House of El: Reforged

Smallville High – Football Field – 7:09 AM

Scrimmage, or: How Chad Got Turned into a Cautionary Tale

Hadrian Kent crouched behind Ethan, fingers brushing the laces of the football with reverence. The morning sun caught the damp edges of his dark hair, making his emerald eyes gleam like something carved out of stormlight and cocky ambition. He looked every inch the teenage demigod CW forgot to copyright.

Across the line, Chad pounded his chest, bulging arms flexed like he was auditioning for a protein powder commercial.

"You ready to get sacked, Kent?" Chad barked.

Hadrian tilted his helmet up just enough to let the sunlight catch the edge of his grin.

"You ready to get humbled in 4K? Might wanna update your will."

Ethan chuckled under his breath, rolling his shoulders like a panther in pregame stretch mode.

"You want me to bait him, or just let nature take its humiliating course?"

"Let Darwin work," Hadrian murmured. "Some people only learn after they fall."

Coach Daniels' voice exploded from the sideline like a thunderclap.

"BLUE FORTY-TWO! CLOCK'S RUNNING, LADIES!"

Hadrian clapped for the snap.

The ball hit his hands with a satisfying thump, and the world slowed. Chad lunged forward like a linebacker powered by testosterone and denial.

One step back. Two. Three.

Hadrian didn't flinch.

Chad grinned wide—for about half a second. Then Hadrian stiff-armed him with such divine, cinematic precision that the air left Chad's lungs and his dignity in the same breath.

"Oh my god," Ethan muttered, trying not to laugh. "You made him airborne."

Hadrian flicked invisible dust from his shoulder.

"I bestowed upon him the gift of flight."

Downfield, Neville tore down the sideline. Jet-black hair slicked back, pale green eyes locked ahead, he juked Brad so hard the poor guy spun like a confused Roomba and crashed into the Gatorade cooler.

Hadrian launched the ball. It spiraled through the air like destiny in motion.

Neville leapt, snatched it out of the sky like gravity owed him rent, tucked, rolled, and popped up like it was all choreographed.

Brad stumbled in six yards too late, looking like someone who just got ghosted by both his date and his self-esteem.

"Someone get Brad a priest and a chiropractor," Ethan said, shaking his head.

Coach Daniels blew his whistle so hard it sounded like it cracked the atmosphere. He stared at his clipboard like it was a Ouija board.

"Holy hell," he muttered. "That's not regulation. That's witchcraft."

Chad groaned from the turf, cheeks grass-stained, mouthful of turf.

"Next time," he wheezed.

Hadrian jogged by and patted his shoulder. "Next time, bring a helmet and a therapist."

Neville jogged back, tossing the ball underhand.

"Did you see Brad's soul leave his body?"

Hadrian caught the ball and spun it on his finger. "Saw it high-five Chad's dignity on the way out."

Daniels pointed at them like an Old Testament prophet.

"Again! This time I want pressure! I want chaos! I want Kent bleeding!"

Hadrian raised a hand. "Should I bring candles and soft music too, or—?"

Ethan snorted. "You want the fake or the fire?"

Hadrian grinned beneath the helmet. "Give 'em the Broadway show."

Snap.

Hadrian faked once. Twice. The defense bit hard. Chad flew left. Brad went so far wide he might've ended up in the parking lot. Ethan spun like a ballerina who could bench press a Buick, body weaving through defenders like he was choreographing the chaos.

The O-line collapsed.

Hadrian rolled out, flicked a no-look pass over his shoulder like he was born doing it.

Neville burst through the backfield.

One hand. Catch. Dive. End zone.

Silence.

Then the field roared.

Coach Daniels just stared, his whistle limp in one hand like it had been spiritually defeated.

"I... I... Jesus Christ on a Peloton," he whispered.

Hadrian peeled off his helmet. His hair flopped damply across his brow, sweat gleaming down a jawline that could probably win prom king unopposed.

