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The world spun back into motion, as if nothing had happened.
Streets filled with people again, news channels found fresh tragedies to cover, and the Lex Luthor headlines faded bit by bit, replaced by the shine of a future everyone wanted to believe in.
For the Kent family, that new normal took the shape of hope. Lois was smiling again, eyes lit up, that spark only showing when she had a big story in her hands.
Smallville Gazette became the country's spotlight: its name echoed in every newsroom, every forum, every tribute to truth. Clark was proud. They all were.
Clark seemed to find balance too: between articles with Lois, rescues as Superman, and the community work he started doing, there was a sense of peace that almost felt unreal. Even Jon—Superboy, as they called him now—glowed with a happiness he'd never had before. They loved him, admired him.
And Jordan…
Jordan learned to smile for the cameras.
Learned to say I'm fine in a convincing tone, without his voice shaking.
Because when the world learned Clark Kent was Superman, the world also learned who he really was.
---
Sunrise light filtered through Jordan's bedroom curtains, painting golden stripes on walls covered in faded posters of bands he didn't listen to anymore. Smallville was quiet, except for distant birdsong and the whisper of wind rustling the cornfields. It used to bring him peace, a reminder that despite everything, he was still a small-town kid. But today, that silence just amplified the constant buzz in his head.
He sat on the bed's edge, elbows on knees, hands pressed to his temples. His phone on the nightstand buzzed every few minutes—an endless cascade of notifications he didn't dare look at. He didn't need to open the apps to know what they said. The headlines from the last months were burned into his memory:
"Is Jordan Kent a hero or an unstable threat?"
"Superman's Son: Hero in Training or Kryptonian Time Bomb?"
"Jordan Kent's Medical History: Therapy, Medication, Severe Anxiety Episodes."
The media found it. Dissected it. Displayed it.
That last one was the worst. Someone—no one knew who, though Lois had her suspicions—hacked the medical records and leaked them to sensationalist tabloids. Every anxiety attack Jordan had since he was a kid, every doctor's visit, every night the world felt like it was crashing down on him... now it was all exposed for the world to pick apart.
It was supposed to get better after Luthor.
They'd won. Lex Luthor was behind bars, defeated by Superman, Jon, and... him. Jordan had been there, in the final battle, channeling his Kryptonian strength like never before. For a brief moment, he'd felt like he finally fit—like he'd found his place. Like he was more than Clark Kent's awkward, anxious son. Like he could finally be a real hero.
But the world didn't see it that way.
The headlines kept floating in his mind even when the screens were off.
And though his family tried to shield him—Lois firing off lawsuits, Clark calmly talking privacy, Jon trying to be his rock—the damage was done. Social media was ruthless. Rumors, endless. Every photo of him turned into a battlefield between defenders and fear-mongers.
Every headline was a crack in the armor he'd tried to build. And the worst part? He couldn't escape them. Not in Smallville, not in Metropolis, not online.
"Jordan, you awake?" Lois's voice came from the hall, firm but soft, like always.
He straightened up fast, forcing a smile he didn't feel. "Yeah, Mom. Coming down."
He didn't want her seeing him like this. Lois had enough with the world begging for interviews, Daily Planet and Smallville Gazette competing for her exclusives, and the weight of being Superman's wife now that his identity was public. She was shining, stronger than ever, and Jordan didn't want to be the cloud dimming her light.
He headed downstairs, coffee and toast smells filling the kitchen. Clark was at the table, reading an article. Jonathan sat beside him, laughing as he showed something on his phone—probably a Superboy meme gone viral. The scene was so normal, so Kent, that for a second Jordan could breathe.
"Morning, kid," Clark said, looking up with a warm smile.
"Morning," Jordan replied, voice flatter than he meant. He poured orange juice, avoiding his dad's eyes. Clark always knew when something was off, and Jordan wasn't ready for that talk.
"Hey, you see this?" Jonathan spun his phone toward him. A video of Superboy saving hikers trapped in a landslide.
Jordan forced a smile. "Cool, Jon."
Jonathan didn't catch the tension in his voice, but Clark did. His brows furrowed just a bit, and Jordan knew the worried-dad question was coming. Before it could, Lois swept into the kitchen, phone to her ear.
"...yeah, Chrissy, run the story, but double-check the facts." She hung, sighing, and poured coffee. "World doesn't rest, huh?"
"Never," Clark said, smiling as he passed her toast.
Jordan stayed quiet, staring at his juice. He wanted to say something, spill how he felt, but the words stuck in his throat. How do you explain the whole world watching, waiting for you to fail? That every time you close your eyes, you see Luthor stepping on your dad's heart? That your four-star general grandpa died because of your stupidity? That you're a failure and no one trusts you to be a hero? That you can't stop thinking about the TV experts dissecting your life like you're an experiment?
