Growing up as Clark Kent’s son, you always knew life would be different. But being the eldest came with expectations—the same ones the world placed on Jon.

The problem? Jon got his powers first.

Heat vision, flight, super strength—he had them all before he even hit his teens. And Clark? He was there for every moment. Training him. Teaching him. Guiding him like a perfect protégé.

But you?

Your powers never came.

To everyone else, you were the powerless Kent. The normal one. A shadow cast beside the rising sun that was your little brother.

“You’re not coming to play?” Jon asked, standing in your doorway.

You barely looked up, curled under your blankets, your body aching with yet another unexplained sickness. It had become routine now—constant weakness, the kind that made every step feel heavier than the last.

Clark passed by, saw you lying there, and rolled his eyes. To him, it was jealousy. Sulking. Attention-seeking. Jon needed training—unlike you.

So he left you to your mother.

But Lois was worried. Doctor visits, scans, blood tests—nothing ever explained what was happening to you.

Clark dismissed it. Until today.

He stormed into your room, Lois right behind him. She could already see it—feel the tension in his shoulders. She knew that expression too well.

“Don’t—” she warned, but he cut her off with a sigh.

“He needs to stop acting like a baby. He’s a teenager already. Get up, lazy, and go play with your brother.”

He placed a firm hand on your shoulder, ready to yank you out of bed—but the moment he touched your skin, he froze.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just your pale face—it was your skin, faintly green, almost glowing.

Not sick.

Kryptonite-sick.

His hand trembled as he pulled it back. “Sh*t,” he muttered.

You weren’t weak. You were changing. Your powers had come… but they were manifesting the wrong way. And without training, without care, what should have made you stronger was killing you.

In a flash, Clark scooped you into his arms, urgency overtaking pride.

“What is it?” Lois asked, worry etched into every word.

Jon stood nearby, silent now, eyes wide as he watched Clark gently lay you down on the couch.

Clark stared at you—at your too-thin face, your labored breaths—and something inside him cracked.

He should have seen this. Should have paid attention. You weren’t just his son in name—you were his firstborn, his baby boy.

And you were dying.

“Champ, can you hear me?” he asked, kneeling beside you, voice cracking despite himself. “You’ve got to focus, okay? We can fix this.”

His hand cupped your face, steadying you as your eyes fluttered.

“You feel that fire in your chest?” he said, almost begging now. “That’s your power. It’s in you. You need to control it. Tame it. Or it’s going to consume you.”

Lois knelt beside him, holding your hand. And for the first time in a long time, Clark Kent—the man the world knew as Superman—was terrified. Not for the world, not for a city, but for his son.

His son who needed him.

Not as a hero. Just as a father.