"Mr. Spike, what now? Do we report this to the board?"
Inside a black SUV racing along the cracked rural road outside the Kent farm, the man with the hawk-like nose—Mr. Spike—stared out the window, his expression dark and thunderous.
"Report it?" he sneered. "No. That would make them think we can't handle a bumpkin with a bankrupt farm."
The subordinate sitting beside him frowned. "Then what? Keep negotiating? Maybe he's holding out for a better offer?"
Spike didn't answer immediately. Instead, he folded his arms and narrowed his eyes at the rolling fields of corn and open sky.
"Negotiate?" he repeated, disgusted. "With a greedy dog like him?"
The man's voice turned ice cold.
"He thinks he can name his own price. He thinks this is some fair game. But the lowest wolves in the pack don't get to demand extra meat. If I give him even an inch, he'll think he's in charge."
He scoffed. "I'm not his father."
Just as the words left his mouth, a flash of red light flared across the horizon.
Spike blinked. "What was that?"
The others turned toward the windshield. One of them squinted. "Looks like… red leaves blowing in the wind?"
Spike raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Pretty. Maybe Kansas isn't so boring after all."
But within seconds, the red glow intensified.
It wasn't leaves.
It was a beam.
A red laser, streaking toward them like the finger of death itself.
"BUZZZZZZ!"
The laser shot across the road and blasted through a thick tree just ahead of the vehicle. The trunk cracked in half, the top collapsing like a felled giant.
"HOLY SH—"
"TURN AROUND! TURN AROUND!" Spike shouted, now pale with panic.
The driver swerved violently, slamming the brakes.
"SCREEEEEECH!"
But they were going too fast.
The SUV's tires lost grip. The car careened sideways and smashed into a tree stump at the edge of the road.
"BANG!"
Metal crunched. Glass shattered.
Then—the world spun.
Thud! Thud! Thud!
The SUV flipped twice before plunging into a ditch, finally landing upside down with a violent, bone-rattling crash.
Inside the wreck, Spike felt his body collide with steel and seatbelt straps. His head slammed into the roof, his back twisted unnaturally, and pain exploded across every nerve.
Moments later, the world was silent.
Then came the groans.
Spike peeled his eyes open. His vision blurred. Something warm trickled down his temple.
He wiped it.
Blood.
The scent hit his nostrils—sharp, metallic.
"Cough… cough…" he hacked weakly. "Call... call for help…"
With trembling fingers, he reached toward the backseat, searching for his jacket. Inside was his phone.
But before he could grab it—
A shadow moved on the road above.
His eyes widened.
There, standing just beyond the rim of the ditch, was a child.
The figure was hard to make out in the moonlight.
But the eyes were unmistakable.
Crimson. Glowing. Burning.
The child's mouth curved into a cold, familiar smirk.
It was a smile Spike had seen before.
From Peter Patrick.
From his son.
The glow in Adam's eyes faded, and he turned his back to the wreck.
Then his smile froze.
Clark was standing in front of him.
---
Clark looked past Adam to the wrecked SUV at the bottom of the ditch.
He turned back to Adam, stunned.
"You… did this?"
Adam's body stiffened. "I don't know what you're talking about. I need to go home."
He moved to walk past, but Clark grabbed his shirt.
"I saw it. Your eyes—they shot lasers."
Adam turned away, refusing to meet his gaze.
Peter had told him never to reveal his powers to anyone.
Even Clark.
Especially Clark.
"You shouldn't have done that," Clark whispered. "They could've died."
Adam spun around, his voice sharp. "He threatened our dad!"
Clark flinched at the venom in his tone.
"No one threatens Dad and gets away with it!"
"But they hadn't done anything yet!" Clark insisted. "Godfather said we're not supposed to hurt people, even if they're bad!"
"They were going to!" Adam's fists shook. "They wanted to take our home!"
"You don't know that—"
"Because he's not your real dad, that's why!" Adam snapped.
Clark's heart skipped.
"No," he said softly. "He is."
"You don't love him like I do," Adam said, eyes shining—not with heat, but with pain. "You don't care like I do."
He took a shaky breath.
"You live at our house, you eat our food, you play soccer with him, you sleep in the same room as me… but it's like I'm not even there."
Clark was stunned. He'd never realized.
Adam's voice cracked. "You stole him from me."
"That's not true," Clark whispered.
"Yes, it is!" Adam shouted. "You're not even his real son! But he—he talks to you more, he laughs with you more—"
"I didn't mean to—"
"But you're not even on his side! You're defending the people who wanted to hurt him!"
Adam shoved Clark backward.
Clark stumbled and fell into the dirt.
For a moment, Adam stood frozen. Breathing hard.
Then he turned away.
He took a few steps… then hesitated.
He looked back.
Clark was still lying on the ground, not moving, not crying. Just watching him.
Adam wanted to walk back. To help him up. To say he didn't mean it.
But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
He turned away again, muttering, "It's not my fault. He should've backed me up."
"I'm not wrong. This is all Clark's fault."
But even as he said it, a hollow ache settled in his chest.
---
[END OF CHAPTER 6]