#journalist! reader

“What did you just call me?”

Oh no. Did you just…call Clark by the name of your worst enemy? Typically, the nickname was made to sting, a jab at how Superman’s strength quite literally came from the sun, so why had you called your best friend that out of affection? Everyone knew what a ray of sunshine he was, but usually, you only reserved snide nicknames for those you hated the most. Wow, maybe Superman had thrown you to the ground and made you hit your head too many times. Sleep deprivation was not a good look. 

“Uh…you know? Since you’re like a ray of sunshine,” you stuttered out, noticing Clark’s quizzical look behind his glasses, “Just forget it, it’s a stupid nickname anyway.” Hearing that explanation made him remember how to breathe, the breath filling his lungs again. That name from your lips jarred him, causing him to question all over again…

No, that was stupid. Why was he even entertaining the question in his mind today?

Was the person he held most close secretly his worst enemy? Geez, he was in a paranoid mood today. 

“No, I like it,” Clark gave a short nod, “When it’s coming from you.” 

A wave of relief washed over you, calming your jitters a bit. Clark was too close to Superman to risk any clues leading to your identity, especially since the definition of annoyance in a cape had been focused on the Shadow so much lately. What if Superman told Clark about the details of your conversations during an interview? If anything slipped, so would the mask. 

“So how do you plan to get me this interview with Superman anyway?” you asked, wanting to change the topic as quickly as possible, “It’s not like he’s ever taken any interviews with anyone but you.”

“Lois got two exclusive interviews with him,” Clark corrected, not caring to mention it was because Lois already figured out he was Superman, not too long ago, and threatened to tell Mr. White about his little habit of sneaking off so much during work hours if he didn’t hand over an interview. She was one of the best investigative reporters ever, after all.

“So?” you shrugged, “She is the Lois Lane. Superman probably wanted good press.”

“Lois is pretty amazing and stubborn,” Clark agreed, “But you’re a great journalist too. Nobody has seen it yet, is all. He’s a great guy, so he’ll agree to it. Trust me.”

“How did you get so close to Superman anyway?” you asked, throwing him a suspicious glance. Clark’s constant ability to get an interview whenever he wanted was odd, to say the least. It was as if he and Superman were almost one. The thought had crossed your mind once or twice that Clark could be Superman, before quickly shoving it aside. Not that the evidence didn’t add up, but because he could never be that ego-tistacle hero with that stupid smirk that always made you heat up with hate. There had to be more to the story, and you were determined to get to the bottom of it. “Superman just wanted someone who would tell the truth,” he adjusted his glasses, looking away a moment, “So he must have seen I was unbiased.”

“Clark, all you wrote for your first year at the Planet was about city plumage problems and used the vocabulary of someone who used the thesaurus too much,” you retorted, before softening your tone. The next words felt guilty on your tongue.  “Just tell me the truth, okay? I swear I won’t tell anyone whatever it is. There should be no secrets between us.” Probably the most hypocritical thing you’ve ever said in your life. 

Yet, all there was were secrets between the two, filling the space between them like a black hole, threatening to swallow the bits of truth. 

Clark swallowed, choking down the weight of another lie. Growing up, he became used to telling lies here and there to farmers who swore they saw a large bird flying too close to the Kents’ corn, or when rumors spread among neighbors, they saw Clark holding up a car while his Pa worked on it. Ma and Pa were honest folk, but they taught him how to lie just to keep him safe. So while lying was nothing new, lying to you was becoming harder with each and every one. 

“Fine…but this just stays between us, okay?” Clark’s eyes flickered away, unable to meet yours for once. His shoulder sagged with an exaggerated sigh, “While I was out on a report, I saw Superman changing out of costume, and he wanted me to keep his identity a secret. We started talking, and he wanted someone to help him with his mission. Get the word out, you know?”

The story seemed unlikely, but there were details he probably couldn’t share. 

“So, you know his real identity?” Your eyes were wide, wide with the possibilities and the weight of the truth crashing down on you. It made sense, technically. Superman was closer to Clark than anyone else, at least to the public eye. Eventually, he would have to put together who was behind the cape, or Superman had told him willingly, “How did you get it?” 

“Well, Superman was right there,” he adjusted his glasses nervously, “And he knew I had seen him.”

“Blackmail?” you nudged his side, teasing, “I didn’t know you had it in your, Clark.”

“No! Not blackmail!” he shook his head, curls bouncing along with the motion, “I just took advantage of the opportunity. That’s all.” 

“Sounds like blackmail to me,” you scoffed, tone proud, adding sarcastically, “Who knew they grew up so fast?” 

“I’m technically older than you.” Clark corrected. 

“Only by a couple of years,” you shrugged, “So don’t pretend as if you’re full of infinite wisdom now, sunshine boy.”

He pretended to be annoyed at the name, but the tug of his lip proved otherwise, and you smiled back. Or at least, as close to a smile as you could muster. After your escape, it became very clear quickly that you didn’t exactly smile normally and apparently kept a resting scowl most of the time. Which was fine by you. Being terrifying meant others were scared, and when they were scared of you, at least they couldn’t hurt you anymore. It had worked well enough in the lab. 

These moments, the smiles and teasing between you, were the things you wished you could etch into your mind to last forever. Yet, your thoughts kept wandering back to moments before and the possibilities of it all. 

The possibilities of how Clark had been carrying this information around, and how dangerous it could be. What if Lex had gotten hold of him? The very idea shook you to your core, twisting your gut. 

Besides, being best friends with the only known person whose identity could be useful…

You shook the thought away as quickly as it came, guilt dropping to the pit of your stomach at the very idea of taking advantage of your friendship with Clark for some rivalry.  Besides, you weren’t an idiot. Figuring out the real person behind your enemy shouldn’t be hard, right? 

“So, you really know his real identity?” you asked again, needing the reassurance. 

“Yes, I know who his real identity is.” Technically not a lie. “And it’s really important nobody knows about this, for his safety and mine. If someone could get that information…”

“They would stop at nothing to get it,” you finished his thought, chest squeezing at the idea. If Lex could ever get his hands on that sort of secret, get his hands on Clark, who knew what the madman would do to get it out of him? You knew more than anyone what it was like to be under the hand of Luther. Every flinch, every cold word, every sting and burn of a needle. The endless nights and days of torture, the last experiment more unending than the last. A living, breathing, waking nightmare. 

Imagine Clark witnessing the horrors, being haunted by the same memories as you for the rest of his life, made you feel as if the air had vanished from the elevator—more reason to keep the plan going and stop Lex Luthor for good. It ignited a fire within you thought couldn’t rise anymore, ready to burn down all of Metropolis in its path if that’s what it took to stop people like him for good and keep everyone safe. To keep the only person you had cared for in a long time safe. 

“Are you okay?” he asked, snapping you back into reality as he leaned over a bit to gesture at your hand gripping the safety rail like a lifeline. You hadn’t even noticed it until now. 

“I’m fine,” you straightened, plastering on a fake reassuring smile, the kind that was almost second nature now after surviving so many years of pain. “Maybe coffee for lunch was a bad idea.” 

Luckily, the awkwardness dissipated as the elevator doors opened and the two of you crossed the lobby of the Daily Planet into the awaiting city.  

There was a buzz in the street, a silent living hum that filled the entire city with a rush with every passing person on the crowded streets. It was what had drawn you to the city in the first place, even all those years ago when you were a young girl in a small town dreaming of writing stories in the big city beyond, before everything came crashing do

in the moment you agreed to that stupid experiment. That rhythm under your skin, the rush of it all, is what drew you back. 

