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dreamersworldduh · 1 month ago

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BEYOND THE FUTURE

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner reunited with the future version of Conner, and other two your children—Cole and Cameron—each of whom reflects a unique blend of your legacy and Conner's strength. Over the course of a single day, you reconnect with each of them, learning who they've become and quietly mourning the years you missed. What began as a heartfelt reunion becomes a declaration of war.

This is no longer just your fight—it's a battle for your family, your legacy, and the future.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence.

WORDS! 12.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the wait, babes! We have ended the semester and freed up some time for me to get this up! How are we liking the picture of an old Conner- I tried to do it in 10 minutes and that's the result. There’s more fics upcoming, so keep a lookout. Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE PAST

BY THE TIME morning arrived, the soft lighting of Mount Justice had already shifted from its cool night glow to a warmer, more natural hue, simulating the rise of a calm, early sun. The base was quiet, save for the subtle hum of technology and distant footsteps echoing through the corridors as systems returned to life. You and Conner walked side by side down the hall toward the Zeta-Tube chamber, your pace steady but filled with anticipation. Sleep had come in fits, broken by dreams and emotions that still hadn't fully settled, but the quiet intimacy of the night had steadied you both.

As the doors to the Zeta Bay slid open, your eyes were immediately drawn to the two figures waiting at the base of the platform.

Casey and Corra were already there, dressed not in their hero uniforms, but in something entirely different—something that struck you more deeply than you expected. They wore casual, modest clothing that bore the unmistakable flavor of Smallville, Kansas.

Casey had on a flannel button-up—faded red and black—and a pair of well-worn jeans tucked into dark work boots. The sleeves were rolled just below his elbows, and a soft gray hoodie hung loosely around his waist, knotted by the arms. It was the kind of outfit that didn't come from fashion, but from habit. Practical. Earthy. Familiar.

Corra leaned against the wall beside him, wearing an oversized denim jacket layered over a soft, wheat-colored sweater. Her jeans were cuffed just above her boots, and a baseball cap rested backward on her head, pushing a few stubborn strands of hair down over her forehead. Even her posture had shifted—less the poised, tactical field leader from the night before, and more the confident, grounded young woman who knew how to mend a fence or drive an old truck down a dirt road.

It wasn't just their clothes. It was the way they stood, the way they carried themselves. There was something deeply Midwestern about it—humble, familiar, tied to the land. And it told you one thing loud and clear: you had a home there.

When Casey spotted the two of you entering the room, he straightened from his casual lean against the Zeta controls and gave a faint smile.

"Morning," he greeted, voice light but still carrying that quiet depth of emotion that had become familiar in such a short time. "Hope you slept okay."

Conner nodded. "Well enough." He glanced at Casey's flannel and smirked. "You raiding Grandpa's closet or something?"

Casey gave a small chuckle. "Nah. This is just how we do it in Smallville. Didn't want you guys showing up in the future dressed like city boys."

Corra pushed off the wall and walked over to you, giving your arm a small nudge as she took in your sleep-rumpled clothes. "We're going into Dad's house, remember? He'll notice if your shirt's not tucked in or if you track mud onto the porch." She gave you a wink. "Just a heads-up."

You blinked, the realization settling more fully now.

You were about to walk into the house where your children had been raised. Where the future version of Conner—your partner, your other half—had spent years alone, trying to hold together the pieces of the life you'd once shared.

And now... you were going to step back into it.

Back into a life you hadn't yet built.

Casey approached the console and tapped a few commands. The Zeta-Tube flared to life, its light swirling in anticipation. "It's synced to the local receiver in Smallville," he explained. "We'll land just a few steps outside the house."

Corra slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and tilted her head, glancing between you and Conner. "You ready for this?"

You met Conner's eyes, searching the quiet tension behind his gaze. He nodded once, and then you turned back to your children—your grown children, who somehow still looked at you with wonder in their eyes.

"Let's go home," you said.

And with that, the four of you stepped onto the Zeta platform—two fathers, two future children, bound together by time, love, and a farm in Kansas waiting to greet you.

THE MOMENT the Zeta-Tube light faded and the quiet hum of Mount Justice vanished behind you, you were enveloped in the warm, open air of Kansas.

But not just any Kansas—the future Kansas.

It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the countryside. The sun was higher here than it had been in the base, casting long golden rays across sprawling fields of wheat and wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly turned soil, honeysuckle, and something that could only be described as home drifted in the air.

You stepped down from the receiver pad, which had been cleverly disguised within an old, worn-down shed near the edge of the property. The familiar crunch of gravel under your boots grounded you as your gaze swept the landscape.

It was... peaceful.

And beside you, Conner had stopped moving altogether.

He stood stock-still just a few feet ahead of you, his broad shoulders squared as he took in the view. The farmhouse sat proudly at the top of the gently sloping hill, the whitewashed siding now a soft cream from years of sun exposure. A wraparound porch with a freshly painted railing circled the front, and a wind chime clinked gently near the door.

But it wasn't just the house. It was the fence line that curved along the edge of the property, repaired in places with new wood that hadn't quite aged yet. It was the red barn, taller now, expanded and reinforced. It was the family garden, thriving along the side of the porch in neat, structured rows.

Everything had been touched, altered, aged—lived in.

Conner's chest rose with a slow, deep breath as he looked at the place that had once been his safe haven—the place where Martha Kent had taught him how to plant tomatoes, how to fix a broken tractor, how to find peace in silence. A place that had grounded him when the world felt too loud.

His voice, when it came, was rough with emotion.

"...It's the same." He swallowed, then shook his head slightly. "But not. Everything's grown, rebuilt, improved... but it still feels like her."

You stepped up beside him, watching as the breeze shifted his hair and tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"This was your home," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Even after all this time."

Conner gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the farmhouse ahead. "Other than you... and the Cave... this is the only place that ever felt like mine."

Behind you, Casey and Corra gave you both space, standing a few paces back with soft expressions. Casey smiled faintly, his voice low as he stepped closer.

"Dad never left it. Even after everything." He glanced toward the house. "He stayed here. Raised us here. Trained us here."

Corra chimed in with a softer tone. "He said it was the only place that reminded him of who he used to be... and who he loved."

You and Conner exchanged a glance.

The weight of this place pressed into your chests—not in a suffocating way, but like a memory that hadn't yet happened.

And as you all began walking toward the house, your boots crunching against the packed dirt path, the fields swaying around you, and the wind whispering through the leaves, you realized something important:

You were already part of this future.

Even if time had tried to take you from it.

THE FRONT door creaked open with a familiar groan, the kind that came from years of wear but had never quite been fixed—left as-is because it was a sound that meant home. Corra stepped in first, her boots thudding lightly against the aged hardwood floors, followed by Casey, who held the door open for you and Conner as the warm, late-morning Kansas breeze drifted in behind you.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, something shifted deep inside you. The air smelled like aged wood, flour, cinnamon, and earth—so distinctly Midwestern, so Kent. This place didn't just feel like a home; it felt like a memory you hadn't made yet.

You and Conner paused just inside the foyer, your eyes instinctively drawn to the left wall, where a long stretch of framed photos lined the hallway like a timeline of lives lived fully. You stepped toward them slowly, your footsteps almost hesitant, as if approaching sacred ground.

The earliest photos made your breath catch in your throat.

There you were—both of you—younger versions of yourselves holding a swaddled baby in a hospital room. Conner beaming with proud, tear-brimmed eyes. You looking down at a tiny sleeping infant—Casey—with awe and disbelief etched on your face. The next few photos showed first birthdays, tiny toddler shoes, a birthday cake shaped like a rocket, little handprints pressed into plaster.

And then came Corra. One picture showed you and Conner each holding one of the children while sitting on the porch swing, her wild dark hair already escaping its bows, her tiny hands pulling at Conner's collar as she giggled.

More followed: Cole, scowling even as a toddler, standing stubbornly in a patch of mud while you knelt behind him, clearly trying not to laugh. Then Cameron, shy and quiet even in photos, always nestled in someone's arms or pressed into your side, clutching one of your sleeves.

For a moment, it was overwhelming. The joy, the warmth, the love—it was all there. Frozen in time. Proof that you had been a father, and not just in title. You were present. Involved. Loving. Essential.

But as your eyes moved farther down the line, you noticed the shift.

By the time Casey reached around thirteen, Corra nine, Cole eight, and Cameron five... you were gone from the photos.

In the later images, Conner stood alone—his face a little tighter around the eyes, his smiles a little more subdued. Sometimes he was behind the camera. Sometimes he was beside the kids, arms around them. But always without you.

The absence was deafening.

Conner stood beside you, jaw tight as he took in the same realization. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of one of the frames—a family dinner photo where a high chair sat at the table, but only one parent was there.

You didn't speak. You didn't have to. The silence between you was filled with understanding, grief, and quiet determination.

Then, somewhere deeper in the house, the stillness shattered.

A loud voice rang out from upstairs—young, frustrated, and unmistakably a sibling-in-command kind of voice.

"CAMERON! I swear, if you don't get your slow ass down here before Corra and Casey show up, I'm telling Dad you were the one who crashed the grav-cycle!"

You heard the thud-thud-thud of boots stomping across the upstairs floor, followed by the unmistakable slam of a bedroom door opening.

Corra rolled her eyes with a fond groan. "And that would be Cole. Never quiet. Never subtle."

Casey smirked beside her. "He's got Dad's temper and Pa's sarcasm. It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Conner snorted at that. "Sounds about right."

But even as the banter passed between your children, your eyes drifted back to that last photo with you still in it—Cameron perched on your hip, arms looped around your neck, while the rest of the kids crowded in around you, all beaming at the camera.

It was a life you hadn't lived yet.

And it was time to reclaim it.

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hallway—a sharp, relentless rhythm pounding against the wooden floorboards, each step faster than the last. They echoed with the urgency of someone already mid-argument, someone whose frustration had momentum. Then came the telltale thud of someone hopping the last stair, followed by a second of silence—a breathless beat—and finally, the whip-crack sound of a body turning sharply at the corner of the hall.

Cole appeared, coming into view, all lean muscle and attitude. His black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and shoulders, stretched slightly and smudged with streaks of motor oil—obvious signs he'd just come from the garage or the barn, elbow-deep in gears and grease. His jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the familiar places, the cuffs bunched just above scuffed boots that hit the floor like thunder. His dark hair was a little messy, his jaw set in that unmistakable way that meant he had something to say, and it wasn't going to be quiet.

His mouth was already open, mid-complaint—about Cameron, no doubt—but the moment his eyes locked onto the figures in the hallway, the words choked off before they could even form.