Ethan jogged over, laughing breathlessly.

"That was reckless, illegal, showy, and maybe the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Neville flipped the ball into Hadrian's chest.

"Still insufferable."

"Consistency is key," Hadrian said.

Coach Daniels didn't yell. He just stared like someone who'd seen a prophecy come true.

"You three got championship bloodlines or blackmail I don't know about?"

"Both," Hadrian said.

Daniels turned to his assistant, voice grave.

"Call the boosters. Triple the budget. I want new pads, new jerseys, and a damn shrine if that's what it takes."

Assistant Coach blinked. "You serious?"

Daniels never looked away from the field.

"As a heart attack."

—

Chad adjusted his helmet like it had personally betrayed him.

"I slipped," he muttered, jaw tight, knuckles whiter than his GPA.

"You flew," Hadrian corrected, standing across the line of scrimmage like he'd just stepped off a comic book cover. He was all tousled black hair, damp with sweat, clinging to his brow like it was staged for a slow-mo montage. Emerald eyes glinted under the helmet's shadow, a grin curling his lips like mischief wrapped in mythology. "Gravity just helped."

"You got lucky, Kent."

"Buddy, the only thing lucky here is that your chiropractor doesn't charge overtime."

Brad jogged up behind Chad, adjusting his gloves with trembling fingers. His usual golden-boy swagger had gone full existential crisis. His eyes flicked toward Neville and then away, like they burned.

"Dude," he whispered, "that guy doesn't blink. I think I saw him vibrate."

From behind the center, Ethan—shoulders like a Greek statue in motion—rolled his neck and gave Hadrian a look over his shoulder.

"You want flashy or fatal?" he asked, his voice smooth like trouble whispered in stereo.

"Fatal and fabulous," Hadrian said. "I want regrets. I want therapy bills. I want TikToks titled 'We Witnessed a Homicide.'"

From the sideline, Coach Daniels let out a growl that could've sent small woodland creatures into cardiac arrest.

"This is a scrimmage, not a goddamn Zack Snyder trailer! KENT, I SWEAR TO GOD—"

Hadrian lifted a hand and gave a lazy wave.

"Hi, God. I'll sign your clipboard later."

Daniels sputtered like a pressure cooker on its last valve. His assistant coach—an underpaid man just trying to survive until basketball season—backed away slowly.

"BLUE FORTY-TWO! CLOCK'S RUNNING!"

Snap.

Hadrian caught the ball and dropped back with smooth, almost disdainful ease. The O-line held for a heartbeat. Long enough.

Chad came charging like a battering ram possessed by Mountain Dew and testosterone.

Big mistake.

Hadrian danced sideways, spun once—a pirouette of chaos and confidence—and let Chad fly past him straight into the right guard. The WHACK echoed like the soundtrack to bad decisions.

Chad's helmet twisted sideways.

His feet left the ground.

Someone, somewhere, screamed.

He landed in a puff of grass and shame, arms spread wide like a failed trust fall with reality.

"Helmet's on backwards," Ethan observed, barely suppressing a grin.

Neville, standing just behind the end zone, folded his arms.

"That's not his helmet," he said dryly. "That's just his worldview realigning."

Brad stopped mid-route. He looked from Chad—now moaning something about his spleen—to Neville, who stood like a Greek god carved out of shadows and resolve, then back to the sky.

"I'm out," Brad muttered.

He yanked off his gloves and let them fall like broken promises.

"I'm gonna join Habitat for Humanity. Or like… a convent."

Hadrian tilted his head.

"Did Brad just… quit life?"

Ethan watched him walk off the field, cleats dragging like he'd aged ten years in ten yards.

"That man is about to start a YouTube channel called Brad Talks to Trees."

Hadrian grinned.

"Tell him to follow me first."

Meanwhile, the cheer squad—halfway through a routine—had frozen in place. One girl dropped her pom-poms. Another whispered, "Was that a moonwalk spin-pass?"

Yes. Yes, it was.

