Dio Kent—
Or, at this moment, Diego.
He stood center stage, bathed in the spotlight's glow.
His crimson eyes coolly scanned the frenzied crowd below, his mind racing with calculations: Third bottle of Bordeaux, fifth bottle of champagne, twelfth glass of whiskey.
Tch.
Tonight's take might just barely break ten grand—not even close to the haul from that wild night with Lady Elana.
At this rate, he'd need to come back next week to scrape together a hundred grand.
"Boring," he muttered with a scoff, casually flicking his golden bangs.
That small gesture was like tossing a pebble into a still lake, instantly sparking a tidal wave of screams from the high-society women in the audience.
A diamond-encrusted clutch sailed through the air. A woman in a mermaid gown even shouted, "Spit in my mouth, Diego!"
"…"
The scene left even the waitstaff in the wings dumbfounded.
"I heard Mr. Ogway demoted all the other 'kings' to regular hosts," a young waiter whispered to his colleague. "But kept Diego as the only 'king.' I thought that was hyped up."
"Now? Hyped up doesn't even cover it," his coworker said, eyeing the endless stream of expensive drinks sent to the stage. "It's straight-up unreal. They say last week was the same—guy stands there for three hours, barely says ten words."
"And makes more in one night than I do in half a year."
"No kidding—oh, excuse me!"
The waiter turned as someone tapped his shoulder, spotting three kids who looked wildly out of place.
The blonde girl at the front pointed to the stage. "Who's that guy up there?"
Before he could answer, the waiter sized them up: a pretty blonde girl, a good-looking guy, and… some random dude.
Pete, fuming at the waiter's dismissive once-over, snapped, "What's that look for? I asked you who that guy on stage is!"
"Sorry, sorry!" The waiter quickly dialed back his attitude. "That's Mr. Diego, our club's 'king.' So, uh…" he hesitated, "you three here to order drinks for Diego?"
"No, we're just—" Chloe started, waving her hand, but a sudden shout from the crowd cut her off.
"You two over there! Hurry up and get Lord Diego a drink!" a decked-out woman in pearls snapped, waving her feathered fan impatiently. "Open my reserve bottle of Pétrus!"
"Right away!" The waiter shot the trio an apologetic smile and scurried off.
The three friends exchanged stunned looks.
"Diego?" Chloe stifled a laugh, her shoulders shaking. "He seriously named himself Diego?"
She stared at the golden-haired, haughty figure on stage, feeling like this little adventure was already worth it.
Pete grinned. "I'm starting to think that seventy-three bucks in gas was money well spent."
Clark let out a small laugh, relief washing over him.
At least Dio wasn't tangled up in anything dangerous—just strutting around on stage like a model.
Still…
He glanced at the women practically throwing cash at Dio's feet, some looking ready to tuck bills into his belt. Yeah, Uncle Lock definitely can't hear about this.
"Excuse me," a waitress in a cat-themed uniform purred, sauntering over with a tray of drinks. She sized up Clark—her eyes lingering a little too long on his chiseled pecs—before giving a sly smile. "Care for a drink, handsome? Our new tequila's really good."
Clark swallowed hard, his ears turning bright red as he froze under her gaze.
He silently vowed: Dad and Uncle Lock can never know we were here.
---
Under the eaves, an old kerosene lamp swayed gently in the cool night breeze, casting a warm, soft glow across the porch's wooden floor.
It was late, the world quiet except for the occasional chirp of crickets in the distance.
"Almost ten o'clock," Jonathan Kent muttered, pacing anxiously, his calloused hands absentmindedly rubbing the chipped paint on the porch railing. "Those two boys still aren't back. What if they snuck off to some Metropolis club to go dancing?"
Lock lounged in an old rocking chair nearby, his fingers tapping a rhythm only he knew, clearly enjoying the evening breeze.
"They're grown, Jonathan," he said. "You can't expect them to be like when they were kids, sitting on the doorstep waiting for dinner as soon as it gets dark. Keeping them on a leash forever? Not gonna happen."
"You think I can just not worry?" Jonathan spun around, the lamp's light deepening the worry lines on his forehead. "Dio, I trust. But Clark? He's…"
He cut himself off, like he'd bitten his tongue, swallowing whatever he was about to say about his adopted son's… uniqueness.
