House of El: Reforged

Smallville High – 7:53 AM

Boys' Locker Room – AKA Ground Zero of the Ego Massacre

The door slammed open like a scene from Fast & Furious: JV Edition. Brad Manning stormed in, shirt half-clinging to his torso, bruised ego trailing behind him like a crime scene tape.

He was pacing before the door even shut.

"This. Never. Happened," he snarled, dragging a hand through his artfully tousled hair like it owed him money. "We erase the video, scrub the socials, rewrite history like we're the damn CIA."

Chad sat on the bench, one sock on, one off, a towel draped over his head like it was trying to shield him from the shame. His voice was muffled and miserable.

"Brad… bro… there's a meme of you flying through the air with a kazoo remix of the Superman theme. It's got subtitles. Subtitles. In Portuguese."

Brad froze, eyes twitching. "How... how many views?"

Chad peeked out from under the towel like a groundhog checking for emotional fallout. "Last I checked? Uh… 43k on TikTok. 12k on YouTube. And someone uploaded a slowed-down version on Vimeo. With interpretive captions."

Brad blinked. "Vimeo?! Who the hell still uses Vimeo?!"

Chad lifted his hands in surrender. "Theater kids, probably. Or indie film nerds. Maya tagged it as 'Found Footage of a Male Ego Imploding.'"

Brad kicked his locker door so hard it rebounded and smacked him in the shin. He barely flinched.

"We're fixing this. We have to. We tell everyone it was a prank. A social experiment. Performance art. Something avant-garde and woke and—whatever." His voice cracked under the weight of teen desperation. "We were being ironic."

Chad squinted. "Dude. You tackled Hadrian. Got folded like origami. I did a full scorpion into a puddle. I'm pretty sure I got tetanus and a concussion in the same three seconds."

Brad jabbed a finger at him. "You're not helping, Chad!"

"I'm not trying to!" Chad stood, arms wide like a philosophical golden retriever having an existential crisis. "Do you understand what it's like to become content, Brad? To trend accidentally? Some girl from Estonia just posted fan art of you getting suplexed by Hadrian. Estonia, bro. That's international shame."

A voice piped up from the steam-filled showers.

"Estonia's got taste, honestly."

They turned.

Ethan strolled out shirtless, towel wrapped low around his hips, abs gleaming like he was personally sponsored by body oil and justice. Toothbrush in mouth, phone in hand, he held it out like a priest presenting the sacred tablet.

"New remix just dropped. Someone synced your scream to the Wilhelm Scream, Brad. Instant classic."

He tapped play.

Brad's voice—high, broken, full kettle-boil panic—squealed out of the speakers like a dying opera singer.

Brad's face turned the color of rage-flavored Kool-Aid. "Give me that—!"

Ethan casually danced back. "Nope. Also? Principal Reynolds saw it. And Coach is, uh…" He winced. "Let's say... reconsidering leadership roles."

Brad turned to the locker like it personally betrayed him, then pounded it with his fist. "If I get benched for the Riverton game—"

"You'll be trending for a whole new reason," Ethan muttered, walking off with a shrug. "Y'all should've just stuck to football, bro."

Chad threw his towel onto the bench with a sigh. "He's not wrong."

But Brad wasn't listening. His eyes narrowed into plotting mode.

"No. This isn't how it ends. We are not becoming the face of 'Don't Mess with the Goth Avenger Squad.'"

Chad raised a brow. "You mean the literal gods in hoodies who broke physics with their kneecaps?"

Brad whirled around, wild-eyed. "There's something off about them. They're not normal. Nobody's that cool, that strong, that coordinated before first period."

Chad nodded slowly. "So what, we challenge them to a rematch? But with... better warm-ups?"

Brad's voice went cold. "No. We hit where it hurts."

Chad frowned. "Their kneecaps?"

Brad stepped closer, lowering his voice like a soap opera villain monologuing to a mirror. "Their image. We expose whatever freaky, backstory-laden secrets they're hiding. You think that Hadrian guy doesn't have skeletons in his closet? Zatanna probably eats curses for breakfast. Donna looks like she once fought a tank and won. There's something there, Chad. There has to be."

Chad tilted his head. "You sure this isn't just your pride bleeding out on the floor?"

