The final bell at Smallville High had just faded, its echo lingering in the hallways.
Clark Kent hadn't even gotten his football helmet off when his towering teammates swarmed him like a pack of wolves spotting prey.
In an instant, the air was thick with the smell of sweat, dirt, and that unmistakable teenage-boy hormone vibe.
"Clark! You have to help us out this time! I'm begging you!"
Team captain Jason slung his sweaty, muscled arm around Clark's neck, lowering his voice with a pleading tone. "If we don't have the cheerleaders hyping us up for the Homecoming game, we're gonna lose half our edge against those Hawksville jerks! You want to see your boys get crushed out there? While the soccer team gets all the girls' attention?!"
"Jason…"
Clark scratched the back of his head awkwardly, his blue eyes dodging his teammates' hopeful stares. "Why does it have to be me asking Lana Lang? She—"
"I heard you and Lana go way back to elementary school!"
Vice-captain Mark popped his head out from his musty, sweat-soaked locker, waving a rank-smelling shoulder pad. "You're the most popular guy in school, man! The lunch lady practically piles a whole mountain of mashed potatoes on your plate every time she sees you! With that kind of charm, you can't not save us—it's a crime against humanity!"
"Hahahaha!"
"Whoo!"
The locker room erupted in laughter, punctuated by a chorus of whistles.
Clark's ears burned as he clutched his football helmet, practically fleeing the scene.
But his super senses meant he could still hear his teammates' teasing shouts trailing behind him:
"Think about the reward, Clark! Three years of free gear-cleaning service! Even the socks!"
"…"
Pressing his flushed face against the cool surface of his helmet, Clark let out a sigh.
Taking on six defensive linemen would be easier than asking Lana Lang to cheer for the team.
Lana Lang.
His elementary school friend.
After that school bus incident years ago, she'd moved to Metropolis with her aunt, only returning to Smallville last year.
But that wasn't the point. The real issue was that, for some reason, every time he got near her, his legs turned to jelly.
Forget asking her to cheer for the football team.
Clickety-clack-clack!
The annoying clatter of the ancient typewriter in the school newspaper office hit his ears like a heavenly melody.
His eyes lit up, and he bolted toward the sound like it was his lifeline.
"Whoa! Easy there, Clark!"
He nearly knocked over Chloe's towering stack of notes.
"What's this?"
Chloe Sullivan, editor-in-chief of Smallville High's Torch newspaper, steadied her "knowledge fortress" and raised an eyebrow at Clark's sheepish grin.
"You in trouble or something?"
---
"Uh-huh…"
After listening to Clark's stammering explanation, Chloe's mouth twitched, her face morphing into an expression of pure exasperation.
"So, let me get this straight. Your football team—those meatheads with shoulder pads for brains—think a few cheerleaders in short skirts waving pom-poms will magically crush Hawksville?" she said, not holding back. "That's just…"
"Hahahaha!"
Chloe's face changed in an instant, and she burst into uncontrollable laughter, slapping the desk. "Oh my gosh! Are you high school boys for real? This logic is wilder than my house's plumbing system, hahaha!"
"Cough, cough!"
"Chloe, what kind of metaphor is that?"
Pete Ross, munching a sandwich by the window, choked mid-bite, his shoulders shaking like he'd been electrocuted. A piece of lettuce flew from his sandwich onto Chloe's freshly organized drafts.
"Hey!"
Clark scrambled to brush the lettuce off Chloe's papers, his face beet red. "I'm seriously asking for help here! This is about team morale!"
"Yeah, yeah, I'm listening, Clark."
Chloe stifled her laughter, wiping tears from her eyes before her face flipped again. "This isn't my problem. I'm not Lana, and I'm not a cheerleader." She grabbed her ancient camera from the desk, her freckled face dead serious. "Figure it out yourself, Mr. Kent."
"I've got a deadline to meet—Smallville's Weird and Wacky Chronicles."
"No time for your nonsense."
With a dramatic flick of her blonde ponytail, she strutted off with her camera.