He skidded to a halt.

First, his eyes landed on Corra and Casey. A crease formed between his brows, a flicker of annoyance and confusion surfacing—probably expecting to find them already handling whatever mess Cameron had left behind. But then his gaze drifted past them. It caught you.

And Conner.

But not his Conner—the tired, timeworn version who bore the weight of a thousand decisions and too many lonely nights. This Conner was younger, more vibrant, sharper in the eyes and shoulders. The sight alone was jarring.

And then there was you.

Time seemed to stop around him. The sound in the hallway dropped away, the air itself thickened. His breath caught in his throat. You could almost see the flicker in his eyes as recognition tried to claw its way through years of disbelief and grief.

His body froze, muscles locking up like a system overload. His expression twisted—first into confusion, then something wide-eyed and raw. His mouth opened slightly, as though he meant to say something, but couldn't find the words. He blinked, slow and hard, like maybe he could shake the image from his vision.

But you were still there.

Still real.

You watched as his gaze searched yours—desperate for confirmation, for understanding, for something to anchor him. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like his lungs had just remembered how to breathe. His face, usually so guarded with stubbornness and pride, softened with something heartbreakingly childlike.

"...Pa?"

The word fell from his lips like a ghost being set free. It cracked the air open.

You swallowed hard, barely able to speak past the emotion crawling up your throat. You took a slow, steady step forward, your voice a gentle thread. "Yeah... it's me."

But Cole didn't move. He stood there, rooted in place, eyes locked to yours like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter the illusion. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, caught in the war between disbelief and desperate hope.

Conner shifted beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back in a grounding gesture—quiet support. But Cole's eyes didn't leave you.

That's when Corra stepped forward, her voice quiet but unwavering. "It's really him," she said with a soft smile, her eyes shimmering. "They came from the past."

Casey nodded, his voice firmer, trying to be the voice of logic. "We brought them here. It's not a dream. Not a trick. No shapeshifting. No magic. They're real. They're ours, Cole."

Cole gave a small shake of his head, like the words weren't computing. You saw his throat bob with a hard swallow, the shine in his eyes becoming harder to hide.

"You were gone," he said, barely getting the words out. "Since I was eight. I don't..." His voice broke. His jaw clenched. He stopped himself before the emotion could splinter too deep.

You took another step forward, your heart heavy, your voice laced with apology. "I never meant to leave you."

That undid him.

He didn't hesitate anymore.

Cole surged forward in a single, desperate stride and crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your frame as he pulled you into him like he was trying to fuse time itself. His fists clutched the back of your shirt, knuckles white, face pressed into your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, his entire body seemed to melt against yours—not in weakness, but in the exhausted surrender of someone who had spent too long bracing himself against the ache of your absence. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt, clutching you like a lifeline, like letting go might somehow send you slipping back through time. You could feel the strength in his grip, not just physical, but emotional—every year, every missed moment poured into this one desperate hold.

Your hand cradled the back of his head, fingers sifting gently through his thick, tousled hair, still smelling faintly of oil and the outdoors. He trembled faintly in your arms, even as he fought to stay composed. You pressed your cheek to the crown of his head and closed your eyes, swallowing the bittersweet lump in your throat. There was a peace in holding him, a soft, aching peace that ran through your chest and out through your fingertips.

But then—upstairs—a door creaked open.

The faint sound of a voice drifted into the silence.

"I'm coming, Cole, alright? Calm down, I was—"

It wasn't loud or booming. It didn't crackle with irritation like Cole's had earlier. This voice was quieter, rounder, full of that melodic, slightly stubborn edge that still somehow sounded like kindness.

Your heart stuttered at the sound. It shouldn't have been enough to shake you—but it did.

Because you knew that voice.

You had never heard it in real life, but you had felt it in every story, every bedtime memory told secondhand by Conner or one of the older kids. You had imagined it a thousand different ways. But never like this. Never this real.

Cameron.

Soft, measured footsteps descended the staircase, lighter than Cole's. They landed with careful rhythm—like someone who'd learned how to move gently through spaces, like someone who thought more often than he spoke.

He came into view slowly, like time itself was pausing to let you see him properly.

He looked young—so heartbreakingly young. His dark hair was a soft mess, flopping lazily across his forehead, and his eyes were a pale, luminous shade of your own, wide and blinking in the morning light. He wore a loose green sweater that nearly swallowed him, the sleeves tugged down past his wrists, making him look smaller than he was. There was still sleep in his eyes, confusion pulling faint lines across his brow as he adjusted to the scene before him.

And then his gaze landed on you.

He stopped on the final step, his body going still, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared—not at the room, not at his siblings—but only at you.

You and Cole, locked in that quiet, reverent embrace.

His lips parted slightly, but the breath caught in his throat.

His expression fractured into disbelief.

His eyes—so open, so heartbreakingly clear—filled with something indescribable.

And then, in a voice so faint it nearly disappeared into the quiet...

"...Pa?"

It was barely more than a whisper.

But it cracked something in you.

The way he said it—it sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years, too sacred to speak aloud, too painful to hope for.

You turned to him slowly, your hand still resting gently on Cole's back, and extended your other hand toward your youngest boy, your heart in your throat.

"Hi, Cameron," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He blinked, once, then again, and his lower lip began to tremble. You could see it happening behind his eyes—a battle of hope and fear, of disbelief crashing against something buried too deep to name.

Corra moved beside him, her hand a comforting presence at the center of his back. "It's real," she said, her voice gentle, as though speaking too loud might break him. "He's really here."

That was all it took.

Cameron took one tentative step.

Then another.

And then all at once, he was running.

He sprinted across the hallway in a blur, his feet barely making a sound as he closed the distance between you, his arms already outstretched.

Cole stepped back just in time as Cameron collided into you, arms flinging around your waist, his face burying into your chest with the sheer force of a boy trying to make up for lost time in a single second.

You wrapped your arms around him immediately, pressing him to you with everything you had. His body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers gripping your sides through your shirt as he clung to you like he might never get another chance.

"I missed you," he choked out, voice muffled and raw, breaking in the middle. "I missed you so much..."

"I missed you too," you whispered, your voice catching against the weight of your own tears. "All of you."

You held him like you were afraid the moment might vanish—like time would come and steal him back again. Cole stood just beside you now, his arm still brushing yours, close enough to lean in again if he needed to. And there you were, surrounded by them, your boys. One tall and quiet with motor oil on his hands. One small and trembling, buried against your chest.

And in that quiet moment, in the center of a house that had gone on without you, you held them both.

For the first time in years.

For the first time ever.

Conner stood a short distance away from the scene, just outside the intimate circle of the embrace unfolding in front of him. His arms hung loosely at his sides, shoulders square but still, and his eyes—blue-gray and fathomless—were locked on the three of you. His expression was difficult to read at first—his face composed, mouth set in a line, brows resting low—but there was a storm simmering beneath the calm. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled slightly as if resisting the urge to do something.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his silence said more than words could've.

He watched as. Cameron hadn't let go. He stayed pressed to your chest, clutching at your shirt like if he loosened his hold, you might vanish again. His shoulders trembled faintly, the top of his head tucked beneath your chin.

And still, Conner watched.

But it wasn't jealousy in his gaze. It wasn't anger either.

It was ache.

Because he had carried all of this—these children, this home, the weight of your absence—alone. Because he had been the one to soothe them through tears, to lift them when they fell, to tell them stories of who you were, to believe in the memory of you even when it got harder and harder to remember the sound of your laugh.

Because he had done it all—without you.

And now, here you stood, like time had gifted you back to them. Alive. Whole. Real.

It was a beautiful moment. But it trembled with tension, too—like a glass sculpture perched too close to the edge.

Then came the sound that shattered the silence: the soft, familiar creak of a door swinging open at the back of the house.

A moment later came the measured, heavy thud of boots stepping onto tile—confident, grounded, practical.

Then a voice followed, distant but distinct—gruff and sure, low like a slow river over gravel. It carried no urgency, just the casual weariness of someone returning from work.

"I'm home. Someone left the barn door open again."

You felt Conner beside you—your Conner—go rigid. Not visibly, but you sensed the shift in him. The way his breath slowed. The tension in his spine. The subtle straightening of his stance.

The voice came again—closer this time. A tone you hadn't heard, but knew, like a song you'd forgotten the lyrics to.

"Where is everybody? Cole? Cam?"

Footsteps approached with purpose, solid and familiar. The sound echoed faintly through the kitchen until, at last, he stepped into view—into the hall.

The older Conner Kent.

He emerged through the doorway, wiping grease from his fingers with an old cloth, his boots heavy with the day's labor. A dark, flannel-lined jacket hung over a fitted black T-shirt, his jeans faded and frayed at the knees. Earth clung to the soles of his boots, and his presence filled the space without even trying.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was him.

Older. Weathered. Not broken, but worn by time in the way a tree becomes strong—scarred and rooted. There were streaks of silver threading through his hair near his temples, and faint lines carved around his eyes. A full, well-kept beard framed his jaw, adding a certain gravity to his already strong features. His frame was still powerful, still broad-shouldered and straight-backed, like he hadn't let the world bend him no matter how much it tried.

And then he saw you.

He stopped.

Dead still.

His eyes—the same eyes as your Conner's—swept the foyer, quickly taking in the scene. Cameron, still pressed into your chest. Cole, lingering at your side with wet lashes and parted lips. A version of himself standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and rigid, staring back at him like a reflection stolen from another life.

And then... you.

His gaze landed on you, and it stayed there.

You watched the recognition flood into his face—slow at first, then sharp and consuming. The way his eyes widened slightly, the way his lips parted like he was about to speak and forgot how. The way his entire body shifted, not back, but forward, drawn in by something primal.

"...You," he breathed.

His voice was quieter now. Hollowed out by disbelief. There was no anger in it—only awe, raw and trembling beneath a shell of hard-earned restraint.

You nodded slowly, your throat thick, your heart pounding as you echoed softly, "Yeah. It's me."

Time itself seemed to fold in on the space between you.

The older Conner stood there, unmoving but completely undone behind his eyes. You could see it all—the memories rising like ghosts, the years without you, the nights spent aching for answers, the weight of fatherhood that never let up. And now, here you were, alive and real, looking at him with the same love he had carried like a burden for decades.

And behind you, your Conner stared at his future.

He saw the lines etched by sleepless nights, the stiff spine from too many years of standing alone, the shoulders grown broader from carrying four children's pain. He saw what he would become—who he had to become—if you never made it back.

And Conner—the older one—looked into his past. The man he used to be. The man who still loved you. Who never stopped.