Brad ignored him. "We use what we've got. Katie—blogger girl. She lives for drama."

"Bro, you ghosted Katie after prom."

"She hates me, yes. But she hates boredom more."

Just then, the locker room door banged open again—and in came Bryce, breathless and glowing with chaotic energy.

"GUYS. You have to see this."

He shoved his phone into Brad's hands.

TRENDING NOW:

#KentTwinsChallenge

 #JusticeSquadGoals

 #HadrianHitMeHarder – 17.4K tweets and climbing

 #FoldedByDonna

 #NevilleYeetedMe

Brad made a noise somewhere between a dying hyena and a wounded trumpet.

Chad read over his shoulder, deadpan: "Someone made a thirst edit of Neville and put 'Barbie Girl' under it. It's... kind of romantic, honestly."

Ethan, towel now slung over one shoulder, waltzed back in, munching on half a Pop-Tart. "Guys. Guys. Someone's selling bootleg shirts with your falling silhouettes. 'Gravity is undefeated.'"

Brad dropped the phone like it burned. "We go nuclear."

Chad stared. "Define nuclear."

Brad's jaw set. "We find out what makes them tick. We break it. Secrets. Powers. Relationships. Families. We take everything."

Chad looked vaguely alarmed. "Brad, are you... okay?"

Brad looked up, eyes full CW-hero-turned-villain. "I'm inspired."

Meanwhile, across campus…

The Kent twins lounged under a tree like they were in a Calvin Klein ad set during an indie superhero reboot. Hadrian was helping Raj rewire a fried charger with nothing but a paperclip and raw determination. Neville crunched on granola with the intensity of someone who could punch out God.

Zatanna drew a tarot card. Death. Again.

"Ooh," she cooed. "Endings. Or beginnings. Or both."

Kara balanced a bag of gummy bears on her head like royalty. "Hey, guys? I just got a DM from someone offering me a sponsorship deal. For juice boxes."

Donna blinked. "Take it."

Maya scrolled through her phone, smug as a cat that filmed its own victory lap. "We're trending in thirteen countries."

Hadrian looked up at the sky. "Physics test in ten."

Collective groaning commenced.

The internet was ablaze, the war drums were beating, and Smallville High?

Was about to learn the hard way:

You don't start a fight with the main characters.

Especially not before homeroom.

—

Absolutely, Vikrant — here's the scene rewritten with more razor-edged teen angst, turbocharged emotional flashbacks, hyper-specific social media chaos, and that CW-worthy internal tug-of-war. Inde Navarrette's Sarah gets all the nuance: loyal but uncertain, self-aware but stuck, caught between who she was and who she's trying to be. Dialogue crackles, memories hit like gut punches, and every tap on her phone feels like a betrayal to her own origin story.

Smallville High – 8:02 AM

 East Quad – Beneath the Cherry Tree That Should Be in a Noah Kahan Music Video

Sarah Cushing sat on the cool stone bench like it might give her answers if she pressed hard enough. The cherry tree overhead was just starting to bloom—sweet, tragic little pink blossoms that floated down like nature's version of confetti. Pretty. Symbolic. A little fake.

Like everything else lately.

She took a long sip of her triple-berry smoothie, hoping it'd shock her nervous system into submission. It didn't. Her stomach was twisting like it had secrets to confess. One AirPod was in. The other sat in her lap, abandoned after her morning playlist—"Vibes but Anxious" on Spotify—got hijacked by an incoming message.

Brad 🏈: "Coach is trippin lmao. Handle it?"

Translation: "I messed up, but make it your problem."

She rolled her eyes. And then, she opened TikTok. Because she was a teenage girl in 2025, and that's just what you do.

First video on her For You Page?

Caption:

"Hadrian Kent said ACAB (All Chads Are Breakable)"

Audio: Bonnie Tyler's 'I Need A Hero'

Visual: Brad Manning soaring through the air like a poorly thrown mannequin while Hadrian Kent stood still, cloak billowing, face half-shadowed, absolutely unbothered.

Sarah blinked.

Then again. And again.

She laughed, the sound sharp and wrong in the morning air. Not because it was funny—because it wasn't. It was humiliating. But because if she didn't laugh, she was going to scream.