Hadrian pivoted again, this time with such smooth disrespect for Newton's laws it made two linebackers stumble over their own cleats. The defense collapsed around Ethan like dominoes mid-panic.

"Go wide," Hadrian murmured, not looking.

Ethan exploded off the line.

And then—

The Pass.

No-look. Behind-the-back. One hand.

It shouldn't have worked.

But it did.

The ball spiraled through the morning air like it had a soundtrack behind it. Downfield, Neville took off like a shot—legs churning, muscles locked, eyes never blinking.

He didn't even raise a hand until the last second.

SNATCH.

Mid-air grab. Twist. Dive. Roll.

Touchdown.

The field fell silent.

And then—

BOOM.

The bleachers exploded in cheers.

A freshman shrieked and fainted. A sophomore screamed, "MARRY ME, NEVILLE!" and was promptly tackled by her best friend who hissed, "Get in line, Sarah!"

Coach Daniels stood in the middle of the chaos, whistle dangling like it had resigned. His clipboard was cracked. His expression looked like he'd just watched the Ark of the Covenant melt a Nazi.

"I just saw the face of God," he whispered. "And he's fifteen. With a jawline that could end empires."

His assistant coach tapped his shoulder cautiously. "You… want me to cancel afternoon practice?"

Daniels didn't blink.

"I want bourbon and a therapist."

Neville jogged back, barely winded, flipping the ball casually to Hadrian.

"You keep throwing like that," he said, "and the NFL's gonna try to adopt you."

Hadrian spun the ball on one finger, then caught it with a grin.

"Let 'em try. I've already got two dads."

Ethan laughed, throwing an arm around both of them. "That pass was illegal in, like, nine states."

"Ten," Hadrian corrected. "Montana updated their laws this morning. Something about 'airborne sorcery.'"

Coach Daniels stumbled onto the field, staring at all three of them like he was standing in the middle of a Marvel origin story.

"You boys are a walking NCAA violation."

Hadrian beamed.

"We prefer miracle on turf."

Daniels turned to the assistant.

"Call the boosters. Call Nike. Call HBO if you have to. We're building a new stadium, a new training room, and a shrine. Maybe a statue. Hell, maybe a temple."

Ethan bumped fists with Hadrian.

"Franchise has a nice ring to it."

Neville just nodded. "We're not done."

Hadrian looked up at the scoreboard and smiled.

"Not even close."

—

Smallville High – Football Field – Bleachers – 7:25 AM

Post-Scrimmage, Pre-Heartbreak, Mid-Legend

If Zeus had a favorite reality show, this was it.

The stands buzzed with residual adrenaline, half-choked screams, and the kind of electric thirst that could short-circuit a stadium. Down on the field, the dust hadn't even settled, but the school's gravitational pull had already been torn from orbit and slammed directly into Hadrian Kent's stupidly broad shoulders.

And he didn't even notice.

Not yet.

Up in the bleachers, Madison Hart dropped her pom-poms like they'd insulted her eyeliner.

Her perfectly glossed lips parted slightly, eyes locked on Hadrian like she was trying to download him via Bluetooth.

"That wasn't a pass," she whispered. "That was foreplay with a concussion protocol."

Beside her, Kelsey Morales was leaning forward, elbows on her knees, dark hair gleaming like it had been sponsored by L'Oréal and raised by panthers. But her gaze wasn't on Hadrian.

Nope.

Her focus was lasered onto Neville Kent, who jogged past the water station with the slow, steady grace of a war god on his cooldown lap.

"That one," Kelsey murmured, practically purring. "The quiet one. Neville. The way he moves... He doesn't walk, Mads. He prowls. I want him to look at me once and ruin my entire ability to function as a person."

Madison scoffed but didn't break her line of sight. "Please. Hadrian looks like Tom Welling's jawline got kissed by a forest god and then dipped in sarcasm. He's going to be mine. I've already picked out our couple Halloween costume. He's Hades. I'm Persephone. With cleavage."

