"Hello, Subject."

My throat closed up, breath snagging halfway up my chest. My fingers clenched around the phone, plastic casing groaning in protest. I couldn't move.

No.

No, no, no—

Not now. Not when I was finally—

Crack.

I looked down. My phone was crumbling in my palm, screen spider-webbing under the pressure, circuits shorting out in a burst of heat.

"Clark?"

Helena's voice hit like a jolt. I hadn't even heard her cross the room.

She was in front of me now, brows pinched. Her gaze dropped to the melted slab of tech in my hand.

I forced my fingers to unclench. What was left of the phone hit the hardwood with a dead thud.

Helena crossed her arms, weight shifting to one hip. "Okay... so I'm guessing that wasn't someone asking about your car's extended warranty."

I scraped a shaky breath in and dragged a hand down my face, trying to wipe that voice from my ears.

Lane's voice.

The voice that told the doctors when to cut deeper. When to crank the voltage higher. When to ignore the screaming, because it was just noise fromit, nothim.

That was the voice that reminded me what I really was.

Not human. Not to them.

A phantom pinch circled my neck, tight, choking. I reached up instinctively, thumb brushing the spot where the metal used to dig in.

"Clark," she said, stepping closer. "You're breathing like you're about to punch a hole through the floor. And you haven't blinked in thirty seconds. What happened?"

I couldn't talk yet. My body felt like it was five seconds from fracturing outward. Like if I spoke too soon, the words might come out as something else. A scream. A snarl. Maybe both.

But she waited. Just stood there, steady. Letting me get there on my own.

Eventually, I managed to say, "It was them."

"Them," she repeated.

"The military," I ground out. My voice didn't sound like mine. It sounded stripped. Sanded down to the nerves.

"Okay," she said "I'm gonna need a little more than that."

I hesitated. My whole body wanted to shut down. Then nodded once, slow. My hands felt like they didn't belong to me. Like I was watching myself from outside.

I told her.

Not everything. Not the worst of it. Not the parts that still woke me up choking on phantom blood and metal. But the broad strokes. The abduction. The collar that made my veins feel like they were boiling. The experiments. The endless fucking tests. Told her how I wasn't a man to them, not even a soldier. Just something useful. Something to break and rebuild until it bent the right way. A weapon.

Helena didn't speak. Her smirk was long gone now. Her arms still crossed, but her eyes never left mine. Concern buried beneath steel.

Finally, she nodded toward the wreckage of the phone. "They had your number?"

"No." I shook my head. "They didn't even know my name before."

Could they have hacked the comms? Tapped WayneTech gear? Traced a call? This number... Only four people had it.

Jake.

My jaw clenched so tight it hurt. That slimy piece of shit hadn't just sold me once, he doubled down. He was the only one who could have shared my number. And now, the military had a direct line to me.

My stomach twisted, rage flickering sharp behind my ribs.

Helena caught the change in my face. "What?"

"Jake gave it to them," I said flatly.

"Are you sure?"

"Who else could have? It wasn't Pete, you or my mom...none of you would ever. It's him. Had to be."

Helena's eyes narrowed. "Son of a bitch."

A fresh pulse of anger burned under my skin. Yeah.

Silence stretched between us like a wire pulled tight. My breath was shallow, lungs locked. Lane's voice was still echoing in my skull, coating everything with static.

Helena broke it.

"So, what? They think they can just ring you up like it's a check-in? Ask if you're free for another round of torture?"

"They think they still own me," I muttered.

"But they don't know where you are. Right?"

"They don't," I said, shaking my head. "They won't find me."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." I ran a hand through my hair. "The call was untraceable on my end, your dad made sure of that. I'm a ghost to them." My voice dipped, teeth grit. "And even if they do find me... I won't go quietly this time."

Helena's stare didn't flinch. "You better not."

I softened. Just a little, and stepped forward, catching her wrist, thumb brushing over the still-damp skin. She let me.

"Hey."

She looked up.

"I'm not letting them take me," I said quietly. "I'm not letting them get anywhere near you. Or my Mom."

She didn't pull away, just raised her chin higher. "Damn right you're not."

I tugged her closer. Just like last night. Just like this morning. She leaned into it, only for a second, then pulled back with a sigh.

"Alright," she said. "Now go get your mom. Before I have Damian hack the Pentagon and reroute an airstrike to Lane's living room."

I huffed a bitter laugh and stepped back, the air colder already without her hand in mine.

Then, in the next breath, I was gone.

I shot through Gotham's streets, buildings streaking past in a blur. The wind should've cooled me down, should've forced some of the heat out of my blood.

It didn't.