Then the algorithm, cruel little demon it was, served her Part 2.

Caption:

"Neville Kent did WHAT?!"

Audio: 'Barbie Girl' (Nightcore remix)

Visual: Chad mid-air, flailing like a paper bag in a tornado. Cut to Neville—quiet, glowy-eyed, arms flexed—holding him like a bridal carry before casually dropping him like he was trash on recycling day.

Sarah choked on her smoothie.

Because Neville. Neville-freaking-Kent. Her former best friend. The boy who cried when she scraped her knee in fifth grade. The boy who used to bring her mango Hi-Chews from his lunchbox just because he knew they were her favorite. The boy who blushed crimson when she kissed him on the cheek in eighth grade and stammered for a full two minutes after.

Now?

He looked like he'd walked off the cover of Superhero Quarterly. Glowing eyes. Shoulders like a Roman statue. Hair that did the sexy floppy curl thing. And that same little shrug he used to do when he helped her carry her science project because hers was too heavy.

"Oh my god," she whispered.

And that's when the text avalanche started:

Dana 👯‍♀️:

"U dating THAT guy?? 😂😂 #FoldedLikeLaundry"

Elena (from Drama):

"Girl u see this?? Ur man is a PSA now 😬"

Amber from Gym:

"Neville glowed up HARD. Why did u downgrade?? 👀"

Sarah's fingers trembled as she tapped on the tag:

#HadrianHitMeHarder – 18.9K tweets

#JusticeSquadGoals – 11.4K

#FoldedByDonna – 7.8K

#NevilleYeetedMe – climbing fast

There was fanart. Fanart, Vikrant. One of Brad getting body-slammed like a WWE action figure. Another of the new girl—Donna Troy—in slow-mo, looking like Wonder Woman and Megan Fox had a baby and sent it to Smallville High to collect L's.

Then—she saw herself.

A TikTok slideshow titled:

"POV: You Dump Neville Kent for Brad Manning and He Becomes a Superpowered Greek Tragedy in a Hoodie."

Song: "traitor" – Olivia Rodrigo

Images:

Middle-school Sarah giving Neville a friendship bracelet.

Current-day Sarah posing with Brad in a Letterman jacket.

Then Neville, glowing, walking away from the wreckage like a slow-motion explosion was playing behind him.

Her throat went dry. Her hand hovered over her screen like it wanted to punch her own For You Page.

"Hey, babe."

Brad.

He swaggered up like he hadn't just been turned into a meme seen in Estonia. Letterman jacket unzipped, trying too hard to seem casual.

"I texted you," he said, like that was the real crisis.

Sarah stared at him. Really looked. At the cocky smirk that didn't reach his eyes. At the little bruise blooming near his jawline. At the way his voice had a nervous hitch when someone behind them snickered.

"You okay?" she asked, voice stiff.

Brad shrugged, defensive already. "We're fine. It's just a meme storm. They'll forget by tomorrow."

Sarah held up her phone.

"Seventeen different languages, Brad. One of them is Klingon."

He scoffed. "It's not a big deal."

"Not a big—?" She stopped herself. Closed her eyes. Breathed.

Brad reached for her hand. "Hey. Babe. Let's not fight. I need you right now, okay?"

That's when it hit her.

He didn't mean her. He meant her PR. Her silence. Her backing him even as the internet turned him into a cautionary tale.

Her phone buzzed again. She glanced.

A new message.

Neville 🐻‍❄️:

"Hey. Are you okay?"

Her breath caught.

She stared at the words. Simple. Soft. Genuine.

Not "help me fix this." Not "make it go away."

Just are you okay?

Sarah's voice came out quieter than she expected.

"Brad… Did you ever think maybe they're not the problem?"

Brad blinked. "What?"

"I mean—Hadrian, Zatanna, Donna, Neville… maybe they're just being who they've always been. And we… aren't."

Brad laughed. "Babe. Come on. They're just riding a trend. That Neville guy? He's a dork. Always has been."

Sarah looked down at her phone again.

And then, with a calm so final it didn't even need anger, she said:

"You don't get to call him that."

She stood, smoothie still on the bench. Walked away.

Brad called after her. "Wait—what does that mean?!"

