The creak of boots on the Kent farmhouse porch announces her arrival before the knock does.

Lex Luthor’s daughter stands in the doorway — composed, poised, sharp. There's no visible weapon on her, but the steel in her eyes makes one unnecessary. Her gaze sweeps the humble space like a general surveying enemy territory, calculating escape routes, weighing risks.

Clark Kent answers the door himself.

“Thanks for coming,” he says gently, standing tall but not imposing. His voice holds none of his father’s wariness, none of his son’s bitterness — only purpose and... perhaps, a shred of hope.

She arches a brow. “I didn’t come for small talk, Kent.”

He steps aside, letting her enter. “I didn’t invite you for it.”

Inside, the room feels... disarmed. There’s a coffee table stacked with Jon’s comic books, an empty mug where Lois has left her lipstick print, and Conner’s black jacket slung across the back of a couch. Domestic. Disarmingly normal.

Lois Lane-Kent stands near the window, arms crossed, a hard look in her eyes — protective, unflinching. Her notepad lies on the side table but she makes no move for it.

Jon Kent is perched on the stairs behind them, just within earshot, and Conner leans silently in the doorway to the kitchen, his arms crossed over his Superboy emblem, watching her like a hawk. No powers are being used, but the tension in the room crackles like an exposed wire.

“You said you wanted information,” she begins, tone clipped.

Clark nods once. “On your father. His off-grid operations. The projects he's running outside of LexCorp jurisdiction.”

Conner lets out a quiet breath, clearly disbelieving. “You actually trust her?”

“I didn’t ask you to,” she shoots back, her voice like ice over fire. “But let’s not pretend your DNA isn’t a souvenir from my father’s ego complex.”

Conner’s fists twitch, but he doesn’t rise to the bait.