One thing about Lex’s other dimension, or basically prison, was that it was quiet. Always too quiet, as if no life could ever exist there. A long, drawn-out, silent cage that nearly drove you insane. Now, there was a comfort in the noise, the reminder that there was life all around you. 

“Leaving during lunch hour was a bad idea,” you muttered as you shoved your way into the crowded streets, pushing past a few passersby with coffee in their hands in a rush to get to one of the various fancy cafes in Metroplolis. The kind you would never be able to afford. Not for now.  At least having a best friend who was a head taller than everyone in the street had its perks, as others were forced to part ways for Clark’s broad shoulders and big form. No matter how bustling the crowd was, he was ever-present, like a shadow lingering out of reach. It was subtle, but he made sure to keep you close, making sure nobody shoved or bumped into you. Really, it didn’t surprise you. After all, Clark’s Ma had taught him quite a few manners. The gesture was small, but Clark was just thoughtful in that way, and it meant everything. Sure, it wasn’t as if you couldn’t handle the streets on your own. After all, you spent most nights running through them under the cover of darkness. Yet, there was something nice about the presence, knowing someone was at your side after walking alone for so long. When Clark was there, you found yourself looking over your shoulder less, expecting to see a ghost from the past lingering behind. 

“Next time we’ll leave earlier,” Clark replied as he awkwardly sidestepped a woman who didn’t even look up from her phone. “Where do you want to eat anyway?” 

A teasing grin crossed your face, and Clark immediately recognized that look. “No, not there again,” he rubbed the side of his face with a groan, “Is that place even up to health code standards?”

“Always you and following rules,” you shrugged, “It’s the best sandwiches in Metropolis!”

“Fine,” Clark sighed, “But if you get food poisoning, I’m not helping.” A lie. No matter what, Clark would always show up, always be the first one at the door. He was the only constant thing left in your life, and maybe that was why you had been fighting so hard to keep it from breaking apart. 

A few minutes later, the two of you were standing in front of a small hole-in-the-wall shop with flickering neon lights, reading The Mini-Mart 7 with a small, fading sign beneath promising “The Best Sandwiches in Metropolis!” stuck between a long-forgotten bookstore and a barber’s shop as if a sandwich of its own. Honestly, you had no clue how the place was still standing after all these years with so little business. A tingling of a bell rang across the small shop as you stepped inside, greeted by the scent of overly greasy fries and something that smelled a bit like burned cheese. 

“My most loyal customer!” a voice rang from the back as Toni, the owner, stepped out from the kitchen, “What do you want this time? Subs are half off today.”

“Just get me my usual.” 

“How many times do I have to tell you, I can’t remember every single customer's orders?” Toni grumbled, tossing a towel down, “Order like a normal person.” 

“I’ll take a grilled cheese with a side of fries,” you crossed your arms, “And make sure to bring ketchup this time.” 

Toni waved a dismissive hand, “Yeah, yeah, I’ll remember. What does your boyfriend want?”

The air became awkward as you tensed, caught off guard by the question. It wasn’t the first time anyone had made the assumption, but it never got any less annoying to answer. Toni looked between the two of you, noticing the immediate shift as you both refused to look at the other. Clark shifted on his feet and glanced away a moment, almost shyly. There was a faint redness on his face at the mere implication.

“We’re not…she’s not,” Clark stuttered out, answering too quickly for your liking, scratching an invisible itch on the back of his neck, “It’s not like that with us.” 

“We’re just friends,” you clarified with a slightly irritated tone, wanting to change the subject before things got awkward. Why couldn’t anyone accept that you were just friends? “Nothing more.”

Nothing more. Always less. Honestly, everyone asking if the two of you were dating was starting to get annoying.  Friendship was more than anything someone as screwed up as you would ever expect, and risking losing what you had wasn’t worth it. It was a miracle most days when you could function as a normal human being with others, if you could even call yourself human anymore. 

“Sure,” Toni raised an eyebrow, tone unconvinced, “That’s what they all say. So, what does your friend want?”

“I’ll take a sub,” Clark cleared his throat, fumbling with his wallet before handing the cash over to Toni, “With no pickles.” 

With a roll of your eyes, you leaned up against the counter while you waited for your orders. “What’s with everyone? Can’t two people just be friends?” you complained. 

Clark shrugged as he leaned next to you, “My Ma and Pa used to do the same thing anytime I brought a girl back to the farm to study,” he stifled a laugh, “I always knew because my Ma would bake her favorite apple pie recipe she and my Pa ate on their first date. She always said it was lucky.” 

The way Clark talked about his folks always gave you a warm feeling, followed by a hint of jealousy. A longing for a family you had once had, but would never have again thanks to Lex.  

There was a moment of silence that passed between the two of you. Sometimes during those late nights, staying after hours into the night at the Daily Planet to get caught up on work, the only thing that would be the quiet that seemed to take up more space than words ever could. It was an easy quiet, the knowledge he was there and so were you, an understanding of each other that didn’t need explanation. Clark was the kind of guy who didn’t question your closed-off nature and just simply stayed there instead. Although lately, the space between you seemed too far apart for some reason. 

Finally, you spoke up, “Thanks again for getting me lunch.”

“It’s no problem, really. I couldn’t let my best friend go hungry, now could I?” he gave a soft smile that shifted to the tense knit of his brow, his tone full of worry. “I just don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about this earlier. There’s nothing to hide between us. You know you can tell me anything, right?” 

He almost felt hypocritical, as if he weren’t hiding the biggest secret possible from his own friend.

“I knew you would worry,” you argued because it was true. If anyone would worry, it was Clark. “Things have just been difficult lately. Rent isn’t exactly cheap in Metropolis ever since someone decided it was a good idea to try and destroy the planet. Half the city got wiped out, including my last apartment! I’m only able to cover my rent and bills most months.”

Not to mention the remaining money was being used for the tech you were buying to keep up your heists instead of stocking your fridge.  Of course, Clark could never know about your criminal alter-ego. He’d never approve, even if he tried to understand. As much as lying hurt, losing the only person left would be an unbearable pain. 

“I didn’t know,” he felt almost guilty for not noticing how much you had been struggling. Lately, he had been so caught up with the aftermath of Lex’s attack on the city as Superman, he had forgotten to help those who needed him the most. “Are you sure you don’t want me to speak to Mr. White? I’m sure I could at least convince him to take another look at those drafts you wrote.”

“No, if I’m going to do this, I want it to be on my own,” your tone was stubborn as ever, “At least I got him to publish my investigation on the Shadow’s last heist.” 

Typically, a superpowered metahuman thief would break headlines anywhere else, but in a city where an interdimensional attack was every other Tuesday, it wasn’t exactly considered newsworthy. 

Clark crossed his arms. “What’s your obsession with this thief anyway?” 

“I could ask you the same about Superman.” It took everything in you not to hide your disgust at the name, “She’s got interesting ideas is all, and I think she may have a bigger plan in mind. You know I’m a criminal investigative journalist. My internship was in Gotham. What else would you expect?” 

“She’s dangerous,” he warned, “What if you get on her bad side or something?”

“I’m not an idiot,” you added, “and I think anyone should worry more about getting on my bad side.” 

