The sterile chill of the private medical bay always seemed to seep into Lex Luthor's bones, a constant, gnawing reminder of his failure.
It was a damp, pervasive cold..
He adjusted the lapel of his Brioni suit, the fine Italian wool doing little to ward off the pervasive cold that clung to the room like a shroud.
The suit, meticulously tailored to his precise measurements, was a symbol of control, of his control.
But here, in this antiseptic chamber, it felt like a hollow affectation, a costume donned for a performance that no one was watching.
He was alone with his son, alone with his regrets, alone with the crushing weight of his burden.
Nineteen years.
Nineteen years since his son had been born, and nineteen years since he'd last seen those eyes open, those eyes that should have been the sharp, intelligent, and calculating eyes of a Luthor.
Eyes that should have reflected the brilliance and ambition that coursed through their shared bloodline.
Eyes that should have been focused, determined, ready to conquer the world. Instead, they remained stubbornly closed, veiled behind pale, delicate lids, lost in a never ending darkness
He approached the bed, the rhythmic hiss and whir of the life support systems the only sound in the room besides his own breathing.
The machines were a symphony of technological marvel, each one meticulously calibrated to sustain his son's fragile life.
They were a testament to human ingenuity, to the power of science to defy the natural order. But they were also a constant reminder of its limitations, its inability to truly heal, to truly restore.
His son lay still, unnervingly so.
His chest rose and fell with the artificial assistance of the ventilator, a mockery of natural respiration.
It was a grotesque parody of life, a mechanical imitation of a fundamental human function.
Lex found himself studying the rise and fall of his son's chest, searching for any sign of genuine movement, any indication that there was a flicker of consciousness beneath the surface.
But there was nothing. Only the relentless, unwavering rhythm of the machine.
His skin, pale and translucent, stretched taut over the sharp angles of his face, a face that held the faintest echoes of Lex himself.
The Luthor features were there, subtly etched into the delicate bone structure: the strong jawline, the high cheekbones, the prominent brow.
But they were softened, diminished by the ravages of illness and inactivity. It was as if his son was a faded copy of his father, a pale imitation of the man he was meant to be.
"Samael," he began, his voice a low rumble.
He hated speaking to his son like this, hated the one-sided conversations that stretched into years.
It felt absurd, pathetic, to pour his thoughts and emotions into the void, to address a being who couldn't hear, couldn't respond, couldn't even acknowledge his presence.
But he came, every day without fail, driven by a compulsion he couldn't quite explain, a need to connect with the son he barely knew.
It was more than just a father's duty, more than just the weight of expectation.
It was a primal urge, a deep-seated need to bridge the gap between them, to forge a connection that transcended this damned situation.
"I have new data from Doctor Klein. The experimental gene therapy… it shows minimal improvement. Insignificant, really. But I've authorized further trials. We're not giving up."
His words were clipped, precise, devoid of emotion.
He spoke as if he were delivering a scientific report, analyzing data, assessing probabilities.
But beneath the detached facade, there was a flicker of something else, a desperate hope that refused to be extinguished.
We. A royal we, he thought, a shield against the bitter truth. He wasn't giving up. He couldn't. Samael was his son, his heir, the continuation of his legacy.
He was the embodiment of Lex Luthor's hopes and dreams, the vessel into which he had poured all his ambition and expectation.
To give up on Samael, to sire a replacement would be to give up on himself, to admit defeat in the face of a universe that seemed determined to thwart his every endeavor.
And yet, he was also a constant, agonizing reminder of his own fallibility, his inability to control every facet of his existence.
Lex Luthor was a man who prided himself on his intellect, his resourcefulness, his unwavering determination.
He was a master strategist, a brilliant scientist, a ruthless businessman.
He could manipulate markets, influence governments, and outwit his enemies with ease.
But he couldn't cure his own son.
He reached out, his fingers brushing against the back of Samael's hand.
It was cold, lifeless.
He suppressed a shudder.
He had never been good at intimacy, at vulnerability. He had always kept people at a distance, his excuse being that they were beneath him, that everyone was.