"Jordan, you okay?" Lois asked, her tone slicing like a scalpel. She always knew, even when he hid it.
"I'm fine," he lied, standing. "Just... gotta get to school."
He didn't wait for a reply. Grabbed his backpack and bolted out the door, Smallville's fresh air hitting his face. But not even the open sky could lift the weight on his chest.
---
School passed in a normalcy that would've been a relief once. Smallville High hallways buzzed with laughs, whispers, locker slams. No one eyed him warily. No whispers behind his back. Football guys nodded hello, and the history teacher even clapped his shoulder for his last essay. Smallville knew him. Trusted him.
Smallville folks didn't look at him with suspicion; they'd known him forever, knew he was Clark's son, Martha Kent's grandson.
Jordan did what he had to: focused, smiled, answered. But inside, the noise didn't stop.
The constant buzz of voices he couldn't silence.
When classes ended, Jon caught him at the exit, bursting with that endless energy that made him seem invincible.
"Wanna hit Vicky May's? My treat—milkshake?" he said, grinning.
Jordan shook his head. "Nah, just wanna go home."
Jon eyed him a second, worried, but didn't push.
Afternoon sun bathed Smallville in gold, the walk home the usual: cracked asphalt, fields stretching out, clean air smelling of dirt and corn.
Jordan walked beside Jon, backpacks slung over shoulders.
Jon was radiant, like always lately, chattering about a football game, a new flying trick he'd perfected. Jordan nodded, tried keeping up the convo, but truth was, nothing interested him. Not just Jon—nothing.
Jon noticed his brother's silence, and though he didn't say anything at first, his smile faded slow.
"Hey," he murmured finally, nudging Jordan's shoulder gently. "You okay?"
Jordan looked up, surprised by the tone. No judgment, just worry.
"Yeah... just tired."
Jon watched him a few more seconds, not buying it. "I know that's not it." He lowered his voice. "Jordan, you don't have to pretend it doesn't get to you."
Jordan swallowed hard, throat tightening. "Don't wanna talk about it."
"Yeah, but... you should. With me, Dad, Mom..." Jon put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "You don't have to carry it all alone."
"I'm not carrying anything," Jordan snapped, harsher than he meant.
Jon stopped, forcing Jordan to halt too. "Jordan, look at me," he said, firm in a way he rarely was. "You don't have to prove anything to anyone, okay? You're my twin, and I know who you are. I don't care what they say, or think.
I wanna help, for real. Let's talk, yeah? I'll listen as long as you need."
Jordan stared at him in silence, and for a second, something loosened inside. Jon wasn't lying; he meant it. Jon was always like that: thoughtful, open, heart full of compassion.
And he... he just wanted to feel the same.
He opened his mouth to reply when they both froze at once.
Their bodies tensed, gazes lost on the horizon.
A scream.
Metallic crash.
Roar of fire.
Jordan closed his eyes, focusing. The sound was far—other side of the world, maybe Asia—where a refinery burned, flames devouring steel, screams mixing with wind whistle.
"You hear that?" Jon asked, face set.
Jordan nodded barely. "Yeah."
"We gotta go." Jon was already ditching his backpack.
"Jon, no. It's not big—firefighters got it handled," Jordan said, trying to sound calm, though he knew it wasn't totally true.
"Doesn't look like it," Jon shot back, frustration in his eyes. "Come on, we can help."
"I don't wanna go," Jordan said, blunt this time.
Jon turned fully, shocked. "What?"
"I don't wanna," Jordan repeated, staring at the ground. "Not in the mood—you do it alone."
The weight in Jordan's chest twisted like a screw. Flying across the world, center of another scene, being seen, judged, analyzed... it made him want to scream.
His hands shook; he shoved them in his jacket pockets so Jon wouldn't notice.
Jon stared, brow furrowed, trying to get it. "What? No, we go together. We're a team—The Fraternals."
"Don't wanna do it today."
"I thought you'd gotten past this," Jon said, frustration slipping in. "That you wanted to help again, be heroes together."
Jordan looked up, hurt. "I said no."
Jon didn't push. Jaw tight, eyes full of disappointment. "Fine, if you're not coming. But I am." And without another word, he lifted into the air—a streak vanishing into the clouds.
Jordan stood alone in the road, staring at where his brother disappeared.
Silence returned, heavy, unbearable.
He lingered a few seconds more, till distant birds forced him to move.
When he arrived at the farm, the sun was shining high above. The sky had turned a radiant blue, and the shadows of the trees fell short across the field. Clark stood on the porch, arms crossed, gaze on the horizon.
"Hey, Dad," Jordan said, climbing steps.
Clark turned with a small smile. "Hey, son. Where's Jon?"
"He went on a rescue," Jordan mumbled, looking down.
Clark's smile faded just a touch. "And you didn't go with him?"