THE SILENCE that fell over the room was suffocating—thick and unmoving, like the air had congealed into something heavy enough to crush lungs. No one dared to speak. No one even shifted. The overhead fan continued its slow, methodical spin above them, and the ticking of the clock on the wall marched on—both sounds suddenly deafening in the stillness, in the gravity of what had just unfolded.

Older Conner remained rooted in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, one hand still gripping the grease-stained rag he'd carried in, forgotten. His eyes were locked onto you—hard and unblinking—as if the mere act of looking at you took everything he had. His chest rose and fell in deliberate, restrained movements. But there was nothing steady about him. You could feel the tremor beneath his stillness, the tension vibrating through the air like electricity before a storm. His heartbeat wasn't just fast—it was furious, a silent percussion you swore you could feel thudding through the floor beneath your feet.

He was caught between two instincts—run to you, or run from you.

His gaze shifted, breaking from yours for only a moment as it scanned his children.

Cameron still clung to your side, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his head buried into your chest like a boy who hadn't aged past the moment you'd vanished from his life. Cole stood just beside you, still trying to stay composed but visibly shaken, eyes flickering between the two versions of Conner—his brain struggling to reconcile the man who raised him with the man who had suddenly returned.

Corra and Casey stood apart, closer to the staircase, but the anxiety radiating off of them was palpable. Corra's hands were clenched in front of her, as if holding herself still would somehow keep the moment from fracturing further. Casey stood like a soldier—tall, square-shouldered, resolute—but his jaw was tight, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

Older Conner's eyes landed on him last.

And that's when the question finally left his lips—scraped raw and hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

"...What did you do?"

There was no awe in his voice. No joy. Just the brittle edge of disbelief laced with an old, festering pain.

His gaze darkened, narrowed. "How is this possible?" His voice hardened. "How is he—how are they—here?"

Casey didn't back down.

"I brought them," he said simply, each word measured and unflinching. "From the past."

Older Conner blinked. Hard. His body flinched like the words physically struck him. "You what?"

"I used a time tether," Casey said, eyes never leaving his father's. "Zatanna helped me. I found her, convinced her. It took weeks. It was dangerous. But it worked."

"You used magic—" Conner cut him off, his voice rising like a thunderclap. "You tampered with the timeline? With—him?"

He jabbed a shaking hand in your direction. The word stuck in his throat, the emotion behind it too thick to swallow.

This wasn't fury born from arrogance—it was anguish. It was the terror of a man who had spent years surviving loss, only to have that wound reopened.

"You don't understand what you've done," he continued, his voice cracking, his hands beginning to tremble. "The timeline—our lives—the world—everything we've fought for—he—"

"He was going to die," Casey snapped, his voice rising now to match his father's. "You both were. Olympian went back to their time. We were losing. I wasn't going to wait around and let it happen again."

"You had no right!" Conner shouted, taking a step forward, his face twisted in disbelief and betrayal.

"I had every right," Casey barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You weren't the only one who lost him. I did. We all did. I saw a chance to save him—and you. And I took it."

A breathless silence settled again—this one different. Not suffocating, but shell-shocked.

Older Conner stood completely still, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. His chest was rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths, like the storm inside him was trying to break loose.

And then, his gaze drifted back to you.

His eyes softened—barely—but it was enough for you to see it. The break. The crack in the armor he'd spent years welding together.

"I buried you once," he said quietly, voice like gravel. "I carried your body. I had to tell them you weren't coming back. I've lived every single day knowing what it's like to wake up without you. I can't..." his voice wavered, "I can't do that again."

You opened your mouth to speak—to tell him you weren't going anywhere. That this was different. That it wasn't some illusion, some cosmic fluke.

But you never got the chance.

In a single, jagged motion, he turned on his heel. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor like a shed skin.

The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway, hard and fast, the air behind him thick with grief and fury.

The back door flung open with a sharp click and then—

SLAM.

The screen door swung shut behind him with a final, violent rattle, and he was gone.

Gone like he had been trained to disappear. Like pain had taught him that walking away was the only way to survive it.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Casey stood frozen, his chest heaving slightly, his face a war between guilt and defiance. His hands shook, though he clenched them tight, determined not to let anyone see.

Corra turned away slightly, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she was trying to contain the swell of emotion rising in her throat.

Cameron stayed pressed against you, eyes glassy and scared, small fingers tangled in your shirt as if the slamming door had threatened to take you with it.

You stared at the door.

The space he had filled. The silence he left behind.

And you knew, without question, what needed to happen next.

You'd have to go to him. You'd have to find the man behind that wall of pain and time.

But not yet.

You'd give him the space to breathe, to break, to feel what he needed to feel.

Because when you went to him—you wanted him to be ready.

And you'd be there, waiting. For him.

THE FRONT door creaked faintly behind him as Younger Conner stepped out, letting it close with a soft click that was swallowed quickly by the open air. The Kansas morning wrapped around him like a memory—warm, slightly humid, tinged with the scent of rich soil and sun-warmed grass. The sky above was a canvas of soft gold and pale blue, the early sun stretching its light across the land in long, honeyed streaks that dappled the edges of the farmhouse and the worn gravel driveway.

He stood still for a moment, letting the sounds of the farm settle into him. Birds chirping lazily from the tree line, the occasional buzz of a bee passing too close, and the rhythmic clink of metal tools from near the barn—deliberate, steady, unhurried. He followed the noise with his eyes and found him.

His older self.

Just past the barn doors, Older Conner was crouched beside the weathered frame of a long-retired red tractor, its paint chipped and dulled by time. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and sun-worn skin. He was focused on tightening a stubborn bolt, muttering under his breath when the wrench slipped, and then tightening it again like his life depended on the motion. Like if he kept doing, he wouldn't have to feel.

Younger Conner took a slow step forward, gravel crunching lightly under his boots. He hesitated, watching.

The man in front of him was undeniably him, yet not. His frame was heavier with time—stronger, yes, but slower, steadier. His once-coal black hair now held thick streaks of silver, especially around the temples. His beard was full and salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed, but aged him even more than the years had. And his face—hardened. The youthful sharpness of it had been carved into something more stoic, more weary. Every line etched by stress, by grief. By you.

Because now Conner could see it.

What Corra had meant.

He wasn't just seeing a version of himself that had grown older. He was seeing a version that had grown lonelier.

There was a weight in every movement, a heaviness in the way Older Conner stood, in the way his brow furrowed even when he wasn't speaking. He didn't move like someone carrying responsibilities.

He moved like someone carrying a void.

And that void had a shape.

Your shape.

Younger Conner exhaled quietly, then finally stepped closer, his tone light—gentle. "You're really giving that bolt hell."

Older Conner didn't glance up. He gave the bolt one final turn, tested it with a nudge of his thumb, then reached for a different tool.

"You don't get an old machine to keep running by taking it easy," he said, his voice low and rough. "Everything worth keeping takes effort."

Younger Conner didn't crowd him. He leaned against the edge of the barn doorframe, arms folded, gaze soft as he watched his future self in silence.

Time passed between them—not empty, but charged. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was thick with understanding neither of them had the words for yet.

"I saw the photos," Conner finally said. "In the hallway. I saw the point where he stopped being in them."

Older Conner's hand paused on the wrench. Just for a second. His fingers tightened, his knuckles whitening. But he didn't turn.

Younger Conner swallowed and kept going. "I didn't get it at first. I thought maybe it was just... the way things played out. That people drift, or something happened. But I get it now. What it must've done to you. What it meant."

At that, Older Conner finally straightened. He didn't speak immediately—just looked out across the open fields beyond the barn, where wheat was beginning to ripple beneath a light breeze. His shoulders rose and fell once before he said anything.

"He died twelve years ago," he murmured. "Felt like the world cracked down the middle."

Younger Conner stayed still, barely breathing.

"One minute, he was there," Older Conner continued, voice even rougher now. "Standing in front of us, glowing. Burning brighter than anything I'd ever seen. Pushing back everything dark that wanted to swallow us. The next minute..."

His jaw flexed. His eyes closed.

"Gone."

Younger Conner lowered his head, letting the silence speak for him.

"He wasn't just my husband," Older Conner said, voice quieter. "He was my best friend. My partner. My reason to keep going. He reminded me who I was, when the world tried to make me forget. I didn't build a life. I built one with him. And then—"

He stopped, then gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

"I never planned for what came after."

Younger Conner looked down at his own hands, his voice soft but sincere. "I wouldn't have either."

Older Conner turned his head just slightly. Their eyes met—his older gaze heavy with memory, grief, and a sharp understanding. He looked at his younger self not with disappointment, but with knowing.

"You will," he said. "If you love him like I did—do—you'll understand. Every inch of it. Every price. And it'll still be worth it."

"I already do," Younger Conner replied immediately, without hesitation. "That's why I came out here. I didn't want to argue. I didn't come to question what you've done. I just wanted you to know... we're not here to reopen anything. We're here because we still have a chance."

Older Conner finally turned to face him fully. His arms lowered. His face—still guarded—softened just a fraction.

"It's not the wounds I'm afraid of," he said after a moment. "It's the ghosts. They don't scream. They whisper. All day. All night. And when you live with them long enough... they're the only voices you remember."

Younger Conner stepped off the frame of the barn and took a slow step forward, stopping just a few feet away.

"Well... he's not a ghost today," he said gently. "He's standing in that house, holding our boys, breathing, smiling. Right now. We don't have to imagine him. We don't have to remember."

Older Conner stared at him.

Not as a man looking into a mirror.

But as someone looking at the possibility of healing—and being terrified of it.

And yet... his expression shifted. The tension in his brow loosened. His hands relaxed at his sides. His eyes shimmered faintly—not with tears, but with life beginning to seep into old cracks.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"No," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "He's not."

And for the first time in over a decade... the door inside him began to creak open.

THE SCREEN door groaned open, its hinges protesting against the morning breeze as two sets of footsteps crossed the threshold—measured, unhurried, in sync without effort. One set was lighter, younger, familiar with movement yet not heavy with burden. The other was older, deeper, each step resonating with the weight of time and memory. The footsteps traveled into the warmth of the house, where the scent of home clung to the walls like something sacred—sizzling eggs, golden toast, the faint sugary perfume of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

You sat in the heart of it all—at the center of the farmhouse kitchen table, surrounded by the world you thought you'd never see again.

The table was crowded, alive with voices and food and the kind of chaos only a well-loved family can create. Casey was posted at the far end, animatedly cutting into a towering stack of pancakes as he gestured through a half-told story. Corra, effortlessly comfortable, sat sideways in her chair with one leg folded underneath her, nonchalantly stealing berries from her twin brother's plate. Cole batted her hand away with a groan but didn't actually move his plate, smirking all the same.

