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Chapter Text

Beneath the golden blaze of the late afternoon sun, Seraphina Elliott stood before the assembled legions, the marble steps of the Principia gleaming at her back. Her praetor’s armor, golden and polished to a mirror sheen, caught the light and scattered it in warm, molten glints across the sea of faces below. The imperial purple of her cloak stirred in the soft breeze rolling in from the bay.

Her hair, burnished gold like the dawn’s first light, was gathered in a soldier’s knot, yet a few sunlit strands had escaped to frame her face. The laurel circlet upon her brow seemed less a mark of authority and more a crown bestowed by her people, for they looked up at her not with the fear or distance owed to command, but with the unguarded affection of those who had followed her into both triumph and terror.

Before her, the banners of the cohorts stirred. Each stitched with battle honors she had earned alongside them. She could still recall the day she had stood on these very steps, barely fifteen, the youngest praetor in living memory, her voice steady despite the weight of the mantle she took on. Now, three years later, those same soldiers, scarred veterans and wide-eyed probatio alike, watched her with eyes bright from the same pride that had once buoyed her own.

She swept her gaze across them, and memory bloomed in every face: the medic she had carried from the front lines; the legionnaire who had once sworn he would never take orders from a girl, now standing at rigid attention with tears in his eyes; the countless friends and comrades whose loyalty she had earned not through title, but through sleepless nights in the infirmary, hours spent in the training yard, and a steadfastness that never faltered.

Her hand rested lightly on the pommel of her gladius, not as a weapon now, but as a reminder of the countless times it had been drawn for their safety. The air seemed to still, the murmurs fading until only the faint creak of leather armor and the flutter of banners remained.

Seraphina took a breath, her voice low at first, yet carrying across the courtyard with the ease of one who had addressed armies before. “Legion, Romans…” she began, the words cutting through the courtyard like the ringing of a standard’s bell. “For three years, it has been my honor to wear this cloak, to bear this title, and to stand at your head in battle and in peace. I was fifteen when you placed your trust in me; many of you doubted, and rightly so. But together we built victories from impossible odds, rebuilt what was broken, and defended the gates of New Rome when shadows gathered.”

Her callused hand came to rest lightly on the pommel of her gladius, though she did not draw it.

“The greatness of Rome has never been in the strength of one leader. It has never rested on the shoulders of a single praetor. Rome endures because of you—every sword raised, every shield held firm, every legionnaire who puts the safety of their cohort above their own life. Long after I am gone, long after every face here is only a name in the archives, Rome will stand. Because we stand together.”

She stepped forward, letting the late sunlight frame her, as if Apollo himself had turned his gaze upon his daughter.

“I thank you—for your courage, for your loyalty, for trusting me to lead you. You are more than soldiers. You are the beating heart of this city. And though I lay down the mantle of praetor today, I will never stop being a daughter of this Legion.”

Her voice grew stronger, surging like the roar of a crowd before the first clash of battle.

“Hold the line. Guard the gates. Remember what we have built together. Rome is eternal—not because of a name, not because of a title—but because of the spirit you carry in your hearts. And as long as that spirit burns, there is no shadow our light cannot drive back.”

She raised her arm in salute, the sunlight catching on her bracer. “Ave Roma! Ave Legion!”

The answering cry shook the air, hundreds of voices rising as one, a sound so fierce it seemed to make the very marble tremble..

In that moment, framed by the light of her divine father’s sun, she was not simply a commander stepping down. She was a chapter closing in the story of New Rome, a leader whose name would be spoken in mess halls and war councils for years to come, not because she had been praetor, but because she had been theirs.

And as she looked out upon them for the final time in that role, the love that shone back at her was as fierce and unyielding as any vow sworn beneath the legion’s standards.

The roar of the legions still echoed faintly behind them as Seraphina and her fellow praetor descended the steps of the Principia. The marble beneath their boots gleamed in the molten light of the setting sun, casting long, regal shadows across the forum. The banners they passed dipped in salute, the soldiers lining the way striking their shields in rhythmic unison, a farewell procession for leaders who had weathered both glory and ruin.

At her side, her co-praetor’s stride was precise but stiff, betraying the nerves he was trying so hard to bury beneath ceremony. His armor was immaculate, his purple-trimmed cloak perfectly draped, but his eyes, barely seventeen and still holding that stubborn spark of untested youth, kept darting toward the looming Senate House ahead as if its columns were the gates to some impossible trial.

Seraphina noticed, of course. She had seen him in battle when the air was thick with ash and fear, yet this, this quiet, inevitable march, seemed to rattle him more than any enemy.

She let the silence linger for a few steps, the sound of their boots and the faint rattle of their armor filling the air. Then, without breaking her measured pace, she leaned slightly toward him.

“Breathe, Conrad,” she murmured, low enough that the soldiers couldn’t overhear. “You look like your walking to the gallows.”

He gave a strained chuckle, but his grip tightened on the shaft of the standard he carried. “Feels like it. They’re going to expect me to… to be you.”

Her smile was faint, but it warmed her whole face, softening the sharp lines of command. “No. They’ll expect you to be you. And that’s enough. More than enough.”

They passed beneath an arch draped in garlands, the scent of laurel and bay leaves carried on the wind.

“You’ve got the strength,” she continued. “I’ve seen it in you. When the Third Cohort nearly broke last spring, it wasn’t my orders that held them—it was yours. I’ve watched you grow into this role, not because of me, but because you belong here. The Legion doesn’t need another Seraphina Elliott.” She glanced at him, her amber eyes catching the gold of the sunset. “It needs Conrad Monroe. And Rome will be lucky to have you.”

He swallowed, shoulders squaring a little more with each word. The Senate’s steps loomed ahead now, crowded with officials in their togas, the doors thrown wide to receive them.

They reached the foot of the stairs. She paused, placing a firm hand on his bracer, a gesture more intimate than any salute.

“From here,” she said, “you lead beside me. And when I step down, you’ll walk forward without hesitation. That’s the only way Rome survives—when each of us carries it for as long as we can, and then trusts someone else to bear the weight.”

He nodded once, deep and certain this time. And together, they began the final ascent, side by side, one leader preparing to leave, the other learning, in that moment, exactly how to stay.

The Senate House loomed before them, its marble pillars catching the dying sun, so that the whole façade glowed like a temple lit for sacrifice. The steps were lined with lictors bearing fasces, their faces grave, their posture stiff with ceremony. Senators in pristine togas crowded the portico, the purple stripes at their hems fluttering in the faint breeze, as though the city itself held its breath.

Seraphina and her fellow praetor climbed the stairs together, the rhythm of their boots echoing through the wide, hushed space. As they entered the Curia, the solemn quiet broke into respectful applause. the restrained, dignified kind that befitted the Senate of Rome.