Jordan hesitated. Dad could hear the tiniest breath change, knew when he lied. So he didn't.
"Didn't feel like it."
Clark watched him long. No anger in his eyes—just deep sadness Jordan couldn't stand. Finally, Clark sighed and nodded inside.
"Come on. Got apple pie."
Jordan frowned, confused. "Pie?"
"Yeah," Clark said with a half-smile. "Sometimes, talking's easier with something sweet in the mix."
They went to the kitchen. Air smelled of cinnamon and melted sugar, and for a moment Jordan felt a pang of nostalgia: childhood afternoons, Grandma Martha baking while Clark fixed the fence, laughs, normalcy.
Clark served two generous slices, across from each other at the table.
Jordan sat slow, eyeing the steaming piece, sweet vapor rising like a calm promise.
Clark sat opposite, calm smile on—that one he used to tell his boys everything was okay, even if the world was falling apart.
"Try a bite," Clark said, voice soft, full of that warmth that wrapped everything like an armless hug. "Not perfect like your grandma's, but it tastes good." He took a fork, cut a piece.
Jordan stared at the pie, golden filling gleaming under kitchen light. He nodded faint, forked a bite. Flavor exploded—cinnamon, apple, home—but it couldn't dissolve the knot in his chest. Clark waited, patient, chewing his slow, like time didn't matter.
Finally, Clark set down the fork and turned a bit, eyes infinite tenderness. "Jordan... I know what's going on. I see it in you, feel it. And I want you to know—I get it. For real."
Jordan looked up, surprised. Clark went on, voice low and soothing, like a calm river.
"I know it feels like the world's got you under a microscope, hunting for something to slam. I went through the same when I came out as Superman—and even years later, some still don't fully trust. But over time, those voices got smaller, farther away.
But what you're feeling, son... it doesn't make you weak. Just means you're human. That you care."
Clark leaned in a little, with that patience only a dad like him could have. "Jordan, every time I see what you do, how you push to help even when no one's watching... I know your heart's in the right place." He paused, voice softer. "You're a good kid, Jordan. You're my son. And that? To me, it's always enough."
Jordan pressed his lips, fighting the emotion rising in his chest. Clark smiled again—that warm one holding the whole sun.
"The world can say whatever. What matters is what you know about you. And I know who you are." He reached out, hand on Jordan's shoulder, eyes locked. "And I know all this... it's gonna get better."
Jordan met his gaze, and for the first time in days, a spark of relief crossed his face. He took the fork, nodded slow.
"Thanks, Dad."
Clark smiled. "That's what being a Kent's about. Weather the storm—but never alone."
They ate in silence a few minutes. Clark chatted small stuff—the chickens that escaped the fence, how Lois won a bet with Chrissy—and Jordan laughed at the right spots, even joked a little. For a moment, the kitchen felt like always: warm, alive, safe.
When done, Clark patted his son's shoulder. "I'm proud of you, Jordan. Don't forget that."
Jordan nodded, forcing a smile. "I know."
He climbed the stairs quiet, footsteps echoing in the house. Shut his door, pressed forehead to wood.
Air turned thick, heavy. Smile vanished.
The emptiness returned.
He collapsed on the bed, staring at the ceiling with glassy eyes. Dad's words echoed—sweet, sincere—but they couldn't pierce the wall inside.
Because though he wanted to believe it'd be okay...
he couldn't feel it anymore.
He just knew how to fake it.
---
Jordan got home from school after another day like the last, house empty; Clark and Lois left early for a Metropolis interview, and Jon... Jon went to see Candice but probably ended up somewhere across the world, saving the day like always. Jordan grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and headed out of the house.
The wall clock ticked a soft, steady rhythm, filling the silence with more than just seconds.
The office was an intentional oasis of calm: soft beige walls, a ficus plant in the corner filtering window light, smelling of lavender and fresh paper.
Lavender—the scent meant to soothe, but it just reminded him of childhood sessions, talking about school anxiety attacks or feeling different from everyone. Now, everything was worse.
Across from him sat Dr. Donner—the same therapist from Metropolis before they moved to Smallville, when his anxiety got unbearable in freshman year. The same one who'd helped when panic attacks kept him from sleeping. Her voice was just as calm as back then, though now, hearing it hurt more somehow.
She watched him with a quiet smile, no pressure, like time hadn't passed.
"Three weeks since we restarted sessions," she said, glancing up. "How've you been feeling, Jordan?"
Jordan shrugged. He was sunk into the leather armchair, hands clasped over his knees, eyes fixed on a floor stain. "Same," he said after seconds. "Tired."
"Have you been able to sleep?"
"A little. But I don't need it." His tone came quick, defensive. "I'm not like everyone else, you know that. My body doesn't wear out the same."
