Lex's footsteps echoed down the corridor with increasing weight, each one sharper than the last, like punctuation marks in a sentence no one wanted to finish.
"What happened, Doctor?" His voice was low, controlled—but the restraint inside it was stretched thin enough to snap. "I thought I made myself clear. Never put her in harm."
The fluorescent lights overhead hummed indifferently as Dr. Knox hurried beside him, nearly half a step behind, his lab coat fluttering with nervous momentum.
"We didn't do anything outside the parameters you authorized, Mr. Luthor," Dr. Knox said quickly, adjusting his glasses with trembling fingers. "We administered a small dose of liquefied meteorite solution. Precisely measured. Precisely diluted. Exactly as instructed."
Lex stopped walking. Not gradually. Not hesitantly. Instantly.
The sudden halt forced Dr. Knox to nearly stumble into him.
Lex turned slowly. 'You did what, now?" he asked.
His expression had not raised. His voice had not sharpened. But the air around him had changed. It was the kind of quiet that made people remember unfinished wills and unanswered prayers.
Dr. Knox swallowed. "We… administered the liquefied compound," he repeated, weaker now. "To observe cellular response in a controlled—"
Lex exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face before planting it on his hip.
"I specifically told you," he said, each word precise and deliberate, "to only give her exposure. Not to inject her with meteorite extract."
Exposure meant proximity. Environmental contact. Passive interaction. Injection meant invasion. It meant force. It meant irreversible.
Dr. Knox froze completely, his mouth parting slightly as the realization dawned across his features—not the realization of what he had done, but the realization of how badly he had miscalculated the man in front of him.
His eyes shifted instinctively toward Dr. Miller, who had just stepped out of the observation room behind them.
She stopped a few feet away, tablet still in hand, posture composed—but the composure ended at her shoulders. Her face had turned noticeably pale the moment she saw him. Her fingers trembled beneath the tablet, the subtle vibration making the glass screen quiver against her grip. She tried to still it by tightening her hold, but that only made the tension more obvious.
Lex's gaze moved from Knox to Miller, cold and exact, like he was isolating the source of an infection.
"Doctor," Lex said calmly, addressing her now, "would you like to explain why my instructions were interpreted so… creatively?"
Dr. Miller swallowed. It was small. Reflexive. Human. She stepped forward anyway.
"The dosage was negligible, Mr. Luthor," she said at last, her voice carefully leveled despite the strain beneath it. "Harmless by every measurable standard. If anything, the concussion was caused by her physiological rejection of the compound, not the compound itself."
Lex's jaw tightened. "May I remind you," he said quietly, each word deliberate, "Lucy Bryce is my friend."
The word lingered in the air longer than anyone expected. It sounded foreign in a place like this—inside sterile walls built for observation, not affection.
"And she is," he continued, his voice hardening despite its volume never rising, "our only hope to cure the meteorite-infected."
His brows drew down, shadowing his eyes.
"If something happens to her," he added, the restraint in his tone far more terrifying than any shout, "all of you here are going to pay."
No one spoke. No one moved. Even the ambient hum of the facility seemed to shrink around him.
Lex turned and walked away before anyone could attempt an apology he wouldn't accept.
The doors parted automatically as he approached, as if the building itself understood who owned it.
He entered the room where Lucinda had been confined. It resembled a normal hospital room at first glance—deliberately so. White walls. A single bed positioned at the center. A heart monitor beside it, emitting its steady, indifferent rhythm. An IV stand. A chair in the corner no one ever used.
Everything was clean.
Everything was controlled.
Everything was empty of warmth.
There were no flowers. No personal belongings. No color beyond institutional white and muted gray. It was a room designed to preserve the body, not comfort the person inside it.
Even the air felt quieter here. Lucinda lay motionless on the bed, her head cradled by crisp, starched pillows, a bandage wrapped neatly around her temple. The faint rise and fall of her chest was the only reassurance Lex had that she was still present—that she hadn't drifted somewhere beyond his reach.