And then there was Cameron.

Still shaking off the sleep in his bones, he leaned drowsily into your side, head tilted ever so slightly against your shoulder, letting your arm rest around him like it had never left. His plate sat barely touched in front of him, and your other hand held a mug of coffee, warm against your fingers. His presence was quiet, but solid—anchored. Like the world had finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.

You smiled, soft and full. The kind of smile that only came when something lost had been found.

In that moment, to anyone looking, it was as if you had never left. As if time had stitched itself back into place, no seams, no gaps. Just home.

Then came the creak of the door again.

The hush before a storm—or something gentler.

The footfalls crossed the threshold and stopped just inside the hallway entrance.

And slowly, instinctively, the room turned.

It wasn't planned or rehearsed. It was reflex. Every face shifted toward the doorway, every conversation dropped off mid-sentence. Eyes moved like a silent current toward the figures now standing at the edge of the kitchen.

Younger Conner stood there first—his frame taut, alert, his hands loosely clenched at his sides. His gaze was calm but watchful, as if bracing for a ripple he couldn't quite predict. And beside him, towering just slightly more, was Older Conner.

Bearded. Weathered. Steel-eyed. But different now.

Softer.

There was a stillness in him that hadn't been there before. A kind of fragile peace resting in the space where pain had lived for too long.

The warmth of the kitchen dimmed into quiet as every pair of eyes took him in. Your children didn't flinch. They didn't recoil. But they didn't speak either. They waited.

And then—his eyes found you.

Time didn't freeze, but it bent. Just enough.

You held his gaze across the expanse of the room, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. He didn't look away. He didn't try to guard himself like before. He simply stood—watching you, breathing you in, the faintest tremble in his exhale betraying everything he felt but couldn't yet say.

His eyes traveled the room slowly, resting on each of his children—Casey, Corra, Cole, and Cameron—all of them alive, all of them together. And then back to you.

And then... he stepped forward.

"I owe some apologies," he said, voice low and sandpapered but no longer clenched in fury. "Especially to you, Casey."

The words carried weight. More than just acknowledgment—they were a surrender.

Casey, midway through a bite of pancakes, paused and looked up, lips parted. He didn't speak right away. He watched his father with quiet caution, waiting to hear the rest.

Older Conner shifted his weight, hands twitching slightly at his sides, as if speaking the truth was harder than lifting mountains.

"You did what you thought was right. Because you love him. Because you love us." His eyes flicked briefly toward you, then back. "I was too angry to see it. I didn't want to believe anyone had to make that choice. But I understand now. You just didn't want to keep losing the people you love."

Casey lowered his fork. His nod was small, but it was enough. "I didn't want to lose you either," he said quietly.

Conner swallowed hard.

His gaze turned to you.

"And you..." His voice faltered—just a little. But he pressed on. "I didn't mean to walk out on you. I didn't know what to say when I saw you. I still don't. I've been angry for so long. Not at you. At everything. At myself."

You rose slowly from your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floorboards. The table faded away. The kitchen faded away.

All that existed was the space between you.

"I understand," you said, voice gentle, your eyes never leaving his.

He nodded—barely. His jaw clenched again, fighting for composure. But the storm behind his eyes had calmed. The years between you had dulled, just for a moment, enough for love to find a way through the cracks.

And then—

"Does this mean Dad won't yell at me if I skip dishes today?" Cameron piped up, his voice light, teasing, hopeful.

There was a beat of silence—just one.

Then laughter burst across the table. Rich, free, and warm. Corra snorted into her drink. Cole rolled his eyes. Casey grinned and tossed a berry at Cameron, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Older Conner shook his head, a small huff escaping him that was almost—almost—a laugh.

"Nice try," he said.

But then he looked at you again.

And this time, the pain was still there—but so was the healing. Something in his gaze had changed. A door had opened. The shadows weren't gone, but the light had found a way in.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

THE GOLDEN haze of afternoon had given way to the soft, amber tones of early evening, casting long, sleepy shadows across the Kent farmhouse. Outside, the fields glowed like sunlit oceans of wheat, swaying in a gentle breeze that whispered through open windows and carried with it the scent of tilled earth, honeysuckle, and late-summer warmth.

Inside, the house pulsed with a kind of quiet magic—not from powers or fate, but from the simple, sacred rhythm of family. It was the rhythm of a home in motion, familiar and foreign all at once. The sound of your children laughing, the clatter of dishes, the echo of music humming faintly from a speaker somewhere in the background—it filled the rooms like sunlight, chasing away the years you'd missed with something far more real.

And you'd spent most of the day watching—drinking in the sight of them not as soldiers or missions or headlines, but as your kids. Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. People who had grown up without you but still, somehow, carried pieces of you inside them.

Casey was every bit the soldier you'd heard about—calm, efficient, sharp-eyed. But beneath that perfect posture and tactical precision was a young man who struggled to turn his brain off. He filled every spare moment with action: reviewing data logs, drafting new patrol routes, analyzing mission reports with all the seriousness of a general. You'd watched him furrow his brow over a report at lunch, the others teasing him for it, and you'd felt both pride and heartbreak.

Corra was a whirlwind wrapped in contradictions. Wild, witty, full of opinions and utterly uninterested in being told no. She spoke her mind like a weapon and laughed like a firecracker. But then you'd seen her disappear into the corner of the porch later, sketchpad in hand, drawing with a delicacy that didn't match her brash energy. Faces. Always faces. She didn't want anyone to see them, but you caught her looking at you once as she quietly flipped to a new page.

Cole—gods, he was a handful. The sarcasm practically leaked from his pores, and his arguments with Corra were already legendary. But there was depth behind the bravado. He worked with his hands, disappearing for hours into the barn or the garage, reengineering things that didn't need fixing just because he could. He didn't brag about it, but there was a tenderness hidden in the things he built. You noticed the way he followed Cameron with his eyes, always a few paces behind, pretending not to hover. But he did.

And Cameron. Already more attuned to emotion than most adults. He didn't say much, but his silences weren't empty. They were listening. Feeling. You caught him once standing by the window, fingers trailing the frame, just watching the sunset like it was speaking to him. Later, Corra told you he kept a box of dried flowers under his bed, collected from every place he'd been. A silent collection of beauty gathered in the cracks between missions. A quiet archive of everything he'd survived.

You'd missed so much.

But now, with the sky bleeding orange and lavender and the scent of dinner curling through the hallways, you were here. You were part of it.

By the time the sun had slipped behind the hills, the house had become a warm cacophony of clatter, chaos, and comfort.

Corra and Cole were currently locked in a full-on wrestling match in the middle of the living room rug, shrieking with laughter as limbs tangled.

"Say it!" Corra shouted, pinning Cole's arm behind his back. "Say I'm stronger!"

"NEVER!" Cole barked back, red-faced and thrashing beneath her grip, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

"Say it or I'm gonna make you eat that stupid sock you call a beanie!"

"IT'S VINTAGE!"

In the hallway, Cameron guided Younger Conner through the den, stopping in front of a long shelf lined with trophies, medals, and keepsakes. "That one's from the peace summit on New Genesis," he said softly, tapping a glass orb filled with silvery dust. "I helped stop a civil war by translating emotion through shared dreams. No violence. Just... understanding."

Younger Conner blinked. "You're telling me you pulled off intergalactic therapy?"

Cameron grinned shyly. "Dad says it made him cry. He denies it, though."

"Hell, I believe it. That's some next-level empathy, kid."

Meanwhile, the kitchen had become its own warm ecosystem.

The aroma of garlic and rosemary drifted thick through the air as Older Conner stood over the stove, focused and precise, stirring a dark, bubbling sauce with military attention. He wore an old, grease-smudged apron, and the corners of his mouth twitched every time the oven timer dinged. The clink of metal utensils, the low sizzle from the roast, and the occasional mutter under his breath filled the space.

Beside him, Casey stood at the counter, chopping carrots like he was disarming a bomb, sneaking glances at his father between every cut.

"You don't have to hover," Conner muttered.

"You burn the bread every time," Casey replied, sliding a tray toward the oven.

"That happened once."

"Three times. M'gann's rations remember."

Older Conner scoffed. "You wanna cook?"

"Not unless we want tactical failure by dessert."

That's when you stepped in.

You dried your hands on a dish towel as you entered, the glow of the kitchen lights catching in your eyes. You paused for just a moment, leaning against the counter, taking it all in—Conner and Casey side-by-side, sharing quiet jabs and glances, moving together in a rhythm only built through years of love and resilience.

"I figured I'd come help," you said, casual, your voice soft but certain as you stepped forward.

Both heads turned toward you.

Older Conner met your gaze. There was a beat—a pause in the air thick enough to press against your chest—but he nodded slowly, then motioned to a colander of washed vegetables.

"You can prep the salad," he said. His tone was gruff, but there was no edge to it. Just something warm. "And keep Casey from over-engineering the dressing."

"Hey," Casey said, smirking. "Don't knock molecular gastronomy."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, sliding in beside them and reaching for a knife. The cutting board thudded gently beneath your hands, the simple rhythm of dinner prep grounding you more than anything else had since arriving.

And there you were.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who had carried your memory for over a decade, and the son you didn't get to raise—but already admired.

It wasn't a dramatic moment. No speeches. No big declarations.

It was chopping lettuce. Stirring vinaigrette. Passing a spoon. Sharing space.

And in that quiet, unremarkable task—amid the scents of rosemary and warm bread, the bubbling laughter from the living room, and the sound of your children being home—you weren't just a guest in their lives anymore.

You were back.

Not as a ghost. Not as a memory.

As part of it.

A father. A partner. A piece of the family they had tried so hard to keep whole.

THE OVEN let out a low, steady hum, its warmth bleeding into the kitchen like a soft heartbeat. The scent of rosemary, roasted vegetables, garlic, and slow-cooked meat hung thick in the air—comforting, familiar, and grounding. It mingled with the golden glow of early evening, spilling through the kitchen window and bathing everything in soft, amber light. The room, once bustling with chatter and overlapping voices, had settled into a rare, well-earned stillness.

It wasn't silence that felt empty. It felt full—weighted with all the things said, unsaid, and finally starting to heal.

Somewhere deeper in the house, the distant sounds of life carried on. From the living room, laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone—likely Cole—falling off the couch again, accompanied by Corra's triumphant shout. Muffled music buzzed from Cameron's room, underscored by the soft cadence of conversation filtering faintly through the hallway.

The house was alive. A heartbeat. A home.

But here, in the kitchen, it was just the two of you.