Clark gave you a dumbfounded look for a moment, unsure whether or not to be impressed at your determination or worried about your recklessness. After all, it was you he was trying to reason with, so the audacity didn’t surprise him. He’d worked with you plenty of times in the field and witnessed firsthand just how intimidating you could be, but it wasn’t like you had powers that could compete with her level of strength. 

“Promise me that you’ll be careful, okay?” 

A mock high-pitched voice came from behind the counter as Toni set down the bag of food, “Oh, I’ll be so careful!” he clasped his hands together in an overdramatic gesture, “So, so safe! You two are sickening me with this cheesy nonsense. Straight up insufferable.” 

 “Shut up, Toni!” you snapped as he gave you a middle finger wave before ducking back into the kitchen, which you responded to with two-fold. 

Clark glanced away a bit, always a bit caught off guard, still at how easily you could flip someone off. Growing up, his Ma would’ve grounded him for at least a week for using such language or gestures. She always said cursing was not befitting of a gentleman, and that was exactly what she expected to raise.

“He seems kind of rude,” he noted. 

“That’s Toni for you,” you shrugged as you grabbed a fry from the bag and took a bite, “I helped him fix his dishwasher once, so now he cuts me a deal on fries. It’s a mutual thing.” 

Clark tried to get back on subject, “Have you thought about asking your parents for help?” 

You tensed at his words, “We’re not exactly on speaking terms.” Not exactly on speaking terms, code for Lex threatening to hurt your parents if you ever spilled the truth about everything he had done. Lying to them that you hadn’t survived the “treatment” he had offered. “Besides, I can take care of myself,” you scoffed.

 A small part of his heart clenched at the thought of you not having any family to rely on. Nobody deserved such a thing, especially one of his friends. His own folks had helped him through the toughest parts of his life, things he wasn’t sure if he could have ever survived on his own. 

 “If anyone can handle themselves, it’s you, but everyone needs help sometimes,” he answered softly. 

“You always try to help everyone, Clark!” You ate a handful more of fries. 

“I do not,” he gave you one of his ‘I’m right’ stares, which usually meant he was wrong. 

“This morning you got me coffee, now you’re buying me lunch, yesterday you had to grammar check all of Jimmy’s work because his girlfriend wouldn’t stop texting him,” you listed off, “And you missed the office party last week because you said you had to dogsit for your cousin.” 

“Okay, fine,” he admitted sheepishly, knowing you had one once again, “You have a point.” Such stubbornness almost reminded him of a certain villain who also had a habit of never giving up to a frustrating degree. 

“If you keep helping everyone, you won’t be able to help yourself. It’s why I learned a long time ago that the only person I could rely on is myself,” You leaned back further onto the counter with a sigh, “Who do you think you are, anyway? Superman?” 

Oh, how soon you would learn how right you were. 

For a brief moment, Clark froze, a brief flicker of something behind his eyes he quickly masked. 

“That’s ridiculous,” he managed to keep his voice steady, lowering it a bit, “Of course I’m not Superman.” Then he turned to look at you, gaze meeting yours with a sincerity that nearly took your breath away, “Maybe I’m not Superman, but you can always rely on me. I’m not going anywhere.” 

A buzz from your pocket interrupted the special moment, pulling you back into reality. 

“What could he want now?” You glanced at a text alert, expecting one from Mr. White, only to find the breaking news alert: 

CRACK FOUND IN THE CENTRAL METROPOLIS BRIDGE: THREE CARS STILL STUCK ON BRIDGE AFTER ROAD BLOCKAGE- POLICE WARN OF COLLAPSE

Oh no. Immediately, your mind raced with possibilities and worries. What if he were back? 

“No, he’s locked up for good,” you internally reminded yourself, “The bridge’s structure is outdated anyway, Lex is gone. He didn’t do this.”

If there was any chance it was his fault, you would personally make sure he paid for trying to take any more lives. After all, he had taken away the life you had once had. Was it possible for a ghost to still be breathing? 

Clark glanced over your shoulder, eyes widening at the headline, “I have to go.” 

“Go?” you asked, confused. “We’re not even finished with lunch yet.” 

“Mr. White texted me to meet with Lois by the bridge to get some reports,” he quickly answered, “She’s already there, so I need to go.” 

“Did he say anything about me?” A flash of sympathy passed over him as he shook his head, “No, he didn’t.” 

Of course not, he never did. At this rate, you would be stuck on obituary duty until another overlooked journalist was writing your own. 

“Go on, get your article,” you waved him off, the hurt rolling away as quickly as it came, “I’m fine.” Over time, the heart grew colder, freezing every inch until only shards of ice could pierce it. After all, you had learned a long time ago what it took to survive. 

Clark gave a short nod before rushing out the door, leaving you alone again. He had an odd habit of leaving in a hurry, only to show up again hours later.  It had always struck you as suspicious, but you assumed it was to sneak off and get another interview, which would end up on the front page. Again. 

It wasn’t that you were jealous of your friends’ success- if anything, you were proud of them, and looked forward to seeing the way his eyes would light up, excitedly clutching the latest article with his name on it when you clocked in. The only thing that irritated you was seeing your enemy’s name printed on the front page every morning sickened you. Why did he deserve all the glory when there were people like you making changes for the good under everyone’s noses? Change that would last.  

Superman. What a basic name! The sound of your name on his lips was nearly as revolting, along with those silly nicknames of his. Most nights, the memory of it kept you awake, tossing and turning as his voice echoed in your mind. Why did he manage to get under your skin unlike any other? 

“So you call yourself the Shadow?” he had given you that stupid smirk, “Gotta say, it’s catchy.” 

Even now, that stupid name, “Spitfire,” had not left your mind all day after the fight last night. 

Well, tonight it looks like it was time for the Shadow to finally make the front page. 

Tonight, not even Metropolis could ignore you, and they never would again. 

Tags @fluorjscent

The flashbulbs popped incessantly, their sharp bursts of light illuminating the sleek, modern interior of the London hotel's conference room. At the center of this maelstrom of media attention stood Kim Seokjin, his perfectly coiffed hair and designer suit a stark contrast to the casual attire of the assembled journalists. His megawatt smile, the one that had graced countless movie posters and magazine covers, was firmly in place as he fielded questions about his latest career move.

"Mr. Kim," a reporter called out, "how does it feel to be the first male asian lead in a Bridgerton series?"

Jin's smile never wavered as he responded, his English crisp and barely accented. "It's an honor and a tremendous responsibility. I'm thrilled to be part of this groundbreaking moment in television history."

From her position near the back of the room, Y/N fought the urge to roll her eyes. She'd heard similar platitudes from countless celebrities over the years, and as a senior writer for Spotlight, one of the entertainment industry's most respected magazines, she'd developed a finely-tuned bullshit detector. There was something in Jin's perfectly rehearsed answers that didn't sit right with her.

As the press conference continued, Y/N observed Jin closely. Behind the charm and the practiced responses, she caught glimpses of something else – a tightness around his eyes, a barely perceptible pause before certain answers. He was nervous, she realized. The great Kim Seokjin, A-list actor and Asia's sweetheart, was out of his depth.

When it was her turn to ask a question, Y/N didn't hold back. "Mr. Kim," she began, her tone professional but with an edge that made Jin's eyes snap to hers, "your casting has been met with mixed reactions. Some praise it as a step forward for diversity, while others question whether an actor known primarily for modern roles can authentically portray a Regency-era character. How do you respond to critics who say you were cast more for your star power than your suitability for the role?"