She nodded, expression neutral but empathetic—that look that invited without pushing. "I understand. Your Kryptonian physiology changes the rules, sure. Your body doesn't need physical rest like ours. But your mind... it does, Jordan. Mental exhaustion doesn't fix with superpowers.
Sleep isn't just for the body; it's where we process emotions, where the mind reorganizes. Without it, mental fatigue piles up—like debt you don't pay."
He shrugged again, hands clenching into fists on his knees.
Dr. Donner tilted her head, still watching.
"And the nightmares... you still having them?" she asked gently, voice like a soft thread pulling memories without breaking them.
Jordan nodded barely, throat knot tightening. Dr. Donner waited, giving him time—like always in these sessions: no pressure, just guidance.
He swallowed, knuckles whitening. "They're still there." Voice low, almost a whisper. "Not every night... but when they hit, it's like no time's passed."
The therapist nodded slow. "Want to tell me one?"
"Always the same," he said finally. "Luthor destroying my dad's heart right in front of me. When my dad died because they ripped out his heart. My grandpa dying because I was an idiot.
I wake up sweating, chest tight, like I can't breathe. And during the day... it's like I'm empty. Nothing interests me. Not school, not flying, not helping people. I just want... to feel nothing."
Dr. Donner listened in silence. No notes. No interruptions. Just watched, with that uncomfortable calm forcing Jordan to face his own words.
That professional empathy—sometimes a shield to him, sometimes a lifeline.
Silence stretched, broken only by the wall clock's tick-tock, each second sharp, echoing in Jordan's chest.
"Jordan," she said finally, voice low, "have you talked to your family about what you're feeling? About coming back to therapy, for example. They could be huge support here."
Jordan looked up for the first time in minutes, eyes clouded with deep sadness, like the world's weight settled in his pupils. He shook his head slow, lips pressed thin, trembling slightly. Voice came hoarse, broken, each word a titanic effort.
"No... I haven't."
"Why not?" she asked, tone not demanding—just inviting.
Jordan let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Because they're okay. Everyone is. Mom's smiling again, Dad's calm, Jon is... finally as happy as he was in Metropolis—Smallville wasn't always easy for him. They..." He swallowed. "They're finally okay. I don't wanna be the one who ruins it. Don't wanna bother them with my crap. They've got enough with the whole world watching them."
Dr. Donner leaned forward a bit. "Jordan, worrying about them shouldn't mean neglecting yourself."
Jordan paused, swallowing hard, hands clenching till knuckles went white. A single tear escaped his right eye, tracing slow down his cheek, but he didn't wipe it—like he didn't notice, or the pain was so overwhelming tears were just background noise. "We've talked a little... about the media stuff. But they can't get what's really happening. They think it's like what Dad went through, but it's not... not like when Dad came out as Superman. No one knew who he really was—he could hide behind the glasses, be Clark Kent. But with me... everyone knows. Everyone knows I'm the unstable son, the one with anxiety attacks, the one who can't control himself. They've dissected me in public, and there's no going back. How do I tell them I feel like a total failure? That every time I look at Jon, I just see what I'll never be?"
His voice cracked on the last phrase, turning into a choked sob he tried to stifle, hand trembling over his mouth. Chest heaved irregular, like air refused his lungs, and he sank deeper into the armchair, shoulders hunched under invisible weight. Anguish wrapped him like thick fog, face twisting in raw, filterless pain. Hot tears rolled free now, dripping onto his jeans, and he let them, too exhausted to fight. "I don't want them seeing me like this again... broken. Don't wanna be the burden ruining their hope. They think it'll get better, but I... I'm just sinking deeper every day."
Silence followed his words. Dr. Donner breathed slow, like afraid to break the moment.
"That must feel so lonely," she said, softness that hurt.
Jordan nodded, not looking. "Sometimes I think if I disappeared, no one would notice. Everyone'd keep going. Mom'd keep writing, Jon'd keep saving people, Dad..." Voice cracked. "Dad'd keep being Superman."
The doctor leaned forward, gaze firm but compassionate. "Jordan, that's not true. You're part of their life, their balance—even if you don't see it. You're their son. Their family. And you deserve to heal too."
He shook his head, swallowing hard, eyes wet. "I can't heal. Can't."
"Why do you think that?"
"Because this doesn't go away." He tapped his temple twice, no force. "It's always here. Everything that happened. Everything I screwed up. Everything I'm not. Can't turn it off. You just... learn to fake it." His breath hitched. "Just... fake it."
Dr. Donner watched seconds, letting silent tears slide without comment.
"Jordan," she said, firm but sweet, "when I met you, you were barely a kid—your anxiety kept you from living. Now I see guilt's what's consuming you. But I need to say this clear: you can't recover on willpower alone."