She didn't answer.

Because across the quad, under another tree, the Kent crew was lounging like gods in disguise. Donna was giving Maya a piggyback ride. Hadrian was laughing—laughing, not smirking—with Kara. Neville looked up.

Saw her.

And smiled.

That same crooked, hopeful smile from seventh grade.

She smiled back. Small. Unsure. But real.

Her phone buzzed one last time.

Dana 👯‍♀️:

"U okay?"

She stared at the question.

Then typed back:

"I think I'm waking up."

And hit send.

—

Smallville High – 8:11 AM

East Quad – The Scene of the Emotional Crime

Sarah barely cleared the quad's edge before the sound of sneakers scuffing pavement made her sigh. Brad, right on cue, out of breath and full of righteous delusion.

"Sarah—wait!"

She stopped. Not because she wanted to. But because she was done running.

Brad slowed beside her, hands on his knees like he'd just completed a marathon of emotional unawareness. "Look, I talked to Katie—"

Her spine straightened. She turned, a storm gathering behind her eyes. "You what?"

He grinned, clueless. "She's gonna write a piece. You know, spin it. Say it was a social experiment or whatever. Perception bias. Hashtag psychology. People eat that stuff up."

Sarah blinked. "You want Katie—the girl you ghosted and who once Photoshopped your face onto a llama—to lie for you?"

Brad winced. "She's over that. Mostly."

Sarah stepped back, arms folded. "So you're using her to clean up your mess?"

"Not lie. Just… curate the truth."

"And I'm supposed to do what? Record a TikTok in my sad girl hoodie and say, 'Brad getting bounced off the quad like an unpaid Uber ride was a dramatic performance piece?'"

He shrugged. "It's not that far-fetched. They've got powers or whatever. People will believe anything with the right music and hashtags."

She laughed—not the nice kind. The kind that cracked open years of swallowing her tongue.

"You're unbelievable."

He took a step closer, grin slipping. "Look, I'm trying to save both our reputations here. We spin it right, we can be victims. Or better yet, icons. I'll even do the crying-in-a-car video. The algorithm loves emotional men."

Sarah stared. "You didn't come here to fix anything. You came to market it."

"What are you even talking about?"

"I'm talking about how everything with you is image. Optics. You don't care about what happened, Brad. You care about not looking like the guy who got humbled by someone braver than you."

His smile dropped. "You mean them. You mean Neville."

Sarah's voice went soft. Deadly. "No. I mean me."

Brad stared at her. "You're breaking up with me?"

Sarah looked past him. Toward Neville. Just standing there. Not watching. Not waiting. Just existing like gravity in a hoodie.

She took a breath that filled her lungs without apology.

"Yeah," she said. "I am."

His eyes widened. For a second, he looked like the boy she used to know. And then he spat it out:

"You'll regret this. When they drop you. When the trend dies. When he gets bored."

Sarah stepped in. Voice steady. "Neville Kent is more of a man in a quiet hoodie than you've ever been in a varsity jacket."

Brad reeled.

"You really think they are better than us?"

"No," she said. "I think they're real. And you're a walking press release."

She turned. Didn't look back.

Because this wasn't a cliffhanger.

It was a chapter close.

And right behind her, like the world was finally catching up, cherry blossoms fell.

—

Cafeteria, Kent Table

Sarah slid into the seat beside Zatanna, tray wobbling.

Maya practically pounced across the table. "You broke up with him?"

"Was it that obvious?" Sarah sighed, poking at her fruit cup.

Zatanna raised her water bottle like it was a glass of wine. "Queen behavior."

"You left a crater," Kara added, eyes twinkling as she stole a fry from Donna's plate.

Donna swatted her. "Get your own, you raccoon."

"You love me."

"Tragically."

Neville, silent, passed Sarah a mango Hi-Chew under the table. No words. Just that.

Sarah stared at the candy. Then him.

And smiled.

It stuck.

"So," Zatanna gestured dramatically, "introductions for the newly single. Sarah, meet the rest of our merry band of chaos: Donna Troy, emotional snark incarnate. Kara Kent, sunshine with a left hook. Raj, sarcasm wizard and spreadsheet warlock."

Raj raised his juice box. "Namaste and condolences."

