Lex hadn't been back from the hospital for more than six hours before he sent the car for Jeremy. He was holed up in the library, the curtains drawn against a migraine that felt like a pulsing shard of green glass behind his eyes.
Jeremy didn't come to the Luthor mansion for tea or sympathy. He came because Lex Luthor was the only man in Smallville with the bank account to turn a tragedy into a blueprint.
While the town whispered about ghosts, Jeremy saw the mechanics. He sat in the high-backed velvet chair in the library, his eyes tracking the way Lex's hand trembled as he reached for a glass of water. Lex looked fragile, his head wrapped in bandages, but his mind was still a steel trap—one that Jeremy intended to bait.
"You're remarkably calm for a man who was almost assassinated by his own housekeeping, Lex," Jeremy said, his voice a cool, detached hum. He didn't lean in; he remained perfectly still, a predator mimicking a guest.
"The Palmers were an anomaly, Jeremy," Lex replied, his voice raspy. "Anna wasn't born with that gift. She grew into it. Or rather, she manufactured it."
"The serum," Jeremy murmured. He leaned forward just an inch, his Apex Senses picking up the faint scent of ozone clinging to Lex's skin. "I saw the hospital reports before they were redacted. Anna's cellular structure was vibrating at a frequency the human heart shouldn't be able to sustain. I want to know how she stabilized the transition. As someone who... survived the '89 event, I find the science of 'acquired' power more than a little relevant."
Lex looked at him, a flicker of suspicion crossing his pale face. "You speak about it like it's a chemistry set, Jeremy. Most people would call it a curse."
"Most people don't have our perspective," Jeremy countered.
He was about to press further when his ears caught a sound Lex couldn't—the rhythmic, sub-audible thrum of atoms being pulled apart.
Jeremy stood up, preparing to slip out unnoticed, when the air in the room suddenly thinned. The atmospheric pressure dropped, and the fine dust on the mahogany table began to dance in a high-frequency jitter.
They weren't alone. The hunters had arrived, and they didn't realize the house was already occupied by a ghost of a different kind.
…
The thieves didn't use doors. They stepped through the solid oak paneling like ripples in a pond. Scott led the way, his skin glowing with the sickly green light of meteor-ink tattoos. Behind him came a twitchy, desperate Whitney Fordman, his frame looking ghostly and frail as he maintained the "Kinetic" state.
Lex's eyes went wide. He tried to stand, but the thieves were too fast.
"Get the safe, Scott!" Whitney hissed, his voice sounding like distorted radio static.
Jeremy didn't hide. He didn't slip into the shadows. He stood directly in the center of the room, his eyes beginning to burn with a low, emerald heat. He moved with a Speed that blurred the very air, stepping between the thieves and the chair where Lex sat frozen.
"Move, kid, or we'll vibrate right through your heart!" Scott roared, lunging forward.
Jeremy didn't dodge. He countered.
Jeremy flooded his own palm with a high-frequency Static pulse that matched Scott's vibration. The contact was violent. The electromagnetic interference forced Scott's molecules to snap back into a solid state mid-lunge. The thief let out a choked scream as his throat met Jeremy's iron grip.
The second thief tried to flank him. Jeremy snapped his fingers, releasing a pressurized wave of Ice. Because the thief was phased, the ice formed inside the vibrating space between his atoms. He collapsed instantly, his legs encased in a frost that glowed a sickly neon green.
Whitney lunged last. Jeremy entered the Speed state. To Whitney, Jeremy disappeared. To Jeremy, Whitney was a statue. Jeremy touched Whitney's chest and unleashed a Repulsion Wave—a concentrated burst of kinetic energy. Whitney was launched twenty feet across the Great Hall, crashing into a suit of medieval armor with a deafening clang.
The room fell into a heavy silence. Jeremy turned his head slowly. Lex was staring at him.
Lex wasn't unconscious. He had seen everything—the ice, the speed, the glowing eyes. He was watching Jeremy with a mixture of terror and profound, obsessive awe. "Jeremy... what... what are you?"
Jeremy didn't answer. He didn't have time for a manifesto. He moved to Lex's side before the man could even blink.
"I'm the part of this story you're going to forget, Lex," Jeremy whispered.
He placed his fingers on Lex's temples. He had practiced on Anna Palmer, but Lex's mind was different—it was a labyrinth of fortified walls. Jeremy pushed his Static deeper, targeting the specific neural pathways that had just recorded the last five minutes of combat.
With a surgical flick of power, Jeremy pulled the thread. He didn't just wipe the memory; he replaced it. He planted the suggestion of a LuthorCorp tactical team—gas, masks, and shadows. To Lex, Jeremy would simply be the boy who had been sitting in the chair when the "guards" burst in.
Then, Jeremy turned to the thieves. He knelt by Whitney and the others, repeating the process. He cauterized the "Formula" of their vibration from their minds, leaving them with nothing but a headache and a future in Belle Reve.
Jeremy stood up, his breathing steady, his power coiled tightly back into the shards. He looked at Lex, whose eyes were now rolling back as the "edit" took hold, sending him into a deep, sedative-induced sleep.
Jeremy reached out and straightened Lex's blanket.
"Sleep well, Lex," Jeremy murmured.
In a blur of Speed, Jeremy moved to the balcony and disappeared into the rainy night. By the time the security team burst into the library, they found three unconscious burglars, a shattered suit of armor, and a sleeping Lex Luthor who would wake up believing he had been saved by his father's private army.