nother Friday rolled around in the blink of an eye.
Inside the Smallville High school newspaper office, the air carried that distinct mix of ink and old paper.
Afternoon sunlight slipped through the blinds, casting warm, striped shadows across a cluttered desk piled with drafts, photos, and coffee mugs.
Clark sat awkwardly in a creaky swivel chair, his oversized football jersey making him look a bit out of place in the cramped space. Clearly, he'd come straight from practice to kill some time.
Across from him sat Chloe Sullivan, the editor-in-chief, and Pete Ross, the staff photographer—his two closest friends.
"So," Chloe said without looking up, circling a typo with her pen, "you want me to dedicate another page to Stuart? Like we did for Lana, to help him out?"
"Yeah," Clark nodded.
"…"
Chloe took a deep breath, like she was trying to keep her frustration in check.
"Clark."
"Is there maybe, just maybe, a chance…"
"I've written about this in four straight issues of The Torch!"
"Huh?!"
"Oh… well, that's great then."
Clark swallowed hard, his fingers nervously picking at the armrest of the chair.
"Alright, Chloe, cut him some slack. The guy's been swamped with practice," Pete chimed in, tossing Clark a lifeline. "By the way, Clark, didn't you say you ate something wild the other day?"
"Atlantic Bluefin Tuna," Clark's face lit up, a dreamy grin spreading. "Man, it was so good."
"???"
"What the heck are you talking about, Clark?" Chloe asked.
"Ahem, tuna. We had a whole one at home!" Clark clarified.
"A whole one?!" Pete's eyes widened.
"Didn't you and Dio just have your birthdays a while back?" Chloe asked, taking off her glasses and leaning forward, disbelief written all over her face. "Is Uncle Lock's birthday coming up early? Or are you guys gearing up for Harvest Fest? Or…" she paused, "did your family hit the jackpot again?"
"Why 'again'?" Clark shot back, half-annoyed. "It's all thanks to Dio."
"Dio?" Pete perked up, intrigued.
"Yeah, Dio's been working part-time at a bakery or something and made some cash," Clark said, scratching the back of his head, his football jersey tightening over his muscles. "A few days ago, he brought home this tuna. Said he got it online or something, to 'spruce up our meals.'"
"But…" Clark lowered his voice, "the crazier thing? He's been tipping me for helping him out. I've already gotten five hundred bucks from him!"
"Five hundred bucks?!" Pete gasped. "That's, like, a mountain of chocolate brownies!"
"Is that the point?" Chloe's face darkened, exasperated. "A bakery job covering a whole tuna? And tipping you five hundred bucks in just a few days?"
"Pete, do you even realize how much money that is?" she pressed.
"Well…" Pete rubbed his chin, stroking his little goatee. "Now that you mention it, I did see Dio walking into Cebrello's Auto Shop after school the other day."
"Old man Cebrello himself walked him to the door, grinning like a kid on Christmas."
"Whoa—" Chloe sucked in a breath, her pen scratching a long ink streak across her draft.
"That Cebrello? The ex-Marine who rips off rich folks? Dio's making money there? Working on cars?" she asked, incredulous. "Or… fixing your family's old pickup?"
"No way," Clark shook his head firmly. "Dad and Uncle Lock would never take the truck there."
"Then what's he doing there? And with Cebrello acting like that?" Chloe muttered, her expression turning serious. "If Dio's walking in and out of a place like that, treated like a VIP… he must be…"
Loaded. Like, seriously loaded.
The three of them exchanged looks, speechless for a moment. The only sound in the room was the ticking of the old wall clock.
"Maybe…" Clark hesitated, "Dio's just working two jobs?"
"Oh, come on, Clark," Chloe rolled her eyes. "We're high schoolers, not Wall Street bankers who only need four hours of sleep. There's only so much time in a day. A bakery and Cebrello's? That doesn't add up."
"Plus…" she leaned forward, her eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and maybe a touch of greed. "What if Dio stumbled onto some kind of money-making scheme? My allowance has been a little tight lately, and my cousin Lois isn't exactly handing out loans."
"Why don't we just ask him? If there's cash to be made, we could all get in on it!"
Her words hung in the air, met with an awkward silence.
Chloe's cheeks flushed as Clark and Pete stared at her like she'd lost her mind.
"What's with those looks?" she huffed, a little defensive. "I'm just saying it's a possibility! Maybe Dio's actually—"
"Dio?" Clark cut in, his mind flashing to those mocking red eyes. "No way."
"Yeah," Pete added, shrugging. "It's like expecting the sun to rise in the west. Dio making money? Sure. Sharing it with us? Fat chance."
Chloe fell silent, like their words had yanked her back to some buried memory.
For a moment, she was back in sixth grade, that golden-haired boy with the face of an angel but the vibe of a devil. She'd just wanted to say hi, but his words cut like a knife dipped in ice:
"You're Chloe Sullivan? Clark's mentioned you. Now that I see you, you're like a penguin stuck in a revolving door."
Was that a compliment? She hadn't been sure, but Clark's explanation didn't help.
"He's saying you're kinda… clueless," Clark had said, trying to soften the blow. "Don't take it personally, Chloe. Dio's actually being nice about it."
Nice? She hadn't cried over Dio's jab, but Clark's attempt at comfort had her in tears.
From that day on, Dio Kent was cemented in her mind as the most arrogant, sharp-tongued jerk in the world. That label stuck like glue.
"Fine," Chloe sighed, her earlier excitement fizzling out. Her pen scribbled aimless circles on the draft, smudging the typo into a black mess. "You guys are probably right."