Older Conner stood across from you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but laced with something deeper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows of a well-worn flannel shirt, and his beard caught the kitchen light in thin streaks of silver and warmth. His gaze wasn't on you—not directly. He stared at the pot simmering on the stovetop, but his eyes were far away, caught in memories too fragile to voice yet.

You stood at the cutting board, the gentle thunk of your knife slicing through cucumber the only real sound in the room besides the hum of the oven and the faint tick of the wall clock. You weren't really paying attention to the salad anymore. Your focus kept drifting to him. The silence between you was thick—not tense, but tender. Like standing on the edge of a moment neither of you wanted to rush.

Then, quietly, you broke it.

"Casey's... remarkable," you said, your voice soft. "I've only been here a day and already I can see it. How grounded he is. How sharp. How deeply he loves all of you. I can't believe I missed getting to watch him become that."

Conner didn't answer right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, or maybe a memory passing through him.

"He always had that fire," he murmured. "Even as a kid. He wanted to fix things. Protect people. He didn't wait to be given permission—he stepped into the role. Always two steps ahead. That part..." he looked up, finally meeting your eyes, "that part's all you."

You looked down, heart swelling and aching at once. "He has your strength. And your stillness. He sees everything."

Conner's gaze softened. "He's ours."

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. "I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I was terrified. J'onn thought it was a mutation at first, something unstable—because I wasn't supposed to be able to carry. And then... suddenly, I was. With him."

Conner straightened, the memory flickering like a light inside him. He stepped forward, closer, his voice low and cracked with a kind of reverence.

"That day..." he said, eyes fixed on yours, "was one of the happiest of my life."

You blinked, surprised by the conviction in his voice.

"I remember you coming into the Cave," he went on, quieter now. "You'd just had that check-up with J'onn and Bruce. You walked straight toward me, but your hands were shaking. You didn't say anything at first. And then you did. You whispered it. And for a second, I couldn't breathe."

He gave a faint, breathless laugh. "Like the world just... stopped. Like all the war, all the missions, all the noise had quieted to give me that one moment."

You said nothing, afraid if you did, you'd lose your hold on the emotions flooding your chest.

"I used to talk to him," he continued. "Every night. While you slept. Even when there was nothing to feel yet. I'd press my hand to your stomach and tell him how much I loved you. How we were going to make this work. Give him a life that felt safe. That felt like home."

A long, quiet beat.

"And for a while... we did."

You closed your eyes, drawing in a slow breath to keep yourself steady. But the guilt settled over you like an old, familiar ache.

"I'm sorry I left you to do it alone," you whispered, voice barely audible.

Conner turned toward you fully then, his expression solid, eyes bright with a kind of fire that hadn't dimmed, even with time.

"You didn't leave," he said, firm and immediate. "You fought. You died protecting us. Protecting them. You didn't walk away. You didn't run. You saved us."

He paused, stepping closer until he was beside you, until the warmth from him was real and close and steady.

"You just didn't come back."

The words struck deep—soft, painful, but true. And somehow, they brought a measure of peace.

You looked at him then—not as a memory or a scar, but as a man. The boy who once kissed you in the rain behind the Tower. The father who had raised your children without you. The soldier who carried the weight of grief like it was armor.

And the man who never stopped loving you.

He reached out, his hand finding yours on the counter. His palm was calloused, rough at the edges, but warm—solid in a way that made you want to lean into him and never let go.

His fingers closed around yours.

"But now," he said softly, "you're here. Even if it's borrowed time. Even if the world pulls you back again... I needed this. I needed you. Just once more."

You blinked fast, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill over. "I needed it too."

Neither of you moved after that.

The soft tick-tick-tick of the oven timer was the only sound that lingered in the kitchen after your quiet exchange with Older Conner. It filled the air like a metronome to your thoughts—slow, constant, reminding you both of the fragile thread holding this moment together. The kind of stillness that comes after an emotional tide—when words have done their part, and all that remains is breath.

And then, from the next room, a low crackle broke through the silence.

The stereo—old, slightly dusty, clearly temperamental—whirred to life with a soft hiss before spilling music into the house. A slow, soulful tune emerged from its speakers, all faded vinyl warmth and aching melody. It was the kind of song made for twilight moments—the ones that exist between conversation and silence. The kind that wraps around you like old sheets and distant memories.

You knew the song. Not just in the way people know lyrics, but in the way it lived in your bones.

You'd danced to it once. In a different kitchen, maybe. Or a bedroom with the lights low. Barefoot. Laughing. Wrapped in his arms while the world spun quietly outside your window.

And now, it played again. Like the universe had rewound the clock for just a little while.

You turned slightly, eyes drawn toward the soft hum of the music bleeding in from the living room. A smile tugged at your lips—nostalgic, tentative, real.

Before you could speak, Conner shifted beside you.

And then... his hand reached out.

Palm open. Steady. Offering—not demanding. A quiet invitation, spoken not through words but through the weight in his gaze. A gaze that held grief and memory, but more than anything else... longing.

"Dance with me?" he asked. Barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart caught, your breath stuttered—but only for a second.

"Yes," you breathed.

You slid your fingers into his. His hand enveloped yours, warm and steady, and he guided you gently—out of the kitchen's narrow space, toward the center of the room, where the worn hardwood caught the fading golden light just right.

He pulled you close—not roughly, not even with urgency. Just close.

The space between your bodies vanished. His arm slipped around your back, drawing you in, while his other hand rested against the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your hair like he couldn't believe you were really there. You felt his chest rise against yours, then fall in a quiet, steady rhythm.

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his collarbone without thinking. The scent of him—earth, spice, the faintest trace of engine grease—surrounded you like an embrace all its own.

He started to sway—slow, careful, as if he were relearning how to move with you. One step, then another. Barely dancing, really. Just holding. Rocking. Breathing.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Slow. Steady. Anchoring.

And neither of you said a word.

There was no need.

Because in that moment, it wasn't about what had been said—it was about what hadn't. About the years that lived between you, and how, somehow, you had found your way back to each other across the ruins of all that was lost.

It wasn't romantic, not in the way the movies tried to sell it.

It was real.

In the doorway, unseen by either of you, four figures appeared.

Casey was first—leaning just enough to see. His brow furrowed at the sight, then softened. Corra stepped beside him, lips parted, one hand lifting to her chest, as though something deep in her had cracked open. Behind them, Cole folded his arms and muttered, "You guys are so sappy," but didn't move. Didn't blink.

And Cameron... Cameron just smiled. Quietly. Brightly. Like something unspoken in his chest had clicked back into place.

They all watched for a few seconds longer—long enough to feel it. The gravity in the room. The history. The ache and the healing. And then, like shadows, they retreated—silent and reverent.

In the hallway, they found Younger Conner leaning against the wall, arms crossed and casual, though his eyes betrayed far more than his posture suggested.

"What?" he asked, eyebrow raised, tone half-curious, half-defensive.

Corra smirked, nudging him playfully. "You still got moves."

Casey chuckled under his breath. "And a vice grip. He's holding Pa like if he lets go, the world might end again."

Younger Conner didn't respond right away.

Because he'd seen it, too. Felt it.

Not just the love—but the depth of it. The need. The ache. The sacredness of a bond that had endured time, tragedy, and death itself.

And somewhere, behind the glimmer in his eyes, a thought took root.

I don't ever want to have to hold him like that.

Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't want to know what it felt like to lose you.

Back in the kitchen, the song played on.

The light dimmed further, gold fading into soft, muted lavender. The house exhaled around you. And you... you were still there. In his arms. Swallowed by the melody, grounded by the weight of his embrace.

He held you like a man who had been forced to let go once before.

And this time, he didn't plan to loosen his grip again.

You remained nestled against Older Conner's chest, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of him as the soft song spun through the kitchen like a slow-motion dream. It wrapped around the two of you like a shared memory made real again, each note more tender than the last. The overhead lights glowed low and golden, casting a halo over the moment—catching on polished countertops, reflecting off the glass of the cabinets, and dancing across the windowpanes. Outside, the horizon had dipped fully into twilight, stars just beginning to pierce the deepening sky.

But in here, all you could see was him.

His arms tightened around you, a subtle but undeniable shift in pressure—as if every inch of him still feared this was a trick, that if he loosened his hold, you'd vanish like smoke. You leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up toward him. His eyes met yours immediately—clear, piercing, ocean-deep. They were older now. Worn. Carrying a thousand battles and years of grief. But they were still his.

Still the same blue that once saw straight through you.

You reached up slowly, your fingers finding the edge of his flannel shirt, curling into the fabric for reassurance as your heart thudded wildly inside your chest. You studied him—every crease at the corner of his eyes, every fleck of gray in his beard. Your thumb brushed gently along his jaw.

"Conner..." you whispered, your voice delicate, shaped by emotion too large to name.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His head dipped just slightly, his breath brushing across your lips. The space between you narrowed, impossibly fragile. You leaned forward, your eyes drifting closed, the promise of a kiss hanging in the air like a heartbeat away.

And then—the world ruptured.

A deafening CRACK shattered the silence as the kitchen window exploded inward in a vortex of burning violet light. The force slammed through the glass, through the wall, a wave of raw, corrupted cosmic energy that howled with an unnatural pitch. It wasn't just fire or wind or impact—it was like the universe itself had been ripped open and hurled through your home.

You didn't even have time to scream.

Before your mind could register what had happened, Older Conner's body was in motion.

He moved with supernatural speed—faster than thought—shoving you behind him, arms outstretched, every muscle tensed with primal instinct. The blast struck him squarely, flaring violet against his back as it detonated, engulfing you both in the eruption.

The kitchen imploded.

You were airborne before you even realized it, flung like a ragdoll through cabinets, walls, through everything. A chorus of wood splintering and glass screaming filled your ears, followed by the deafening crash as your bodies blew through drywall and collapsed into the living room in a hail of dust and debris.

You landed hard—shoulder-first into the floor, a flare of pain shooting through your ribs. You hit and rolled, instinctively curling in on yourself, hands flying to shield your stomach, your child. A heartbeat later, Conner's body slammed down beside you, skidding across the floor in a haze of broken wood and pulverized plaster. He didn't cry out—just grunted, arms still reaching in your direction even as a beam collapsed across his back.

The music cut off mid-note.

Silence fell for a beat—shattered only by the electrical hiss of sparking wires, the groan of settling walls, and the ringing in your ears.

And then—

"Dad!"

"Pa?!"

"Get them out—NOW!"

Familiar voices. Panic. Movement.

You blinked against the dust, vision swimming. Everything hurt. Your fingers flexed against the floor, and you tried to lift yourself, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

Then hands—warm, frantic, familiar—were on you.