The faint hum of the ventilator was almost the loudest thing in the room, a monotonous reminder that everything was still… intact. Including Lucinda's entire body parts, thank goodness!
Lex stepped closer and was about to place a hand on her when her eyes wobbled, focusing on him with effort. Slowly, almost theatrically, Lucinda's gaze locked onto his.
Finally, Lex was able to sigh in relief.
"Two hours and six minutes," she muttered.
Lex's brows drew together. He had no idea what she meant, her voice softer which sounds so unusual for her, fragile in a way that made him lean closer, compelled to catch every syllable.
"What was that, Lucy?" he asked, low, cautious, his head tilting slightly.
"You're late for two hours and six minutes, Mr. Alexander Lex Luthor, sir," she said, dragging out his name like a judge delivering a sentence. She tugged the oxygen mask off her face and leaned forward just enough to punctuate her point. "Two hours and six minutes! Do you know what I endured in that time?"
Lex raised an eyebrow, unsure whether to be impressed or alarmed.
"If you had only come on time, Mr. Luthor, sir," she continued, waggling a finger at him with exaggerated severity, "I wouldn't have been bullied, poked, prodded, and possibly lectured on the ethics of liquid meteor exposure by that woman! I might have even been offered a complimentary eyebrow raise—or worse, a coffee that tasted like it came from the bottom of a black hole!"
Lex's lips twitched slightly, betraying the faintest hint of a smile despite the gravity of the situation.
"And," she added, flopping dramatically back against her pillows, "if I had to guess, the concussion was purely optional. A free trial of the hospital's new 'how not to survive injections' program. Thanks for nothing, Lex. Absolutely nothing."
Lex smirked, fighting the unmistakable urge to laugh—a deeply inappropriate instinct given the circumstances, but Lucinda had always possessed a talent for dismantling tension with surgical absurdity. He cleared his throat, quickly restoring his composure.
"Noted," he said. "Why not go back to rest? You've been tied up with all these apparatus and oxygen. I thought…" He hesitated, the words catching in his throat before he forced them out more quietly. "I thought I lost you."
Lucinda blinked, the humor in her expression softening for just a fraction of a second as she caught that glimpse of something unguarded beneath his usual armor. It was fleeting—but real.
"That's so sweet, Lex," she said, immediately ruining the moment by slapping his arm with far more strength than a recently concussed patient had any business possessing. "But I'm all fine now. Your obsessed Dr. Miller had immediately drained the meteorite from my bloodstream when I stopped breathing, had an epileptic phenomenon, rolled over the bed, and accidentally slammed my head on the floor."
Lex froze. His eyes widened, every other word she'd said becoming irrelevant.
"Wait," he said sharply. "You stopped breathing?"
Lucinda stared at him, baffled by his bafflement.
"Well, yeah," she replied matter-of-factly, gesturing weakly to the tubes around her as if they were obvious props in an overly dramatic stage play. "Why else would I be lying here looking like the hospital's least enthusiastic science project?"
Lex didn't laugh this time.
His jaw tightened, the delayed weight of her words settling heavily into his chest. He studied her face—too pale, too fragile—and for the first time since entering the room, the illusion of control slipped.
"You died," he said quietly.
Lucinda tilted her head. "Temporarily," she corrected. "Let's not exaggerate. I got better."
"I'm so sorry, Lucy," Lex muttered, the apology sounding foreign even to his own ears. "Something happened to Lana. I had to take her to the hospital. I had to wait for her aunt to arrive."
Lucinda's chest twinged. It was subtle—sharp and fleeting—but enough to make her pause. Her fingers curled slightly against the stiff hospital sheets, and for a moment, she forgot how to breathe normally.
"Right… of course," she said, her voice quieter now, thinner around the edges. Her gaze drifted away from him, settling somewhere over his shoulder, somewhere safer. "He needed to save his future wife." she thought.
"Y-You didn't need to explain," she added quickly, the stammer betraying her far more than the words themselves. "It's not like you're contractually obligated to babysit me."