Dr. Donner waited, expression genuine compassion—not pity, just understanding. When she spoke again, voice even softer, like fearing to shatter the room's fragile balance. "What you're describing, Jordan, sounds like deep pain. You've lived traumas no one can imagine, especially at your age: discovering that your father is from another planet and that you inherited his powers, having to learn to control each power, your uncle kidnapping you and implanting his father's mind in your body to destroy humans, facing versions of your family. How many times were you on death's edge? Plus what happened with Luthor and your dad, your grandpa's death... That leaves scars. Scars a lot like PTSD, combined with severe depression.
No one walks out unscathed. Kryptonian or not."
"Sessions like this help, but they're not enough alone—not for something this rooted. Have you reconsidered what we talked about, going back on meds? They could stabilize you, help process this so you regain control. It's not weakness; it's another tool to heal. You can't recover with occasional sessions; you need more help, something to give you a break so we work the root."
"Depression and PTSD don't vanish alone. No matter how many times you smile or say you're fine; you can't carry it without medical help—and you know that, that's why you came back."
Jordan clenched hands, chest rising/falling hard. "Don't want them thinking I went back to 'that.' That I'm broken again." Words choked, near sob. "Don't wanna disappoint them."
Dr. Donner calmly shook her head. "Seeking help isn't letting them down, Jordan. It's giving yourself a chance. It's taking care of yourself the way they would if they knew."
Jordan looked away, to the window. Outside, Metropolis afternoon sun filtered between skyscrapers, gilding streets in gold that clashed with his inner gray.
"Sometimes..." Voice trembled faint. "Sometimes I think it'd be easier not to feel anything. Just... disappear for a while."
Dr. Donner held breath a second. Voice softer still.
"Jordan, when you say disappear... do you mean hurting yourself?"
Silence stretched long. So long the clock's tick-tock hit like blows.
Jordan closed eyes, tears falling at last. "Couldn't even if I wanted—my body's fully invulnerable now."
Dr. Donner leaned forward, face now etched with deep worry she couldn't fully hide, though voice stayed calm, an anchor in storm. "Jordan, last session you mentioned devices that inhibit your powers—if you used one, you could hurt yourself. Have you thought about that?"
Silence thickened, almost painful. Jordan felt air grow heavier, room holding its breath.
"I don't wanna die," he burst sudden, childlike urgency disarming even him. "Don't wanna hurt myself. Just want..." Voice broke. "Just wanna stop feeling like this. Wanna feel normal. Wanna... be okay again."
Breath shaky, ragged; Dr. Donner relaxed a bit, eyes bright with held emotion.
"Then let's start there," she said. "From the part of you that still wants to keep going. We'll work with that, yeah? And what you just said—it's huge. You don't wanna die; you just want the pain to stop. And that can be worked on. But to do it, you need more support than I can give alone."
Jordan looked, confused. "What do you mean?"
She inhaled, choosing words careful. "I have a colleague I've worked with for years. She runs a specialized center for intensive psych treatment for trauma survivors... especially special agents. It's confidential, Jordan. Not a psych ward—nothing like that, no public eye. They work with government orgs, total discretion. There you'd have therapists, doctors, specialists who get living with your responsibilities. People who could really help.
No one outside knows where you are—not even family, if you don't want. I think that place could be what gets you forward, feeling better for real. Not lockdown; a refuge."
Jordan frowned, body rigid. "A... place? Like boarding school?"
"Not exactly." Dr. Donner shook head gentle. "A space to rest and heal, without people knowing, without fear. They wouldn't lock you. Super confidential—you only go if you agree."
Jordan clenched fists. "And they'd... know who I am?"
"Only the essentials—the ones helping you. Other patients won't be an issue," she said firm.
Jordan went quiet, staring floor. Air smelled lavender, but it no longer soothed; it pressed. The idea of a "specialized center" terrified. Since kid, he'd feared ending up in one—locked away 'cause he was weird and crazy.
Dr. Donner watched, seeing shoulder tension, faint finger tremble. "Don't have to decide now. Just think about it, yeah? Not asking blind trust. Just... give the idea of healing somewhere you don't have to fake 'okay' a chance."
Jordan nodded slow, gaze lost. "Thanks..." Murmured rough, barely audible. Rubbed eyes with sleeve. "Thanks for not giving up on me."
"Never gave up on you, Jordan," she said with faint smile, not hiding eye sadness. "And I won't now."
They talked for a while longer until the clock marked the end of the session. Jordan stood up slowly, as if every movement weighed tons. Walked to door shoulders hunched, hands pocketed, head down. Paused before leaving, not turning. "Thanks... for listening," whispered.
Dr. Donner looked, tenderness born of years mending broken minds. "Think hard about what we discussed. You're not alone, Jordan. Never have been, even when it feels that way."
Jordan nodded faint. Voice thread. "Thanks."