Casey. Cole. Corra. Cameron.

They were there, clawing through debris, lifting splintered beams, tearing apart the wreckage with desperation only children fighting to save their parents could possess.

You coughed, the motion sending a wave of pain through your side. Your mouth tasted of dust and blood. Through blurred vision, you turned—Conner—

He stirred beside you with a low groan, his arms still outstretched as if they'd never stopped trying to shield you. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, his flannel torn, body covered in plaster dust and fragments of wood. But his head snapped up the second he found you, his eyes wide, terrified.

"Are you okay?" he rasped, already reaching.

You nodded through the pain, voice hoarse. "Y-Yeah... I think so—just—"

You were cut off by the sharp CRACK of impact as Younger Conner burst through the wreckage like a comet, his body glowing faintly with energy, his fists sparking with raw power. His eyes scanned the carnage, then found you, then the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had once been.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, voice shaking with fury. He dropped to one knee, hands flying to the broken pieces trapping you and Older Conner, tossing them aside like they weighed nothing.

Then, a second blast fired.

BOOM.

It scorched across the far wall, narrowly missing the roof as it seared a molten path from one end of the room to the other, punching through family photos, memories—everything.

The ground shuddered. Lights flickered.

Violet light bled through the hole like an open artery, flickering in rhythmic pulses that made the shadows twitch and the air hum with cosmic distortion.

Older Conner reached for you, his grip firm, anchoring. His hand slid into yours like it had always belonged there, and he pulled you to your feet in one swift, protective motion. There was a new urgency in his eyes—a fire that hadn't burned this bright in years. He held onto you like if he let go now, he might lose you to the stars again.

Younger Conner stood beside him, muscles coiled like a loaded weapon. His jaw was locked, fists clenched at his sides, and his body trembled not with fear—but fury. Raw and barely restrained. His eyes, once soft when they looked at you, now burned like twin supernovae fixed on the source of this chaos.

Behind you, the sound of movement was quick, clean, trained. Casey's voice barked commands low and sharp as he tossed weapons and tech out of a hidden drawer, each of your children moving like instinct had taken over. Corra rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles, energy thrumming at her fingertips. Cole moved in precision—fluid and fast—pulling twin energy blades into being with a flick of his wrists. Cameron stood still, centered, calm—but his eyes glowed faintly, hands lifted, his power already dancing at his palms like a storm waiting to be called.

And then—that voice.

Low. Hollow. Dark.

It drifted through the shattered front wall like smoke through cracked stone.

"Come outside."

You went still. Everyone did.

That voice was carved into your bones now. Olympian.

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge.

It was a summons.

Conner squeezed your hand once, then let go as the group moved like a unit—every step synced in silent resolve as boots thudded down the front steps and onto the ruined porch. The last light of day had vanished, consumed by storm clouds that weren't quite natural, swirling with streaks of dark violet lightning. The air itself was wrong—too heavy, too still. Like time was holding its breath.

And there he was.

Hovering above the yard, as if gravity had no hold on him. Olympian.

His black armor gleamed like obsidian in the light of the pulsing crystal embedded in his chest—deep, violet, almost alive. Each pulse sent a ripple through the air around him, distorting it like heat rising from broken asphalt. His crimson cape billowed behind him, slow and ominous, as though it were drifting through water. The very space around him warped, bent—not just visually, but spiritually. He didn't belong here.

And yet he had come.

He didn't raise his arms in threat. He didn't need to.

His voice cracked through the storm.

"I don't want them." His head tilted slightly, eyes glowing behind the helm, gaze flicking to each member of your family before returning to you. "You know why I'm here. I want you."

The words hit like a thunderclap, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.

You stepped forward slowly, fists clenched. "I don't even know what it is you want."

"You will," Olympian said, voice dripping with certainty. "You carry something inside you—something ancient. Buried in your blood. Power that was never meant for this world. It was stolen. And I will have it back."

A cold pressure curled in your stomach. That pull you had felt before—that strange, cosmic thrum that responded to him—grew stronger, vibrating just beneath your skin like a calling only he and you could hear. The connection was real. Tainted. Undeniable.

But you didn't waver.

Casey stepped beside you, his stance wide and grounded, arms beginning to shimmer with celestial light. "You'll have to go through all of us first."

Corra smirked, fire dancing in her hands. "Seriously. Try me."

Cole cracked his neck, blades fully drawn, the soft hum of energy ringing at his sides. "You should've stayed in whatever black hole spat you out of."

Cameron stood a step behind, quiet but unmoving. "You're not laying a single finger on him."

Younger Conner stepped forward too, voice like a blade. "If you want him," he said, chin tilted high, "you're gonna have to fight the man he loved before you ruined his life... and the man who still stands by him now."

Then, Older Conner moved up to your side—shoulders squared, body still bloodied from the blast, but steady as ever. "You attacked my home. My children. My family. That was your last mistake."

You looked at them all—your family.

Conner and Conner.

Your children, radiant and ready, no longer the little ones you'd held in your arms, but warriors now. Guardians.

And something shifted inside you.

This wasn't about mystery anymore. It wasn't about destiny or some ancient bloodline.

It was about them. About us.

About love, and legacy, and choosing not to let anyone take that away from you again.

You stepped forward, standing at the front of your family, your voice clear and sure as it cut through the still air.

"Then come and try."

Because this wasn't just a standoff.

This was the beginning of a war.

And your family had already chosen their side.

#dc x male reader #x male reader #dc #gay #conner kent x male reader #conner kent #superboy x male reader #superboy

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daryltwdixon · 5 months ago

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Summary: Navigating the maze-like tunnels of the sewer system, Henry’s story—and his closely guarded secrets—begin to unravel. But freedom comes at a cost. As you emerge on the other side, hunters close in, their relentless pursuit making it clear just how badly they want your blood.

You are surprised at how well Henry seems to know the sewer system beneath Kansas City. The air in the tunnels is damp and heavy, the faint smell of mildew clinging to everything. You keep close to the group, your flashlight bouncing off the curved walls as you follow along.

“So, where did FEDRA go?” you ask, your voice low but clear in the echoing space. Henry glances back, his expression unreadable. “Do you have any idea? You seem to know your way around pretty well.”

Henry opens his mouth to answer, but Joel’s voice cuts through the air. “We always heard KC FEDRA was…” He trails off, looking pointedly at Henry.

“Mobsters?” Henry finishes for him. He gives a bitter smile, then a nod. “Savages?”

Your stomach tightens, dread creeping into your chest. “Yeah,” Henry adds, his voice dark. “You heard right. Raped and tortured people for twenty years.”

Your stomach twists at the thought. You freeze mid-step, your breath catching as a sharp chill runs down your spine. FEDRA, the government, the people who are supposed to keep order—it doesn’t seem real. Sure, your dad never trusted them, but he didn’t trust anyone. His hatred for the government is just one more thing he grumbled about over breakfast. But now, hearing this…

It makes sense why Bill had such a deep loathing for them. Why Joel seems to carry the same disdain.

No wonder so many Quarantine Zones had collapsed. The thought churns uneasily in your mind as you follow, the darkness pressing closer with every step.

“You know what happens when you do that to people?” Henry’s voice echoes sharply in the tunnel, cutting through your thoughts. He glances back, his face shadowed in the dim light. “The moment they get a chance, they do it right back to you.”

Joel gives a grunt of acknowledgment, his flashlight flicking ahead to scan the path. The silence that follows is thick, but you can’t let it go. “So where do you fit into all this?” you ask carefully. “You really just came in here one day with a group?”

For the first time, Henry hesitates. His shoulders tense, and his confident stride falters, just slightly. You notice his hands fidgeting at his sides before he stuffs them into his pockets. “Well,” he says finally, his voice quieter now. “I’m from the area. But…we came here for a reason.”

The group stops almost as one. Joel turns to Henry with a sharp look, Ellie watching with wide eyes. You stand frozen, staring at the man who seemed so sure of himself only moments ago. The air feels heavier now, like it’s just waiting for the next words to drop.

Henry glances down at his brother, his face etched with guilt. “I’m a collaborator,” he admits, each word dragged out like it hurts to say them.

Joel’s reaction is immediate—a low, exasperated sigh as he turns away, rubbing a hand over his face. “Shoulda known,” he mutters, his tone dripping with frustration.

“What?” you ask, looking between them, confused. “What’s a collaborator?”

“He’s a rat,” Joel snaps, cutting to the point with his usual bluntness.

Henry’s jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. He doesn’t try to defend himself. Instead, he just stands there, looking at the floor like it might swallow him whole.

“I never work with rats,” Joel says, his voice low and resigned, shaking his head.

“Well, you do today. ‘Cause I know the way out,” Henry says, looking at Joel his face set with determination, “And I’ve gotten you this far, haven’t I?”.

The word turns over in your mind, the cogs slowly clicking into place. A collaborator—someone who works both sides, right? Maybe he played a part with the Fireflies or his own group, all while secretly working for FEDRA. A double-crosser.

Your heart twists uncomfortably, the pieces slowly clicking together. Henry isn’t some hero leading his group through the city to scavenge supplies or food. He isn’t just a guy trying to survive.

But the group presses on, flashlights bouncing against the damp walls. The air feels colder now, the silence filling the space like a physical thing.

“So why did you bother to help us?” you ask, your voice sharper than you intended.

Henry glances back at you briefly, his expression calm but guarded. “We’re on the same side. Tryna get out of the city, away from those assholes up there. When we come out the other end of this, we’ll be in suburbia. I just needed help clearing the way to get to my people. Then, like I told you, we’re going to try to find the Fireflies.”

Ellie, walking just ahead of you, glances over her shoulder, her voice clipped. “So why didn’t we go this way in the first place if you know it so well?”

Henry hesitates, his hand briefly brushing the wall as he looks down the tunnel ahead. “You…notice anything strange about the city? Other than the shit you’ve already seen?”

You stare at his profile for a moment, illuminated faintly by the dim beams of light cutting through the darkness. Then it clicks, and your heart skips.

“No infected,” you say quietly.

Henry turns, nodding slightly. “Oh, there’s infected. Just…not on the surface.”

Your skin prickles at his words, unease settling in.

“FEDRA sent them all underground years ago. Might’ve been the best thing those fascists ever did—”

“When you say underground…” You trail off, looking at Joel. His eyes meet yours, and they widen with realization before narrowing again, anger sparking.

“You’re leading us straight into infected territory?” Joel hisses, his voice dropping lower. His whole posture tenses, his body instinctively angling protectively in front of Ellie.

“Everyone thinks these tunnels are full of infected,” Henry says, holding his hands out in a placating gesture. “But what I know is, it’s empty.”