"But I owe you an explanation," Lex said. "Because I wasn't able to keep my word."
He placed a hand on her shoulder. Lex Luthor was not a man who explained himself. He issued orders. He made decisions. He moved the world and expected it to keep up.
This was the version of him she wanted to protect so badly. Not the future version carved in cold ambition and loneliness, but this one—the man who still hesitated, who still cared enough to explain himself, who still believed his presence mattered. The one who did not yet realize how much of himself he would one day bury just to survive the weight of his own name.
"It's fine, Lex," she said softly.
She lifted her hand and tapped his where it rested on her shoulder, the gesture light, reassuring—more for him than for herself.
"I just needed to rest more."
Meanwhile, earlier that day, Lex had almost fired all of the scientists involved in the improvisation—but Lucinda had interrupted with a theatrical, "DON'T. NOT YET!" that echoed like a foghorn in the lab.
Because of course, she still needed her revenge on Dr. Miller. After all, she had been bullied purely because she didn't know everything injected into her was basically a cocktail for temporary body sabotage.
So, Lex wisely delayed the firing squad, giving Lucinda her two-hour window of chaotic justice.
In that span, she had:
Secretly swapped Dr. Miller's ergonomic chair with a wobbly stool that squeaked ominously whenever she shifted weight.
Labeled all the vials in the fridge with "Unicorn Tears—Highly Volatile" in Dr. Miller's handwriting, causing mild panic.
Programmed the lab's coffee machine to dispense hot water at random intervals, resulting in repeated faceburns and coffee-induced mutterings.
Looped a recording of her own sarcastic commentary over the lab intercom, making Dr. Miller feel like the villain in a badly timed sitcom.
Two hours later, Dr. Miller looked like she'd survived a tornado inside a funhouse. Lucinda, on the other hand, was perfectly composed, smirking like she'd just conducted a symphony of minor inconveniences.
Lex had to admit—though he'd never say it out loud—it was the most efficient revenge he'd ever seen. Simple, quirky, and utterly ridiculous… like watching someone try to balance a spoon on their nose during a power outage. Stupid, yes, but in that very absurdity, it was oddly satisfying. He might have snickered if anyone were around, but of course, admitting amusement was strictly forbidden in Luthor law.
Meanwhile, Lucinda sat in her room now at the Luthor mansion, a space so grand it could host a small parade or, more realistically, a very judgmental chandelier. She cradled a teacup on a small plate in her lap, the delicate setup teetering precariously like her nerves.
The tests were finished, but the results wouldn't be ready for a few days—a fact that gnawed at her, because tomorrow she had to meet Elizabeth. She didn't even know what's gonna happen if she meets her.
"But it's not like I needed to go there anyway," Lucinda murmured, though even as she said it, her foot tapped nervously against the carpet, betraying a level of worry far beyond what her words suggested.
"Go where, exactly?"
Lucinda nearly sent her teacup flying when Lex appeared in the doorway as if conjured from thin air. She'd been so absorbed in her swirling thoughts—and the delicate art of balancing porcelain—that she hadn't even noticed the door creak open.
"N-Nowhere," she stammered, words tumbling out faster than her nerves could keep up.
Lex's lips thinned into a faint line as he stepped fully into the room, shutting the door with a soft click behind him. He rolled the sleeves of his violet sweater up just enough to expose a hint of forearm and slipped his hands into his pockets, the picture of calm menace.
"C'mon now, Lucy," Lex began, his tone deceptively casual. "You're a worse liar than you think. I can tell something's been gnawing at you ever since your little chat with Elizabeth Swann."
Lucinda let out a long, theatrical sigh, setting her teacup down. "Yeah… I forgot you have the eyes of a hawk," she muttered.
She stood up, tugging at her pajamas, and faced Lex. "I've already told you about Elizabeth knowing my secret."
Lex tilted his head, perfectly still, as if his entire being was silently chanting, Well?
"And?" he prompted.