"Thanks," Sarah said, bemused. "Wait… is Hadrian not here?"

As if summoned by drama, Hadrian swaggered in, hoodie up, tray somehow balanced with a pyramid of tater tots.

"You rang?"

Maya lit up. "I was just saying this table needed more jawlines and bad ideas."

"And I bring both," Hadrian said, flopping into the seat beside her.

Donna rolled her eyes. "Careful, Sarah. He thinks brooding makes him mysterious."

"It does," Hadrian muttered.

"It makes you look like you got kicked out of a boyband."

"Only 'cause I dated your mom."

"She's a lesbian, idiot."

"Even more impressive."

Maya stage-whispered to Sarah, "They flirt like cats fighting in a paper bag."

Sarah laughed. Genuinely.

Donna smirked. "Glad to see Brad's loss is our gain."

"Speaking of losses," Kara said, "Who wants to bet Brad tries to post a breakup song before third period?"

Raj snorted. "Already queued it. I hacked his Spotify. He's going full John Mayer."

The table erupted in groans and laughter.

Zatanna tapped Sarah's hand. "You okay?"

Sarah nodded. "Yeah. I think I might finally be."

Maya slid her Hi-Chew wrapper over, grinning. "Welcome to the weirdest table in school. We come with powers, popcorn, and no patience for Brad."

Hadrian raised a brow. "You forgot 'ridiculously good hair.'"

Neville finally spoke, voice calm and quiet. "And loyalty."

Sarah looked around. At this chaos crew. And something clicked.

She wasn't just done with Brad.

She was starting over.

And this?

Felt like a beginning.

—

Smallville High – 8:24 AM

Principal Reynolds' Office – AKA The Calm Before the Parental Storm

Lilly Kent entered the office like a warship slicing through calm water—elegant, powerful, and unmistakably ready for battle. Her sharp navy blazer bore her Smallville Ledger press badge like a heraldic sigil. Her dark red hair was twisted into a bun so severe it probably had its own zip code, and her heels clicked with the precision of a countdown to detonation.

Clark followed right behind her—flannel-shirted, denim-clad, and deceptively laid-back. His glasses caught the light just enough to shield the steel glint in his eyes. His jaw was set in that specific way that said: I could throw a tractor through a building, but I'm trying not to.

Principal Reynolds stood from behind his desk as if someone had just yelled, Heads up! Both hands went up in immediate surrender.

"Mr. and Mrs. Kent," he said, voice already placating, "thank you for coming in so quickly. First and foremost—I want to make this absolutely clear—your boys are not in trouble."

Lilly's emerald eyes narrowed, her smile tight. "Then why are we sitting in this office instead of heading to work after dropping our daughter off at middle school?"

From the side, Coach Daniels shifted in his chair like a man preparing to walk into traffic. His large frame barely fit in the seat, and his thick hands rested on his knees with practiced patience.

"That would be my fault," he said, voice a low rumble. "I asked Principal Reynolds to call you both in. This isn't disciplinary. This is... opportunity."

"Oh, we've seen the video," Lilly said, waving a hand like the footage had personally offended her. "All fifteen versions. Including the one with the kazoo."

Clark nodded, arms crossed. "And the one where Brad Manning attempts a flying tackle and ends up looking like someone yeeted him out of a cannon."

Hadrian, slouched in the corner like a particularly smug gargoyle in a hoodie, stifled a grin. His emerald eyes sparkled with mischief as he glanced over at his twin.

Neville sat upright, arms folded across his chest, jaw tense. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the locker room showers. "Technically, I didn't even touch Chad. He tripped over his own ego."

"Gentlemen," Reynolds said with the weary patience of someone managing both a high school and its associated social media fallout, "this isn't about who fell over what. Please, sit."

Lilly did—perched on the chair like a hawk on a branch, ready to swoop. Clark sat beside her, clasping his hands between his knees.

Daniels leaned forward, surprisingly earnest. "Your boys handled themselves better than most adults. Reflexes like that? Balance, control, poise—hell, I've seen college linebackers who don't move like that."

Lilly's lips pursed. "You want them for the football team."

Daniels nodded. "Tryouts start next week. They wouldn't need to try out, though. I'd hand them jerseys today."

