A smear of red against bruised skin. The kind that needed stitches.

My stomach turned. I blinked fast, forcing my vision back to normal before I gave myself away.

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

"Oh that," her fingers brushed just below the bandage. "Some guys at a bar forgot what no means. I just… reminded them."

My fingers curled into fists, white-hot anger licking up my spine. My reaction must've been obvious because her grin widened.

"What, worried about little old me, Clarkie?" she mock gasped. "How sweet."

"They did that to you?" My voice came out lower than I intended. Had someone pulled a knife on her?

Helena's grin widened. "Jesus, Kent, you growling?"

I exhaled hard. "Helena?"

"Relax," she drawled. "They learned their lesson. Strongly."

"That's not the point." I muttered. "You're dodging. Which means it's worse than you're letting on."

She sighed, but her smirk stayed. "Look, cowboy, I appreciate the concern, really. But I've been breaking noses since I was fifteen. I promise you, I'm fine."

I let my features ease into a stoic mask to cover up the warmth traveling up my ears.

"I know that," I muttered. "But that doesn't make it right."

She tilted her head. For a second, something unreadable crossed her face. Then it was gone.

"Promise me," I pressed. "If those assholes show up again, if they come near you, you call me."

"Aw, you gonna fight my battles for me, Kent?"

"Helena—"

"I love that." She tapped her chin, smug as hell. "But if you think I'm calling you for backup, you must have tragically overestimated your intimidation factor."

And with that, she breezed past me, completely unbothered.

Then, she added over her shoulder. "See you at lunch, cowboy."

I huffed out a breath, dragging a hand through my hair. Lunch. Sure. Like I wasn't gonna be thinking about this all damn morning.

I shook my head, muttering just loud enough for her to hear, "Try not to get stabbed again before then."

She turned, walking backward now, grin sharp enough to cut. "Aww, you really do care."

"No shit, Helena."

Something flickered across her face—too quick to name—before she spun back around, disappearing into the crowd.

I stood there a second longer, jaw tight, hands shoved deep in my pockets.

Damn it.