(TSSFH) CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX: CLARK IV

Clark adjusted his jacket as he lingered at the edge of the dockside street. The warehouse Hookwolf had chosen looked like any other in the vicinity as it loomed ahead, its steel walls streaked with rust, graffiti, and a dying floodlight stuttering above the side entrance. From a distance it could have been abandoned. But up close, the truth was harder to miss.

He wasn’t the only one waiting, however. Groups of men drifted toward the entrance in loose packs of twos or more, carrying themselves with the easy camaraderie of those among their tribe. Their laughter was too loud, and they affected a casual air, but every one of them still checked over their shoulders at least once. It seemed paranoia was the price of exclusivity.

Clark fell into step behind a group of four. He kept his stride easy, making sure he didn't look too out of place by hunching in further in himself. A man confident enough to belong but not important enough to be noticed. In his experience, that was the safest disguise of all.

The two guards at the door were tall, broad-shouldered, and had ugly tattoos that stood out against their pale skins. One leaned forward to check each group as they came through, the other simply loomed with his hand resting on the butt of a pistol. When one of the men ahead of Clark greeted them, Clark kept his head bowed, hands in his pockets, and waited for the moment to pass.

Predictably, it didn't, and suspicion landed on him anyway.

“You,” the first guard barked. “Haven’t seen you before.”

Clark met the man’s eyes calmly. “Came with Andy,” he said, keeping his tone level, “but I had a few things to take care of first.”

Recognition was evident in the man’s expression. Andy—Andrew Miller—was the Medhall dockworker Clark had tailed, the one who’d unloaded cages of kidnapped, terrified dogs into his garage. The name carried some weight.

But clearly not enough, it seemed, as the guard’s frown deepened, his fingers shifting closer to the gun at his hip. Clark felt the weight of the moment pressing down, the silence stretching too long. If he hesitated now or said the wrong thing, tonight was over before it began.

So Clark pushed the risk.

“He said Brad wanted a big crowd tonight.”

Brad was Hookwolf’s civilian name, and though it wasn't exactly a secret—not even to the nameless grunts of the E88—few were stupid enough to say it lightly. Clark knew it was a gamble. Either it bought him credibility, and made him untouchable, or it marked him as reckless enough to be dangerous.

But thankfully, the guard’s eyes narrowed, and after a long pause, he grunted. “Fine. Don’t cause trouble.”

Clark inclined his head in thanks and just like that, he was waved inside.

The stench of dogs, blood, sweat, and stale beer hit first. Then, the noise followed: cheers, barks, and the dull roar of a hundred conversations overlapping with one another. But the main attraction of the location was in the basement, so he followed the stream down a concrete stairwell, into a broad chamber lit by floodlamps.

A fighting pit had been carved out of the floor, and men and women clustered around it, money already changing hands. The cages lined against the far wall held the stolen dogs, their whines and frantic scratches drowned beneath the crowd’s anticipation.

Clark wove between knots of people, careful not to linger long enough to invite conversation, but keeping his ears open.

The announcer—a wiry man with a shaved head and arms raised for silence—stood at the center of the ring. He bellowed about odds and stakes, his voice rough but charismatic enough that even Clark couldn't help but pay attention. At the man’s signal, two cages were dragged open.

One was a pit bull scarred along its haunches, its claws and teeth sharpened to a fine point. The other, a shepherd with matted fur and a feral gleam in its eyes. They collided in a spray of spit and snarls, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

Clark forced himself to stay still, hidden slightly in the shadows where the light of the floodlamps didn’t quite reach. Every instinct in him screamed to step forward, to put a stop to this, and to scoop the animals up and tear the fighting ring down. But that would be counterproductive and very short-sighted. 

Yes, stopping this match would save these animals and perhaps put the spectators and Hookwolf behind bars, but it would not be enough to reach Max Anders. Maybe Clark was overestimating the man—and liking him to Lex—but he seemed clever enough to twist what might seem as setbacks into opportunities. Intervening now might only play into his hands.

So he listened, his ears automatically filtering through the overlapping voices until he caught a useful conversation.

“…according to my sister’s boyfriend’s aunt, a large cut from this goes straight into Medhall accounts through money mules…”

“…Anders covers the fines before they even get written down. Keeps the cops on a leash…”

The words slotted together like pieces of a puzzle Clark had seen a hundred times before in Metropolis: illegal money laundered into something clean by the time it hit a politician’s re-election fund or a construction project’s payroll.

Another round of cheers roared as the pit bull forced the shepherd down, teeth sinking deep. The sound made Clark’s stomach twist, but he forced himself to remain where he was. Every overheard deal and every whispered exchange was evidence, enough that if he played this right, he would have something solid for Carol Dallon. Something Max Anders couldn’t smile or bribe his way out of.

But he needed to compile them, so Clark pulled out his notepad from his jacket, shielded it against his thigh to hide it from the others, and began to jot down the names, phrases, and amounts he overheard. After a while, when he was finally satisfied with the information he had gotten, he snapped his notebook close, and slid it back into his jacket. 

He turned toward the exit, his shoulders slumping just enough to blend back into the crowd. Another bettor slipping out before the next round. 

The warehouse door was within sight now, only a few feet between him and the night beyond, when a sound suddenly reached him: a loud growl that reverberated through the walls, deeper than any dog inside the ring could make. It was followed by another, then another, and immediately, all noises stopped. Even the pit dogs had paused mid-fight, shrinking low to the ground, with their ears pinned back and tails tucked.  

The side door burst inward.

The three blurs of muscle and spines barreled through with unnatural coordination, teeth bared, and eyes alight with fury. Then, they hit the crowd without hesitation, tearing into them. 

Screams replaced cheers, bottles flew through the air, and guns cleared holsters, but hands shook too badly to aim.

And behind the dogs, framed in the broken doorway, a girl stepped forward. She was masked, but anger still burned in every line of her posture.

Hellhound.

She raised a hand, and one of her beasts leaped into the ring and dragged a shrieking woman down beneath its weight.

Clark froze. For a moment, he wasn’t Superman—the champion of the oppressed—or Clark Kent, the man with the notebook in his pocket and a future case to build. He was both at once, pinned between identities, and between two choices: act now as Superman and save lives in an instant, or turn away, endure every scream, and protect the fragile chance of ending Anders’ empire for good.

In the end, it wasn't much of a choice at all.