Bang!
The metal door slammed shut, reflecting Clark's defeated expression.
"Alright, alright, Chloe's in a mood today," Pete said, sauntering over with a sympathetic look, offering Clark the uneaten half of his sandwich. "Plus, you know, this is like hell-level difficulty."
He chewed, mumbling, "Lana's practically the queen of this year's Homecoming vote. She's got a line of admirers stretching from the school gate to your football field."
"…"
"Hm?"
This guy knew that much?
Clark blinked, grasping at straws. He clasped his hands together, pleading, "Oh great and wise Pete, guide this lost lamb with your wisdom!"
"Hey, you!"
Pete rolled his eyes. "You're killing me here, Clark. Everyone knows Whitney's chasing Lana. I'm not looking to get on his bad side—his crew isn't exactly made of teddy bears." Pete lowered his voice, cautioning, "Word is, Whitney's got ties to some shady guys outside school. If you're really gonna ask Lana, watch your back."
"Uh…"
Clark froze.
Whitney? Shady guys? We have someone like that at school?
"So…" Clark ventured, "who's Whitney?"
"?!"
Pete stared at Clark's genuinely confused face like he was an alien.
"Dude, are you serious? Freshman football tryouts! The guy you sent flying three yards like a bowling pin, eating dirt! Ring any bells?"
"He's the one who didn't make the team because of it. Now he's stuck as a soccer goalie, probably won't even make the football team till next year—and he'll start as a benchwarmer!"
Pete's words jogged Clark's memory.
A muscular guy, trying to tackle him during tryouts, only to get accidentally launched, landing in a heap of dust and embarrassment.
If Clark hadn't reined in his bio-field at the last second, that guy wouldn't have just "flown."
That collision nearly spooked his dad into pulling him from tryouts altogether—if Uncle Lock hadn't stepped in, Clark probably wouldn't even be on the team.
"Sigh."
Pete patted Clark's solid arm. "Be thankful for that innocent, handsome face of yours and your status as the school's star athlete. Otherwise, with Whitney's grudge-holding streak, he'd have his buddies corner you in the locker room by now."
"But that's unlikely," Pete added after a pause. "You've got that brother of yours…"
"Oh, right!" Pete's eyes lit up like he'd discovered gold, his words speeding up. "Why not ask your brother for help? He's this year's Homecoming king!"
"Doesn't it make sense for the king to invite the queen?"
---
Dio? The king?
Clark's eyes brightened, like clouds parting to reveal the sun.
It hit him.
Everyone knew Homecoming was a big deal in American high schools.
Alumni would flock back to their alma mater, showing school spirit.
The campus would buzz with nostalgia and celebration.
One of the highlights? The Homecoming king and queen, chosen by student vote.
They'd ride a float through town to Smallville High before the big game, igniting the crowd's excitement.
And Dio Kent…
His brother, who seemed to walk under a permanent spotlight…
He was this year's undisputed Homecoming king.
"Hm…"
Clark fell into thought, picturing Dio's face—always smirking, three parts mockery, seven parts arrogance.
Ask that guy to invite a girl?
Honestly, it was scarier than approaching Lana himself.
But his teammates' promises echoed in his ears.
Mud-caked, sweat-soaked helmets, shoulder pads, knee guards…
Three whole years of not touching them!
Clark rubbed his chin, suddenly thinking this might not be such a bad idea.
The king inviting the queen…
It sounded…
Kind of…
Not entirely illogical?
---
Clark found Dio on the rooftop of the science building.
The noon sun gilded the blonde teen's silhouette as he leaned against the railing, flipping through The Prince. He didn't even look up at Clark's footsteps. "Not happening."
How did he know?!
Clark opened his mouth, then scratched his head, inching closer. "Uh, actually—"
"Clark." Dio snapped the book shut, his crimson eyes glinting with mockery. "I'm busy. Unlike you, Mr. Sunshine-and-Sweat."