A hush fell over the room. Jin's smile faltered for a split second before he regained his composure. "I understand the concerns," he said, his voice steady but with a new intensity. "Throughout my career, I've always sought to challenge myself with diverse roles. While it's true that this is my first period drama, I've been working tirelessly to immerse myself in the era and the character. I was cast because the producers believe in my ability to bring Lord Christopher Hawthorne to life. I intend to prove them right – and to prove the critics wrong."

Their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills. Y/N saw a flicker of something in Jin's gaze – defiance, perhaps, or determination. For a moment, the carefully constructed movie star facade slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man beneath.

The moment passed as quickly as it had come. Jin turned to answer another question, but Y/N noticed that his responses had lost some of their polish. She had rattled him, and a small part of her – the part that had clawed its way up from intern to senior writer in a cutthroat industry – felt a twinge of satisfaction.

As the press conference wound down, Y/N hung back, observing Jin as he chatted with a few lingering reporters. His charm was back in full force, but now that she had seen behind the curtain, she couldn't unsee the subtle signs of strain.

Back at the Spotlight offices, Y/N's fingers flew over her keyboard as she typed up her article. Her editor, Yannie, peered over her shoulder.

"Well?" she asked. "What's the verdict on our Hollywood heartthrob?"

Y/N leaned back in her chair, considering. "He's... interesting," she said finally. "Charming, obviously. But there's more there. He's not as confident as he wants us to believe."

Yannie raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Do tell."

"He's taking a huge risk with this role," Y/N explained. "It could make or break his career. He knows it, and he's terrified."

"Sounds like there's a story there," Yannie mused.

Y/N nodded, already formulating angles in her mind. "Oh, there is. The question is whether he'll let anyone tell it."

The article Y/N penned was a masterclass in nuanced criticism. She praised Jin's ambition and the groundbreaking nature of his casting while questioning Hollywood's motives. Was this a genuine step towards diversity, or a calculated move to tap into the global Asian market? She highlighted Jin's lack of experience in period dramas and the immense pressure he faced stepping into such an iconic role.

The piece went viral within hours of publication. #JinInBridgerton trended on Twitter, with fans and critics alike dissecting Y/N's every word. Jin himself remained silent on social media, but Y/N had a feeling her article had struck a nerve.

She was proven right a few days later when Jin appeared on The Late Late Show. The host, after some playful banter about Jin's transition from action movies to Regency romance, brought up Y/N's article.

"So, Jin," the host said, his tone light but his eyes gleaming with the scent of potential drama, "there's been a lot of buzz about your casting. One article, in particular, has gotten a lot of attention. Any thoughts?"

Jin's laugh was perfectly calibrated to sound carefree. "Oh, you know how it is," he said, waving a hand dismissively. "There's always someone looking to stir up controversy. I try not to pay too much attention to it."

"But this writer, Y/N from Spotlight, she raised some interesting points about diversity in Hollywood and the challenges you might face in this role," the host pressed.

For a split second, Jin's mask slipped. Y/N, watching the interview from her apartment, leaned forward, catching the flash of irritation in his eyes before his smile reasserted itself.

"Look," Jin said, his tone a touch cooler than before, "I respect everyone's right to their opinion. But at the end of the day, I was cast because I'm right for this role. I'm here to act, not to be a poster boy for diversity or to debate Hollywood politics. I'll let my performance speak for itself."

The host, sensing he'd struck gold, opened his mouth to ask a follow-up question, but Jin smoothly changed the subject, regaling the audience with a humorous anecdote about learning to ride horses for the show. The moment passed, but Y/N knew she'd gotten under his skin.

As the Bridgerton production ramped up, Y/N found herself assigned to cover various aspects of the show's development. She attended costume fittings, watched rehearsals from afar, and interviewed supporting cast members. But Jin remained elusive, always just out of reach.

It was at one of these events – a press day showcasing the show's elaborate sets – that Y/N first encountered Kyrie Evans, Jin's co-star and leading lady. Fresh off her Golden Globe win for a gritty indie drama, Kyrie was Hollywood's newest darling, her casting in Bridgerton seen as a coup for the show.

Kyrie was everything Jin wasn't – effortlessly cool, refreshingly candid, and undeniably talented. As Y/N watched her interact with the press, she couldn't help but draw comparisons to Jin's more guarded approach.

"Ms. Evans," Y/N said when she got her chance to speak with the actress, "your casting alongside Jin has generated a lot of excitement. How has it been working with him so far?"

Kyrie's smile was warm and genuine. "Oh, it's been wonderful," she gushed. "Jin is such a professional, always prepared and ready to give 110%. And let me tell you, the man can smolder like nobody's business. Our chemistry readings nearly set the room on fire!"

Y/N raised an eyebrow at this, her journalistic instincts tingling. "That's quite an endorsement," she said carefully. "Some have questioned whether Jin has the acting chops to carry a show of this caliber. It sounds like you disagree?"

For a moment, Kyrie's sunny demeanor faltered. "I think," she said, choosing her words with care, "that people will be very surprised by Jin's performance. He's not just a pretty face or a famous name. He's a dedicated artist who's pouring his heart and soul into this role."

As Kyrie moved on to the next reporter, Y/N mulled over her words. There was sincerity there, certainly, but also a hint of something else. Protectiveness, perhaps? Or was Kyrie simply playing the game, talking up her co-star as expected?

The interaction with Kyrie, brief as it was, added another layer to the complex picture Y/N was forming of the Bridgerton production. As she left the set that day, her mind was already piecing together the elements of her next article.

But the entertainment world never stands still, and the Jin-Kyrie dynamic was about to be complicated by an unexpected player.

News broke late one evening of a surprise announcement: Jeon Jungkook, a rising solo artist making waves in the music industry, was gearing up to release his first album. The internet exploded with excitement, #JungkookIsComing trending worldwide within minutes.

Y/N, like any entertainment journalist worth their salt, immediately began connecting the dots. Would this major music event affect the buzz around Bridgerton and Jin's high-profile role?

As she dug deeper, combing through social media and reaching out to industry contacts, Y/N stumbled upon something curious. A series of photos from a music awards show afterparty several months back showed Jungkook in deep conversation with none other than Kyrie Evans. In one blurry shot, their heads were bent close together, Kyrie's hand on Jungkook's arm.

It could be nothing, Y/N knew. Celebrities mingled all the time at such events. But her instincts told her there was more to the story.

The next day, as Y/N was piecing together her notes on the Jungkook announcement, her editor Yannie called her into her office.

"I've got a proposition for you," she said without preamble. "We want to do a deep dive on Jin's Bridgerton journey. Behind-the-scenes, exclusive access, the whole nine yards. I want you on it."

Y/N blinked in surprise. "Me? Are you sure? Jin and I... well, we haven't exactly hit it off."

Yannie grinned. "Exactly. You've gotten under his skin. You've challenged him. That's exactly the kind of energy we want for this piece. We don't need another puff piece about how dreamy he looks in Regency costumes. We want the real story – the struggles, the doubts, the triumphs. You're the one who can get it."

As the implications of the assignment sank in, Y/N felt a mix of excitement and trepidation. This was a huge opportunity, the kind that could catapult her career to new heights. But it also meant spending extended time with Jin, a prospect that filled her with an emotion she couldn't quite name.

"What about access?" she asked. "Jin's team hasn't exactly been forthcoming so far."

Yannie's grin widened. "Already taken care of. I've been in talks with the show's producers. They love the idea of an in-depth feature. Jin's been informed. He's... well, let's say he's agreed to cooperate."