"Jonathan." Lock's voice turned serious, the rocking chair stilling. He fixed his brother with a steady look. "Trust is the foundation of family. You've gotta let go."
"You…" Jonathan froze, caught off guard by his younger brother schooling him. He chuckled, shaking his head with a hint of self-mockery. "Well, look at you, turning the tables on me now."
He plopped heavily into the wicker chair across from Lock, the frame creaking under his weight. "The older I get, the more I feel like I'm regressing."
Lock smirked, rocking his chair. "Who's got early-onset dementia now, huh?"
"You're still hung up on that?" Jonathan laughed, pretending to lunge for Lock's chair.
The two men, well over a century old combined, were suddenly like teenagers again, horsing around on the porch, shoving and laughing.
In the end, Jonathan surrendered, pinned with his head in a mock headlock.
"Alright, you win," Jonathan panted, fixing his crooked collar.
"Same here," Lock said with a grin, settling back into his chair.
The night breeze carried the rustle of cornfields in the distance.
"Alright, serious talk," Jonathan said, his smile fading as he got down to business. "This year, the Kents are Smallville's 'Model Family' again—seventh year running."
"But this weather…" He gestured, holding his hands about a foot apart. "That freak frost hit at the worst time. Our biggest pumpkin's only this big. What are we gonna do for the Harvest Fest pumpkin contest? I was counting on it to draw tourists from nearby towns, raise some money for the library."
"Pumpkins, huh…" Lock murmured, his gaze drifting to the shadowy fields beyond the window.
He had an idea, but whether it'd work was anyone's guess.
After a pause, he grinned and offered a new plan. "If it's a bust, switch it up. How about a scarecrow-making contest? Or…"
He leaned forward. "Let Martha lead an apple pie bake-off. Guarantee it'd be a bigger hit than pumpkins."
"That's not a bad idea," Jonathan's eyes lit up. "Could draw even more tourists. Maybe give Smallville's tourism a boost." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "You know, with Lex shutting down that chemical plant, it's not crazy to think we could lean into tourism."
"They've got that 'environmental upgrade' sign up outside the plant now," he added, lowering his voice in disbelief. "Word is, Lex is paying every laid-off worker three grand a month until the plant's back online."
"Not bad," Lock said with an approving nod. "Just like his dad—promises made, promises kept. He told you and Sarafiel he'd handle it, and he did."
"But not exactly like his dad," Jonathan mused, stroking his chin. "There's something in that kid's eyes… something Lionel never had."
"Natural," Lock said softly, his gaze softening as he looked at his brother.
In the moonlight, he noticed the stark white strands in Jonathan's hair.
When did it happen? he wondered. When did the guy who used to haul hay bales like they were nothing get carved up by time like this?
"Yeah…" Jonathan murmured, his eyes tracing Lock's face in return. "How the heck do you still look the same?" he teased. "What are you, some ageless heartthrob? At this rate, when our grandkids are born, you'll look younger than Clark and Dio!"
"Maybe," Lock said with a mock sigh, patting Jonathan's shoulder. "Don't worry, even if you're going senile—"
Rustle, rustle!
A sudden, sharp noise from the bushes cut him off, snapping both men out of their banter.
Their expressions hardened, eyes locking onto the source of the sound, though neither seemed too rattled.
A bear? A coyote? Some grateful critter come to pay respects?
Nope.
Emerging from the swaying bushes wasn't a beast or a shady figure, but… a young guy, maybe as tall as Lock, wearing a thin, flashy floral shirt. His hair was styled in three perfectly symmetrical buns, perched on his head like…
Jonathan blinked. Is this guy from Planet Donut?
"Ciao!" the guy said with a graceful bow, his hair buns not budging an inch.
"Grandpa Lock, long time no see." He turned to Jonathan with a cryptic smile. "And this must be Grandpa Jonathan, right?"
The kerosene lamp's glow flickered in his eyes, grass clippings clinging to his obviously expensive outfit. He looked like a runway model who'd wandered off a fashion week stage and onto a farm.
"Hey, who're you calling grandpa?" Jonathan snapped out of his shock, grumbling. "Watch it, kid. You lost or something?"
"Jonathan…" Lock's face twisted into an odd expression as he studied the quirky young man. He sighed. "He's not wrong. This kid is our grandson."
"What?!" Jonathan whipped around, staring at Lock like he'd lost his mind. "And you're telling me you're not the one going senile?!"