But then she perked up, her blue eyes sparking with determination. "So, Clark, what's Uncle Lock's take on this? Dio's throwing around cash like that, and he hasn't noticed?"
"Well…" Clark thought back. "Uncle Lock… he's mostly just obsessed with new ways to cook salmon."
"Honestly, ever since we got older, he doesn't really pry into our personal finances. He trusts us to handle our own stuff." Clark paused, then added, "Like, Dio got that Harley from who-knows-where, and we all know about it. He thinks he's slick, hiding it, but we just play along."
The room fell quiet again.
"Then that's it!" Chloe slammed her red pen on the desk with a sharp crack, startling both Clark and Pete.
"We'll take matters into our own hands!"
"Take matters…?" Pete nearly dropped his camera. "You're not saying we interrogate Dio, are you? I'm not trying to end up in the hospital!"
He shivered, clearly remembering something from a few years back.
"What are you even thinking?" Chloe shot him a look, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear with a flourish. "We're going to investigate. Legally, ethically, and with full journalistic integrity!"
Her voice buzzed with excitement, like she could already see the headline: "Think about it! Dio Kent, the high-and-mighty, stingy 'king' of Smallville, secretly working jobs and splashing cash? There's a huge story here. How about we call him 'The Working-Class King'?"
Pete rolled his eyes. Investigate the truth? More like an excuse to hang out with Clark.
He kept that thought to himself, though, muttering, "Just make sure you two stand in front of me if he starts swinging."
"Haha!" Chloe laughed, then pointed dramatically at Clark, who seemed lost in thought. "Alright, Clark Kent, you're our point man!"
"…"
"Clark?"
"CLARK!"
"Huh?! Oh!" Clark snapped back to reality, his heart still pounding like he'd just run a sprint. His face felt hot.
"Why's your face so red? And what were you zoning out about?" Chloe leaned closer, studying his flushed cheeks and shifty eyes.
"N-nothing!" Clark ducked his head, avoiding her gaze, his eyes landing on a blank sheet of paper on the desk. "Just… spaced out. Sorry."
He couldn't admit it, but just seconds ago, the afternoon sun had hit Chloe just right, filtering through the blinds and framing her face in a soft golden glow. Her slight frown, the flutter of her long lashes, her almost translucent skin—it had stopped him cold.
Whoosh!
A tiny flame suddenly sparked on the paper, right where he'd been staring.
"What the—fire?!" Chloe yelped, grabbing a thick school newspaper proof and smacking it down on the flame, putting it out in a puff of charred paper and a faint burnt smell.
The air filled with the weird scent of scorched protein.
Clark blinked, startled, his eyes feeling oddly dry and warm, like some kind of energy had just slipped out of him. He rubbed them, trying to hide his confusion.
"Uh… maybe the sunlight hit the paper through the glass for too long?" he offered weakly, grasping at the most scientific excuse he could think of.
"Whatever," Chloe said, still catching her breath, glancing suspiciously between the window and Clark. But her reporter instincts kicked back in. "Forget that. Clark, you need to go ask Dio what's up. What if he's mixed up in something shady? Or, like, brainwashed by some cult? It's totally possible!"
"Really?" Clark asked skeptically, though he couldn't help thinking Dio was more likely to run a cult than join one.
"Totally," Pete muttered under his breath. "I bet that cult's the one that needs saving from him."
Clark gaped at Pete. "Dude, are you reading my mind or what?"
"I'm telling Dio you said that," Chloe said, her face darkening.
Clark gave a sheepish grin and stood, pushing open the creaky wooden door of the newspaper office and stepping out.
But honestly? As he glanced down the hallway toward the stairs leading to the rooftop, he thought, I'd rather go back and face Chloe.
---
The Smallville High rooftop was like an abandoned island in the sky. The air always carried the faint rust of leaking pipes and the dry heat of sun-baked concrete. Even the wind sounded lonelier up here.
Hardly any students came up unless it was a specific moment.
Clark hadn't even reached the last few steps when he heard muffled sobs. Three girls, eyes red, hurried past him, nearly knocking him over.
Classic Dio, Clark thought with a sigh. He'd seen this scene too many times.
Ever since he and Dio started high school, Dio's flawless face and dangerous charm had girls flocking to him—only to leave the rooftop in tears, stung by his sharp tongue or icy attitude.
Smallville's Lone Wolf, Dio Kent. His reputation was legendary.
Creak—
Clark pushed open the heavy, rusted iron door, and the blazing afternoon sun poured in, making him squint.
There was Dio, lounging against the railing in the shade, a thick book—title unreadable—covering his face, blocking the light and the world. Like the crying girls had nothing to do with him.
But at the sound of Clark's deliberately heavy footsteps, the book twitched slightly.
"Speak," came Dio's cold voice from under the book, not bothering with a hello.
Clark grinned awkwardly, his football cleats scuffing the concrete. "So, uh… the school store's got chips on sale today. Half off."
The book snapped away, revealing Dio's piercing red eyes glinting in the shadows.
"Three seconds," Dio said with a scoff. "Spit it out, you idiot."
"Uh…" Clark rubbed his hands together, palms sweaty, filtering out Dio's usual jabs. He took a deep breath, like he was about to charge for a touchdown.
"Hey, bro, where'd you strike it rich lately?"
The words tumbled out, and Clark instantly regretted them.
Dio's eyes narrowed, suddenly dangerous. "You know?" he asked, his voice low.
"Know… what?" Clark blinked, totally lost.
"Get lost. And don't forget to pick up Sarafiel tonight. I've got work."
"???"
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