"No point hiding it from you," Lucinda said, rolling her eyes so hard it was practically a cardio workout. "So yeah, she wants me to meet her tomorrow. I don't know what she wants—probably a lecture on 'don't mess with time' or a pop quiz on who's allowed in whose life. Judging by our conversation, she basically told me to stay out of everyone's business… before I… destroy everyone's lives."
Lex's eyes softened slightly, the faintest trace of a smile tugging at his lips. "And what did you tell her?"
Lex barely breathed. For some reason, a tight knot settled in his chest—part admiration, part guilt—because somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Lucinda was staying not just out of loyalty, but because she had promised herself she wouldn't leave until she'd finished helping him.
"Lucy," Lex said, voice calm but firm, "if you were that desperate to go home, we could start working triple time on the time machine right away."
Lucinda gave a casual shrug. "As much as I'd love to agree," she said, tilting her head, "that's not happening until I finish my mission to help. Just… let me do this, Lex. Let me do something right in my lifetime—even if it's just this once."
Lex's brow twitched. "You know what, Lucy—"
"Sorry, Lex, I won't know unless you tell me," Lucinda cut in immediately, eyes wide and expectant.
"Yeah," Lex replied, his voice tight with a mixture of exasperation and amusement, "because there's a part where you should… let me finish first."
"Yes, of course. Go on!" Lucinda said, mockingly attentive.
"Well," Lex crossed his arms, tilting his head, "you started sounding like me—trying to make things right after doing something terrible."
"Nah," Lucinda waved a hand dismissively, a grin tugging at her lips. "At least you have money on your side. I do it with flair; you do it with… bank accounts."
Lex chuckled, shrugging lightly. "But jokes aside, Lucy. If you want to go home as soon as possible, I won't hold anything against you."
"Lex," Lucinda said, stepping closer, her usual theatrical energy softening into something quieter. "If I wanted to go home that badly, I wouldn't have thought twice about going with Elizabeth."
She tilted her head, studying his face as if trying to make sure he understood the weight of that choice.
"I stayed," she added simply.
Lex didn't respond right away—and when he finally parted his lips to speak, a knock cut him off with the precision of terrible timing.
The door opened without waiting for permission, because apparently privacy was more of a suggestion in this mansion. Molly stepped inside with the calm professionalism of someone who absolutely knew she was interrupting something important and chose violence anyway.
"Good evening, Mr. Luthor. You have a visitor," she said smoothly.
Her eyes flicked toward Lucinda. She winked twice, obviously annoying her. Lucinda stared back, deeply offended by Molly's silent betrayal.
Molly then opened the door wider like a stage assistant revealing the main act. Lana stood just beyond the threshold.
"Lana," Lex muttered, caught off guard.
"I'm sorry, Lex," Lana said as she stepped in, her voice urgent and breathless. She still has bandages on her arms and palms. "But I need your help."
She crossed the room quickly and stopped directly in front of him—too close. Close enough that Lucinda could practically see the individual molecules of emotional tension forming between them.
Lucinda's eye twitched. Her fist even clenched on instinct, but she immediately slapped it off with the other one.
"Damnit, Lucinda," she groaned internally, forcing her fingers to relax. You're clearly just an NPC in this entire series. Act like it. Stand in the background. Pretend you don't have emotional damage. Very immersive. Very professional.
So just like that, Lucinda stepped aside and excused herself out of her own room—her own room—to generously make space for whatever emotionally complicated conversation Lex and Lana were about to have.
She even closed the door gently behind her. Because apparently she was not only the NPC, she was also the courteous one.
"Wow, Lucy," Molly mumbled the moment the door clicked shut. She leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking far too entertained. "In case you forgot, this is your room."
Lucinda stopped walking. Slowly, she turned her head.
"Oh, shut up, Molly!" she hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at her before continuing down the hallway.
Her shoulders were stiff. Her pace just a little too fast. Behind her, Molly bit her lip, very clearly losing the battle against her own amusement.
"Kids nowadays," Molly mumbled, shaking her head.