But since the birth of his son, he's begun to accept the true reason.
Fear.
He was afraid of being hurt, afraid of being exposed.
"Have I ever told you what your name means, Samael?" he continued, his gaze fixed on his son's still face.
He found himself drawn to the delicate curve of his son's cheek, the faint shadow of his eyelashes against his pale skin.
He wondered what Samael would look like if he were healthy, if he were vibrant, if he were alive.
"Poison of God. Ironic, isn't it? I named you that because, in my eyes, that's exactly what you were.
A divine curse, a weakness inflicted upon me by a universe that seems determined to undermine my every achievement."
The words were laced with bitterness, with resentment, with a profound sense of injustice.
He had always believed in self-determination, in the power of the individual to shape their own destiny.
But his son's illness had challenged that belief, forcing him to confront the limitations of his own control, the capriciousness of fate.
The words were harsh, cruel even, but they were laced with a pain that only Lex Luthor could truly understand.
It was the pain of a man who had always strived for perfection, who had always demanded the best from himself and from those around him.
It was the pain of a father who had been denied the opportunity to watch his son grow, to share his knowledge, to mold him into the heir he was meant to be.
He had built his empire on the foundation of his intellect, his ambition, his unending will that even the mighty Man of Steel could never truly break.
He had overcome countless obstacles, defeated countless enemies, and risen to the pinnacle of success.
He was Lex Luthor, the man who had defied the odds, the man who had conquered the world.
His son's birth had shattered that illusion, revealing the chink in his armor, the vulnerability he so desperately tried to conceal.
An actual weakness in his lineage, his blood, something he would never, ever truly accept.
He had always prided himself on his superior genetics, on the strength and resilience of his bloodline.
He had believed that his children would inherit his superior qualities, that they would be immune to the frailties and imperfections that afflicted lesser mortals.
But Samael had been born with a flawed constitution, a genetic defect that had robbed him of his health and vitality. It was a stain on the Luthor legacy, a blemish on his perfect image.
He remembered the day his son was born.
The sterile white of the delivery room, the hushed whispers of the medical staff, the agonizing wait as the woman - one whose name he couldn't even remember - labored to bring his son into the world.
He remembered the elation he'd felt, the surge of fatherly pride, the overwhelming sense of joy that even he did not expect to feel as he held his newborn son in his arms for the first time.
But that joy was quickly curdled into bitter disappointment as the doctor delivered the grim prognosis.
His son, his heir, was born broken, destined for a life of suffering, or worse, an early grave.
The doctor's words had hit him like a physical blow, shattering his hopes, crushing his dreams.
He had stood there, numb and speechless, as the reality of Samael's condition washed over him.
He had wanted to scream, to rage, to lash out at the injustice of it all.
But he had remained composed, his face a mask of stoic indifference.
He was Lex Luthor, after all. He didn't succumb to emotion. He controlled it.
He had thrown himself into finding a cure, a solution, anything to save his son.
He had refused to accept the doctor's prognosis, refused to believe that his son's fate was sealed.
He had vowed to do everything in his power to heal his son, to restore him to health, to give him the life he deserved.
He'd poured billions into research, scoured the globe for the best medical minds, explored every avenue, no matter how unconventional.
He had spared no expense, left no stone unturned in his desperate quest to save Samael.
He had assembled a team of the world's leading experts in genetics, neurology, and immunology, tasking them with finding a cure.
He had funded cutting-edge research into gene therapy, stem cell regeneration, and nanotechnology, hoping to unlock the secrets of the human genome and harness the power of cellular repair.
He'd even… he hesitated, a flicker of distaste crossing his features… he'd even delved into the mystic arts, consulting with sorcerers and psychics, desperate for any glimmer of hope.
He had always been a man of science, a man who believed that with it all could be accomplished, but his son's illness had driven him to the edge of desperation, forcing him to consider possibilities he would have once scoffed at.
He had sought out the most renowned practitioners of magic and divination, hoping to find some mystical insight into the condition.
He had consulted with shamans, healers, and seers from around the world, listening to their cryptic words and enduring their bizarre rituals.
