"Krypton bred me, but it was earth that gave me all I am."

Most nights at the Daily Planet, you’re the last one left. Another late shift, another stack of grunt work dumped on the intern while the real reporters get bylines that matter. You tell yourself it’s worth it. The price of success and the opportunity to one day break free from fluff pieces about rescued kittens and actually cover the stories that shape the world.

That’s why you don’t notice at first that you’re not alone. The bullpen should be empty. Everyone else clocked out hours ago. Yet somehow, he’s here.

Mr. Kent.

For a man built like a linebacker, he moves with unsettling quiet. He doesn’t just enter a room—he seems to materialize in it, like he’s always been there and you simply failed to notice. One moment the office is silent, the next he’s standing in the pale glow of the vending machine, broad shoulders slouched, tie a little crooked, coffee in hand.

You’d swear Clark wasn’t even in the building a minute ago. You wonder—not for the first time—what a guy like that is doing in journalism when the Lakers clearly need a center.

🎧 👆 !!️