The morning starts as it always does: with the sun rising over the horizon, casting a golden glow across the landscape. Nevaeh and Clark go through their routine with the same practiced ease as the days before. The cabin is filled with the sound of chopping wood, the crackle of the fire, and the occasional clink of utensils. They speak little, their conversations limited to practical matters—how much wood they have left, what's needed for the next meal, the usual small talk that fills the space between tasks.

But even as they go through the motions, there's a tension in the air that neither of them can ignore. It's the same tension that's been building for weeks, simmering just beneath the surface. They both feel it, an almost unbearable pull toward each other, but neither of them dares to acknowledge it. Instead, they bury themselves in their work, in the routine that has become a lifeline for them both.

Nevaeh swings the axe with practiced precision, the blade sinking into the wood with a satisfying crack. She's lost in the rhythm, the repetitive motion soothing in its simplicity. Each swing is an outlet for the emotions she refuses to confront, each crack of the wood a release of the pressure building inside her. She's focused, intent on her task, but even in her concentration, she can't ignore the awareness of Clark's presence nearby.

Clark is stacking the chopped wood, his movements steady and sure. He works in silence, his mind occupied with thoughts he doesn't fully understand. Nevaeh is a puzzle to him, one he's desperate to solve, but he's learned to be patient. He knows she's not ready to open up, not yet, and so he gives her space, even though every fiber of his being wants to reach out to her. He's used to helping people, used to being the one others turn to in times of need, but with Nevaeh, it's different. She's strong, capable, and fiercely independent, and that makes him hesitate.

Just as he's about to pick up another log, he hears it—a distant scream, faint but unmistakable. His super hearing picks up on it immediately, the sound slicing through the quiet of the morning like a knife. He freezes, his heart racing as he turns his head in the direction of the sound. For a moment, he stands there, listening intently, trying to pinpoint the location. The scream comes again, closer this time, and without a second thought, he starts running.

Nevaeh hears it too, her enhanced senses picking up the sound at the same moment as Clark. She pauses mid-swing, the axe still embedded in the log, her brow furrowing in irritation. She watches as Clark takes off, his urgency evident in every stride, and she lets out a frustrated groan.

"Damn it, Kent," She mutters under her breath, dropping the axe as she reluctantly follows him.

Clark is fast, his long strides eating up the distance as he races through the trees, his heart pounding with adrenaline. The scream is louder now, more urgent, and he knows he's getting closer. He doesn't think, doesn't hesitate—his instincts take over, the need to help, to save, driving him forward. He's always been this way, always felt this overwhelming urge to do the right thing, to be the hero. It's what his father taught him, what he's always believed in, and he can't ignore it, no matter how much he might want to.

Nevaeh trails behind him, her own steps quick and sure, but there's a reluctance in her every movement. She doesn't want to do this, doesn't want to get involved, but she can't let Clark go alone. She curses herself for following, for caring enough to not let him face whatever danger lies ahead by himself. She knows this about him, knows that he has this unshakable need to help people, to be the hero. It's a trait she both admires and resents, because it's the very thing she's tried to distance herself from.

They burst through the trees into a small clearing, and there, lying on the ground, is the source of the screams. A hiker, his leg twisted at an unnatural angle, his face pale with pain. He's clearly taken a nasty fall, and from the looks of it, he's been out here for a while. Clark drops to his knees beside the man without hesitation, his hands hovering over the injury as he assesses the situation.

"Hey, it's okay. You're gonna be okay," Clark says, his voice gentle and reassuring. He glances up at Nevaeh, who's standing a few feet away, her expression unreadable, "We need to get him to a hospital."

Nevaeh crosses her arms over her chest, her eyes narrowing, " That's miles away."

Clark nods, already lifting the injured man into his arms with ease, " We can't just leave him here."

Nevaeh scoffs, shaking her head, "And what are we supposed to tell them when we show up with an injured man in the middle of nowhere? You think they won't ask questions?"

Clark meets her gaze, his expression firm, "I don't care about that. He needs help."

Nevaeh lets out an exasperated sigh, her frustration evident. She knows he's right, but that doesn't make her any less irritated. She's spent so long trying to avoid situations like this, trying to keep her head down and not get involved. But Clark—Clark is different. He's so eager to help, so determined to be the hero, and it grates on her in a way she can't quite explain.

"Fine," She mutters, finally relenting.