Y/N could only imagine how that conversation had gone. She pictured Jin's face, that perfect mask cracking under the strain of forced politeness. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of sympathy for him. This couldn't be easy for him either.

"Alright," she said finally. "I'm in."

As she left Yannie's office, her mind was already racing with possibilities. This was her chance to really dig into Jin's story, to peel back the layers of celebrity and find the human being underneath. It was also, she realized with a mixture of anticipation and dread, a chance for Jin to challenge her own preconceptions.

The next few months promised to be a rollercoaster. Y/N took a deep breath, squaring her shoulders. Whatever happened, she was determined to tell this story – Jin's story – with all the complexity and nuance it deserved.

Little did she know that this assignment would not only change her career but would also set her on a collision course with destiny, one that would intertwine her fate with Jin's in ways neither of them could have imagined.

As she gathered her things to leave the office, Y/N's phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number. Her breath caught as she read the message:

It was time.

Your belongings all fitted into a small cardboard box, a foot each way in length and width. First, the framed pictures and accolades that sat around your desk in the tiny, crowded cubicle. Then the other personal items, including the stationery, coffee mug, journal and numerous blank spiral-bound notepads.

In went the small basket of plastic flowers gifted to you by Mrs Honda. They had never been to your taste, even before they faded, but you'd treasured them since she'd handed them over to you after that last appearance in court.

Packing was complete in a depressingly short time. The books stacked waist high against the walls of your cubicle, the archives you'd spent many sleepless nights poring over, the rows of files piled on flimsy bracketed shelving, bowing slightly under their weight, would not be leaving this office with you. You'd signed a non-compete to avoid any issues if a rival news group employed you, and all of this would have to remain.

Not that you had much hope of that happening. Your new posting was in downtown Esuha City, at a small local tabloid, the only kind that would currently employ you.

Once your box was packed with its meager contents, you paused, taking in the cubicle you'd spent the last six years ensconced in, eating cheap, steaming cup ramen, the tinny radio from across the hall on full blast for the evening news, peeling off your wet coat and socks after hours spent standing in pouring rain at some event or other.

This was where your career had been made. This was where it had ended.

All right, so you were entitled to a dramatic flourish, considering your circumstances. Technically, your career wasn't over.

You picked up the box with an air of finality, shrugging away your procrastination of the inevitable. There was still that long walk to the train station to endure, through the halls, past the cubicles and offices of the people you'd worked alongside for years.

A walk of endurance.

You could take doors slamming against the prod of your questioning, the roughhousing of other journalists as you waited outside the scene of a crime, fingers numb with cold. You could withstand a shower of flying spittle as some corporate bigshot screamed into your face, apoplectic with rage. You had even learned to stand silent witness to grief, despair and unimaginable violence.

This, on the other hand, was different. Their stares weren't even disapproving, or angry. Just pitying.

Your pace increased, and even though the box you carried was shockingly light, your breathing was laboured by the time you reached the front doors.

"Reporting for duty, Fat Gum!"

"Nice and early, Kirishima. Good on ya."

Tamaki glanced between the two manifestations of pure sunshine that, unfortunately, made up the rest of his team. His shoulders came up defensively.

"I thought today was going to be admin. Can't you leave me here in the office to handle things?"

Fat Gum's large hand steered Tamaki out the door, and right out of that particular delusion.

"Come on. What have I told you about practicing your 'helping people' face?"

"I've never possessed such a face."

Kirishima slapped an open palm against his chest and flashed a confident grin.

"Like this! See? It's easy."

Tamaki shook his head woefully.

"I can't help it. I look nervous all the time and my smile comes out wrong and I scare people. Or make them feel sorry for me."

Fat Gum stroked his chin in apparent thoughtfulness.

"Guess you're right about that. You do look scared a lot. Need to work on that, 'fore we let you out into the streets again, huh?"

Tamaki's mouth fell open, and he craned his neck to catch a glimpse of Fat Gum's face.

"Are you for real? I can actually stay here at the agency and ... "

He received a good-natured, if callous, belly laugh from the BMI hero.

"Nah, just kidding. You're going on patrol with us. Ain'tcha a lucky guy?"

Tamaki retreated into hopelessness once again. For two kind and cheerful heroes, Fat Gum and Kirishima seemed to take some sort of special pleasure in tormenting him. He'd just have to endure.

As they made their way out into the chilly street, Tanaki considered his unique position at Fat Gum's Agency. As much as he still needed to work on himself, he knew, on some level, that he'd made large strides since he'd started his studies here.

His internship had been a success, if harrowing in its social nature. Attached to a hero like Fat Gum, there was no bypassing any form of public interaction, as Tamaki had successfully done in the past. Taishiro Toyomitsu was a 'tender tank' indeed, warm, effusive, generous, always ready with a quick snack and words of encouragement or support, but he didn't hold Tamaki's hand either. There was a rough, tough, independent streak to the man, one that didn't brook wallowing in weakness or accepting one's flaws as part of nature.

He'd made it clear to Tamaki that he'd expect him to improve as a hero, because heroes weren't perfect beings that sprang fully formed into the public eye. They had to actively work on themselves, much harder than the people they protected on a daily basis. Fat Gum himself had steadily climbed the ranks through sheer incremental labour, gaining the trust of the community he had grown up in, effectively working alongside other heroes that people could consider to be far more powerful than he was.

Tamaki raised his head slightly when he realized that Fat Gum was speaking again, words slightly muffled as he popped the steaming taiyaki he'd bought from a street vendor into his mouth.

" ... and there'll be new deliveries coming in for Okita Groceries. Gotta keep an eye on that later. Clover Fields Nursery is also holding a fundraiser some time this morning. Traffic might be a problem if they're taking up the corner across from Gijima Group Building. Hmm. Let's see. Oh, I got a message from Tachibana at Esuha Shimbun. They're getting a new employee today. Someone he wants to talk to me about. I gotta stop by there too."

Kirishima was nodding along earnestly to the listing.

"Where should we go first?"

Fat Gum raised a burly fist, pausing in thought before swinging his arm out towards the south-west district that was crowded with various business enterprises and office blocks.

"The newspaper building. Tachibana gets there pretty early. Let's see what he has to say."

Esuha Shimbun was small and focused enough to be classified a tabloid, but its reputation as a long-established and trustworthy news source for the locals made it worth its salt. Tachibana had been the assistant editor for many years now, his own roots in the community providing him with a network of information (and imformants) that often proved very useful to Fat Gum.

The building was an unremarkable light grey, the sign for the newspaper headquarters half hidden in a shadowed entryway. Tamaki spotted the short, bespectacled man outside, waiting for their approach. He frowned. Tachibana only met them out here when he wanted to pass along confidential information.

Fat Gum raised a hand in greeting as the assistant editor spotted them and hurried over. Tachibana started speaking as soon as they were within earshot, his rapid-fire delivery jumbled and nervous.

"Oh, there you are. She's due any time now. Apparently she took the first train out and she's going to - "

"Hey now, hold on."

Fat Gum raised a quelling palm.

"Who's 'she' and what's got your head in such  spin?"

Tachibana took a small, bracing breath before adjusting his glasses.

"The new columnist, that's who. She's going to be here soon."

"And that's who you wanted to tell me about?"

"Well ... yes. Her. She specializes in crime writing. But ... you see ... she's been involved in reporting on certain types of cases. That's what I wanted you to know about. There was a big court case surrounding that last one. It's the reason she's been transferred here. One of our sponsors also invests in a big Tokyo newspaper where she used to work."