"You're assuming he dates," Kelsey said, one brow arching.

Madison flicked her hair with the kind of disdain reserved for mid-tier influencers. "He will."

Meanwhile, down below, Hadrian—all sweat-slicked black curls and emerald green eyes that practically glowed under his helmet's shadow—tossed a towel over one shoulder and smirked like the field was his personal runway. He flicked a bottle cap at Ethan, who caught it with one hand and a raised brow.

"You got, like, four girls trying to telekinetically remove your shirt right now," Ethan said, glancing toward the bleachers. "And one of them just passed out from thirst."

Hadrian blinked, glancing up lazily. "Huh. That explains the warm tingle on my spine. Thought it was early-onset superpowers."

"It might be. Or just being you," Ethan muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. "You throw like a demigod. Look like one too. What even is your skincare routine?"

"Spite," Hadrian said cheerfully. "And fire whiskey. Heavy on the sarcasm, light on the emotional repression."

Neville, perched on a water cooler like a tactical nuke at rest, folded his arms over his chest. His pale green eyes scanned the field like he was doing recon in a war zone.

"They'll get over it," he said flatly.

Ethan chuckled. "Says the guy with the 'come destroy your life' aura."

Neville didn't blink. "I'm not here to be liked. I'm here to win."

Up top, Madison clutched her chest.

"He definitely journals," she whispered.

Kelsey nodded, starstruck. "I bet he's got, like, deep inner trauma and scars and—oh my god, he probably writes poetry. Angry poetry. About wolves."

"I want him to haunt me," Madison muttered.

"I want him to break my heart and leave me stronger for it," Kelsey replied dreamily.

Back on the field, Hadrian cracked his neck and stretched like a cat in a sunbeam.

"You know what I want?" he asked, voice low and lazy.

"What?" Ethan asked, half-listening as he wiped down his cleats.

"Waffles."

Neville turned his head. "That was... anticlimactic."

Hadrian shrugged. "Yeah, but imagine waffles after that play. That's a spiritual awakening."

From the sideline, Coach Daniels—Vincent D'Onofrio in full exasperated deity mode—rubbed his face like he'd just stared into the Ark of the Covenant and it winked back at him.

"They're children," he muttered to his assistant, voice hoarse. "They're high schoolers. This isn't football. This is Homeric warfare in cleats."

The assistant coach nodded solemnly, scribbling stats. "Sir, the boosters are talking statues. Maybe murals. One parent mentioned a shrine."

Daniels stared at him. "Make sure the shrine has abs. People love abs."

The camera—if the universe had any sense of drama—would pan upward just in time to catch a freshman in the back row pulling out her phone and whispering into the mic like she was narrating an apocalypse.

"Hadrian Kent: quarterback, demigod, probable bisexual disaster.

Neville Kent: brooding marble statue with a stare that could start a holy war.

Ethan Michaels: built like Greek tragedy, moves like gospel.

This is going in the yearbook.""

Back on the field, Hadrian flicked the football into the air and caught it one-handed without looking.

"I give it twenty-four hours before someone starts a fan page," Ethan said.

"Too late," Neville deadpanned. "There's already a TikTok. I'm in slow-mo."

Hadrian grinned. "Tell me we look cool."

"We look like Greek myths who raided a Nike store," Ethan said.

Coach Daniels stomped toward them, red-faced, clipboard swinging like a weapon.

"KENT. BOTH OF YOU. ALL OF YOU." He pointed in every direction. "This is a scrimmage! Not a Marvel casting call!"

Hadrian threw him a casual salute. "Sorry, Coach. We were trying to keep the gods entertained."

Daniels's eye twitched. "I want bourbon. I want a therapist. I want peace."

"You'll get a championship," Neville said calmly, without looking.

Daniels stared at him.

Then sighed.

"…fine."

