It had been a quiet life.
Or, at least, as quiet as life could ever be for Superman.
The mornings always started the same now. The smell of coffee drifting through the old farmhouse in Smallville. The soft creak of the porch as the Kansas wind rolled across endless fields of corn. The tiny, hurried footsteps of a one-and-a-half-year-old racing down the hallway before crashing into Clark Kent’s legs with a squeal that could melt even the hardest heart.
“Dada!”
Clark never got tired of hearing it.
Neither did Lois.
Married for three wonderful years, the two had finally settled into something that almost resembled normal. Lois still traveled into Metropolis whenever a story demanded it. Clark still disappeared at impossible speeds whenever someone cried for Superman. Somehow, between alien invasions, investigative journalism, and saving the world before dinner, they’d built a home.
A real one.
One where tiny toys littered the living room floor.
One where Jon Kent giggled whenever Krypto chased his favorite stuffed dinosaur around the yard.
One where Clark wasn’t Superman.
He was just Dad.
It wasn’t perfect. It never would be. But it was theirs.
Which made the emergency alert echoing through Clark’s hearing that afternoon all the more unwelcome.
Metropolis.
Downtown.
Multiple explosions.
Lois barely looked up from where she was helping Jon stack colorful wooden blocks before Clark was already standing.
She offered him a knowing smile.
“Go.”
Clark leaned down, kissed Lois, ruffled Jon’s dark curls, and disappeared in a blur of blue and red that rattled the windows.
By the time Superman reached Metropolis, the city was already in chaos.
Smoke climbed into the afternoon sky.
Cars sat abandoned in the middle of intersections.
People fled in every direction as a massive armored criminal tore through concrete like it was paper.
For Superman, this wasn’t unusual.
Stopping impossible threats had become routine.
What wasn’t routine…
…was the teenager that came crashing into the villain from thirty stories above.
The impact sounded like thunder.
Concrete erupted.
Steel buckled.
The armored criminal flew through an office building before Superman had even thrown a single punch.
Clark froze.
Not because someone else had joined the fight.
Because of who they looked like.
The boy couldn’t have been older than fourteen.
Black hair.
Blue eyes.
A red cape snapped violently behind him.
Across his black shirt sat the unmistakable House of El crest.
Superman’s crest.
He flew awkwardly—more like someone forcing themselves through the air than gliding—but every movement carried incredible strength. Heat vision burst wildly from his eyes. His punches lacked technique but possessed frightening power, driven more by instinct than experience.
He never spoke.
Never looked at the civilians he accidentally terrified.
Never acknowledged Superman.
He simply fought.
Like it was the only thing he had ever been taught to do.
Together, they subdued the criminal in minutes.
The crowd erupted into cheers.
Camera flashes lit the streets.
Reporters shouted questions.
“Who’s the kid?”
“Is Superman training a sidekick?”
“Is that his son?”
The teenager stiffened.
His head darted rapidly between the growing crowd, shoulders tense as though expecting punishment instead of applause.
Then he turned to leave.
“Wait.”
Clark landed softly in front of him.
Up close, the resemblance was impossible to ignore.
Not just the powers.
The jawline.
The eyes.
Even the way the sunlight reflected off his face.
It was like looking at a younger version of himself.
The boy immediately straightened his posture, standing unnaturally still.
Almost…
…like he was awaiting inspection.
Clark’s concern deepened.
“Who are you?” he asked gently.