Luthor grew up in a house that knew every flavor of silence. The kind that pressed against your ears. The kind that slammed doors. The kind that hid in locked bedrooms for days and came out breathing like a storm.
Some mornings, the television would flicker in an empty living room while his father didn't move behind a closed door.
Other days, the man would pace the apartment like a restless animal, talking too loudly, working until his hands shook, chasing ideas that never stuck.
No matter the mood, the anger was always consistent. It lived in the walls. It slept in the belt looped over the chair.
Mistakes were loud in that house. A wrong look. A dropped glass. A grade that wasn't perfect. The words came first, which were sharp and quite endless. The kind that sinks in and never fully leaves. And when those ran out, the belt finished the sentence. Luthor learned early that pain didn't need an explanation. Kent learned by watching.