—

Smallville High – Cafeteria – 12:07 PM

The Gods Break Bread (And Ego)

The cafeteria doors slammed open like the beginning of a battle scene—and the soundtrack? Equal parts Gladiator and Beyoncé's Renaissance tour.

Hadrian Kent entered first.

Wind-tousled hair, varsity jacket slung over one shoulder, emerald eyes already halfway done judging the room. He looked like someone had told the Greek pantheon to make a quarterback out of sarcasm and post-traumatic ennui. He didn't walk; he sauntered, like he was personally auditioning for the role of "hot regret" in someone's dreams.

Behind him came Neville Kent.

Six feet of controlled chaos wrapped in crisp black. His black hair fell neatly, pale green eyes scanning the cafeteria like it was a threat assessment field. Every movement was sharp, calculated, precise. He looked like a military secret with perfect cheekbones.

Ethan Michaels brought the thunder.

All six-foot-one of him strode in like the hallway was a throne room and he'd just remembered he was royalty. His Letterman jacket hugged his shoulders with the kind of reverence usually reserved for national flags. His smirk? Lethal.

Forks froze mid-air. A lunch tray clattered to the ground somewhere by the vending machine, which promptly short-circuited in protest. Even the janitor paused, muttered, "Not again," and walked away.

Hadrian surveyed the frozen room and muttered under his breath, "Subtle. Just like we rehearsed."

Ethan let out a low whistle. "Pretty sure someone just dropped their phone from staring too hard."

"They should be honored," Neville said evenly. "Now they have a myth to pass down."

Across the room, at a corner table known unofficially as the Torch Pit—equal parts gossip mill, academic elite, and secret Justice League satellite—Maya Sullivan slammed her pencil down.

"Oh my God," she said, blue eyes narrowing like a sniper's scope. "They're walking in like it's a Dior ad for emotional dysfunction. Please tell me at least one of them has a tortured past and an emotionally unavailable streak I can exploit for content."

"You'll have to be more specific," Kara Kent replied dryly, sipping her chocolate milk like it had a plot twist. "We're cousins. The emotional damage is a family heirloom."

Zatanna Zatara didn't even look up. She just tucked a loose wave of hair behind her ear and said, "Hadrian's wearing his lucky socks. They're enchanted. He probably thinks it's subtle."

"They've got phoenix feathers in the hem," Donna Troy added, flipping her phone lazily. "You can practically smell the melodrama. And the cologne."

Maya leaned forward. "Seriously though. Hadrian looks like he breaks hearts for cardio. Donna, thoughts?"

Donna smirked. "Please. He's like… peak emotionally constipated main character energy. And I like my men like I like my coffee—dark, dangerous, and deeply problematic."

Zatanna arched a brow. "So… Hadrian."

"I never said I didn't want him," Donna countered sweetly. "Just that I want to slap him and kiss him. Sometimes in the same sentence."

Raj Kulkarni finally looked up from his tablet, adjusting his glasses with a sigh. "I hacked the school's database. The Kent twins are the sons of Pulitzer Prize winning power couple Clark Kent and Lilly Lane Kent, their GPA's are picture perfect, Hadrian has three honors credits in science, and there's already a Reddit thread about their bone structure. Ethan just joined their table."

Lena Luthor stirred her yogurt without looking up. "The social order just imploded. Fascinating."

Sarah Cushing, eyes still red from a morning crying session and her braid tucked protectively over one shoulder, blinked at the sight of Ethan walking with them.

"He's… sitting with them?" she asked quietly.

"Yep," Maya said, already snapping another pic under the table.

Donna tilted her head, eyes sharpening. "You mean because you dumped Brad, and Ethan's definitely crushing on you? Or because Neville looks at you like he's one bad day away from writing you a tragic love poem?"

Sarah flushed and stared at her tray. "Both."

The crash of trays signaled the boys' arrival. They didn't just join the table—they conquered it. Hadrian slid into the seat across from Zatanna and Kara like it was carved for him.

He smirked. "Ladies."

