In the center of Smallville, it's not hard to notice when something breaks the silence of late afternoon.
The scream came sharp, desperate, piercing. The kind of sound that leaves no room for doubt: someone inside needed help. Three seconds later, the crack, the kind of noise you only hear when wood splits under the force of impact.
The second-floor windows rattled.
The chain on the "Closed" sign was still swaying when the first passerby stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.
"Did you hear that?"
"Someone screamed?"
"Sounded like… like a crash. Upstairs. And then a woman."
A couple walking on the other side of the street slowed down. The girl tugged her boyfriend's arm, pointing at the Talon.
"Hey… isn't that where Lana works?"
"Yeah. She's the manager, right?"
"Is it closed today?"
"It is. But why would anyone be in there alone… and screaming like that?"
Two more pedestrians came closer, stopping in front of the café window. Their eyes met, phones already in hand.
"Are you calling the police?"
"I'm dialing now."
"Wait. You're sure it was a cry for help?"
"You heard what I heard, didn't you?"
Others started gathering. No panic, no rush. But tension hung in the air. An old man coming back from the market stopped, bread bag in hand.
"This isn't right."
"Sounded like someone getting hit… I'm serious."
"Did anyone see if there's a light upstairs?"
"No… but I think someone's up there. I swear I saw a shadow move in the window."
The informal crowd already numbered more than ten. Two high school football players rode up on their bikes, stopping by the door.
"You sure it came from the Talon?"
"Of course it did. I was right here, on my way to the pharmacy."
"I was at the corner! That was a scream for help."
"My cousin works there. Lana. Could she…?"
"Has anyone seen her today?"
"No one. What if she's trapped?"
Speculation multiplied like weeds. Voices rose and fell in chaotic rhythm. A group of church ladies arrived, clutching their purses tight, eyes heavy with knowing looks.
"They're saying it was a robbery."
"I heard a man slipped in the back after the café closed."
"Maybe she had a breakdown. Young people today are so tense, right?"
"But what about that noise? Sounded like a wall falling."
"Sounded like a fight. Or someone being thrown."
On the sidewalk, phones were lifted, cameras recording. Nobody went upstairs, of course. Nobody was that foolish. But everyone wanted the first image, the first video, the first line that would confirm any theory.
And as in every small town, half a sentence taken wrong was all it took to set the gossip ablaze.
Someone said they saw a shadow leaving through the back door.
Someone swore it was a tall, strong man with a hard expression.
Another insisted the woman's voice was Lana's, crying "help" with real desperation.
"My daughter goes to school with her. Lana was always so calm…"
"Calm until today, right?"
"This kind of thing never happens in Smallville…"
"Are you kidding? We've had meteors, people disappearing, the bridge lunatic… and now this."
"Nothing surprises me anymore."
What began with two curious neighbors became nearly thirty people. Cars pulled over across the street. Parents dragged children back home. The town breathed a morbid kind of anticipation.
Gossip bled through the sidewalks like blood through an open vein.
At the barbershop, they were already saying "it was an assault."
At the minimarket, the owner swore he'd heard three screams and that the police were "definitely on the way."
In the school group chat, someone typed:
"Did you guys see what happened to Lana at the Talon???"
No context. No confirmation. But who cared?
Even those not present swore they'd heard it. Swore they'd felt the window shake, or the muffled thud of something breaking.
A lady at the bank whispered to her neighbor:
"Smallville is changing."
The other replied without looking up from her phone:
"No. Smallville's always been like this. We're just good at pretending not to see."
And so, the siege began.
Not with weapons. Not with magic.
But with something far more dangerous: too many eyes, too many mouths, and too much free time to turn a doubt into truth.
___
Clark heard every word. Every assumption, every lie dressed up as concern. The sound of phones unlocking, voice messages sent with trembling excitement, fingers tapping screens with false urgency. He heard footsteps on asphalt, voices crossing in rapid rhythm, judgments being sealed in real time. And most importantly: someone had already called the police.
'Vermin. One scream, one crack in the wall, and they're ready to light a bonfire in the square.'
His jaw tightened.
He no longer breathed through his chest. Control was total, but that rage, that silent, cold rage, the kind that really mattered, was already lodged beneath his skin.
He turned his head slowly and looked at her.
Isobel still on her knees. Hands lowered now. Her gaze fixed but trembling. She tried to hold her dignity, but failed in the details: uneven breaths, fingers slightly shaking, unfocused eyes.
She didn't know.
Didn't know what was happening outside.
Didn't know how many eyes were now fixed on that building. How many versions of the story were being created each second by people who had never stepped inside.
But Clark knew.
'If this slips out of my control now, what comes next isn't just a crisis… it's a nightmare.'
He took one step. His sole scraped the floor lightly. A small sound, but in her mind, it boomed like thunder.
Isobel lifted her face, still trying to look proud. Still thinking the scene before had exposed him.
"Still staring at me like a judge? After ripping apart my grimoire? After trying to erase me?"
"You don't understand anything I carry. Nothing."
Clark moved closer without changing pace.
"Are you done?"
"Or will you keep screaming?"
Isobel pressed her lips, her face hardening.
"You want to destroy me, is that it?"
"You've already realized I can't be controlled. Now you want to erase all I am with tricks and quick words."
"You're nothing but a coward masked as ice. A monster disguised as a strategist."
Clark crouched. One knee on the floor. His gaze steady, level with hers.
"Listen, witch."
"You don't know what I am. Or what I've done to keep this whole world breathing while idiots like you played with magic like toys."
"But I'll give you one chance. The last."
He raised his hand slowly. Not in threat. But in focus. Two fingers aimed straight at her temple, stopping half a centimeter short of touching.
"Lana is still in there."
"She can still come back."
Isobel's eyes widened slightly, but her face soon hardened with disdain.
"You really think she wants to? After all this?"
"She's weak. Too soft to bear any truth. All she does is run away."
"She won't—"
"—She will."
Clark's voice cut like a blade. Cold. Low. Final.
"Because if there's one thing you forgot, Isobel, it's that the ones with the most to lose… are sometimes the ones who resist the hardest."
He drew a deep breath.
"You used her body. But you didn't destroy her soul. And I know it, because she screamed inside when you pretended to be her."
Clark touched the floor with his fingers. A nearly imperceptible pulse rippled through the floorboards, an emotional frequency projected straight into Lana's mind. A psychic vibrational code — crafted by him, hidden beneath consciousness, waiting for the right moment.
"Lana."
The voice was internal.
"I know you hear me."
"It's time to wake up."
"You don't need to fight her. Just remember this body is yours. This life is yours. And what she did… can't define who you'll be."
"But if you don't rise now… Smallville will burn because of you."
"Jason could come up any second. And if he sees this… he'll see the witch. Not you."
"So decide."
"Wake up now… or lose everything."
Clark kept his hand on the floor. The energy vibrated slowly. The voices outside still echoed — a chorus of chaos awaiting the next act.
And he knew.
The next move was no longer his.
It was hers.
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