She gave small, reassuring smile.
"See you next week."
---
Jordan left Dr. Donner's office with heavy steps, each dragging words left behind. Sun hid behind Metropolis buildings, sky melancholy orange.
Flew back to Smallville, staying above clouds to avoid eyes, landing in farm backyard as twilight shadows stretched. House silent—but not for long. Heard Lois's car engine on gravel drive, familiar sound once comforting now tense.
Entered door, dropped backpack on kitchen chair. Poured water glass, trying calm emotion whirlwind session stirred. Lavender still clung to clothes—reminder of tears, confessions he didn't wanna repeat.
Jordan went upstairs, dropped bag on floor, collapsed on bed. Closed eyes, tried breathing.
Ten minutes later, front door slammed open.
"Jordan!" Lois yelled from living room, tone loaded, impatient.
Jordan sat up sharp. Knew that voice—It was the voice she used when her anger burned like a volcano about to erupt.
He went down the stairs, and before he could say anything, Lois was already in front of him, phone in hand, her expression hardened.
"Can you explain this?" She shoved screen at him. Video blurry, shot from shaky phone in sandstorm—somewhere remote, maybe Middle East by Arabic subtitles flashing. Young figure dove fast toward overturned trucks ringed in flames/debris. The maneuver bold: mid-air spin, icy breath dousing fire—but wind shoved a survivor toward cliff edge, saved millimeters by last-second grab. The video didn't show face clear—sand/motion blurred all—but for Lois, there was no doubt.
Jordan frowned. "That wasn't me."
"Really?" Lois's voice rose, thick with disbelief. "Because the media says it was you."
"What?" Jordan blinked, shock melting into a wave of incredulity.
He stepped back, confused. "Mom, that wasn't me. I didn't... I wasn't there. Didn't do any rescue today. I swear."
"Then where were you?" she shot back, arms crossed. "Because when I called earlier, you didn't pick up."
Jordan opened his mouth, then stopped. Couldn't tell her he'd been in therapy. Didn't want her knowing. Didn't want her disappointed.
"Just... out," he said, shrugging.
Lois eyed him, mix of frustration and exhaustion.
"Don't lie to me, Jordan. Don't say 'out.' If you really did this, you put innocent people at risk. After everything, you think you can just act without thinking? We're in the public eye, Jordan! We can't afford mistakes."
"I'm telling you it wasn't me!" Jordan yelled, voice cracking with held pain and rage.
"It must have been Jon. He... he gets too excited sometimes."
"Don't try dragging your brother into this," she said harshly. "Jon wouldn't do something so reckless."
For a moment, all air vanished. Stomach twisted, icy knot climbing his throat.
The wound Luthor carved ripped wide open, bleeding deep sadness that made him question his mother's love.
"Yeah," he whispered, eyes clouding. "Always Jon, right?"
Lois frowned, confused. "What?"
Jordan stepped back, voice shaking. "No matter what happens. You always pick him. Right? No matter what, you pick him over me."
"Jordan, don't say that—" Lois started, but her voice sounded empty, like from miles away.
He let out a bitter laugh, loaded with tears he wouldn't let fall. "Doesn't matter what I say. You'll never believe me."
Lois stared, speechless, not knowing what to say.
But Jordan couldn't look at her anymore.
Pain in his chest too big, too sharp. Mix of rage, sadness, exhaustion—a wound burning hotter with every word.
He clenched fists, voice trembling on the edge of tears.
"I'm the one who always does everything wrong, the one who always disappoints. Why don't you believe me? Why am I never the one who deserves the benefit of the doubt?" Her breath hitched. "But that's it, it doesn't matter."
Jordan spun sharp, heart pounding in his ears, drowning his own words' echo. Didn't wait for reply. Couldn't. Feet moved on their own to the door, fresh air hitting like cruel reminder of how alone he felt. With instinctive leap, he lifted off the ground, wind roaring around as he tore through Smallville's sky. Flew high, fast, farm blurring into faint lights and endless fields below. No destination—just needed distance, space for chest-burn to fade. Tears dried on his face from speed, but the pain... the pain flew with him.
Lois froze in the kitchen center, phone still trembling in her hand, video frozen on screen like silent accusation. House silence wrapped her, heavy, blaming. Squeezed eyes shut; regret punched like a fist. God, what did I just do? Jordan wasn't okay—she knew, saw it in his dull eyes, forced smiles, isolation. And she... she'd been harsh, chose anger over asking.
Should've been kinder. Should've really listened, she thought. Collapsed into chair, head in hands. The video... what if she was wrong? The figure blurry, bad angle, sand everywhere. And she knew better than trust media just exposing her son. Jon was with Candice all day, but... could it be him? Jon, with his unstoppable enthusiasm.