Fat Gum scratched his chin lightly, frowning.

"Sounds like a lotta words for a simple warning, Tachibana. What exactly do you want me to know?"

"Some of the cases she covered don't exactly put heroes ... in the best light. It's why nobody in the big cities wants to employ her anymore. That court case she was involved in was a good example. The hero didn't come out of it looking great at all. One could say ... his career pretty much went downhill from there. So listen."

Tachibana leaned in urgently, voice lowering even further.

"I had no say in her ending up here. Just ... watch your back, okay? Be extra careful with how you handle cases from now on."

Fat Gum reacted exactly the way Tamaki expected him to. He chuckled, fishing a now slightly cold taiyaki from the paper carton he carried.

"That's it?"

Tachibana let out a frustrated huff.

"I knew you wouldn't take this seriously enough. Just ... just be careful. And don't say I didn't warn you."

"Warn him about what?"

A distinct feminine voice, calm and crisp, sounded from behind them. Tamaki froze before turning slowly. Tachibana's complexion had lost a little of its ruddiness.

It looked like the subject of their conversation  had turned up at a most ... inopportune time.

You'd done your research on the area, of course. Which was the reason you'd known about him; BMI hero, Fat Gum. Seeing him in person was ... certainly something, though. You'd seen pictures of him, but nothing had prepared you for how tall he was in his current form.

He towered over the two youngsters who were, presumably, his interns or sidekicks, and definitely dwarfed the diminutive assistant editor who was now looking at you as if you'd donned a tengu mask and danced threateningly in front of him holding a spear.

Your eyes met Fat Gum's, the large, tawny-gold irises surrounded by the black material of his mask, disconcerting in their wide, frank appraisal. He grinned and the lengthening of his sizeable mouth heralded a low rumble that then pitched forward seamlessly into a full throated laugh. His belly heaved and he slapped Tachibana's shoulder so hard the smaller man stumbled forward. Fat Gum wiped a tear of mirth away from his eye, completely oblivious, it seemed, to the tension that had permeated the air.

"Now this'll make a funny story."

He waved to you, large hand encased in a worn, red glove of sturdy material.

"Hiya. You must be the new columnist."

You nodded slowly before approaching.

"I am. But are introductions really in order? It seems Mister Tachibana was doing a good enough job before I came along."

The assistant editor sputtered.

"Now, I meant no harm. You have to understand - "

"Ya, he was telling me watch my back 'round you, missy," Fat Gum chirped cheerfully.

One of the sidekicks, a dark-haired boy, moaned slightly before covering his face. The other boy flashed a sharp row of teeth in an amused grin. Fat Gum continued undeterred, now munching on a stick of pocky he had pulled from God-knows-where.

"That ain't gonna change how I work, obviously. You're welcome over at my agency any time! Come see how we do things. Get to know the town. You're gonna need to be familiar with stuff if you wanna get in on the good stories, ya know?"

So saying, he handed you a stick of pocky. You took it. You weren't sure you had a choice in the matter. Fat Gum offered a small salute and a "See ya!" before turning his portly form towards the main road and ambling off, trailing his sidekicks in his sizeable wake.

Tachibana mumbled some half-hearted apology before hurrying into the building, leaving you standing on the street with your satchel slung over your shoulder.

Well.

That was certainly one way to start your first day at work. Your patchy history with pro-heroes had followed you all the way out here, it seemed. Not that you expected any different. This hero, Fat Gum, seemed genuinely unconcerned though.

Raising the stick of pocky to your mouth thoughtfully, you took a bite.

There was light, and there was dark, yet somehow there was a jagged edge between the two. Lately, you felt as if that’s the place where you and Superman were dangling dangerously close to. Every week, you’d create some silly crime to distract him in order to get to your real target, while each of you would throw nicknames at one another. 

  “Sunshine boy!” “Thief!” “Goodie-two-shoes!” “Pickpocket!” 

These would go on and on, the little dance the two of you were tangled in, as if waltzing on the edge of the knife. Yet, the particular name he had used the night before, while attempting to make all of the fountains in Metropolis flood bubbles into the streets, you’d managed to pin him to the wall of an alleyway somehow. 

“Petty crime?” you had scoffed, keeping the cold blade against his neck steady, voice dripping in venom, “My crimes are far from petty!”

“Turning a city into a bubble bath?” he’d raised an eyebrow, “No, that’s just immature at this point, Spitfire.”

“Spit-what?” The blade had dug deeper, making his breath quicken, yet he hadn’t pushed you off. He could have easily, you knew that. Even with your powers, Kryptonian strength could easily overcome your own. It’s why you relied so heavily on your inventions and quick reflexes. Really, he wasn’t putting up much of a fight, and he never did with you for some frustrating reason. 

“Spiritfire, there’s a spark in you. Potential for more than all this.”  There was something familiar in those blue eyes as they softened a fraction, “And I’m not going to let it go out.”

For a moment, his breath mingled with yours as his chest heaved, heart beating quickly under your grip. Too quickly. Not as if your own wasn’t beating just as fast, despite your best efforts to hide it. 

The memory faded away as quickly as it came, as someone bumped into you on the bustling street, jogging you back to reality instead of the night before. “Watch where you're going!” the person shouted, making you snap back, “I will once you learn to walk!”

The events had played over and over in your mind, keeping you awake all night and dreadfully unprepared for the workday ahead at the Daily Planet. Being a journalist was not a job for the faint of heart, especially those with a side gig as a part-time criminal and thief. 

“Looks like another day running on caffeine and what creativity I have left,” you thought to yourself before seeing John, your least favorite coworker and all-around jerk, step inside. “And spite,” you mentally noted with a smirk. 

As you got off the elevator with a ‘ding,’ you were immediately greeted by the smell of coffee, ink, and paper, along with the bustling of reporters passing by and other journalists, followed by nervous interns, creating a buzz of excitement in your veins. The news never slept, and neither did the Daily Planet. No matter how tired you got, the view of it never quite got old. A few people moved out of the way as you moved through the room like an unrelenting storm cloud, already grumpy from the night before with that stupid, cape-wearing hero who had left you sore. At least, until a ray of sunshine broke through the gray clouds gathering at the edge of your thoughts. 

“‘Morning!” Clark waved with paper in hand from across the room, shuffling through the crowd to get to you, “I got us some coffee!” Your ray of sunshine and best friend, Clark Kent. Local nerd boy, and the only person who had ever found something worth noticing in your sharp edges. Nobody quite understood how the two of you became such close friends in a matter of a year with such opposing personalities, but it just worked. The sight of him never quite stopped a smile from coming to your face, making the worst of days seem a bit brighter. 

Despite being as different as daylight and dark, in other ways, you were two sides of the same coin. Clark came from a farming town out in Kansas, so small it was literally named Smallville, but you were from a town just as small, minus the cows and cornfields. The two of you shared a common interest in punk rock, which sparked conversation until you realized Clark’s idea of punk music was The Mighty Crabjoys.  Although you had to admit they had a few good songs, even if you would never admit it aloud. Each of you had pursued a degree in journalism, with the hopes of working for the Daily Planet. Well, at least you had pursued one before Lex had come into your life and ruined everything, before even earning a bachelor’s degree. All the documentation of your graduation from Metropolis University was forged; the job at the Daily Planet was a cover-up for Lex’s precious reputation that got ruined by his ex-girlfriend and Lois Lane anyway. 