Clark doesn't respond, just nods and starts walking, the injured hiker cradled in his arms. Nevaeh follows, her steps slower, more measured. The silence between them is heavy, filled with unspoken tension as they make their way through the forest. She can't help but glance at Clark every now and then, watching the way he moves with such purpose, such determination. It's infuriating, but also...admirable, in a way she doesn't want to admit.

They reach the nearest town just as the sun is beginning to set, the sky painted in hues of orange and pink. The small, sleepy town is quiet, the streets nearly empty as they make their way to the emergency room. Clark is focused, his attention solely on getting the hiker the help he needs, while Nevaeh lingers a few steps behind, her eyes scanning their surroundings.

When they reach the emergency room, Clark carefully sets the hiker down on a gurney that a nurse rolls out to meet them. The medical staff springs into action, taking the man inside as Clark and Nevaeh stand just outside the doors, watching the scene unfold.

For a moment, neither of them speaks. They just stand there, side by side, the silence between them thick with tension. The sun has dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the ground, and the cool evening air is filled with the distant sounds of the town winding down for the night.

Nevaeh finally breaks the silence, her voice low and almost resigned, "You're always like this, aren't you?"

Clark glances at her, his expression a mix of curiosity and confusion, "Like what?"

"Eager to be the hero," Nevaeh replies, her tone tinged with something that's not quite anger, but close, "Always ready to jump in and save the day, no matter the cost."

Clark's brow furrows, and he takes a step closer to her, his eyes searching her face, "It's just who I am."

Nevaeh looks away, her gaze fixed on the ground, "And that's what makes you different."

Clark doesn't know what to say to that. He's always believed in doing the right thing, in helping others, but he knows that Nevaeh has her reasons for being the way she is. He doesn't push her, doesn't try to argue or convince her otherwise. Instead, he just nods, accepting her words for what they are.

The silence between Nevaeh and Clark lingers as they stand outside the emergency room, the cool evening air settling around them like a heavy blanket. Their eyes remain locked, a shared understanding hanging in the space between them, unspoken but undeniable. The world around them seems to fade, the sounds of the small town muffled, their focus entirely on each other. It's as if time has stopped, leaving them suspended in a moment neither is ready to let go of.

But then, the spell is broken by the distant slam of a car door, the sudden noise pulling them both out of their shared reverie. Their attention shifts, their heightened senses picking up on the sound of a man speaking on the phone nearby. His voice is low but urgent, the tone unmistakable—a military man, relaying information with the clipped precision of someone who's been trained to follow orders.

"I've got to head to Canada," The man says, his words carrying through the night air, "They've found something... an alien spacecraft, they think. I'll be on the next flight out."

Nevaeh's brow furrows, her eyes narrowing as she listens, but it's Clark's reaction that truly catches her attention. His entire body tenses, his expression shifting from surprise to a deep, almost instinctual understanding. He knows. He just knows. She can see it in the way his eyes widen, the way his breath catches in his throat. There's a certainty in him that she can't quite comprehend, and it unsettles her.

"Clark," She begins, her voice laced with skepticism, "You don't really think—"

But he cuts her off, stepping closer to her with a sense of urgency that makes her heart race.

"I have to," He says, his voice firm, resolute, "I have to know."

Nevaeh's mouth opens, ready to argue, to tell him he's being irrational, that he's jumping to conclusions. But something in the way he looks at her, the raw determination in his eyes, stops her. She wants to push back, to tell him he's being foolish, but the words catch in her throat. She's never seen him like this—so sure, so certain—and it throws her off balance.

"You don't have to do anything," She finally says, her tone sharper than she intends. She's angry, but she's not sure who she's angry at—him, for putting himself in danger, or herself, for caring so much, "This is crazy."

But he shakes his head, taking another step closer, the intensity in his gaze unwavering.

"I have to know what I am," He says, his voice filled with a quiet desperation that makes her chest tighten, "I have to know where I came from, why I'm different... why I'm here."

Nevaeh feels the anger rise in her throat, a bitter taste on her tongue. She's been down this road before, felt the pull of destiny, the weight of being something more than human. But she also knows the cost, the price of seeking answers to questions that might be better left unasked.

She clenches her fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. This is the part she hates, the part where she has to explain herself, where she has to confront the parts of her past she'd rather forget. But she owes him this much—an explanation, if nothing else.

"I want to be a hero... like you," He says softly, as if the words could heal the wounds she's been carrying.

"I was a hero," Nevaeh corrects him, her tone bitter, "I'm not anymore."

Clark's expression hardens, the frustration building in him as he steps even closer, his presence almost overwhelming in its intensity, "That's not true, and you know it."

She meets his gaze, her eyes blazing with a mixture of anger and pain, "You don't know anything about me."

