At a quiet gas station on the edge of Smallville, Clark Kent stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the golden fields stretching toward town. The late afternoon sun cast long shadows over the wheat, but his gaze wasn't on the harvest—it was on the horizon, where storm clouds gathered like silent omens.
An older attendant, Roy, wiped his hands on a rag and ambled over. "You've been staring out there like you're waiting for UFOs, Clark. Everything alright?"
Clark blinked, then offered a small, distracted smile. "Just checking the sky. Feels like rain coming."
Roy chuckled. "Rain? We haven't seen a proper shower in weeks. Martha'll be glad for it—if it holds off till after she gets those soybeans in."
Clark nodded, but his smile didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah… I hope so." He glanced toward the road leading into town. Something else was on his mind—something deeper than drought or crops.
He pulled off his gas station vest. "Hey, Roy—mind covering for me? I think I'll head home early. Help Mom finish up before the storm hits."
Roy studied him a moment, then shrugged. "Sure thing. You've earned it. And if the boss gives you grief, tell him the pump's acting up again."
"Thanks," Clark said, already heading for his old pickup.
Back at the Kent farm, Martha looked up from the porch as his truck rumbled down the driveway. She wiped her hands on her apron. "Clark? I thought you were working the evening shift."
"The station's quiet," he said, grabbing a shovel from the shed. "Figured I'd lend a hand."
He began loading compost into the cart, but his movements were tense. Every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward Smallville—and beyond.
Martha watched him. She knew that look. It was the same one he'd worn the night Jonathan passed, the same one he got when the world pressed in too hard.
"There's trouble in town," she said quietly, not as a question.
Clark hesitated. Then, softly: "I heard military chatter on the emergency bands. Black SUVs rolled into Main Street an hour ago. They've got sonic emitters—military grade."
Martha's brow furrowed. "Sonic weapons? In Smallville?"
"They're not here for me," Clark said, though the thought had crossed his mind. "They're hunting someone else. A fugitive from Gotham—calling himself 'Downton.' Apparently, he's after a journalist whose father's a general. They're using her as bait."
He gripped the shovel tighter. "I don't like it, Mom. This town isn't a battlefield."
As if on cue, the shovel snapped in his hands.
Martha sighed, retrieved a new one from the barn, and pressed it into his palm. Her voice was gentle but firm. "You've carried the weight of the world since your father left, Clark. But you can't protect everyone by turning yourself into stone."
She touched his arm. "Be here. With me. The cows need tending—one's got a nail stuck in her hoof. And if trouble comes… well, Smallville's got more than one kind of hero."
Clark met her eyes—steady, loving, unwavering. He exhaled. "Okay, Mom."
He returned to work, but his senses remained stretched thin, listening past the rustle of corn and the lowing of cattle—to the hum of distant engines, the tense radio calls, the first rumble of thunder… and something else.
Something cold. Calculating.
In Gotham, miles away, a man named Downton stepped from a sleek black car outside the Gotham City History Museum.
"Boss," his driver said, "we're here."
Hearing this, Downton gave a small nod and turned to Batel.
"How old are you, Batel?"
"Uh… twenty-three, boss. What about you?"
"Twenty-six," Downton said with a quiet chuckle.
He leaned over to the passenger seat, retrieved his tactical backpack, and slung it over one shoulder.
"Listen," he said, voice dropping to a low, serious tone. "Keep tracking my location. If I suddenly pop up somewhere within a five- to eight-minute drive, come pick me up. If I vanish farther than that, stay put—don't risk it."
He paused, then added, "And grab a piece of paper. Write down your family's contact info and leave it in the glove compartment. Just in case."
Batel blinked. "Just in case…?"
"If you go down, I'll send the car to your family. If they don't want it, I'll convert its value into cash—same difference. Consider it… retrieval insurance."
Downton clapped Batel on the shoulder, then stepped out of the car.
Pulling out his phone, he studied the floor plan of the laundromat ahead. Liv's intel was meticulous—every vent, false wall, and access point clearly marked. Downton committed it to memory.
The Dimitrov family had risen during the Cold War. Their patriarch, Yuri Dimitrov, embraced the old ways: gambling dens, heroin pipelines, protection rackets. No flashy tech, no shell companies—just concrete, blood, and bleach. Their cover? A chain of laundromats across Gotham's industrial district. Clean clothes on the surface, dirty money underneath.
If Liv's map was accurate—and it usually was—the basement beneath this very building housed the Dimitrovs' private casino and interrogation suite.
Satisfied, Downton holstered his phone and drew his dual Desert Eagles.
As he approached the entrance, two Russian guards inside spotted him through the plate-glass window. The moment they registered the pistols in his hands, one shouted a warning and raised his weapon.
Downton smirked.
The first shots cracked through the glass. He sidestepped—just enough—and returned fire.
Bang. Bang.
Twelve meters away, both guards dropped. The .50 AE rounds from the Desert Eagles didn't just wound; they shattered bone and collapsed lungs. Neither man stirred.
Downton vaulted through the shattered window, landing lightly beside the bodies. Without hesitation, he put a final round through each skull—standard procedure. No survivors.
Blood misted the air. Silence fell, broken only by distant traffic.
Kneeling, Downton grasped one corpse's hand with mock solemnity.
"Y'know," he murmured, "people learn something from dying. Like—your trigger finger twitches half a second before you fire. I didn't dodge your bullets. I just moved the instant I saw that tell. Luck? Nah. Observation."
He stood, brushing glass from his coat.
"And hey—thanks. You're officially the second group I've declared 'honorary mentors.' Takizawa Laura's still number one, but you're climbing the ranks."
Outside, a few pedestrians froze in horror. Downton turned, placed a finger to his lips, and gave them a slow, deliberate "Shh."
They scattered.
Footsteps echoed from the back hallway—shouts, boots on tile. Reinforcements.
Downton didn't wait. He kicked open the staff break room door and rolled two concussion grenades inside.
BOOM!
The blast rattled the walls. Coughing, cursing, the Russians stumbled through smoke.
"Close the damn door!"
"It's the Italians—they're insane!"
"Get the basement crew up here!"
"The cops just passed by five minutes ago!"
Downton crouched behind the counter, listening. That's more noise than I expected.
He grinned.
These Russians really don't half-ass anything.
Happy new year 🎊 🎊 🎊 😹