I slowed down in the alley behind Gotham General, lungs tight, and took a moment to compose myself. Couldn't walk in there looking like I was seconds from ripping someone's head off. Even if I was.

I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets, rolled my shoulders, and stepped inside.

Mom's discharge process took forever. Forms, insurance crap, a nurse rattling off post-care instructions while I nodded like I wasn't barely listening.

I was listening.

Just not to her.

My hearing stretched past the hospital hallway, picking apart layers of sound. A distant printer spitting out prescriptions. The click of a pen. Coffee machine humming. A nurse whispering something about a shift trade. All normal background noise.

Still, I was spiraling.

If Lane had my number, what else did he have? What the hell did they want? Were they planning to threaten me? Drag me back? If they got to Jake, if they traced anything back here... Did they know about Mom? She was their best leverage. If they found her, if they—

No. No fucking way. Not happening.

I let my focus drift further.

One dude near the vending machines adjusted his cap. A woman by the door sipped her coffee too slow, her eyes tracking the hallway. A guard leaned by the reception desk, arms crossed, head turning a little too often for casual.

Normal. Could be nothing. Could be everything.

I forced my pulse to even out.

Nothing about them screamed military.

No one had an earpiece. No one spoke in clipped, coded instructions.

But someone could be watching.

Finally, the nurse handed Mom a folder, her discharge paperwork neatly stacked inside.

"You're all set, Mrs. Kent," she said. "Take it easy with those crutches, and call if you have any concerns."

Mom gave a warm nod, shifting the folder under her arm. "Thank you, dear."

I stepped in and took the papers from her, tucking an arm gently behind her back as she started to push to her feet.

She wobbled for a second, sucking in a sharp breath. Her grip on the crutches tightened like she thought I wouldn't notice if she faked the smile fast enough.

But I noticed.

Every shift of weight. Every breath she caught in her throat. The limp. The way her fingers trembled just enough to make the rubber grips squeak.

My chest went tight, stomach curling in on itself.

That was the Joker's fault.

The bruises were gone, but that didn't mean shit. The damage was still there.

And nothing I did could undo it.

I'd put him in the ground for this. Made him bleed for every second of pain he put her through. Burned that evil smile right off his face. Made him pay.

And if he weren't already dead, I'd kill him again.

I swallowed the taste of blood from the back of my throat, and forced my hands to relax before I crumpled the damn papers.

"You good?" I asked quietly.

Mom blinked up at me, already pasting on that soft, practiced look. The same one she used when the bills piled up, when the fridge was half-empty, when she caught me looking at the ache in her ribs she swore wasn't that bad.

"I'm alright, sweetheart," she said. "Just need to find my rhythm with these."

I buried the anger, tucking it somewhere deep. Now wasn't the time.

The automatic doors slid open with a hiss, and I caught sight of the sleek black car parked by the curb. Helena's usual driver was waiting behind the wheel. It should have been a comfort. Instead, my gut twisted.

If Jake had told them about Mom, if the military had connected the dots, they'd be watching, they'd expect this.

I wasn't giving them that chance.

Mom noticed my hesitation, her brow creasing. "Clark?"

"Wait here a sec."

I walked up to the car, rapped twice on the window. It rolled down smooth.

The driver gave a nod. "Sir."

"Appreciate you coming. But we'll get back another way."

His brow lifted slightly, but he didn't question it. "Understood."

The car pulled away from the curb, disappearing into Gotham's traffic.

I turned back to Mom. She raised an eyebrow, then looked down at her crutches.

"So... I'm guessing we're not catching a cab either."

"Not exactly."

She didn't argue as I led her toward the alley, her steps slower than usual.

Every nerve in my body was on high alert. I stretched my senses as we walked. I scanned rooftops, alleyways, reflections in windows. My x-ray vision skimmed through parked cars, fire escapes, doorframes.

My hearing picked apart every conversation within a hundred-yard radius, searching for something—anything—out of place. No parked car that shouldn't be there. No heads ducking at the last second. No drones overhead. No sudden, unnatural pauses in foot traffic.

Nothing.

Didn't mean I wasn't still on edge.

We stopped at the mouth of the alley, city sounds muffled behind us. As close to invisible as we'd get.

I turned to her, crouching. "I'm gonna run us back."

Mom arched a brow. "I gathered."

I managed a faint smirk. "Just... tell me if anything hurts."

I slid an arm around her, carefully securing her against me, conscious of her hip. My free hand gripped the crutches, adjusting my hold. "Alright?"

She looped her arms around my shoulders. "I trust you."

Something in my chest twisted. I didn't trust myself.

Not completely. Not yet.

But I nodded, adjusted my grip, and shot away.