Clark's jaw tightens, and he reaches out, his hand hovering just inches from her arm, "Nevaeh, you can't keep running from who you are."

She jerks back, the distance between them feeling like a chasm that can't be bridged.

"I'm not running," She snaps, her voice shaking with the effort to keep her emotions in check, "And I'm not about to let you throw your life away chasing after some... some impossible dream."

Clark's expression softens, his eyes searching hers for something, anything, that might make her understand, "This isn't just a dream. This is about finding out the truth. About who I am, what I am. Don't you understand? I need to know."

She stares at him, her heart pounding in her chest. She wants to tell him that she does understand, that she knows exactly what it feels like to be lost, to be searching for answers that might never come. But she can't. Because admitting that would mean acknowledging the part of her that still believes in something more, the part of her that she's tried so hard to bury.

"Clark," She says, her voice trembling with the effort to stay calm, "You don't need to do this. You don't need to know."

His gaze hardens, his resolve unshakable, "Yes... I do."

Nevaeh's breath catches in her throat, her heart breaking at the determination in his voice. She wants to scream at him, to shake him and make him see that this quest for answers will only lead to more pain, more questions. But she knows he won't listen. He's made up his mind, and nothing she says will change that.

There's a long, tense silence between them, the weight of their unspoken words hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to burst.

Clark's expression is one of pure anguish, the pain in his eyes mirroring her own. He takes a step forward, his hand hovering in the air between them as if he's not sure whether to reach out or let her go.

"I'm sorry," He whispers, the words heavy with regret.

Nevaeh's heart shatters at the sound of his apology, but she doesn't let it show. She can't afford to let him see how much this is hurting her, how much she wishes things could be different. Instead, she forces herself to turn away, her back to him as she fights to hold back the tears that threaten to spill.

"Don't be," She says, her voice cold and distant.

Clark hesitates for a moment, his eyes lingering on her as if he's trying to memorize every detail of her face, every curve, every line. But he knows there's nothing more he can say, nothing that will change her mind. So, with a heavy heart, he turns and walks away, the sound of his footsteps fading into the distance until all that's left is the silence of the night.

Nevaeh waits until she's sure he's gone before she finally lets the tears fall, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. She feels the weight of her decision pressing down on her, the guilt and regret nearly suffocating in its intensity. But she knows she made the right choice. She has to believe that. Because if she doesn't, then everything she's done, everything she's sacrificed, has been for nothing.

And that's a truth she's not ready to face.

As the night deepens and the darkness closes in around her, Nevaeh stands alone, her heart aching with the loss of something she never truly had. And somewhere, in the back of her mind, she wonders if she's made the biggest mistake of her life. But it's too late now. Clark is gone, and she's all that's left.

And the silence is deafening.

The air is crisp, the chill biting at her skin, but she doesn't feel it. All she feels is the growing storm inside her, a tempest of emotions she's been trying to keep at bay since Clark left. She picks up the axe with hands that tremble only slightly, the weight of it familiar, comforting even. She tells herself that this is just another day, just another task that needs doing. If she can keep busy, if she can focus on the mundane, maybe she can push the thoughts of him, the ache in her chest, far enough away that they don't drown her.

With a deep breath, she lifts the axe over her head, muscles coiling with the ease of repetition, and brings it down hard on the log in front of her. The sound of wood splitting echoes through the clearing, sharp and satisfying. But it's not enough. The momentary release does nothing to quell the turmoil inside her. The next log is already in place, and she swings again, harder this time, as if she can chop away the frustration, the anger, the helplessness that's been building inside her.

The axe bites into the wood, splitting it cleanly in two. She should feel better. This should help. But it doesn't. The feelings inside her only grow more intense, a pressure building in her chest that she can't ignore. She grits her teeth and picks up another log, her movements growing more erratic, less controlled. She swings again, and again, each strike harder than the last. The sound of the axe against wood fills the air, a rhythmic pounding that mirrors the beat of her heart, the rush of blood in her ears.

But it's not enough.

She can still see him, standing there, eyes full of hurt and determination, telling her that he has to know what he is. She can still hear the finality in his voice, the way he said I'm sorry as if it were some sort of apology for leaving her behind. It wasn't. It was a goodbye, and that's what hurts the most. He didn't even try to fight for her, didn't even try to convince her to come with him. He just walked away, leaving her with nothing but the memory of his touch, the echo of his voice, and the unbearable weight of what could have been.