Of course, each of you hiding a secret identity was another thing you had in common, not that either of you was aware. Not yet, anyway. 

Who would know you were looking at your worst enemy? 

Holding the coffee up high in one hand to prevent spilling, today’s paper in the other, he pushed through the crowded work area to get to you. Somehow, he was excited to see you every single day, unlike others. A passing reporter, trailed by a nervous college intern, bumped into him, making his glasses askew, but he didn’t seem to notice. 

“Here,” he said, holding out the cup to you, “A fresh brew with milk, two pumps of caramel, one pump of mocha, a dash of sugar with a hint of cinnamon, and whipped cream.” 

“How do you always remember my order?” you asked with an impressed tone as you took a sip, savoring the caffeine boost after a night of chasing after Superman again. 

Clark gave a lopsided grin as he tapped the side of his head, “Keep it all up in here, even your zooey l'enfant special.”

“Is that what you’re calling it now?” you asked with a roll of your eyes. “Fair enough.”

The two of you began walking over to your desks, which were beside each other, luckily. “Clark, you um…” You gestured around his eyes, where his glasses were still lopsided. 

“What?” he asked in a confused tone before laughing it off with a shrug, “Oh, guess they got messed up.”

“Just let me get them,” you reached up and adjusted them quickly, taking the lead as always in your friendship. 

“Thanks,” he shrugged before leaning back against the counter as others passed, “Hey, have you heard about that new thief in the city Superman’s been chasing? She’s called the Raven or Magpie or something. Really been causing lots of problems. Didn’t you write an article about her last week?” 

“I did, she’s an interesting case to investigate,” you nodded, unable to hide the pride in writing about your own work and recent heists, “And I heard from an…uh, anonymous source she goes by the Shadow. You know, she gets in and out unnoticed like a Shadow.” 

“A bit of a melodramatic name, don’t you think?” Clark responded, “And she only gets in and out of things so quickly because she creates distractions to keep Superman busy. Adding bubbles to fountains? The rumors about her being from Gotham are seeming more likely. I’ve heard they have a clown as a criminal there.” 

“It’s originality, and it shows she’s willing to get attention. Not to hide behind some perfect facade like a Luther,” there was a hint of frustration in your tone you quickly buried, not wanting to raise suspicion, “And her work gathering those gems from the Metropolis Museum of Art? Genius work-” Clark quickly cut you off, “Don’t tell me you’re seriously supporting her behavior?”

“No, of course not! I get invested in my cases, is all,” you quickly looked for an argument, any excuse to cover up the hints to your real identity, “I’m, uh, supporting women in male dominated fields.”

“Seriously? Supporting women in male-dominated fields?” he gave you a deadpan stare, “That’s no excuse to incite crime.” 

 Great, he was starting to sound like another certain do-gooder who wore a cape. Could today get any worse? “I’m not encouraging crime!” you snapped back, “I’m just saying, if you look around at all the villains in Metropolis, not many of them are women.” It was a weak argument, but at least it would keep any suspicion from you. 

“Then maybe we should be looking for more female heroes,” Clark said, “She’s just misguided, is all. One day, she’ll wake up and use her skills for good. Then we’ll have some sort of Superwoman to save the city.” 

For a moment, he pondered the idea, thinking of a particular villain who had this way of getting under his skin, working alongside him. Fighting for what was good after she realized she was only misguided, looking for a purpose in all that talent she had, rushing at her enemies like the force nobody dared reckon with.  There would be that stare, so fierce and sure it made him weak in the knees when he caught a glimpse. Of course, after saving the city, she’d return to his apartment, where they had a rescue dog, or cat, or something to eat his Ma’s best pie recipes.

The next few words out of your mouth caught him off guard, pulling him out of the fantasy. 

“She’ll have a better personality than that boring goodie in a cape,” you muttered under your breath where nobody could hear. Nobody except a certain someone with super hearing who picked up on every word, catching him off guard. What was your problem with Superman?

“Are you okay today?” he asked, “You seem grumpier than usual, no offence.” 

“Offense taken,” you responded in a sarcastic tone, but there was no real bite to it. There never was when it came to him. “Mr. White’s at me again, telling me I better have an interesting article by the end of this week or else.” 

Concern filled his gaze, blue eyes softening behind his lenses as he took in your appearance, noticing it for the first time. Today, you weren’t as put together as usual, as if you’d thrown together the outfit and barely run a comb through your hair. Underneath your chin, there was a bruise barely covered by makeup suspiciously similar to one a certain villain he’d scuffled with the night before…

“No, don’t even think it. Your best friend would never lie to you about something like that,” he shoved down the thought, to a darker part of himself, he stored all the shadows which followed him more than he’d ever like to admit. A dark hole he could forget about such thoughts, the same place he pushed away the voices of his biological parents telling him he was nothing more than a destroyer, than a hero. Lately, he felt as if The Shadow was a literal one haunting his every waking thought, yet it was one shadow he didn’t want to push out of his mind. 

“Or else what? If there’s a problem, I can speak with Perry,” he suggested, voice too sincere for your liking. 

“No,” you shot the idea down before he could go on, “If I’m going to be a journalist, I want it to be on my own work.”

Clark went on, “What about your job?”

“I’m not that easy to get rid of.” 

Angry keyboard clicks echoed off the walls of the West side of the Daily Planet as you typed away, hoping to pour your frustrations into the words on the page. Potholes? An article about potholes?! Is that really all Mr. White thought you were capable of? Well, even if it were something as boring as holes in concrete, you’d make sure your writing shone through until nobody could ignore you. Nobody seemed phased by the noise or frantic scribbled notes, since your desk was furthest away from anyone else, preferring to stay far away from the distractions of others. 

A steaming cup of coffee appeared seemingly out of nowhere at your side, as you glanced up to seek Clark with his usual dorky grin. 

“Looks like my personal coffee guy came through again,” you smiled, taking the warm cup in your hands, savoring the warmth, “Thanks, seriously.”

“Thought you could use it,” he shrugged, not wanting to admit to noticing the dark circles lingering under your eyes for the past few days, or how you’d been forgetting to bring lunch. “Have you had lunch yet?”

“No, forgot to bring it,” you said, taking a sip of coffee without ever looking away from the screen.

“Did you have breakfast?” 

“Skipped it,” you replied in a nonchalant tone, before taking a note, “Unless you count coffee, in which I had two.” 

“Coffee isn’t a meal,” he scolded, masking his worry, “And you haven’t brought lunch in five days.”

“Who are you, my mom?” you scoffed as you slugged down the last of the drink, “And sure it is, which means you also got me lunch.” 

“Let me buy you a real lunch,” he insisted, “I won’t sit back and let you be hungry.”

“No, I’m fine,” you answered through gritted teeth, too stubborn for hand-outs.  There was a moment, tension thick as the quiet somehow grew louder. Hesitantly, you admitted in a near-ashamed tone, “I haven’t been able to afford it to keep rent.” 

Journalism was sure a labor of love, but not a labor of riches.

Crime had been your only answer for revenge while paying the bills on a journalist’s salary, living in a city as high-end as Metropolis. Most of your money had gone to your studio apartment, along with buying the parts needed for your devices from some underground developers.

Clark’s eyes widened, worry knitted at his brow. “You can’t skip meals, okay? If you had told me earlier.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t,” you interrupted before he could even suggest the idea, “It’s not exactly like you get paid much either, so I won’t ask for handouts.”