Clark's brow furrowed behind his glasses. "We've got responsibilities at the farm. Chores. Schedules. And they're already juggling AP classes and extracurriculars."

"Understood," Daniels said. "But football opens doors. Scholarships. Connections. College scouts will be drooling by junior year. You've got two natural-born leaders here."

Hadrian raised a brow. "Because I dodged a flying meathead?"

Reynolds chuckled. "Because you dodged him without turning him into a meat smoothie. And because neither of you taunted them afterward. You walked away."

"Walked-ish," Neville muttered. "Hadrian did a backflip."

"Showmanship," Hadrian said, flashing a grin. "Maya said I should 'lean into the mythos.'"

Daniels gave a gravelly chuckle. "Boys, I've been coaching twenty years. I know when I see something rare. You two? You're different."

Clark and Lilly exchanged a long look. One of those married-people conversations that happened in complete silence but conveyed whole monologues.

Lilly turned to her sons. "You understand what this means, right?"

Hadrian nodded, growing serious. "If we screw up even once—someone gets hurt."

Neville added, voice low, "We're not normal. That field isn't made for us."

Reynolds raised his hands again. "No one's asking you to be anything you're not. We just want you to consider it. If you want a path forward—this is one."

Daniels added, "But it's your call. Think about it. Talk it over."

Clark nodded once. "We will."

Lilly stood first. "Thank you for the offer. And for recognizing that my sons weren't the ones at fault."

Reynolds gestured to the door. "Anytime. And for the record? They're the calmest hurricane I've ever seen walk through these halls."

As the family filed into the hallway, Hadrian waited until the door shut behind them before leaning toward Neville.

"If we do this, we're gonna have to let Chad tackle us at least once. Y'know. For morale."

Neville rolled his eyes. "He'll bounce off you like a piñata on defense mode."

"Maybe Maya can call the play," Hadrian added, smirking. "Then it's tragic and stylish."

Neville muttered, "Death by sarcasm. Fitting."

Clark cleared his throat behind them. "You are not killing anyone on a football field."

Lilly didn't even look up from her phone. "Not unless I kill you both first for entertaining the idea."

The twins exchanged a look. Identical smirks formed.

"Yup," Hadrian said under his breath. "Definitely Mom's kids."

—

Smallville High – The Torch Office – Chaos HQ, Population: Dramatic Overachievers

The Torch office looked like a war zone had crashed into a Tumblr aesthetic. The lighting was moody at best, the coffee machine growled like a dragon guarding burnt beans, and someone (probably Raj) had put up a whiteboard titled "Current Torch Drama Scale" that currently read: "Somewhere between a CW crossover and a Marvel reboot."

Maya Sullivan was perched like a gremlin queen atop her desk, red marker in one hand, black gel pen in the other, and an expression that could curdle milk. She was ripping through a sophomore's opinion piece on school lunches with the surgical glee of a gossip columnist on deadline. Her platinum hair was pinned back messily, her Docs were kicked off under the desk, and her eyes darted up every few seconds—just to make sure chaos hadn't wandered off.

Raj Kulkarni sat near the window, fingers flying over his keyboard. His "Plot Twist Juice" thermos (hand-decorated in Lisa Frank stickers and fire emojis) steamed quietly. His dark curls were chaos incarnate, and his glasses were fogged up from equal parts stress and sarcasm. "Someone remind me why I'm willingly spreadsheeting the hormone Olympics that is this place?"

"Because you crave suffering," Zatanna offered from her windowsill perch. She was elegance in black lace, Olivia Rodrigo with magic and menace. One leg dangled as she flipped through a worn copy of The Picture of Dorian Gray. Her expression read: bored, but armed.

"Also," Raj added without looking up, "because Maya threatened to hex me with period cramps for a month if I didn't."

"Allegedly," Maya sang.

The door flung open. In walked Hadrian Kent, hoodie up, boots scuffed, tray of vending machine snacks in one hand and the exact energy of a golden retriever who had definitely eaten the homework. His emerald eyes sparkled beneath the shadows of his hood, and the smirk he wore could've probably melted steel—or at least Donna Troy's patience.

