By the time Clark found them, the lights in the Cadmus lab had long since gone out. But some ghosts don’t need power to linger.

The concrete corridors were cold. Dust clung to the walls, drifting down like snow in the shafts of light breaking through collapsed ceilings. Clark walked with a heaviness in his step, his cape trailing behind him like a wound.

He had come alone.

Until he heard the whoosh of air displaced behind him.

"Kind of late to the party, don't you think?" Conner said, stepping into the corridor, arms crossed but eyes already scanning the space.

Clark didn’t turn. "You got the same message?"

"Anonymous tip. Cadmus. Another clone. Figured I’d better see it with my own eyes." He paused. "You look like you hoped it wasn’t true."

Clark finally glanced over. "I hoped no one else had to go through what you did."

Conner’s jaw tightened. But he didn’t argue.

They walked in silence until they reached the shattered containment room.

And then they saw them.

A figure was huddled in the wreckage of a broken pod, knees pulled to their chest, silver tubes still trailing from their arms like leashes. Their skin was a sallow grayish tone from too many days without sunlight, and dark curls clung to a sweat-drenched forehead.

When they looked up, both men froze.

They had Clark’s eyes.

But they didn’t recognize either of them.

The clone flinched back with a whimper, baring teeth like a cornered animal. The restraints on their wrists sparked faintly—some kind of failed inhibitor tech—and they scrambled to the far wall, pressing against it as if it could swallow them whole.

Clark took a slow step forward, hands up. "It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you."

Their eyes flicked between him and Conner, wild and untrusting.

"Designation CK-3," they whispered hoarsely. “Comply or be corrected.” Their voice trembled. “Are… you correction?”

Clark’s heart broke a little in his chest.

"No," he said gently. "I'm Clark. And this is Conner. We’re not here to hurt you. We’re here to help."

Conner crouched down beside him, eyes softer than usual. "Hey, I know everything’s confusing right now. But you’re not alone. Okay? I’ve been where you are." He hesitated, then tossed something from his pocket. A granola bar. "Eat something. You’re probably starving."

The clone didn’t move.

"I… don’t understand," they whispered. “Why?”

Clark lowered himself to the ground. "Because you’re a person. You weren’t made to be locked up in a tube. Or hurt. Or controlled. You get to decide who you are now. That’s your right."

The clone shook their head slowly. “I was made to be better.”

Conner scoffed. “They always say that. 'Better.' 'Perfect.' What they mean is obedient.” He glanced at Clark. “Trust me. Perfection’s overrated.”

There was a long silence.