"You were gone for three periods," Zatanna said, not bothering to look impressed.

"I know," Hadrian sighed dramatically. "Time crawled. It was basically a Geneva violation."

Kara rolled her eyes. "Did you cause the fire drill?"

"Allegedly," he said.

Donna gave him a sideways glare. "Let me guess—you 'accidentally' short-circuited the chem lab just to avoid trig."

Hadrian grinned at her. "Donna, if I wanted to see that much cold fire, I'd just stare into your eyes for five seconds."

"Oh, please," Donna shot back. "You're the reason 'walking red flag' trends on TikTok."

"You say that like it's not a compliment."

Zatanna tilted her head, eyes glittering. "Is this foreplay or a duel?"

"Yes," said Maya, who was now actively leaning toward Hadrian, smile coy. "But I'm invested. So, Hadrian… question."

He turned to her, mock serious. "Shoot."

"On a scale from 'brooding prince' to 'shirtless in a thunderstorm,' how tragic is your backstory?"

He gave a theatrical sigh. "Let's just say my origin story came with bonus trauma and a subscription to unresolved abandonment issues."

Maya's grin widened. "Excellent. I love a fixer-upper with cheekbones."

Neville, who had silently taken the seat beside Sarah, didn't speak—but he did glance at her, just once. A flicker of something unreadable passed between them.

Sarah, flustered, whispered, "You didn't have to sit here."

Neville responded, quiet and cool. "I wanted to."

Ethan leaned forward. "So this is the famous Torch table, huh?"

"We prefer 'semi-legal teenage think tank,'" Lena said, finally looking up.

"Whatever it is," Ethan said with a grin, "new table, new squad, same appetite."

"For what?" Kara asked.

Ethan shrugged. "Lunch. Power. Chaos. Pick three."

Raj slid his tablet toward him. "You're already trending. #KentEffect."

Hadrian smirked. "That's right. We came. We saw. We socially destabilized."

Donna narrowed her eyes. "I'm not impressed."

Hadrian leaned closer. "Liar."

"Jackass."

"Gorgeous."

"Ugh," she muttered, throwing a fry at him.

He caught it mid-air. "Thanks, babe. Finally feeding me."

Zatanna looked between them, sipped her juice box, and muttered, "This school year is going to be hell."

Maya beamed. "I, for one, am living for it."

—

Just Outside the Cafeteria Doors

Operation: "Oops, We Bumped Into You" Commence

"This is not a stalk," Madison declared, fluffing her platinum waves like they were blessed by Aphrodite herself.

"This is strategic recon," Kelsey whispered, adjusting the hem of her cropped sweater like it had stealth tech built in. She peeked around the corner, dark eyes scanning the battlefield like she was born in slow motion.

Madison pressed closer to the wall, heels clacking like dramatic punctuation. "Are you sure they're sitting there?"

Kelsey gave her a flat look. "Zatanna's hair alone could hex someone from across a football field. I'd stake my contour on it. Besides, Ethan's there."

Madison's expression lit up like Christmas. "Which means..."

"Hadrian," they said together, reverent.

"He looked at me once in Algebra," Madison murmured.

"He held the door open for me last week," Kelsey replied. "I'm ninety percent sure that's how most fairytales start."

"Or restraining orders," Madison muttered, then squared her shoulders. "Okay. Showtime."

They sauntered in, all hips and highlighter, moving like they thought the cafeteria lights existed for them. The click of their heels turned heads. Their walk? Practiced. Perfect. Possibly illegal in twelve states.

"Maddy," Kelsey stage-whispered, adjusting her hair mid-strut, "make it look accidental... but, like, accidental sexy."

Madison nodded, then spun like she was the human embodiment of a TikTok transition. She pivoted, full hair flip, and bumped into the back of Hadrian's chair with the dramatic finesse of someone who'd trained at the Royal Academy of Flirtation.

"Oh!" she gasped, hands to chest. "Didn't see you there."