"Hey!" Clark's face darkened. "What's that supposed to—"
"Even funnier," Dio cut him off, tapping the book's cover, "you actually think I'd help you."
Clark was speechless.
Dio turned toward the stairs, his clothes billowing with a haughty flourish.
"Wait!"
Clark chased after him. "I didn't even ask yet!"
"Doesn't matter. Figure it out yourself."
Dio waved dismissively without looking back. "Oh, and don't forget to pick up Sarafiel at four. The kid's getting out early today."
His voice mingled with the sound of the class bell.
"Don't let him sit at the school gate feeding squirrels till dark just because you're out there sweating on the field."
"Oh."
Clark slumped against the railing, watching Dio's golden hair vanish around the stairwell. "What about you?"
"Got things to do."
Busy with what? Reading all day?
Clark sighed at the sky, wondering how he was ever going to ask Lana.
Honestly, the more people shot him down, the more it fired up his competitive streak.
I'll show them. I, Clark Kent, can do this!
---
The three o'clock sun spread like melted butter over the brick-red walls of Smallville Elementary.
Clark leaned against the rusty school gate, still in his practice uniform, grass stains on his knees.
After checking his watch for the umpteenth time to make sure he wasn't late, he finally heard—
"Everybody, run!"
Clark snapped upright as a flock of younger kids burst out of the art classroom like startled sparrows, one blonde boy even losing a shoe.
"What's going on?!"
He vaulted over the gate, racing to Sarafiel's classroom in a few strides, only to find chaos at the hallway's corner.
Overturned paint cans had spilled a rainbow river across the floor, and colorful paper scraps were scattered everywhere.
In the middle of the mess stood his little brother, cradling a soggy orange cat, his small hands still glowing faintly with healing light.
The cat's hind leg, scratched and raw, was healing at a visible rate.
"Sarafiel?" Clark called softly.
The boy's shoulders flinched, and he slowly turned.
Blue paint dripped from his bangs, but the cat in his arms purred contentedly.
"Little Orange's leg was tied up…" Sarafiel's voice was barely a whisper. "I just wanted to help…"
Clark crouched down, noticing the rough rope still wrapped around the cat's leg, the red marks not yet faded.
He gently pried open Sarafiel's clenched fist and untied the rope.
"You okay?"
Clark wiped the paint from his brother's face with his sleeve.
Sarafiel shook his head, ignoring Divine City's angry shouts in his mind, and buried his face in the cat's fluffy fur. "Why do some kids avoid me? Last time I saved an injured sparrow, and the week before that, I helped a lost puppy get home…" His voice was muffled. "Do they think I'm a freak?"
The hallway's glass window cast diamond-shaped light onto Sarafiel's paint-streaked hair, like a silly blue crown.
"Listen, Sarafiel," Clark said with a sigh, ruffling his brother's messy head. "Not everyone gets special people like you."
"Meow~"
The cat poked its head out of Sarafiel's arms, as if in agreement.
"Really?"
Sarafiel looked up, eyes wet.
"For sure."
Clark grinned, pointing at the cat. "At least this furry little guy's grateful, right?"
The orange cat licked Sarafiel's hand, making the boy smile through his tears.
Clark wrapped his practice jacket around the boy and the cat. "Come on, our superhero needs to head home and recharge."
"Mom probably baked a blueberry pie today."
They walked out into the sunset, not noticing the small heads peeking out behind them.
"Look!"
The blonde boy who'd fled earlier pointed at Sarafiel, trembling. "That guy's talking to animals again! I swear I saw a squirrel bow to him last time!"
"I heard that's what witches' kids do," a girl whispered. "What if that cat turns into his familiar?!"
"That's nothing," another boy muttered. "I heard his brother, Dio Kent, beat up all our older siblings a few years back."
"My brother still warns me to steer clear of the Kents."
"What?!"
The puddle at their feet reflected their scared faces.
But Sarafiel, oblivious, happily held up the cat, gesturing to Clark.
The paint trailing behind him left a dotted line of blue footprints, like a string of unfinished stars.