Inside, the chamber glowed with torchlight, their flames reflected in polished marble. Statues of past heroes, praetors, consuls, emperors, demigods, watched silently from their alcoves, their stone gazes set on those who now carried their legacy. At the far end of the hall stood the twin ivory chairs of the praetors, placed upon the dais before the assembled senators. It was toward these that Seraphina and her partner marched, their cloaks trailing behind them like banners.

When they reached the center, Seraphina stopped. For a heartbeat, she let the silence weigh heavily, her blue eyes sweeping across the Senate.

Then, with deliberate grace, she unclasped the golden brooch at her shoulder. The purple cloak slipped free, its imperial trim catching the firelight as she folded it in her arms. With a voice that carried both pride and finality, she spoke, “Brothers and sisters of Rome, honored Senators. For three years, I have borne the mantle of praetor, entrusted with the legions and the safety of our people. I have led where you commanded, I have fought where you needed, and I have given all my strength to the cause of our eternal empire.”

Her gaze flicked, just for a moment, to her young counterpart standing beside her. nervous still, but steadier now, his chin lifted, his hand firm upon the standard he carried.

“But Rome does not belong to one leader, nor does its strength end with my command. Today I lay down this cloak, not in sorrow, but in triumph, for Rome stands secure, and new hands rise to guide her. Hands I trust. Hands you may trust.”

She turned, lifting the cloak high, and draped it across the outstretched arms of a waiting lictor. The chamber seemed to exhale, as though an era had ended with the fall of that fabric.

Her co-praetor shifted, heart hammering loud enough he feared the senators might hear. But before he could falter, Seraphina leaned subtly toward him, murmuring just loud enough for him alone. “Now, it is your time to shine.”

She looked back upon the young faces of the senate and smiled, “I, Serphina Elliott, Daughter of Phoebus Apollo, do here by relinquish my title as Praetor and, effective immediately, abdicate from my post in the legion of Rome.

The chamber resounded with the ritual acclamation, “Ave Roma! Ave Praetores!”

And as the torches flared brighter, Seraphina allowed herself a small smile. She was no longer Rome’s commander, but her heart would forever beat with its legions.

The heavy oak doors of the Curia swung wide, and Seraphina stepped out into the fading Roman evening. The air was cool now, touched with the scent of olive smoke and laurel garlands, the city alive with the glow of torches lit along the Via Sacra.

For a heartbeat, there was silence. The crowd had gathered, legionnaires, citizens, children perched on their parents’ shoulders, all waiting, holding their breath as if the world itself had paused for her. Then the first sound broke the stillness, the metallic crash of a hundred shields struck in unison, the thunder of loyalty.

The legions lined the avenue like living walls of bronze and crimson, banners rippling overhead. As Seraphina descended the Senate steps, they lifted their standards high, golden eagles gleaming against the twilight. The cry rose from a thousand throats, rolling like a tide through the forum, “Ave, Seraphina! Ave Roma!”

The words struck her like an arrow to the heart, not with pain, but with a fierce, aching pride. She had expected the formality of farewell, but not this raw, untempered devotion. Some of the veterans she recognized, grizzled soldiers who had fought at her side, raised their fists in salute, their eyes wet with tears they would never admit. Young recruits looked at her as though she were carved into legend already.

Her younger counterpart walked beside her, still in awe, his face caught between reverence and determination. She nudged him lightly with her elbow, just enough to steady his trembling. “They cheer for you, too,” she whispered. He swallowed hard, shoulders squaring.

The procession moved forward slowly, almost ceremonially. Women leaned from balconies to scatter flower petals into her path, crimson and white cascading like drops of blood and sunlight. Children darted forward from the crowd, only to be pulled back by watchful parents, yet Seraphina caught one boy’s eye, no older than twelve, his chin lifted high, his hand raised in a makeshift salute. She smiled at him, and his face lit with the kind of hope only a child could carry.

When they reached the forum’s end, the legions brought their salute to a final crescendo: shields raised, swords drawn in perfect formation, the clash of bronze echoing like thunder. It was a warrior’s farewell, as grand as any triumph.

Seraphina halted and turned, letting her gaze sweep over them one last time. Her throat tightened, but she refused tears; she would leave them not in sorrow, but in celebration. She lifted her hand high, her voice ringing clear over the din, “Legion of Rome—hold fast, march strong, and never forget who you are. You are eternal. You are Rome.”

The roar that answered her seemed to shake the stones beneath her feet, a living promise that the city would endure long after her.

And then, with the setting sun crowning her in gold, Seraphina Elliott turned and walked into the twilight, not as praetor, but as a daughter of Rome, beloved and eternal in the memory of her people.

The streets had quieted by the time Seraphina slipped away from the last of the revels. The flowers strewn in her honor still littered the stones of the forum, crimson petals pressed beneath the boots of dispersing crowds. Music drifted faintly from the restaurants, laughter echoing like it belonged to a world she was no longer part of.

She walked alone, her cloak now plain, stripped of its purple trim, her armor set aside in the Senate’s vaults. For the first time since she was eleven years old, she felt naked without the weight of armor, like some piece of herself had been carved away and left on the Senate steps.

Her boots carried her by habit toward the training field. The sand there was cool beneath the moonlight, the dummies standing silent in neat rows. She reached for her gladius before she remembered it wasn’t at her hip anymore. Her hand hovered in the empty air, fingers curling uselessly.

For years, she had been praetor. Commander. Shield. Sword. Every breath, every heartbeat had been Rome’s. Every choice had been made for the legion, for the city, for her father’s name. But now?

Now there was only Seraphina. Just Seraphina.

She lowered herself to sit in the sand, drawing her knees up, resting her chin there. The sounds of battle still lived in her memory—shields locking, commands shouted, her musical voice rising above the clash. Here in the stillness, it was almost too quiet. The silence pressed against her ears until her chest ached.

A small laugh escaped her, brittle and humorless. “Who am I,” she whispered to the empty field, “if not Rome’s light?”

No one answered. Not her father, not the statues of heroes, not the legions who had once raised their blades for her. Just the wind, stirring the banners faintly as if mocking her question.

She closed her eyes, letting the loneliness sink in, sharp as any wound. For the first time in years, she had no orders to give, no enemy to prepare for, no burden to carry but her own. And she did not know if she was strong enough for that.