I slowed gradually, letting the momentum drain from my limbs. Gravel spitting out from under my boots as I skidded into the clearing. I adjusted my hold, making sure Mom didn't feel the shift too harshly. The air was colder here, cleaner. All pine and dirt and the sharp bite of woodsmoke.

Mom's arms tightened just slightly around my shoulders, like her body hadn't caught up to the fact we weren't moving anymore. Her fingers curled into the back of my hoodie before she finally loosened her grip.

I bent my knees and lowered her carefully, making sure her feet hit solid ground, one at a time. She swayed a little, but she was already reaching for her crutches before I could ask.

Then she looked up.

Her breath caught.

"Oh my..."

She turned in a slow circle, eyes scanning the cabin, the way warm amber light spilled from the windows, the way the tall trees framed the house like the whole damn forest had decided to protect this one pocket of peace. The only sound was the wind whispering through pine needles. Still. Safe. Quiet in a way Gotham didn't know how to be.

I watched her closely. Her shoulders, her hands, the set of her mouth, searching for any tension, any unease. But all I saw was awe.

"Clark..." she whispered, like she wasn't sure if she was allowed to speak too loud. "This... this is a dream."

I rubbed the back of my neck. "It's a safehouse. A friend of mine hooked us up."

She shot me a side glance, already putting it together. "Helena?"

I nodded.

A small smile tugged at her lips. She turned back to the house.

"It's beautiful," she said, and for a second, the tired lines around her eyes faded.

Didn't matter that this place had bulletproof windows and a panic room underneath the floorboards. Right now, it felt like a real home. The first in a while.

I stepped in again before she could shift too much weight to the wrong side. Scooped her up, careful not to jostle her hip. She made a soft sound of surprise, but she didn't protest as I carried her up the porch steps, pushing the door open with my elbow.

Inside, it was warm. The kind of warm you didn't get from just a fireplace. Soft carpets and real wood beams, shelves stacked with books, dim lamps instead of overheads. It smelled like cedar, leather, and something sweet, probably Helena's doing.

She stood by the kitchen island, dark hair pulled back, one ankle hooked over the other. That lazy, half-cocked grin already waiting for us. A brand-new phone sat in a white box next to her.

She looked straight at Mom. "Welcome to your new home, Mrs. Kent."

Mom blinked, still caught mid-moment.

Helena smiled. "How was the trip?"

Mom's eyes flicked to me, then back to her. Her lips curved softly. "Much shorter than I expected."

Helena grinned, a knowing look in her eyes.

I crossed the room and lowered Mom gently into the big armchair by the fire. I helped her settle in, adjusted the crutches nearby, and glanced down at the coffee table.

Still-warm cookies stacked on a ceramic plate. The scent hit stronger up close, rich and just a little toasted.

Mom's nose twitched, and she tilted her head toward the plate.

I crouched, grabbed one, and passed it to her.

"Pecan chocolate," I said. "You earned it."

She took it with both hands. "Clark Joseph Kent," she said quietly, "this feels like..." Her voice cracked a little. "Like the kind of place you only ever see in Christmas cards."

I didn't say anything. Just held her gaze for a second, offering a faint smile. Then I stood and stepped toward the kitchen island, eyes drifting to the phone box.

Helena followed my gaze. "Figured you'd need a new one. Consider it a housewarming gift. And also a please-don't-smash-this-one favor."

I gave a small, dry chuckle, running my finger over the seal, but didn't open it. My brain was still ticking in too many directions, relief tangled up in fury, like two wires arcing under my ribcage.

Helena must have sensed it, because her smirk faded slightly. "How did it go?"

"I don't know what else Jake told them. Or how much they know now. Couldn't risk them tracking the car back here."

Helena frowned. "You really think they'd try something that fast?"

"I don't know. And that's the problem." My jaw tightened. "But I'm not handing them a goddamn map to this place."

My fingers curled against the table. That chill in my spine hadn't left since the call. Iknewthis moment would come. The past didn't stay buried.

Not for people like me.

"I need to go back to the Narrows." I said. "Get the rest of her stuff."

Helena tilted her head. "Tell Jake I said hi."

I scoffed. "Sure. Maybe I'll carve it into his front door."

"Don't put his head through the wall," she said dryly.

I didn't answer. Just turned toward the door, the cold night air rushing in the second I cracked it open.

No promises.

Author's note:

Hey! Just a heads-up that Chapter 5 has been updated. I rewrote the bar fight scene to add more action and give Clark a darker edge. Now it hits harder (quite literally!). If you check it out, let me know what you think!

Also made some edits to Chapters 1 to 4 to make everything flow better with the new darker direction.

Thanks for reading 3