“So you have been down here before?” Joel demands, his voice cutting through the stale air.

Henry hesitates again, his face illuminated by the light from your flashlight. His expression falls, guilt flickering in his eyes. “No.”

“Oh god,” you whisper, glancing at Joel and Ellie. They both look like they’re weighing the odds of surviving this plan—or walking into a death trap.

“But the FEDRA guy I worked with told me it’s completely clear. They cleared it out,” Henry adds quickly.

“When?” Ellie asks, her voice sharp with suspicion.

“Like…three years ago.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Joel’s face darkens, and he starts to turn back the way you came. “We’re turnin’ around,” he growls.

“Okay, maybe there’s one or two,” Henry says hastily, stepping in front of Joel. “But you can handle yourselves, and I can handle me and Sam.”

“What a great plan,” Joel mutters, his tone dripping with sarcasm.

“It’s dicey as fuck,” Henry admits. “But it’s a plan. And it’s all you guys got.”

The silence that follows is thick and heavy. No one moves, and you can almost hear the gears turning in Joel’s mind as he stares Henry down.

Finally, Joel lets out a frustrated sigh, adjusting his grip on the rifle slung over his shoulder. “This better not get us killed,” he growls, turning to keep moving forward.

“Trust me,” Henry says, his voice quieter now.

Joel doesn’t answer. You don’t think he trusts anyone anymore.

A few more turns through the narrow passageways, and you emerge into an open space. The air feels slightly less oppressive here, though the faint dampness still lingers. It looks deserted, eerily quiet, with no immediate signs of danger. But as your flashlight pans up the walls, something catches your eye.

The light illuminates bright colors—pinks, yellows, soft blues. Flowers, a rainbow, and a sun with a wide, cheerful grin beam down at you from the concrete. It’s a child’s mural, its innocence strikingly out of place in the grim, dark sewer.

“Wonder who was down here,” you say softly, your voice barely more than a whisper.

Joel doesn’t respond right away. Instead, his hand finds the top of your shoulder, a steadying weight as he nudges you forward. “C’mon,” he says quietly, his tone as firm as ever but lacking its usual edge.

You flinch slightly at the contact—not because it’s unwelcome, but because it’s so new, so foreign. Touch wasn’t something you were used to. Growing up, affection had been sparse, practical. Bill’s hand on your shoulder was always to pull you back from danger or steer you in the right direction, never lingering. Frank had been warmer, offering the occasional pat on the back or brief hug, but even those moments had felt rare and fleeting.

Every time Joel touches you, it sends a strange, electric feeling through you—like a jolt that starts in your chest and spreads outward, leaving your skin tingling where his hand lingers. You can’t quite name the feeling. It’s not fear, but it’s not entirely comfort either. It’s… confusing. It makes you hyperaware of him in ways that catch you off guard.

You’re not sure if you’re comfortable with it yet. It’s unnerving, the way your chest tightens in the rare moments he reaches for you. It's like you’re on unsteady ground, unsure whether to step closer or pull away. But when he does pull back, when the warmth of his hand is gone, you always find yourself missing it. It’s like the absence of something you didn’t realize you needed until it wasn’t there anymore. That realization leaves you even more confused.

You glance at him as you keep walking, the weight of his hand still lingering on your shoulder. Joel’s eyes are ahead, his expression unreadable as always, but you can’t help wondering if he even notices what he’s doing—or what it’s doing to you.

You step through a rusted door into what looks like it could’ve been a janitor’s storage room once, and your breath catches. Nearly everyone reacts the same way—Ellie lets out a quiet gasp, and even Henry’s face shifts with something close to surprise. Only Joel seems unfazed, his steady gaze scanning the room like he’s seen it all before.

“Heard about places like this,” Joel says, his tone even, as he moves closer to a whiteboard covered in scribbled notes. The words “House Rules” stand out in bold letters, with bullet points beneath: Doors stay locked at all times. Do not share passwords. No shouting. Drills every week.

The rest of the room tells the same story. Children’s toys and books are scattered across the floor, long abandoned but eerily intact. Mismatched chairs and cushions are set up in rows like a makeshift classroom, while bright, cheerful murals line the walls. Flowers, animals, stick-figure families—bits of hope and innocence painted onto cold concrete.

“People went underground after Outbreak Day,” Joel explains, his voice low as he steps further inside. His eyes linger on the whiteboard before glancing at the rest of the space. “They built settlements.”

“What happened?” you whisper, stepping closer to one of the murals. A cluster of colorful stick figures stands under a smiling sun, their arms linked like a chain.

Joel doesn’t hesitate. “Maybe they didn’t follow the rules and they all got infected.”

His words are flat, delivered so dully that it takes you a moment to process them. You glance at him, already feeling a twinge of annoyance at the way he’s clearly trying to call you out, but then you catch it—just barely. A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth, subtle but unmistakable.

Okay, sarcasm. The thought makes you smile back at him. Maybe it’s the dim glow of your flashlight playing tricks, or maybe it’s real, but there’s almost a twinkle in his eyes.

Sam and Ellie wander off to explore, their curiosity pulling them toward the scattered toys and books. Sam picks up a small action figure, turning it over in his hands, while Ellie thumbs through a tattered comic book, her flashlight casting a soft glow on the pages. Their voices are low, a mix of fascination and amusement as they share their finds.

“We could wait the light out a bit down here,” Henry suggests, his tone cautious but practical. “Wait until it’s dark outside to hop out the other end unnoticed.”

Joel glances at him, his jaw tightening slightly before he shrugs. He doesn’t look thrilled about the idea, but he doesn’t argue either. “Fine,” he mutters, his voice gruff, as if he’s resigned to the fact that Henry’s plan might be the best option for now.

The room feels strangely calm, easier to breathe in than the tight corridors you’d come through. The absence of infected makes it bearable, even relaxed. You keep your flashlight steady, scanning the area. The painted walls and scattered belongings give the space a sense of eerie stillness, as though time froze here long ago.

It’s dark, the only illumination coming from the beams of your flashlights, but it’s enough. Enough to see what you need, enough to feel just a little less on edge. For the first time in hours, there’s a small pocket of quiet. A moment to pause.

After a while, you find yourself sitting next to Henry, the quiet settling in between you as Joel watches Ellie and Sam kick a soccer ball against the cement wall. The makeshift goalpost is drawn in thick lines of faded paint, bold lettering above it declaring rules or a name long since smudged. Their laughter echoes lightly in the space, a rare sound that feels almost out of place here.

“You know,” you say softly, your eyes on the kids but your words meant for Henry. He glances at you, his smile faint as he watches them too. “If you were…I don’t know…” You trail off, searching for the right words, the ones that always seem so hard to pin down when you’re trying to be genuine.

Henry waits, his expression open, and you push yourself to keep going. “If you were a collaborator to take care of him”—your eyes flick briefly to Sam before landing back on Henry—“I get it. You don’t deserve to be called a rat.”

His smile fades, replaced by something quieter, softer. “Thanks,” he says, his voice low but earnest.

You nod, looking back toward Ellie and Sam, the moment feeling heavier than you expected. The silence stretches, and you shift slightly, uncomfortable with how exposed you feel after putting yourself out there. But before you can say anything else, Henry calls your name.

You glance back at him, meeting his gaze. His eyes are warm, focused and slowly, his hand lifts, hovering near your face.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he says, his voice gentle but laced with a hint of teasing. His fingers brush against your cheek as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear, his touch careful and deliberate. “You’re…nice. Like, really nice. I don’t know how someone like you made it this far without, I don’t know, losing that.”

Your face heats at his words, your stomach flipping uncomfortably. “Uh, thanks,” you manage, your voice quieter than you meant it to be.

He smiles again, leaning back slightly to give you some space but keeping his gaze locked on yours. “When we get to the radio tower,” he starts, his tone a little lighter now, like he’s trying to keep things casual, “you should think about sticking around. With my people, I mean. We could use someone like you.”

You blink at him, caught off guard. “Someone like me?”

“Yeah.” His smile widens, easy and disarming. “You’re good with people, even if you don’t think so. You’re kind, and…” He pauses, his eyes glinting with just a bit of playfulness. “You’re pretty decent company.”

Your cheeks burn, and you look away, overwhelmed. You glance at the kids, using their laughter as an excuse to focus on anything but Henry’s face. But the moment your gaze shifts, you catch Joel out of the corner of your eye.

He’s watching.

Joel’s still leaning against the wall, his arms crossed as his eyes flick between you and Henry. His face is hard to read, but there’s something about the way his gaze lingers—something sharp and assessing.

Your stomach tightens again, for an entirely different reason this time. Joel looks away quickly when your eyes meet his, as if the moment never happened, but your pulse picks up all the same.

Henry’s words stay with you, but they don’t feel the same. He’s kind, easy to talk to, and there’s warmth in the way he looks at you. But when his hand brushed your face, it didn’t stir the same feeling. Not like when Joel touches you. Henry’s touch was light and deliberate, but Joel’s? His touch always lingers, grounding and unspoken in a way that makes you notice every second it’s there—and every second it’s gone.

You shift in your seat, unsure of what any of it means. Feelings are messy, and yours are harder to name than ever. But one thing is certain: it’s not the same.

“So you’ll think about it?” Henry asks, his voice gentle as he brings your attention back to him.

You blink, trying to focus, but your thoughts are still tangled. You don’t really know what to say, so you just nod. “Yeah,” you murmur, a little breathlessly. It’s not a lie, exactly—you’ll think about it. Just maybe not in the way he’s hoping.

After a few hours, you continue through the passageway, your group moving quietly but purposefully. The oppressive silence still lingers, and while you’re relieved to find it so empty, the unease never fully leaves you. Every shadow feels like it could hold an infected, and every creak of the floor beneath your boots sets your nerves on edge.

Eventually, the cavernous space opens up again, revealing a stairwell to your left, its rusted iron rails gleaming faintly under your flashlight beams. It feels like a beacon of hope, cutting through the darkness.

“This way,” Henry says, his voice steady as he points his light toward the stairs.

Up and out into the fresh air, you feel like you can finally breathe again. The cool night breeze brushes your face, and the damp weight of the sewers lifts almost instantly. You tilt your head back to take in the sky, moonlight spilling across the quiet neighborhood you’ve emerged into.

“There it is!” Henry exclaims, pointing toward the radio tower in the distance. It stands like a promise of safety beyond the rows of darkened houses.

You’re quick to hush him, throwing a sharp look his way.

“Why can’t we use our lights?” Sam asks, his voice quieter but still curious, “No one is here.”