So she sat in the sand until the moon dipped low, a soldier without her sword, an archer without a bow, a leader without her legion—trying to remember how to be Seraphina Elliott, and fearing she might never find the answer.

~~~Two Years Later~~~

The years had tempered Seraphina, but they had not dimmed her.

The glass doors of the Daily Planet swung open, and Seraphina Elliott stepped through them with the same unshakable poise that once carried her across the Senate steps. Heads turned instinctively, as if some invisible current preceded her into the lobby. She moved with the purposeful stride of a commander, her heels striking the floor like the cadence of a march.

She was twenty now, and time had carved her into something fiercer and freer. Her long blonde hair, sun-kissed and gleaming, cascaded down her back in controlled waves. Her skin held the golden tan of someone who never quite lost Apollo’s light. Blue eyes, clear as a summer sky yet edged with the steel of discipline, swept the bustling newsroom with a tactician’s precision.

She wore a tailored blazer over a blouse the color of ivory parchment, trousers cut sharp enough to rival a legionnaire’s blade, and the faint glint of a locket tucked discreetly at her collar. She carried no sword now, but her presence was weapon enough.

Reporters and editors alike paused mid-stride, conversations stuttering as she passed. She was beautiful, yes—stunning in a way that seemed almost unreal—but it wasn’t beauty that held the room. It was the aura of command, the subtle reminder that here walked a woman who had once been obeyed by thousands, who had led men and women into battles against things most mortals would never dare to name. She didn’t need to demand respect. It flowed toward her naturally, as if the air itself bent around her presence.

And yet, beneath that formidable aura was a different fire now. She had traded her gladius for a pen, her battlefield for paper and ink. Her father’s gift of words, eloquence honed from speeches and sharpened by command, had bloomed into writing that stirred hearts and minds with the same power that once rallied legions.

She approached the receptionist’s desk with a faint, courteous smile that didn’t quite soften the intensity in her gaze. “Seraphina Elliott,” she said, her voice smooth, confident, resonant with that subtle musical quality Apollo’s blood had gifted her. “I’m here for the interview.”

The receptionist, suddenly aware she was staring, blinked and fumbled for her schedule. “Of—of course, Miss Elliott. Right this way.”

And as Seraphina followed her toward the glass-walled offices at the center of the newsroom, the chatter behind her swelled again.

The receptionist ushered Seraphina into Perry White’s office, the glass door clicking softly shut behind her. The editor-in-chief of the Daily Planet sat behind a desk that looked as if it had weathered decades of deadlines and shouting matches. Papers were stacked like fortifications, a half-empty coffee mug teetered on the edge, and Perry himself leaned back in his chair, suspenders stretched, cigar clamped between his teeth.

He didn’t rise to greet her; he rarely did for anyone. Instead, his sharp eyes flicked over her in a single sweep, the way a general sizes up a new recruit. “Elliott, huh?” he drawled around the cigar. “Your résumé’s a mess. No Ivy League, but a degree from New Rome University, no internship, no stringing for smaller papers. Just… gaps, and then a pile of essays that read like they were written by Cicero on steroids.” He dropped her portfolio on the desk with a thud. “So tell me why the hell I should take a chance on someone who looks more like they belong on a magazine cover than in a newsroom.”

Seraphina didn’t blink. She crossed the room with the same unhurried stride she once carried into Senate chambers and sat opposite him, hands folded neatly on the desk. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, melodic, but firm enough to still the faint clatter of typewriters outside. “You don’t need my history, Mr. White,” she said. “You need my words. And my words are sharper than any sword. My pen is an extension of my soul. Give me a chance, and you will never want me to leave.”

Perry grunted, chewing his cigar. “You think confidence will get you this job? I’ve seen plenty walk in here with the same swagger. Most leave crying into their coffee.”

Her eyes met his squarely, blue and piercing, the kind that pinned a man in place. She leaned forward just enough to close the distance. “Confidence doesn’t make me better than my competitors. Experience does. You have read my writing samples. If you hadn’t, I wouldn’t have been the only applicant that you called in. So why hesitate when you know I’m the best?”

For a moment, Perry’s mouth opened as if to fire back, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t used to being interrupted, much less disarmed.

Seraphina slid one of her sample articles across the desk with deliberate calm. “I’m not here to play nice, Mr. White. I’m here because you run the best paper in the country, and I don’t waste my time with anything less. You want someone who can talk circles around your readers? Hire another kid from Colombia. You want someone who can make them feel the truth in their bones?” She pushed the article closer. “That’s me.”

The room was still for a beat, just the hum of the city beyond the glass. Then Perry leaned back, eyebrows raised, lips twitching into a crooked smile. “Well,” he said at last, plucking the article from the desk. “Hell. You don’t scare easy, do you?”

Seraphina allowed the faintest smile. “I don’t scare at all.”

“You’re hired.”

“You are wise.”

And for the first time in years, Perry White didn’t have the last word.

Chapter Text

The bullpen of the Daily Planet was a flurry of ringing phones, clattering typewriters, and the occasional shouted insult from an editor across the room. Clark Kent shuffled through it all, hunched slightly, glasses sliding down his nose, clutching a stack of notes like they were a lifeline. He had been at the Planet for a few months and was still learning how to navigate the chaos without tripping over a chair or a coworker.

At the far end of the room, Jimmy Olsen perched on the edge of his desk, chin resting in his hand, eyes distant and dreamy, the kind of look Clark had learned to recognize immediately, hopelessly smitten. His camera sat forgotten at his feet.

Clark slowed, peeking over his glasses. “Hey… Jimmy? Good morning!” His voice was gentle, hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he should disturb someone in deep thought. “You look… really happy. Is everything okay?”

Jimmy’s face lit up, practically glowing. “Clark! Oh man, you’ve got to hear about her—Seraphina Elliott. She’s the love of my life, I swear to God! Every word she writes is… It’s like… poetry! And that is before you even see her face. I think I’m in love, Clark. Honest to goodness, love!”

Clark blinked, adjusting his glasses and giving a small, awkward laugh. “Oh! We have a new co-worker? That’s exciting! I knew Mr. White was looking to fill Rob’s spot after he retired, but I didn’t know he had found someone.”

Jimmy waved a hand dismissively, nearly knocking over a pencil cup. “Clark, you don’t get it! She is not just some new hire. She’s… gorgeous. Like, intimidatingly gorgeous. She walked by my desk earlier, and I think my brain just… stopped.”

Clark chuckled nervously, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… yeah. Golly, Jimmy. That sounds… kind of overwhelming.” He gave a little shy smile, and there was something so wholesome and dorky about it that even Jimmy paused.