Hadrian turned, still chewing his pizza, his emerald eyes slow to rise but absolutely unbothered.

"I was hard to miss," he said, voice dry, "but I admire your commitment to the illusion."

Madison laughed. Too loud. Too flirty. "You're so funny."

"I've been told," he said flatly, still not blinking.

Kelsey, meanwhile, had locked eyes on Neville like he was a final exam she planned to ace with extra credit and eyelash batting. "We were just heading to the snack line," she purred. "Thought we'd say hi. You guys are sitting here now?"

Neville didn't move. Didn't blink. "We're eating."

Kelsey giggled like that was an invitation. "Totally. We should all hang sometime. Like... maybe tonight?"

Neville tilted his head, eyes unreadable, then said in his usual deadpan, "We're busy."

"What he means," Hadrian said, leaning back in his chair, "is that I've scheduled a full evening of existential dread and refusing to text people back."

Madison didn't get the hint. "Well, we'll just leave our number—"

"They're mid-lunch," Sarah said suddenly, voice clipped, eyes narrow.

Kelsey blinked at her. "Oh. Hi… Sarah, right?"

"Mm-hm," Sarah said, unimpressed. "Still recovering from the awkward tension in the hallway after you 'accidentally' brushed Ethan's arm. Want some ice?"

"I thought we were being friendly," Madison said, eyes flicking to Donna.

Donna leaned toward Hadrian, tone dangerously low. "You're about to start a Cold War. Possibly a sequel."

Hadrian popped the last bite of his pizza into his mouth. "I'm just trying to eat carbs and maintain emotional detachment. The rest is a you problem."

Zatanna, sitting next to Kara, began rolling her napkin like it was a preparation for a hex ritual. Her voice was sweet and deadly. "If she touches my hair with that glitter gloss again, I swear to Circe..."

"I know you're this close to hexing their eyelash extensions into sentience," Kara muttered. "I can hear them blinking."

Maya was grinning like a kid on Christmas. She leaned across the table, locking eyes with Hadrian. "Quick question."

He raised an eyebrow. "God, here we go."

"If I write an exposé called 'Boys, Biceps, and the Brooding Twins of Smallville', would you pose for the cover shirtless or just moody and dripping rainwater from a dramatic rooftop?"

Hadrian stared at her for a long second. "You scare me."

"You like it."

"I do not," he replied immediately, which was exactly the sort of thing someone says when they absolutely do.

Donna rolled her eyes so hard they might've briefly left her body. "You flirting with Maya now?"

"She started it," Hadrian said innocently.

"Oh, what are you? Five?"

"Emotionally? On a good day."

"God, you're exhausting."

"You keep sitting next to me, Donna."

"Because I like pain."

"Obviously," he said, flashing a smug grin. "You talk to me every day."

Ethan, who'd been watching the chaos unfold like a very amused Greek chorus, nudged Sarah gently.

"You okay?"

She nodded, then glanced at Kelsey still staring at Neville like he was her spirit animal. "Yeah. Just waiting to see if someone's lip gloss melts under the heat."

Neville leaned closer to Sarah and spoke just loud enough for her to hear. "If they keep circling, I'm moving you somewhere quieter."

Her cheeks went pink. "You're not my bodyguard."

"No," he said simply, "but I volunteered."

Raj, still scrolling, looked up and deadpanned, "Someone on Reddit just updated the thread to say 'Hadrian Kent remains unbothered, moisturized, in his lane, and threatening global stability.'"

Hadrian held up his soda. "Cheers to that."

Kelsey leaned in one last time, dropping a napkin with a number on it beside Neville. "If you change your mind..."

"I won't," Neville said.

She blinked. Madison glared. And then the glam squad retreated, heels clacking a little faster than before.

As soon as the doors swung closed behind them, Zatanna exhaled slowly. "Okay. I did not have a Mean Girl Encounter on my bingo card today."