“You’re right,” Henry says, too confidently. “No one is here, and no one is going to be here because my plan worked!”

“So much goddamn talkin’,” Joel mutters, his voice low and irritated as he strides ahead.

“Just sayin’, I delivered! The radio tower is right over—”

Henry’s words are startlingly cut off by the sharp ping of a bullet striking metal, too close to Joel’s left side.

“Move!” Joel barks, grabbing your collar and then Ellie’s arm in one swift motion. He ushers you both down to the ground behind an abandoned car, his body moving with practiced precision. “Go!”

“Where is that coming from?” Henry asks, his voice shaking slightly as he crouches beside Sam.

Joel twists around, his eyes scanning the darkness. The night air crackles with tension as another bullet zings past, ricocheting off the car in front of you.

“Jesus Christ,” you breathe, your hands fumbling for your rifle. You peer cautiously out the broken side window, your eyes darting between shadows. Then you see it—a spark of white light from a second-floor window, milliseconds before another shot whistles through the air and slams into the hood of the car.

“Well,” you mutter, ducking back down and pressing your body close to the ground, “at least we know he’s got shit aim.”

Joel grunts in agreement, his focus unwavering. “Alright, stay here,” he says finally, pulling his gun out.

“What?” you and Ellie say in unison, your voices hushed but incredulous.

“If you don’t move, he’s not gonna hit you,” Joel replies firmly. His eyes flick to Ellie first, holding her gaze, then to you. “Stay. Put.”

“Let me help—” you start, gripping your rifle, but Joel shakes his head sharply, cutting you off.

“I’m gonna go around and through the back. It’s dark, and like you said, he has shit aim.” His voice is steady, like he’s already made the calculation and decided it’s the only way.

“He’s either gonna kill you or kill us,” Ellie argues, her tone biting but edged with worry.

Joel straightens and his voice softens, but his eyes stay locked on yours. “Do you trust me?”

You hesitate for a moment, the weight of the question settling in. But you do—you trust this man with your life, even if you can’t fully explain why.

Finally, you sigh and nod, your hands still gripping your rifle tightly. Ellie nods too, though her face is still tight with worry.

That’s all Joel needs. Without another word, he slips away, his movements low and silent as he disappears into the shadows. You swallow hard, trying to keep your breathing steady, and fix your eyes on the window where the shooter waits.

All you can do now is trust him.

The shotgun from the window continues to aim erratically, the barrel shifting slightly as if the shooter is tracking Joel’s shadowed figure. You press yourself closer to the ground, clutching your rifle tightly, every nerve on edge. All you can do is wait, the tension thick and suffocating, layered over the sound of the four of you breathing heavily behind the car.

“If he really can pull this off,” Henry whispers, his voice strained but hopeful, “I’ll never give him shit ever again.”

Ellie lets out a soft scoff, her attempt to lighten the mood barely masking her own nerves. “I’m not promising that.”

You glance at her, but before you can say anything, a different sound cuts through the air.

A gunshot—sharper, more deliberate than the erratic blasts from the shotgun.

The silence that follows is immediate and absolute.

Your breath hitches, your chest tightening as you stare toward the second-floor window. The shotgun has gone still—no movement, no sound. You exchange wide-eyed glances with Ellie and Henry, your mind racing.

When you peer over the car again, your eyes scan the window where the white light had been flashing moments ago. There’s no glow now, no sound of the shotgun going off. Unease knots in your stomach, and then you remember—the rifle you’d taken off that hunter has a scope.

Your hands move instinctively, adjusting the rifle and bringing it to your shoulder. Peering through the scope, you focus on the window, your heart pounding.

Sure enough, there he is. Joel. He’s leaning over, fumbling with the shotgun in the window as he looks out into the moonlit street below. Relief floods through you so fast it leaves you lightheaded. You lower your gun slightly but keep watching.

Then you see Joel pause. He straightens, turns back into the room, his movements sharp and purposeful.

“He’s okay,” you murmur, pulling your gun down and strapping it back around your middle. You glance back at the others, but before you can say more, a sound stops you in your tracks.

It’s faint at first—a voice, far away, barely cutting through the stillness. You hold your breath, trying to make it out.

Then it comes again, louder this time, echoing faintly through the night. A single word, repeated with growing urgency.

“Run.”

Your heart lurches. Joel’s voice.

He’s shouting now, the word cutting through the quiet like a blade, over and over.

“RUN!”

The headlights appear up ahead, blinding and sudden, as bright as staring into the sun. Your stomach drops. The truck barreling toward you is massive, the front fitted with a heavy metal plow, slamming through abandoned cars as if they’re nothing but toys. It’s heading straight for you.

“Go!” you shout, your voice cracking as you grab Ellie and Henry by their sleeves. Henry pulls Sam close, and the four of you take off in a scramble of movement. Fear burns in your chest as you sprint, your mind racing.

Behind you, bullets ricochet off the truck’s armored front, pinging sharply in the night air. You know it’s Joel, firing from the second floor, and you pray he’s got a clear shot at the driver. He’s better than the man stationed there before—you know that. But now, your life depends on it.

Ellie twists her body as she runs, her hand still gripping yours as she tries to aim her pistol at the truck. “Come on!” you shout, pulling her forward, panic surging as the truck closes the gap.

It’s so close now. The engine roars, the sound deafening.

You glance back at Ellie, making sure she’s still with you, her face set in fierce determination as she aims another shot. But you don’t see the uneven ground ahead, and your foot catches.

You fall hard, the impact jolting through your body as you hit the pavement.

At the same moment, you hear the shattering of glass behind you. The sound is sharp, cutting through the chaos. When you look up, heart pounding, you see the truck veering sharply off course. Its driver’s-side window is shattered, a clean bullet hole through the glass.

Joel got them.

The truck swerves violently, crashing into a nearby house. The collision is instant and brutal, the metal groaning under the impact. Flames burst from the engine, licking up into the night sky, and within seconds, the vehicle is fully ablaze.

Ellie grabs your arm, pulling you up with surprising strength. “Come on!” she says, dragging you toward cover as the flames roar behind you.

You stumble behind an abandoned car, your breaths coming fast and shallow, your knees hitting the ground hard as Ellie crouches beside you. There’s no time to catch your breath.

Behind the flaming wreck of the truck, more vehicles grind to a halt, one after another. Doors swing open, and the people hunting you spill out in a chaotic wave, their weapons raised. It’s a whole caravan, and their shouts echo through the streets, cutting through the roar of the fire.

Your heart pounds as you peek over the hood of the car, your grip tightening on your rifle. “Shit,” you mutter under your breath. There are too many of them—far too many.

Ellie ducks low beside you, reloading her pistol with shaky hands. “What now?” she whispers, her voice barely audible over the chaos.

You glance at her, then toward Henry and Sam, crouched behind another car a few feet away. Their faces are pale, illuminated in the flickering orange glow of the truck still engulfed in flames. Joel is out there somewhere, hopefully still picking people off from the shadows. But right now, it’s just you and the overwhelming sense that you’re surrounded.

The truck’s fire intensifies, heat rippling in waves, and then it happens. A deafening explosion tears through the air, flames and smoke bursting outward in a blinding flash. The blast lights up the entire area, casting long shadows across the street and igniting everything nearby in an eerie orange glow.

You shield your face, blinking rapidly as your ears ring. When you dare to look again, your breath catches.

Through the car’s broken windows, you see a woman step forward. She’s calm, composed, her eyes scanning the wreckage like she owns the place. Behind her is a group of people—hunters, some in full gear, bulletproof vests, and face shields. All armed. All deadly.

The woman stops, her voice cutting through the crackling fire. “Come on out, Henry.”

Your stomach twists. You whip your head toward him. “These assholes know you?”

Henry freezes, his wide eyes darting toward you, but he doesn’t answer. His silence says everything.

And then it clicks. These must be the people he betrayed—for FEDRA. He didn’t come into the city to scavenge for supplies or scrape together ammo like a normal survivor. No, he came here knowing exactly who he was running from. Hunters. People out for blood.

And now, here you are. Stuck right next to him.

“Come on out, Henry,” the woman calls again, her tone almost friendly, like she’s trying to have a conversation over coffee instead of hunting you down.

“I’ll come out!” Henry shouts suddenly, making you flinch. Your eyes widen in horror as he raises his voice. “But let the rest of them go!”

The woman doesn’t even pause. “No,” she says, her calm voice as deadly as the weapons in her crew’s hands. “Those girls are with the man who killed Brian.”

Your stomach drops. Brian? The name doesn’t register, but it doesn’t have to. One of the many you—or Joel—took down while escaping the city. A face among the chaos. Oh god. You took out so many of their people. For a brief, sickening moment, you wonder if you’re the villain in their story.

“And Sam,” the woman continues, her voice colder now, “Sam’s with you. I know why you did what you did, Henry. But have you ever thought… maybe he was supposed to die?”

Your blood runs cold. You stare at Henry, the man you thought you were starting to understand. The pieces fall into place with gut-wrenching clarity. He hadn’t told you the truth—not all of it. Not why these people were after him. Not why he needed to sneak out of the city.

“He’s just a kid!” Henry yells, his voice breaking.

“Kids die, Henry. Every day,” she replies, unflinching.

Henry turns to you, his dark eyes locking onto yours. They’re desperate, pleading. “I need you to take him with you.”

Your breath catches. “No—” you choke out.

“Yes.” Henry’s voice is firm, quiet but commanding. “Take him and Ellie, and run.”

“Henry—” Sam’s voice is soft, trembling.

“Listen to her,” Henry tells his brother, his gaze unwavering. “Do what she says.”

Then, to your horror, he takes a deep breath and stands.

The silence stretches unbearably long, the air thick with tension. The only sound is the crackling fire, the heat pulsing against your back as you crouch behind the car. You watch, frozen, waiting for the inevitable.

The woman’s gun raises, the metallic click of a chambered bullet echoing unnervingly loud.

But before the shot comes, a louder sound rumbles through the air.

Your eyes dart toward the blaze. The ground trembles beneath you. The truck—the one now burning fiercely against the house—is starting to shift. No, not the truck. The earth beneath it.

You stare, your heart hammering. Oh my god.

The truck begins to tilt, its weight dragging it down into the ground. The pavement cracks and collapses beneath it, the sound like thunder.

Henry’s words echo in your mind. You notice anything strange about the city? Other than the shit you’ve already seen?

No infected.

Oh, there’s infected. Just…not on the surface.

Your breath catches as realization hits.

Oh. My. God.

The truck sinks deeper, the flames licking at the edges of the growing hole, and for one terrible, heart-stopping moment, everything is still.

Then, the night erupts.

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