Just then, Lois Lane’s voice cut through the chaos, teasing and sharp as ever. “Join the club, Jimmy.” She leaned against her desk, arms crossed, a copy of Seraphina’s latest article in hand. “I’ve been doing this job for years, and this new reporter? She’s incredible. Writes like she’s lived a hundred lifetimes in her twenties. Honestly, if I didn’t like her so much, I’d be jealous.”

Jimmy nearly choked on air. “You mean—”

Lois rolled her eyes. “I mean, if she keeps writing like this, Perry’s going to make her the face of the front page. And anyone who can make Perry shut up for even a second is someone worth being friends with.” She smirked. “I might even have to fight you for her, Jimmy.”

Clark laughed at the sentiment… That is, until the woman herself entered his world.

The hubbub of the Daily Planet bullpen blurred into white noise the instant Seraphina Elliott walked through the glass doors. Clark’s eyes were pulled to her, glasses sliding halfway down his nose, and for a heartbeat, the world seemed to pause. She moved with the quiet assurance of someone who had always been in command, her stride steady, purposeful, each step measured as though the floor itself bent to meet her.

She was taller than any other woman in the room, but not in a clumsy way. Every inch of her spoke of strength, lean muscle beneath sun-kissed skin, the faint hint of power in the way she set her shoulders, the subtle sway of golden hair that caught the afternoon light streaming through the windows. Her blue eyes, bright and sharp, scanned the room, taking in everything with an intensity that made Clark feel like she could see right through him, and somehow, that made him want to be seen.

Clark’s chest tightened. His heart stuttered in his chest, and for a moment, he felt dizzy, as if he’d been lifted off the ground. It was the strangest thing—nothing had ever stopped him cold like this. She was breathtaking—not just beautiful, stunning, mesmerizing—but imposing. She carried the aura of someone who had always been at the center of everything, someone who inspired loyalty, respect, even fear, without ever raising her voice.

He noticed everything at once, the crisp fold of her blazer, the subtle strength in her arms, the tilt of her chin, the quiet fire in her gaze. Even the faintest movement of her lips as she glanced toward Jimmy and Lois seemed calculated yet effortless, graceful yet real. She was more stunning than anyone he had ever seen. No one had struck him like this, none had made his heart feel simultaneously light and impossibly heavy.

He straightened instinctively, almost taller, almost stronger, as if being in the same room as her lent him some borrowed courage. Every nerve in his body seemed attuned to her presence. He could feel the pull, magnetic and undeniable, drawing him forward without thought, without control. And yet, he remained frozen at his desk for a moment, afraid that even breathing might break the spell.

Jimmy, lost in his own infatuation, barely registered her, while Lois simply arched an eyebrow, smirking knowingly at Clark’s slack-jawed awe. But for Clark, the bustling newsroom, the ringing phones, the clatter of typewriters, all of it faded. All that existed in that moment was her.

She moved past him, brushing lightly against the pool of sunlight on the floor, and Clark could feel it in his bones: being near her made him sharper, steadier, more alive. And he realized, with a kind of dizzy certainty, that he would follow her anywhere—just to bask in her light.

And just like that, Clark knew that nothing in his world would ever be the same.

Clark’s eyes widened, and he adjusted his glasses again, shoving his notes awkwardly into his arms. “Oh… wow,” he murmured under his breath, a blush creeping into his cheeks. “Golly, she… she’s really… um… wow.”

Jimmy and Lois both glanced at him, raising eyebrows, but Clark didn’t care. He just stood there, a little gawky, a little overwhelmed, but with a smile that was genuine and unshakably kind.

Clark finally tore his gaze from her long enough to realize she was moving toward the editors’ area, the faintest breeze lifting strands of her golden hair. His chest hammered, his palms were sweaty, and his glasses were sliding down his nose again. He forced himself to stand straighter, muttering to himself under his breath, Don’t trip. Don’t trip. Don’t look like an idiot.

Of course, the moment he tried to act composed, he nearly collided with her as she passed.

“Oh! Uh—sorry!” he blurted, stepping back too quickly and knocking a chair slightly askew. He cursed softly under his breath, cheeks heating to a bright crimson.

Seraphina paused, looking down at him with a calm, polite smile, not warm, not flirtatious, but neutral, professional. Her eyes held him for a fraction of a second, respectful, appraising him as she might any fellow reporter. “No harm done,” she said, her voice smooth and steady. “Clark Kent, right?”

Clark nodded furiously, words failing him. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Y-yes! That’s—uh—that’s me!” He lifted his hand awkwardly. “Um—pleasure to—uh—meet you ma’am!”

He offered a hand, trembling slightly. When hers met his, perfectly confident and firm, Clark felt a warmth surge through him as though sunlight had poured directly into his chest. His knees nearly gave out, his feet feeling as if they might lift off the ground. The sensation wasn’t just awe—it was… strength. Energy. Hope. Being near her made him feel bigger, steadier, as though her presence alone filled him with power.

He had to consciously plant his feet, pressing them hard against the floor, lest he float away entirely. “Oh—uh… It’s really… really nice to—uh—meet you,” he stammered, voice high, tripping over the simplest words.

Seraphina gave him the smallest, polite nod, just enough acknowledgment to mark him as a colleague, but no more. And that, somehow, made Clark blush even harder.

He let go of her hand reluctantly, feeling the aftershock of warmth lingering in his own palm. His heart raced, his ears burned, and his brain short-circuited. For a moment, he had to lean on his desk to stay upright. He muttered something unintelligible under his breath, like a man trying to translate pure electricity into words.

Seraphina straightened, glanced once at her folder, and continued walking, leaving Clark standing there, utterly dazed. His heart pounded in his chest, legs like jelly, but a small, unshakable grin began to creep onto his face.

Clark had barely returned to his desk after the interview when Jimmy Olsen appeared out of nowhere, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Well, that was adorable.”

Clark’s face immediately heated, and he ducked his head, fumbling with his notes. “Uh—I—I was just…Ughhh!” His words came out in a flustered jumble, glasses slipping down his nose again.

Lois Lane, perched on her desk nearby with one elbow propped up and a smirk that spelled trouble, raised an eyebrow. “You were staring so hard I thought you were going to drill a hole through her head. Poor Smallville, all smitten.”

Clark sputtered, nearly dropping his pen. “N-no! I mean—uh—I was paying attention! Professionally!” His hands waved awkwardly, sending a loose stack of papers fluttering to the floor. He hurriedly bent down to gather them, muttering under his breath. “Focus… focus… not staring… professional…”

Jimmy clutched his camera, trying to stifle a laugh. “Professional? Clark, your knees were knocking together, your glasses nearly fell off, and you went red—like really red. I’ve never seen someone so charmingly flustered.”