Maybe it was Jon. Maybe I attacked the wrong son. Thought sliced like a blade; single tear rolled down her cheek. Jordan always the sensitive one, but after Luthor, he was much worse. And she'd pushed him over the edge.
Shook head, straightening with that determination making her world's best reporter. No. I'll fix it, she told herself, heading to other room—cluttered desk piled papers, whiteboard with red strings linking clues, heart of her investigations. Rifling files, pulled phone from pocket, dialed Jon without second thought.
Rang twice before Jon picked up, voice cheerful. "Mom? Everything okay?"
"Jon," Lois said, tone firm, sharp, no excuses. "Get to the Gazette. Now. I need to talk to you."
There was a pause on the other end, the surprise evident. "Now? But I'm with Can—"
"Now, Jonathan. Don't make me repeat!"
"Okay, okay. Be there in five," he said, fun draining from voice.
Lois hung, set phone on desk, grabbed thick folder she'd hunted. Her new investigation, keeping her up till dawn: rumors of Luthor's leftover tech.
Tucked folder under arm, rushed out house, no look back.
Door shut soft behind her.
Phone, forgotten on desk, buzzed with notification:
"Message from Clark: At the Gazette now. Everything okay at home?"
Screen lit once more, no reply.
---
Lois parked truck with tire screech outside Smallville Gazette. Stepped out determined, folder clutched under arm like shield against emotion whirlwind gripping her. Smallville's fresh air hit face, but didn't cool guilt-fire in chest. Pushed main door; bell tinkled distant echo in newsroom.
Inside, lights hummed soft over messy desks, old newspaper stacks, computer screens blinking half-edited articles. Clark stood by window, arms crossed, gaze lost in outer dark—like listening beyond visible. Jon had just arrived, his hair still a mess from the quick flight from wherever he was with Candice. Leaned on desk, face confused, lightly worried.
"Jon," Lois said entering, voice cutting but shaky from exhaustion. "Come here."
Jon straightened fast, quick glance at Clark—who turned, brow arched. Clark stepped closer, presence always comforting, but Lois ignored for now, zeroing on son.
"Mom, what's wrong?" Jon asked, approaching cautious. "You sounded... mad on phone."
"Did you do a rescue during a sandstorm? Was it you?" Lois asked, tone accusing but laced underlying worry.
Jon blinked, confused. "What?"
"There's a video." Tone severe, but trembling fingers betrayed. "Of a boy flying through the dust, where an innocent civilian was almost injured and now there's a video circulating around the world."
Jon's eyes widened, blush creeping cheeks. "Mom, yeah it was me! But it was an accident, I swear. Wind was brutal, didn't calculate the breath... I saved him at the end! No one got really hurt."
Lois sighed in frustration, running her hand through her hair. Her face hardened, not just in anger at what her son had done, but in anger at herself. "An accident," she repeated, voice rising. "Jon, do you get how reckless that was? You can't just dive blind into that! We're under the whole world's microscope. You can't expose yourself like that. Not now, not when everyone's still watching your brother like he's a time bomb.
The media... they're blaming Jordan, thinking it was him."
Jon dropped head, shoulders slumping. "Sorry, Mom. Really. Didn't mean to complicate things. Just... wanted to help."
Clark stepped in, tone calm but firm. "Jon, I know you wanted to help, but your mom's right. We gotta be more careful."
Jon nodded, swallowing. "I know. Just... heard the screams, knew I had to help."
Lois softened a bit, but exhaustion etched in face lines. "Okay, but no repeats. Go find your brother. Head home. Your dad and I have a meeting—" lifted papers under arm slight—"and then we'll talk about this for real."
Jon nodded, guilt heavy in eyes. Paused before moving, biting lip. "What happened with Jordan?" he asked, voice softer.
Lois felt chest stab, remorse crashing like wave. Looked down second, swallowing. "Thought it was him in the video," confessed, voice cracking slight. "Accused him, he got mad and... flew off. Don't know where."
Jon felt guilt knot in stomach, sinking weight. Knew how fragile Jordan was lately, every word a potential blow. If he hadn't been so impulsive, thought, maybe Jordan wouldn't pay price. "Oh..." murmured, rubbing arms. "I'll go find him. I'll find him."
Without more, Jon headed to the door and took a quick look at Clark before leaving. He took a breath and with a subtle leap, he rose into the sky, using his super hearing to search for his brother. Guilt drove him. If he hadn't been so reckless, none of this would have happened.
Lois alone with Clark in now-silent newsroom. Collapsed into nearby chair, folder thudding on desk. Face crumbled, determination mask cracking to show sadness/anguish beneath. Covered face with hands moment, deep breath holding back threatening tears.
Clark approached instant, sitting beside, gentle hand on shoulder. "Lois..." murmured, voice full eternal warmth. "What happened?"