Neville trailed behind, tall, broad-shouldered, and all brooding stillness. He was like if an Alan Ritchson-shaped statue of war crimes had come to life and decided to major in emotional repression. His black hair was still damp from a post-gym shower, and his pale green eyes narrowed at the chaos already unfolding.

"We back?" Hadrian asked, tossing a Twix at Raj.

"You're late," Maya said, not looking up from her red-pen massacre.

"We stopped for existential dread," Hadrian replied, flopping onto the couch like a flannel-clad god of teenage apathy. "Also, Coach wants us to play football."

Maya paused. "You? Mister 'organized sports are where dreams go to get concussions'?"

Neville sighed, dropping onto the desk beside Zatanna. "He made a good pitch. Scholarships. Scouting. Boosted transcripts."

"You two on a field is like putting bazookas in a pillow fight," Raj muttered.

"Hey," Hadrian said, mock-wounded. "I have restraint."

Donna snorted from behind her laptop. "You did a backflip over Chad Manning during a hallway brawl yesterday."

Hadrian shrugged. "That was finesse. Maya said I should lean into the mythos."

Maya grinned. "You're welcome."

Zatanna blinked slowly. "So, the plan is to embrace fame and play dodge-the-jock?"

"We're thinking about it," Neville muttered. "But… it's complicated."

Donna leaned forward. "You make one wrong move, Hadrian, and you're not going viral for good reasons. You're going viral like Florida Man."

"Bold of you to assume I'm not already planning my headline," Hadrian said. "'Local Hero Accidentally Destroys School Mascot in Display of Athletic Dominance.'"

The door creaked open.

All heads turned.

The girl who walked in had presence. Not just confidence—gravity. Dark hair, loose waves, slick coat that screamed Gotham money, and a messenger bag with the LexCorp logo slashed out in metallic silver marker.

"Hey," she said. "Sorry—this the Torch office?"

Maya squinted. "Are you here to join or start a coup?"

The girl blinked. "Hopefully? Join. I'm new. I transferred yesterday. Lena."

A pause.

Then:

"Luthor," Lena added.

Silence. Glacial. Cinematic. Thick enough to chew on.

Hadrian sat up. Neville's jaw clenched. Zatanna closed her book with a decisive thwack. Donna arched one perfect brow.

Raj muttered, "Well. That's not suspicious at all."

"I'm the black sheep," Lena said, already sounding tired of it. "Excommunicated. Estranged. Basically, I'm the Ted Lasso of the family. If Ted Lasso had a superiority complex and a criminal record."

Maya blinked. "...I love you already."

Lena smiled faintly. "Also—I wanted to thank you two. Hadrian. Neville. My brother… Alex. He's the idiot with the Porsche who drove off the bridge while texting. You pulled him out before it exploded."

"Technically," Neville said, "it did explode."

"Right. Well." Lena reached into her bag and pulled out two chocolate bars. "Thank you. For saving the idiot. Even if he was crying about his Yeezys in the ambulance."

Hadrian took the chocolate bar labeled "Emergency Snack for Reckless Heroics." He blinked at it. "You're weird."

"I try," Lena said.

Neville nodded. "I like her."

Maya beamed. "You're hired."

"I haven't even filled out an app."

Maya shoved a clipboard at her. "You brought snacks. That's your resume."

Donna leaned toward Hadrian, whispering, "Don't fall in love with her just because she brought chocolate."

"I already have a type," Hadrian whispered back.

"Oh? And what's that?"

"Unattainable, mouthy, and willing to stab me in gym class."

Donna narrowed her eyes. "That better not be me."

Zatanna murmured, "It's definitely you."

Kara entered behind Lena then, late as ever, hoodie half-zipped and still munching on an apple. "What'd I miss?"

Raj answered without blinking. "Hadrian almost declared his love. Donna threatened violence. We hired a Luthor."

"Oh," Kara said. "So, Tuesday."

Lena glanced around at the chaos, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and cautious hope. Zatanna smiled at her—real, warm, no sharpness. Neville nodded like this was normal. Maya offered her a seat next to the couch, right beside Hadrian, who gave her a lazy two-finger salute.

Lena sat.

And for the first time in years, felt like maybe, just maybe—she wasn't a Luthor problem.

She was part of something.

And she liked it.

---

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