Lois laughed, leaning back with her arms crossed. “Charming, huh? I’d say ‘dorky,’ Clark. You had that deer-in-the-headlights look, the sort of ‘I’m about to implode’ expression. It was…” She tilted her head, smirking. “Honestly, it was like watching a puppy see fireworks for the first time. And I gotta say… it was entertaining.”

Clark’s blush deepened, and he buried his face in his hands, groaning. “Lois! Jimmy! I was—uh! It was nothing! I—I mean—she’s just… a colleague!”

Jimmy snickered. “Uh-huh. ‘Just a colleague.’ And that’s why you froze in place, muttered incoherently, and nearly fell over when she shook your hand. Yeah, right.”

Lois leaned forward, grinning. “Relax, Clark. We’re not judging. Much. Honestly, it’s kind of cute. But you have to get over it and fast. Perry wants you to sit in with her for her first interview. Think you can work around her without hyperventilating?”

Clark peeked through his fingers, muttering, “I can handle this!”

Jimmy and Lois exchanged a glance and stifled laughter, both clearly enjoying watching Clark struggle with his wholesome, flustered admiration.

“Oh, you will handle it. Now go on, lover boy…” Lois said, smirk widening.

Clark shuffled behind Seraphina, carrying a stack of interview notes, trying to appear casual but failing spectacularly. Every step he took seemed too loud, every cough too sharp. His glasses fogged slightly from nerves, and he kept pushing them up with the same trembling hand.

“Uh… so, um… the, uh, interview… we, uh—do you want me to, um, take notes? Or… or—”

Seraphina’s calm, even gaze landed on him. She didn’t roll her eyes, she didn’t sigh, she simply regarded him as one might a slightly clumsy junior officer- competent enough to learn, but untested. “Clark, you can record the audio if you like,” she said smoothly, her voice low and measured, but not patronizing. “Focus on the facts. Let me handle the questions.”

Clark nodded vigorously, nearly dropping the notes. “Right! Facts! Got it! I—I’ll, um, record the audio. Definitely.” He fumbled with his voice recorder, fumbling the buttons until a high-pitched beep startled him. “Oh! Uh—sorry!”

Seraphina’s lips curved in the faintest hint of a smile, just enough to acknowledge his panic without indulging it. “It’s fine. Take a breath. Steady yourself.”

Clark swallowed, cheeks flaming, trying to calm the way his hands trembled. “Right! Breath. Okay.” He took a deep breath and accidentally knocked the recorder off the edge of the table. He dove to catch it mid-air, heart hammering as he’d just saved a falling child instead of a plastic device.

Seraphina raised an eyebrow, steady as ever. “Perhaps set it down first next time,” she suggested, voice calm and unshakable. Her aura radiated control, confidence, and—Clark realized, helplessly—patience.

He nodded furiously, cheeks burning, muttering, “Right, yes. Set it down. Definitely, good idea. Yes, ma’am.”

Finally, Seraphina turned her attention to the interviewee, her posture perfect, her pen poised like a conductor’s baton. “Good afternoon, Mr. O’Neill. My name is Seraphina Elliott. Thank you so much for agreeing to speak with me today. This is Clark Kent, my colleague. Whenever you are ready, we can begin.”

 She asked questions that cut straight to the heart of the story, her words precise, fearless, yet graceful. Clark couldn’t take his eyes off her, not because she was beautiful, though she was breathtaking, but because she owned the room. Every word, every gesture, drew attention without demanding it.

When the interview ended, Clark found himself standing awkwardly with the recorder in hand, his notes clutched too tightly, smiling nervously at her like a teenager caught staring.

“Uh… amazing job,” he said finally, voice cracking slightly. “Really… you… uh… nailed it. Every question was… perfect.”

Seraphina glanced at him briefly, nodding once, professionally. “Thank you, Mr. Kent.”

Clark nodded so hard he nearly bumped into the desk.

As she walked away to file her story, Clark’s heart was still pounding, his cheeks still flushed, but the world felt… lighter.

“Hey, Kent!” Jimmy Olsen popped up from behind his desk like a spring. “So, how was working with the goddess herself? Did you even manage a full sentence, or were you just making those little squeaky noises again?”

Clark’s cheeks flushed. “I—I didn’t squeak.”

Jimmy grinned. “You totally squeaked.”

Lois, swiveling in her chair, smirked over the rim of her coffee. “Careful, Olsen. If you make him any redder, we’ll have to call the fire department.”

Clark muttered something about being just fine, but before he could escape, Seraphina returned to the room. Clark froze like a deer in headlights—then realized, with horror, that both mugs in his hands were wobbling dangerously.

Focus, Clark. Coffee. Desk. Coffee. Desk.

He made it three more steps before his shoelace betrayed him. His toe caught, he lurched forward, and both mugs tipped. One miraculously righted itself at the last second. The other splashed out, coffee sloshing across his notes, Lois’s desk, and his shirt in a glorious, caffeinated disaster.

“Oh, perfect,” Lois muttered, lifting her papers just in time. “The Kent Special.”

Jimmy was already laughing. “He’s a walking pratfall!”

Clark, sputtering, fumbled for napkins. “I—I just—sorry, I didn’t mean—uh—Seraphina, I brought you—uh…” He realized the one surviving mug was still miraculously upright in his trembling hand. He held it out awkwardly, his shirt soaked, his glasses speckled with coffee droplets. “This one. This one’s for you.”

Seraphina regarded him calmly, her expression unreadable. For a moment, Clark thought she might actually refuse the mug out of sheer annoyance. Instead, she accepted it with the faintest incline of her head.

“Thank you,” she said simply, her voice even, her blue eyes steady on his. Then—just barely—a flicker of amusement touched her mouth. “Next time, for reference, I enjoy my coffee inside the mug.”

Lois snorted loudly, nearly choking on her drink. Jimmy slapped his desk in laughter.

Clark, crimson from ear to collar, stammered, “Y-yes, ma’am—uh, I mean—not ma’am, I mean, Seraphina! Right. Got it. Lesson learned.”

She took a quiet sip from the mug, unbothered, already turning her attention to the notes she had neatly stacked on her desk. Clark stood there, dripping coffee and shame, but despite himself… he smiled.

Because she hadn’t dismissed him. She hadn’t laughed. She’d accepted the coffee, steady as ever, and for him, that was enough to keep his heart soaring.

On the outside, Seraphina was as composed as ever, her expression level, her movements precise. She set the mug down on her desk, glanced over her notes, and gave every appearance of a professional woman who had barely noticed the bumbling Kansas farmboy dripping coffee nearby.

But inside? Gods help her.

Clark Kent was… disarmingly attractive. Not in the polished, deliberate way she was used to seeing men try to impress her, but in a way that was real. The awkward earnestness, the fumbling hands, the way he seemed genuinely startled by her presence—as if he couldn’t believe someone like her existed in the same space as him. It made her want to laugh, want to reach out and steady him. He had that broad-shouldered wholesomeness, those soft blue eyes behind crooked glasses, and when he smiled, even sheepishly, she felt an involuntary warmth curl in her chest.

And that was dangerous.