“I got a raise last quarter,” he admitted, eyes darting away a moment, “So I can offer help if you need it.” 

“Of course you did, now that you’re almost always on the front page and Lois won top journalist last year,” you slammed your laptop shut, “She’s a good writer. She deserved it.” 

That only made him worry more. Had you been getting so many of the worst assignments, your pay had suffered? 

He leaned against your desk, resting his forearm so he could lean down next to your ear, too close for comfort, “Did Perry give you the week’s worst assignment again?” he whispered so nobody else could overhear speaking about the boss, breath brushing close. A small shudder ran down your spine at the proximity, a light igniting beneath the skin. For a moment, you thought…

“No! Bad brain!” you internally scolded yourself, “Clark’s your friend and nothing more.” 

It wasn’t as if the thought hadn’t crossed your mind a few times, considering how many coworkers had questioned if the two of you were dating. It was a stupid, idiotic idea, dating a person you could only ever be friends with, right? Friendship was more than you deserved or ever imagined you would find after the horrors you’d faced only a few years ago. Clark was your best friend, and that was enough. Maybe Superman had hit you in the head too hard one too many times? 

“Fine,” you sighed, grumbling stomach overcoming your pride, “We can get lunch, as long as it’s cheap.” A satisfied look crossed his face as he asked, “So what are you working on this time?”

“Potholes,” you rolled your eyes before turning to face him, “I didn’t work my butt off to get here to write about potholes.”

“Hey, I was writing about Metropolis pipes before I got my big break with Superman,” Clark assured, “At least it’s not obituary duty again.”

Obituary duty was whatever Perry gave to his most untalented writers, as he said so himself. 

“‘Even in the face of fear, he was brave until the last. A true hero amongst us, and the best of humanity. Choosing to good, while in the face of trials, doesn’t make a hero, but a human.’” Clark quoted your words from an obituary you wrote in spring, “You wrote that Malik Ali’s obituary, didn’t you?” 

A small nod, as you looked back at your screen. Sure, you were a villain, but not a monster.  Seeing so much bloodshed at the hands of Lex during the end of the world shook you to your core, more reason to keep doing what you were doing. In the papers and at night as The Shadow. Maybe you couldn’t get a headliner to write about the falafel vendor’s memory, but you wouldn’t waste the words you had to preserve it. 

A steady hand rested on your shoulder as he gave a soft smile, eyes genuine. “You’re a good writer,” he said in a warm tone, “One day, everyone will see exactly what I know.” 

The ghost of a smile tugged at your lips, a light breaking through every cloud of worry at the reassuring words. Clark saw what you did, the talent everyone ignored, never doubting, never wavering. 

“Speaking of which…” he dropped a few papers on your desk, “Could you proofread my article?” How could you refuse the dork? 

Rolling your eyes, you retorted, “Let me guess, another one with Superman?” The name felt like venom on your tongue, not even wishing to say it aloud. Hopefully, nobody would hear the disdain in your voice for Mr. Perfect Always Saves the City and Gives the Most Annoying Lectures. 

“How’d you guess?” he grinned back, handing you the paper, a shy pride in the gesture. No surprise, he was the headliner again, a space you hadn’t occupied in months. The two of you often proofread and criticize each other’s writing, always being the first to read it, even before Mr. White. 

“Because you’re predictable,” you shot back, opening the newspaper with a snap, eyes scanning the article for mistakes, not actually paying attention to the content, “And you never shut up about that guy.” 

“What?” Clark’s tone turned almost defensive, “Superman’s a great guy. He literally stopped the world from being sucked into a black hole if I recall.” 

“Fair point,” you had to admit. Sure, as much as he was your enemy, he had saved you and everyone else on Earth from dying at the hands of a psycho like Lex. “And if I recall, you missed out on seeing that movie with me last week because Superman wanted a last-minute interview about the incident at the park.” 

“Oh, come on, you know it’s my job,” Clark said, “And I’ll see it with you this weekend.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather see it with Superman?” you asked, not trying to hide the bitterness in your tone. Although there was a hurt buried underneath the layers of snark, Clark always heard while everyone else couldn’t, over the noise of your stormy attitude. “I’m starting to think he’s your best friend.”

“So that explained your sudden anger towards Superman, no other reasons,” he thought to himself with relief, wondering why he ever let the thought of his best friend being a villain cross his mind. After all, Superman was him, so if you didn’t like Superman, it felt like you didn’t like all of him. 

“Not gonna happen,” he reassured, throwing an arm around your shoulder to pull you closer, “Superman’s great and all, but you’re my best friend. Nothing’s going to change that.” 

A hint of warmth filled you up, the kind only he brought to your usual cold indifference. There was a steadiness, a constant reminder that nothing would ever change between the two of you, that kept you grounded after the upheaval you’d faced a few years ago. 

“Fine, but you’re still buying popcorn this time,” you smirked up at him, and for a split second, Clark noticed just how similar it was to a signature smirk of a certain someone. 

Turning back to the article, you looked over it again, “So what was this interview about?” 

The headline read: 

“The Rise of Petty Crime Amongst Metropolis’s Youth: Criminal or a Cry for Help?” 

“Oh please,” you turned the page, “Dramatic as always, Clark.”

“Coming from the journalist who quoted Hamlet in one of her articles,” he noted in a teasing tone.

“I was investigating the murder that happened during the Shakespeare in the Park,” you argued, “It was the perfect opportunity!” Before he could respond, your eyes caught a single word. “Petty! Petty!” you exclaimed, “How could he ever call the Shadow’s work petty!”

“It’s his words, not mine,” he responded, “So if you have a problem with it, take it up with Superman.” 

“Oh, I think I will,” you slammed the article down on your desk, “How could he say that about my lead?”

“Because obviously there’s a difference between psychos like Lex Luther and misguided criminals,” Clark answered, “How are you going to get an interview with Superman anyway? Only Lois and I have ever gotten one.” 

“When has the impossible ever stopped me?” A smirk spread across your face as you gathered your things as the two of you made your way to the elevator to head to lunch. “I don’t think anything could,” he added, “And I’m going to get you that interview with Superman.”

“What? Seriously?” you sputtered in disbelief, “You would do that for me?”

A flicker of hope, one that had died out nearly when you lost everything in a lab, felt alive again. Tangible, almost. 

Pressing level one, he shrugged, “The guy knows me pretty well, I can pull a few strings for my best friend.”

With the elevator empty and nobody around, you quickly leaped into Clark’s strong grip in a hug. Despite his strength, he nearly stumbled back in shock, not used to seeing such displays of affection from you. Touch had become a rarity, a reminder of being under the hand of someone else before running away. Now that you thought about it, he was the first person you felt safe enough to be with in who knew how long. For a moment, you felt near human again, instead of a living, breathing experiment.

‘Thank you! Thank you!” you beamed, “Perry will put me on the front page for sure now!”

“Anything for you,” he patted your back, curls a mess from the impact, “Don’t think much of it.”

“If you tell anyone about me acting soft, you’ll regret it,” you threatened, eyes shining with hope,  “Sunshine boy.”

Clark’s heart stopped a moment, along with the world around him, as it slowed to a halt. Only one other person called him by that nickname, their words were full of mockery and hate, while this one was sweet. The name given to him by his enemy. 

“What did you just call me?” 

Feedback is appreciated!

Tags

@hopelesswwesimp @yew-over-there @fishtale88