"Oh, I did," Maya said brightly. "Hadrian's face is basically teen bait. We're lucky we didn't get a full stampede."

Donna smirked, still glaring at Hadrian. "You love the attention."

"I love my pizza," he said, biting into another slice. "The attention is just an unfortunate side effect."

Kara snorted. "You say that like you're not already rehearsing your interview for Teen Vogue."

"If they call," he said with a lazy grin, "I'll make sure to name-drop all of you."

"You better," Maya said. "I want royalties. And exclusive rights to your doomed love story."

Donna muttered, "If it ends with him falling off a rooftop, I'll sponsor the funeral."

Hadrian winked at her. "As long as you wear black and cry dramatically. I want mascara tears."

Donna threw a fry at him.

He caught it. Again.

—

Undisclosed Location — Kansas

Task Force X Blacksite 17 – Sublevel Omega

1:43 PM

The lab was a cathedral of silence, humming with a quiet that threatened to snap. Walls of surgical steel. Lights too white. Air cold enough to bite bone. The kind of room that didn't just keep secrets—it made them.

At its heart: a containment pod the size of a shipping crate, trembling faintly.

Joshua Walker screamed—long and raw and wrong. His throat scraped out the sound like it was being torn in two.

"Vitals surging," a technician murmured behind Waller's shoulder, eyes wide. "Heart rate 280 bpm. Bone density up 300%. Epinephrine off the charts. He shouldn't be alive."

Amanda Waller didn't blink.

Inside the pod, Joshua convulsed against titanium restraints. His arms bulged grotesquely, muscle tearing through fatigues as black veins pulsed under his skin like cables alive with electricity. Clawed bone erupted from his knuckles. His spine cracked, stretching upward, vertebrae jaggedly shifting until he was no longer lying flat—he was arching.

Like something was trying to crawl out of him.

"Jesus Christ," Rick Flagg Sr. muttered, stepping forward. "He's not stabilizing. You said the DNA was inert—dormant."

Waller's gaze didn't waver. "It was. Until Phase Two."

"You never briefed Phase Two," Rick growled.

"That's because you wouldn't have signed off."

Joshua screamed again—but it wasn't human anymore. It was guttural, vibrating through the walls like feedback in hell. His jaw snapped wide—dislocating—and then reformed, bone plates folding into sharper edges, like something trying to build armor from the inside out.

Blood hit the glass in a thick, arterial splatter.

One of the techs flinched. "Sync rate: 68%. Skeletal mutations progressing. He's—he's generating carapace shielding around vital organs."

Inside the pod, Joshua's skin began to crack open—jagged, glowing fissures bleeding molten silver. His chest expanded, rib cage visibly swelling under thickening layers of calcified growths. Spikes jutted out like living weapons.

Rick turned to Waller, jaw clenched. "He's turning into Doomsday. That thing almost killed Superman. He would have if Scarlett hadn't used her magic to teleport the monster into the sun."

"And this one'll kill the next one," Waller said coldly. "If we do it right."

Rick took a slow, heated step toward her. "You're playing God, Amanda. And if you haven't noticed, God doesn't scream like that while it's being made."

Inside the pod, Joshua's transformation reached a crescendo. The scream became a laugh—jagged, feral, unhinged. His eyes blazed red, pupils dilated into nothing. His face wasn't his anymore. It was a mask of fury and madness and something alien that had never known fear.

CRACK.

A spiderweb fracture appeared on the containment glass.

"Uh—Director," the tech stammered. "He's... looking right at us."

Joshua Walker's gaze locked on Amanda Waller like a guided missile. His lips peeled back from jagged teeth.

And then he whispered, voice gnarled and echoing through the intercom like a death rattle:

"More."

The room went silent.

Rick's hand went to his sidearm out of reflex. "We need to shut this down. Now."

"No," Waller said calmly, turning back toward the door, heels clicking like a countdown. "We need to aim it."

Another scream, wet and bone-ripping, split the air as the containment alarms began to blare red.

---

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