She shoved the thought down hard, as she always did. She knew too well her father’s history with love—Apollo had left behind a trail of hearts charred by desire, passion that flared and burned too quickly. Seraphina was too much like him. She had his fire, his eloquence, his abilities. And she feared she had inherited his flaws, too.

Besides, she reminded herself coldly, Clark was mortal. A kind, gentle mortal who would never understand what it meant to bear divine blood, to shoulder an empire, to carry the weight of duty and battle in her very bones. He didn’t know the monsters she had fought, the graves she had left behind, the wars she carried in her heart. If he ever saw all of her—the Praetor, the daughter of Apollo, the girl who had been forged in fire and discipline—would he still smile at her like that?

She doubted it.

She also knew she was getting far too ahead of herself. She found the man attractive and charmingly adorable, but it was a shallow sort of desire at best. She breathed a self-mocking laugh for getting too in her own head about something as trivial as finding a co-worker cute. She had read enough novels to know that most people had an office crush. What was she getting so intense about?

So Seraphina raised her mug, took a slow sip, and let the faintest, controlled smile tug at her lips, one she could pass off as amusement at Clark’s clumsiness. All the while, she pressed the other smile, the dangerous one, the one he sparked, down into silence.

Because if she let herself feel it… If she let herself look too long into those earnest eyes… she feared she’d fall, and she could not afford to. Not now. Not ever.

Dangerous temptation, thy name is Clark.

Chapter Text

The city was still hushed in that in-between hour, the streets silvered by the faint glow of dawn. Seraphina was already moving, her trainers striking the pavement in an easy, confident rhythm. Like every morning, she had woken the moment the first fingers of sunlight crept over the horizon; it was instinct, blood-deep, the curse of a daughter of Apollo.

Her headphones pulsed with music, steady and soaring, driving her forward. She was faster than any mortal jogger she passed; her stride longer, her body made for battle. The world blurred around her: storefronts, parked cars, the occasional early riser carrying a paper bag of breakfast rolls. It all blurred into a distant haze around her as she ran.

The air was cool, the kind that filled her lungs sharp and sweet, and every exhale came with a little plume of warmth.

She rounded a corner, the tempo of her music lifting, and surged forward, chasing the sun as it climbed higher. There was always something about those first rays—her father’s light—that filled her, steadied her, reminded her she was alive. Even after everything, this ritual never changed.

Seraphina ran not just for the strength of her body, but for the order in her mind. Every pounding step drove out the doubts she carried.

Lex Luthor adjusted the cuff of his immaculate suit as he lingered at the corner of LuthorCorps, his gaze narrowing behind polished lenses. There she was again, like clockwork. The blonde runner with the sharp features and the long legs. He’d noticed her for a week now, always appearing just as the sun was pulling itself up over the skyline as he entered the office.

He could admit she was striking. There was something otherworldly about her, as though the sunlight bent just a little closer to her skin.

Lex smirked faintly to himself as he gathered a neat stack of papers from his briefcase, notes, memos, entirely dispensable. and positioned himself in her path. Timing was everything. If she were as lost in her music as she looked, she’d collide right into him. A carefully orchestrated stumble, a flurry of papers scattering across the sidewalk, and then—ah, yes. The perfect spark for a conversation. A meet-cute, as people called it. Women, after all, ate that sort of thing up.

Simple creatures. All it ever took was the illusion of fate.

Brilliant as he was, Lex was still a man. He could indulge his baser urges every once in a while. Often, he would select a model or young lobbyist to wear on his arm. They were all lovely little prizes, but every once in a while, Mr. Luthor enjoyed the hunt.

Lex stepped forward, calculating the exact moment she would round the corner. He rehearsed his words in his mind, casual but clever, authoritative but endearing. He would let her see the weight of him, the importance. By the time she helped him gather his papers, he would already have her curious.

At least, that was the plan.

Because Seraphina was not a simple creature. She was a daughter of Apollo, a former praetor of Rome, and she had no patience for staged accidents—least of all from men who thought the world bent to their charm.

Seraphina rounded the corner at full pace, music thrumming in her ears, golden light catching in her hair. Lex stepped out at the exact moment he’d planned, the neat stack of papers in his hands already loosening for his carefully staged tumble.

Except—she didn’t crash into him.

With a flick of impossible agility, Seraphina shifted her weight and pivoted around him, fluid as a ballerina slipping past him. Her arm shot out in one clean motion, catching the fluttering stack of papers before they could scatter. Not a page touched the ground.

She slowed only long enough to extend them back toward him with a polite nod. No smile, no flustered apology, no glance that lingered. Just an efficient gesture, her expression unreadable. Then, without missing a beat, she turned back into her run, headphones still in place, stride lengthening as though the interruption had never happened.

Lex stood frozen for a moment, the papers clutched uselessly in his hands. His plan—his perfectly calculated plan—had evaporated in less than two seconds. He was left on the sidewalk, watching her vanish down the sunlit street, her silhouette sharp against the dawn.

His jaw tightened, the corner of his mouth twitching. Not even a word. Not even a glance. Just a nod, as if he were no more important than a lamppost.

It stung.

And more than that, it challenged him.

Lex’s gaze lingered long after she’d disappeared into the golden wash of morning. His grip tightened on the papers she’d returned to him so effortlessly. Not a single page out of order. Not a single step out of rhythm.

She hadn’t even looked at him. Not really. Just handed him back his own papers as though she were indulging a child’s clumsy trick. And then—gone. Lex’s jaw worked, his mind already moving a hundred miles ahead. Who was she? Where had she come from?

His interest would have dulled after a day of indulgence; however, now she presented a challenge. “Not a simple creature, then,” he muttered under his breath, his eyes still on the stretch of street she had vanished down. “Good. It’s been far too long since I’ve had… a puzzle.”

By the time he reached his office, the irritation had sharpened into obsession. He didn’t bother with pleasantries as he stepped through the doors of LexCorp Tower, his secretary springing up at his arrival.

“Find out who she is,” he ordered, his tone brisk, controlled, but with an edge that made the young woman’s fingers already fly to her keyboard.

“Who, Mr. Luthor?”

“The blonde runner. Early mornings. About five foot ten, athletic build, striking features. She came down Seventh Avenue just ten minutes ago. I want a name.”

The secretary’s typing was a flurry of keystrokes, her eyes scanning across feeds and databases. Within moments, she glanced up with the practiced efficiency Lex demanded. “Seraphina Elliott. Reporter. Daily Planet.”

Lex’s smile was thin, dangerous. “Of course. A writer. How quaint.” He paused, then leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping low. “Set up an interview. Today.”

