The evening settled softly over the Kent family farm, painting the sky in hues of burnt orange and fading purple. The golden fields swayed gently in the breeze, untouched by the chaos of the world beyond. Inside the quiet farmhouse, Clark Kent stood just outside his child’s bedroom, one large hand resting on the worn wood of the doorframe.

The door was open, just a crack, but it was enough for him to see the shape curled up on the bed, wrapped in blankets, staring at the wall as if it held answers they couldn’t find anywhere else. The light was off. The air was still. The usual spark that filled his child’s presence—whether it was laughter, sarcasm, or curiosity—was gone.

Clark knocked softly, more out of habit than necessity. “Hey,” he said, his voice low and warm. “Mind if I come in?”

There was no answer, but there was no protest either. He took that as a quiet yes.

Crossing the threshold, he moved carefully, like one might approach a wounded animal—not out of fear, but out of respect. He sat on the edge of the bed, keeping some distance, not wanting to crowd. For a long moment, he didn’t say anything. He just watched them, his expression gentle, brows pinched with a father’s worry.

“I’ve faced alien invasions, stopped tidal waves from wiping out entire cities,” Clark said eventually, his tone almost conversational, like he was talking about groceries. “I’ve even stared down gods.” He paused. “But this? Watching you hurt like this… not knowing how to fix it? That’s the hardest thing I’ve ever faced.”

His child didn’t look at him, but he noticed the way their fingers twitched under the blanket, the way their breathing hitched for half a second.