With a snarl of frustration, Nevaeh picks up another log and slams it onto the chopping block. Her grip on the axe is so tight that her knuckles turn white, the veins in her arms standing out like cords. She raises the axe again, muscles rippling with the effort, and brings it down with all the strength she can muster. The log splits, but it's not enough. She grabs another, and another, the cycle becoming frantic, desperate. Each swing is harder than the last, each split more violent. The wood flies apart under the force of her blows, splinters scattering like shards of glass, but it doesn't matter. She can't stop. She won't stop. Not until she's beaten this feeling, this unbearable, suffocating pressure inside her.

Her breath comes in ragged gasps now, her chest heaving with the effort. Sweat drips down her face, her back, soaking through her clothes, but she barely notices. All she can think about is the way he looked at her, the way he made her feel—vulnerable, exposed, as if he could see right through her. She hates it. She hates that he got under her skin, that he made her care. She was better off alone, better off when she didn't have to worry about anyone else. But now... now she's left with this aching emptiness, this void that she doesn't know how to fill.

The axe slams into the chopping block, the blade sinking deep into the wood. Nevaeh lets out a growl of frustration, her vision blurring as tears she refuses to shed burn in her eyes. She tries to pull the axe free, but it's stuck, embedded too deeply in the wood. With a snarl, she plants her foot on the block and yanks the handle with all her strength, but the stubborn thing won't budge.

That's the final straw.

A scream tears from her throat, raw and primal, a sound born of pure rage and frustration. She doesn't care who hears her. Let them come. Let them see the monster she's become. She's done hiding, done pretending that she's okay. Because she's not.

With a furious roar, Nevaeh rips the axe free from the wood, the force of it sending her stumbling back a step. Her chest heaves with exertion, her breath coming in ragged, uneven gasps. She feels like she's going to explode, like every ounce of strength and control she's ever had is slipping through her fingers.

The axe falls from her hands, landing with a dull thud on the ground. Nevaeh's hands clench into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood. The pressure inside her builds and builds until she can't take it anymore. With a feral scream, she hurls herself at the nearest tree, her fists pounding against the rough bark with all the strength she has left. The tree shudders under the force of her blows, leaves raining down around her, but she doesn't stop. She can't. All she can do is hit and hit and hit, each strike a release of the pent-up rage and pain that's been festering inside her for too long.

Her knuckles split open, blood smearing the bark, but she doesn't feel it. The pain is nothing compared to the agony in her heart, the burning, searing ache that threatens to consume her whole. She punches the tree again and again, her screams echoing through the clearing, until her arms are too tired to lift, until her legs give out and she collapses to the ground, chest heaving, body trembling with exhaustion.

For a long time, Nevaeh just lies there, staring up at the sky, watching as the clouds drift by. The sun is high overhead now, the warmth of it beating down on her, but she feels nothing. The emptiness inside her is all-consuming, a void that nothing can fill. Not the chopping of wood, not the rush of battle, not even the warmth of the sun. She's numb, hollow, and all she can think about is how much she wishes she could feel something, anything, other than this.

Eventually, the tears stop, leaving her drained and empty. She sits up slowly, her body aching, her hands trembling as she wipes the blood and dirt from her face. The clearing is silent now, the only sound the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. It's peaceful, serene, but it does nothing to calm the storm inside her.

Nevaeh looks down at her hands, at the raw, bloody knuckles, and something inside her breaks. She's supposed to be strong, supposed to be invincible, but here she is, crumbling under the weight of her own emotions. She hates it. She hates how weak she feels, how vulnerable she is. She hates that she let Clark get under her skin, that she let herself care.

With a shaky breath, she gets to her feet, her legs unsteady beneath her. She looks around the clearing, at the scattered logs, the broken branches, the splintered wood. It's a mess, a chaotic reflection of the turmoil inside her, and she feels a pang of regret. She shouldn't have let herself lose control like that. She shouldn't have let her emotions get the better of her.

But it's too late now.

Nevaeh picks up the axe, her grip firm despite the trembling in her hands, and walks back to the chopping block. She sets another log in place, raises the axe, and brings it down with a sharp, clean strike. The wood splits neatly in two, the sound of it echoing through the clearing. She takes a deep breath, trying to steady herself, and picks up another log.

The routine is familiar, comforting in its simplicity. It's something she can control, something she can do without thinking.

So she keeps chopping, the sound of wood splitting filling the air, the rhythm of it steady and constant. It's the only thing that makes sense right now, the only thing that feels real. And as long as she can keep doing this, as long as she can keep herself busy, maybe she can keep the storm inside her at bay.

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