The secretary hesitated, blinking. “An interview, sir? With you?”

“Yes. With me.” His gaze gleamed with the satisfaction of a new game unfolding. “If she’s worth my time, I’ll know it the moment we’re in the same room.”

The glass doors of the Daily Planet swung open with a smooth whoosh, and Seraphina Elliott strode inside as though the building itself had been waiting for her arrival. She was a vision of effortless grace, her blonde hair swept back into sleek, deliberate waves, makeup sharp but not overdone, eyes a piercing blue that seemed to take in everything at once.

Her heels clicked against the polished floor in a steady rhythm, confident but never rushed. A tailored business dress hugged her athletic frame, crisp lines accentuating the kind of posture that was practically royal. “Good morning, Mr. Daniels,” she said warmly as she passed the doorman, her voice low and melodic, carrying just enough familiarity to feel personal.

“And to you, Ms. Elliott,” he answered, standing just a little taller.

At the front desk, she greeted the receptionist by name as well, a genuine smile touching her lips. “Morning, Carla. I hope the commute was kinder to you today.”

The receptionist blinked at her, momentarily disarmed by the simple thoughtfulness. “It’s always horrible to drive into the city,” Carla said, watching as Seraphina continued her stride toward the elevators.

When she finally reached the bullpen, conversation faltered. Reporters and interns alike glanced up from their desks, some subtly, some openly, as though the light had shifted in the room.

Seraphina slid into her seat, crossing one leg over the other, back straight, hands folding neatly in her lap. The buzz of the newsroom slowly resumed, though not without several pairs of eyes flicking back toward her, pretending they hadn’t been staring.

Jimmy Olsen practically skidded to a halt at the edge of Seraphina’s desk, his camera bag bumping against his hip. He held up a manila envelope like it was the Holy Grail. “Got ‘em for you, angel. As requested…” he said breathlessly, grinning wide.

For just a flicker of a second, her lips curved, amusement tugging at her otherwise composed expression. She took the envelope from him with a gracious nod.  Seraphina glanced up from her notes, one perfectly arched brow lifting. “Thank you, James.”

The blush spread to his ears. “Heh. Well… y’know. Just doing my part.”

She had already opened the packet, sifting through crisp shots of Superman in his element, not mid-battle, but after. The cape draped gently as he crouched to speak with a wide-eyed child clutching a baseball glove. The way he smiled patiently at an elderly woman, giving him what looked suspiciously like a pie. The handshake was exchanged with a weary construction worker, dust still on his boots.

Superman was still new—too new for the world to know what to make of him. Every morning, the headlines debated him like an unsolved equation. Savior or menace? Vigilante or guardian? Politicians fretted about accountability; skeptics muttered about unchecked power; cynics predicted disaster.

But Seraphina knew better. She knew the weight of a hero’s mantle, the quiet cost that bled far deeper than any headline could capture. She knew the ache of sacrifice, the endless vigilance, the way the world both adored and feared you in the same breath.

Because she had lived it. A demigod, daughter of Apollo, born into war. She had been the shield of Rome before she was old enough to buy a glass of wine. The world only saw Superman’s cape and strength. She saw the exhaustion behind his eyes.

And so, as she skimmed through Jimmy’s photos, Seraphina wrote with the weight of that truth.

Her fingers lingered on one photo in particular—Superman, kneeling to tie a boy’s loose shoelace, the child staring at him in awe.

Without a word, she drew her notepad closer and began to write. Her pen moved swiftly, the words flowing as they had always been waiting for the right vessel:

“It is not in the clash of titans that heroes prove their worth, but in the stillness after—the moments when fists lower and eyes meet. A true hero is measured not by how many battles he wins, but by how many people he leaves standing, feeling seen, feeling human.”

Her eyes narrowed in focus, her lips just barely moving as she shaped sentences in her head faster than her hand could capture them. Around her, the chatter of the bullpen blurred into background noise. She was lost in the work, every line deliberate, luminous—her father’s gift for poetry now wielded in ink instead of song.

“We forget, too often, that heroes are not forged in the sunlight of victory, but in the shadows of doubt. To step forward when the world questions your right to act—that is the truest form of courage. Superman’s kindness is not weakness; it is proof that power can choose humanity.”

Her words carved across the page with the precision of a blade:

“We ask the wrong question when we debate Superman. We ask, ‘Who gave him the right?’ when perhaps we should ask instead, ‘Who would bear the guilt if he did nothing?’

If a man—any man—holds the power to stop a building from collapsing, to shield a child from fire, to catch a person in freefall, is it not his duty to do so? To turn away would not preserve innocence; it would betray it. It would condemn him to a guilt heavier than any wreckage.

That Superman acts not out of pride, but out of responsibility, is the greatest display of his character. The fact that he continues despite doubt, suspicion, and scorn speaks more loudly of his humanity than any smile or handshake could. His power may be alien, but his choices—the choice to shoulder guilt rather than inflict it on others—are what make him one of us.”

She paused, staring at the words, and felt a familiar ache in her chest. That quiet loneliness that came from knowing. She had felt that guilt before—the kind that haunts you if you don’t step forward, the kind that whispers that someone’s blood stains your hands because you chose silence over action.

And she knew this truth better than most mortals: the greatest burden of power was not its weight, but the knowledge of what would happen if you failed to carry it.

The gods would never be so kind as Superman.

Seraphina leaned back in her chair, pen tapping softly against the edge of her notebook as she studied the photograph again. The camera had caught him not in glory, but in kindness: a faint, boyish smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Her chest tightened. That smile—she knew it. She just couldn’t place where.

Her brow furrowed. Was he one of them? A god hiding in mortal skin, weaving through human lives the way her father once had? Or—worse—was he something even older, some forgotten divinity draped in a new name?

Her pulse quickened. She knew Rome had taught her to mistrust and respect the divine, even as she bore it in her blood. And yet, she couldn’t look away from the photograph.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been staring until—

“Elliott!”

Perry White’s voice cracked across the bullpen like a whip. The entire floor jumped, but his eyes were locked on her, a stack of folders in his hand.

She straightened instinctively, back snapping to the posture of a soldier summoned by her general. The photograph slipped a little under her hand, face down on her desk. “Yes, Mr. White?” she answered smoothly, masking the quickened beat of her heart.

“Conference room. Now. Got a request I want you on.”

As she rose, gathering her notes, and followed Perry, the mystery tucked silently into the back of her thoughts.