"God, Clark... what did I do?" whispered, voice broken. "Treated him like a criminal. Accused without listening. He's already so... hurt and I pushed him more. How couldn't I even listen? How'd I miss the pain in his eyes?"
Clark squeezed shoulder gentle, face full empathy. "Lois, it was a mistake. We all make them. But Jordan loves you. Loves us all. Just needs time—we'll talk to him."
Lois shook head, anguish squeezing chest. "Not just this. He's not okay, Clark. Jordan's not okay, and he won't talk to us about how he feels. After Luthor, after everything... Every time I try getting close, he shuts down more."
Clark sighed, own sadness in eyes. "I know. See it too. Tried talking to him, letting him know I'm proud, he's not alone. But it's like a wall. After Luthor, his grandpa... he blames himself for everything. And us... can't force him to talk if he won't, but we'll be there when he's ready."
Lois leaned forward, forehead on Clark's shoulder, allowing vulnerability moment. "Don't wanna fail him, Clark. He's our son. Deserves to feel okay, not... keep suffering."
Clark hugged careful, kissing head. "We won't fail him. We'll find him, talk. We're family. We'll get through this together, like always."
Silence stretched in newsroom, broken only by light hum. Outside, night fell on Smallville—but in that hug, spark of hope: promise that, despite storms, Kents always found way to heal.
---
Night fallen over Smallville like heavy blanket, starred indifferent over sleeping fields. Wind whispered through corn, carrying damp earth scent, but for Lois and Clark, drive back to farm felt eternal. Meeting ran later than planned.
Farm light appeared distant, warm solitary in dark. Clark parked with sigh, killing engine.
Crossing door, house dim. Only living room lamp on, casting warm glow over furniture. Jon sat sofa, eyes on phone, foot jiggling anxious.
"Jon?" Lois asked, keys on table.
Jon jumped up. "Looked for Jordan," said straight, voice frustrated. "The fortress, Sarah, Nat, everyone. No one's seen him. I called him, but he left his phone here." Pointed to dining table, where Jordan's phone lay dark.
Clark frowned, jaw tense. "We'll find him," said convicted, though worry edged gaze.
"What if something happened to him?" Jon asked, voice shaky.
"Jon," Lois cut soft, "maybe he just needs space."
While Clark and Jon used their super hearing to pick up any sign of Jordan, Lois went to desk, where she'd left her forgotten phone.
Found it full of notifications, but one notification caught his attention the most: a voice message from an unknown number.
Frowned, hit "play."
Initial silence brief. Then, ragged breath filled speaker.
Jordan's voice, trembling, filled room.
"Mom... Wanted to talk to you but guess you were busy... Sorry. Sorry so much."
Lois felt heart flip.
Jordan's voice whisper-broken, choked in repressed sobs leaking like cracks in bursting dam. Irregular pauses, hitched breaths—anguish raw, palpable: each word dripped sadness.
"I know you love me, love Jon and me equal. I know. It wasn't me in the video because... I was in therapy.
Been going weeks. Didn't tell you because... didn't want you disappointed in me. Didn't wanna be the weak son again."
Choked sob cut air, long/shaky, followed heavy silence of just his ragged breathing—like hyperventilating. Lois sank into chair, tears instant/hot, clutching phone to ear.
Clark and Jon watched from doorway, hearing too.
"I'm not okay, Mom. Haven't been okay long time. Tried getting through alone, like always. And every time I think I'm better… everything breaks again.
Thought I could... that I was strong. But it got worse. Went back to therapy, but it's not helping. So tired... so tired of always fighting. Tired of everything so hard for me. Every day like... swimming against current, and I got no strength left. Need help. Real help. That's why... I'm going away for a
while. To a place where they can help me heal—therapist says that's best."
Lois felt the tears burning in her eyes. The silence that followed lasted a few eternal seconds, broken only by a low moan, a stifled sob; Jordan's breathing was irregular. When he continued, his voice was lower, more fragile. Soaked in pure anguish.
"Remember when I was kid and so scared of ending up locked in place like that... them seeing me crazy, freak. Still scared. So scared. But... know I need it. Can't anymore, Mom. Please... please don't look for me. I'll come back when better. When I can smile real, not fake."
There was a final pause and Jordan's voice was barely a whisper.
"Love you, Mom. Love you so much. Love you all."
The message was cut off with a small click, as if the breath had left with the words.
The silence that enveloped the Kent house was absolute... suffocating, a void that devoured the air itself, broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. Lois froze, the phone trembling in her hand, her eyes fixed on Clark... whose eyes shone with unshed tears, his face torn into a mask of pure pain, as if the entire world had shattered inside him. Jon... lost in paralyzing shock, unable to tear his gaze away from his mother. And there the three of them remained... trapped in the weight of silence, words dying in their throats like stifled echoes. No one knew what to say. No one could.