It was a fine Friday morning, with clear skies and a hint of warmth in the air. Clark and his two younger brothers arrived at school on time, slipping into the familiar routine as they headed to their separate classrooms. None of them anticipated that this day would take a twist they'd never forget.
Charles, however, was already in distress, clutching his stomach as he dashed into the bathroom. Once inside, he finally found relief and, taking a moment to catch his breath, lingered. He didn't feel the need to rush back; his next class was with that insufferable old teacher who always seemed to pick on him. Charles huffed, wondering if she was simply jealous of his intelligence and charm. It would certainly explain her constant questioning.
Lost in these thoughts, he decided to stay a bit longer, but his solitude was soon interrupted by the creak of the bathroom door and the sound of approaching footsteps. Voices echoed through the space, breaking the quiet.
"P.E. class today. Man, I can't stand Clark."
"Tell me about it. He's too good at everything. Always showing us up," another voice chimed in.
Charles stifled a chuckle. Of course his brother stood out in gym class—Clark had always been exceptional.
But then the conversation shifted, and Charles's grin faded as he heard something that left him both shocked and furious.
"Turner's planning to rough Clark up later, all because of Hope. He's rounding up people to help. You in?"
"No way! Really?"
"Yup. I'm going for sure. You?"
"How could I miss something like this? Clark's finally going down!"
The voices trailed off as the footsteps receded. As soon as he was sure they'd left, Charles scrambled, quickly finishing up and running out of the stall. The nerve of these people, he thought, disgusted that they'd plot against his brother like that. Charles knew Clark could hold his own, but he also knew Clark wouldn't likely fight back—Clark's strength wasn't something he wanted to unleash.
"Just don't be so noble you don't fight back," Charles muttered to himself, dashing towards Eric's classroom.
The bell rang just as Charles burst through the door, grabbing Eric's arm. "Come on, we need to go. Now!"
Eric looked bewildered but allowed Charles to pull him along, too taken aback to protest. "What's going on?" he asked, glancing nervously at his brother.
"Some guys are planning to jump Clark."
"What?" Eric's face turned red with fury. "After Clark? Are you serious?"
Without another word, the two brothers sprinted towards the far end of the school, where Clark would usually be. Both were anxious, knowing that their brother's reluctance to fight might work against him.
Meanwhile, Clark had indeed encountered a complication. A skinny, frightened-looking boy had blocked his path, his face pale and desperate.
"Clark, I need your help!" the boy said, his voice quivering.
Clark recognized him as a classmate—a kid who'd been bullied before, and someone Clark had helped a few times in the past. "What's wrong?" Clark asked gently, his brows knitting in concern.
The boy glanced around nervously before pleading, "Come with me? Just for a minute."
Clark nodded, following him without hesitation. They walked, but Clark's gut started warning him as they approached the back alley—a notorious spot where students often avoided going alone.
Then it clicked. This was a setup.
Clark stopped in his tracks, and the boy turned back, panicked. "Come on, we're almost there!" he urged, sounding desperate.
Clark's eyes narrowed as he calmly asked, "Why?"
"What do you mean?" The boy forced a weak smile, pretending not to understand. "Didn't you promise to help?"
Clark didn't budge, his quiet gaze making the boy fidget. "I see now. You're using my kindness against me," Clark said, his voice soft but firm.
"W-What? I don't know what you're talking about!" the boy stammered, but the guilt in his eyes betrayed him.
Clark shook his head, turning to leave. Just as he was about to step away, the boy's voice stopped him.
"They said if I didn't bring you, they'd beat me up. Humiliate me, even… strip me and leave me tied at the gate." The boy's voice broke, filled with dread.
Clark paused, sighing. Turning back, he looked the boy in the eye. "You're scared, so you pull someone else into the same danger? Isn't that exactly what they do?"
The boy hung his head, unable to meet Clark's gaze.
"And yet, back there, you seemed brave enough to block my path," Clark continued, a hint of frustration in his voice. "Imagine if you'd had that same courage with them. Maybe you wouldn't feel so helpless now."
Clark took a deep breath, and then, to the boy's surprise, walked towards the alley. "Why are you still going?" the boy called out.
"Because it's ultimately my problem," Clark replied, his voice steady. He disappeared around the corner, leaving the boy behind.
Sure enough, nearly a dozen boys waited for him in the alley, smirking and whispering as he approached. Clark held his head high, his expression calm. The leader, Turner—a wiry kid with a mean glint in his eyes—sneered at Clark.
"There it is again," Turner spat. "That smug look. Who do you think you are?"
Clark remained silent, only replying after a pause, "Let's get this over with."
"Show him!" Turner ordered, and the group surged forward.
Clark crouched, covering his head as they closed in, blows falling like rain. Yet even in that moment, he felt a strange calm. Their punches were weak; he barely felt them. If he wanted, he could end this in seconds—but he feared his strength could hurt someone badly. The last thing he wanted was for these bullies' parents to get involved, as his own father had always taken a stern approach when things went wrong.
Turner, unsatisfied with the lack of reaction, grabbed a metal pipe nearby. His anger flared as he aimed it at Clark, raising it high above his head.
"Stop!" two voices rang out from the alley's entrance.
Eric and Charles stood there, their eyes blazing as they took in the scene. Seeing their brother under attack, something ignited within them—a surge of protectiveness, an instinct beyond words. They balled their fists, feeling an unexpected strength coursing through them.
.
.
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