He had even subjected Samael to various forms of alternative therapy, including acupuncture, herbal remedies, and energy healing, all in the vain hope of finding something that worked.
The results were always the same: nothing. Science, magic, faith… none of them could unlock the mystery of Samael's condition.
The doctors offered complex explanations involving genetic mutations, immune deficiencies, and neurological disorders.
The mystics spoke of karmic imbalances, spiritual blockages, and the interference of malevolent entities. But none of them could provide a definitive diagnosis, let alone a cure.
Though most of these mystics offered the most frustrating explanation of all: Samael's soul, they claimed, was too powerful for his body.
It was a vessel too frail to contain the immensity within.
They spoke of Samael's spirit as a raging inferno, a divine spark that threatened to consume his mortal frame.
They said that his body was simply too weak to handle the intensity of his soul, that it was like trying to contain a supernova within a glass jar.
Too powerful?
The idea was absurd, ludicrous.
And yet, it resonated with something deep within him, a primal instinct that whispered of hidden potential, of untapped power.
He had always believed that there was something extraordinary about his lineage, about his son, something that set him apart from ordinary children.
Yet still, he vocally dismissed it as nonsense, but the thought lingered, a seed of hope planted.
He had tried to dismiss the mystics' pronouncements as the ramblings of charlatans and lunatics.
But the idea that his son, his blood was special, resonated with him and was not something he could simply forever dismiss.
He tightened his grip on Samael's hand, a surge of something akin to affection warring with the ever-present resentment.
He felt a strange mixture of emotions: pity, frustration, anger, and, yes, even a flicker of love. He had always struggled to express his emotions, to connect with others on a personal level.
But he couldn't deny what he felt for his son, for he was his son.
"But you are also my son," he continued.
"And despite everything, despite the disappointment, the frustration, the… the anger… I... Even though I don't say this often, I do love you, son. In my own way."
He leaned closer, his face inches from Samael's. He studied his son's face, searching once again, like always for any sign of recognition, any flicker of awareness.
He still wanted to believe that Samael could hear him, that he could understand his words, that he could feel his presence.
"You have my blood in your veins. You have the Luthor intellect, the Luthor ambition. And perhaps… perhaps you have something more. Something that even I don't understand."
He paused, his gaze drifting to the monitors displaying Samael's vital signs.
The numbers were stable, unchanging.
He felt a familiar wave of frustration wash over him. He longed for some sign of progress, some indication that his son's condition was improving, that his efforts were not in vain.
But the monitors remained stubbornly silent, offering no hope, no encouragement.
"I won't lie to you, Samael. I resent your weakness. I resent the fact that you've been denied the life you deserve.
But I also see something in you, something that refuses to be extinguished.
A spark, a flicker of defiance. And that, my son, is what gives me hope."
He finally straightened up, pulling away from the bed. He couldn't stay here any longer.
"I have to go. I have meetings to attend, deals to make, a world to conquer. But I'll be back. I always come back."
He turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps echoing.
He paused at the threshold, casting one last look at his son.
"Rest well, son. And perhaps… perhaps dream of fire."
The door hissed shut behind him, sealing off the room.
The moment Lex Luthor was gone, the room seemed to hold its breath.
The air began to crackled with an unseen energy, a subtle shift in the atmosphere.
Then, a flicker.
Samael's eyelids, which had remained stubbornly closed for nineteen years, twitched.
A faint tremor ran through his body.
It was barely perceptible, but it was there.
His chest heaved, a shallow, involuntary gasp. The ventilator hissed, adjusting to the sudden change in his breathing.
His muscles tensed, his limbs twitching.
Slowly, agonizingly, his eyelids began to peel back.
And if one was there to see, they would have seen the red flames of hell dancing within those eyes.
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(Author note: Hello everyone! I hope you all liked the chapter!
Do tell me how you found it Luthor. Was he in character in your eyes or not? Since I do try to keep my characters somewhat in line with their canon counterparts even though this is an AU.
Well, I hope to see you all later,
Bye!)