For five years, Clark had known nothing but flames and heat. It didn't hurt him, it only empowered him. Empowered the virus nestled in his brain. It was all a blur. He remembered the initial outbreak, how it spread through the internet and made most of his friends turn into zombie-like creatures set on murdering the living. He remembered the moment he said what he thought was goodbye to his family and flew off into space to attempt to kill his body before the virus could claim it.

Unfortunately, that hadn't worked. The time he'd wasted costed him the little time he had before the virus took hold. Immediately, he was lost to it. Nothing mattered to him except for spreading the Anti-Life Equation and destroying any life he saw, and destroy he did.

The only thing able to fend him off from exploding the ships carrying Earth's survivors into space was his child. You weren't fully Kryptonian, and realistically, you couldn't beat him alone. But of course, there were still some heroes left to help fend him off.

So, into the sun Clark went when the virus decided he should. He drained it of its energy, taking it into himself. Thankfully, the remaining survivors had discovered a cure before he could do anything with the energy building within himself.

The only way to get a raging Kryptonian to accept a cure was to fight him and restrain him. The only one who could've lured him out of the sun was you. He attacked you before anyone else. You were only half alien. You stood no chance of defeating him, but you'd fought him long enough for an experimental cure to be injected and his body to be bound with Kryptonite.

You would be dead if it hadn't worked.

Now, you're in the infirmary. The world was rebuilding, slowly, but his was still crumbling. Everyone treated him like a hero when he returned. But how could he be a symbol of hope now? A paragon of justice and the embodiment of good? He didn't deserve it. He'd caused mass destruction, nearly wiped out the solar system by killing the sun. And he nearly killed his only child.

Clark refused to leave your bedside, guarding your injured form silently as he held your hand. Your wounds were extensive, brought on by his own hand. Looking at them made his gut twist.

He stared down at you, holding your hands in his own. He wished you would wake up already so he could beg you for forgiveness he didn't deserve.