Perry slapped the folders down on the conference table, the papers fanning out as a gust of wind had shoved them. He didn’t sit—just hovered, pacing with the restless irritation of a man whose mind was already three deadlines ahead.

“Elliott,” he barked, “you’ve got an interview. High-profile. Big name. Don’t screw it up.”

Seraphina raised a brow, settling into the chair across from him with the poise of someone carved out of marble. “With whom?”

“Lex Luthor,” Perry said, his voice clipped.

Her posture stiffened, a flash of recognition sharpening her gaze. “The billionaire?” she asked carefully. “And… what’s the topic? What’s the story?”

Perry froze mid-pace, turning back toward her with a shrug that was almost infuriating in its carelessness. “No idea.”

She blinked, caught between disbelief and annoyance. “You’re telling me a man of his power and influence reaches out specifically for me, with no clear subject, no agenda, no narrative to offer—and you want me to waste time chasing smoke?”

“It’s not a waste, Elliott,” Perry shot back, jabbing a finger in her direction. “He asked for you by name. I don’t know why, I don’t care why. That’s not the part that matters.”

Her jaw tightened. “Then what does?”

“That you’re a reporter.” His voice hardened. “You don’t need every assignment to feel like a cause. Sometimes you take the shallow gigs, the pointless chatter. And then, if you’ve got the guts—and you do—you dig. You make something from nothing. That’s the job.”

For a moment, she only stared at him, her blue eyes sharp and cold. The soldier in her bristled; in Rome, orders without purpose were the fastest way to get legionnaires killed. She had no patience for empty causes.

And yet… she had chosen this life. And Perry was right. Words were her new weapons, and sometimes the dullest assignment hid the sharpest edge.

Finally, she exhaled slowly, inclining her head. “Very well,” she said. “But if this proves to be as hollow as it sounds, don’t expect me to gild it with pretty lies.”

Perry smirked. “Fine.”

Seraphina strode out of the bullpen, heels clicking against the polished floor.

At that exact moment, Clark Kent pushed through the doors from the elevators, stepping into the bustling bullpen. His eyes were fixed on the rows of desks, scanning for a familiar face or a stack of papers, oblivious to the elegant figure gliding toward the exit.

“Whoa—!”

He misjudged the distance, the combination of his briefcase and half-forgotten papers throwing off his balance. In a heartbeat, he stumbled forward, nearly colliding with the doorway.

Seraphina reacted instantly, one hand reaching out to catch the tipping briefcase while her other steadied him by the elbow.

“Careful,” she said, voice calm and authoritative, just the slightest lift of amusement in her tone. Her grip was firm, controlled, and precise, enough to stop him from toppling entirely.

Clark’s face flushed a deep red. “Oh—uh—Jeez, I’m sorry Ms. Elliott. Thank you! I—I wasn’t paying attention. Totally my fault!”

She nodded once, returning the briefcase to an upright position, her blue eyes meeting his for just a fraction of a second before she stepped aside, ready to continue on her way. “Keep your feet on the ground,” she said lightly.

Clark stumbled back just slightly, watching her move toward the doors, completely captivated. His heart pounded, and for a moment, he felt like he was walking in sunlight itself, strengthened and stunned at once by her presence.

Clark scrambled to catch up, his briefcase awkwardly clutched in one hand, papers threatening to tumble out of the other. “Wait! Uh—Seraphina! Where are you off to?”

She slowed just enough to glance over her shoulder, her stride still fluid and confident. “I’m going to interview Lex Luthor,” she said plainly, without hesitation or embellishment.

Clark froze mid-step, the name hitting him with an unexpected jolt. His brow furrowed beneath his glasses. “Lex Luthor? Why?” He stumbled over his words, struggling to sound casual but failing spectacularly. “I… I mean… hmm. That’s… that’s… um, interesting.”

Seraphina tilted her head slightly, studying him with those clear blue eyes that seemed to weigh every thought. “I take it you don’t trust him either?”

Clark blinked rapidly, trying to hide the flicker of suspicion forming in his chest. “Well… no. Not really. I mean, he seems… he always seems like he has motives. But I—uh, I don’t know the full picture yet.”

She gave him a faint, knowing smile, the kind that suggested she understood exactly what he meant without needing him to say more. “You have sharp instincts. I like that.”

Clark’s face went crimson at the praise. “Oh—uh, thanks! I—uh…” He trailed off, unsure whether to add anything intelligent or simply collapse under the weight of her presence.

“Have a good morning, Clark,” she said, her voice smooth and polite. Then she stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut with a soft ding, leaving him staring after her with a mixture of awe, admiration, and that inexplicable warmth that always seemed to rise when she was near.

The lobby of LuthorCorp gleamed like polished obsidian, light reflecting off the sleek surfaces with a sharpness that made the place feel more like a fortress than an office building. Seraphina’s heels clicked against the marble floor as she approached the front desk, her stride confident and deliberate, shoulders squared, every inch the professional she had become.

“Good morning,” she said crisply, presenting her Daily Planet badge with a flick of her wrist. Her tone left no room for doubt—she was here on business, and she expected to be treated as such.

The receptionist, flustered under her calm, commanding gaze, quickly typed something into her terminal. “Ms. Elliott, we’ve been expecting you. Here’s your guest card,” she said, handing over a sleek black access pass. “You’ll need to go to the top floor and check in with the receptionist there. They’ll direct you to Mr. Luthor.”

Seraphina accepted the card without a word of thanks beyond a polite nod. Sliding it into her handbag, she turned and moved toward the elevators, her movements smooth, precise, and utterly unhurried.

The ascent was silent except for the soft hum of the elevator. She watched the floors pass in numbers, each one a reminder that she was climbing higher, not just physically but into a space dominated by power, ambition, and perhaps danger.

The doors opened onto the top floor, and she stepped into a glossy reception area bathed in sunlight streaming from floor-to-ceiling windows. Another receptionist greeted her professionally.

“Ms. Elliott?” the woman said, a clipboard in hand. “Mr. Luthor is expecting you. Please have a seat; he’ll see you shortly.”

Seraphina nodded once, letting her gaze sweep over the room as she walked to the seating area. She perched on the edge of one of the sleek chairs, maintaining perfect posture, her eyes alert and observant.

Shortly after she arrived, another secretary came to get her, escorting her into the corner office.

Lex Luthor rose from behind his sleek glass desk as Seraphina was escorted into his office. He was impeccably dressed, his dark suit tailored perfectly, the sharp angles of his jaw and confident posture radiating the kind of power only wealth and ambition could buy.

“Ah,” he said smoothly, his voice honeyed with charm, “Ms. Elliott. I’ve heard a great deal about you. The Daily Planet has quite the reputation for excellence, and I’m told you are… exceptional.” He gestured for her to sit, leaning casually against the edge of his desk.

Seraphina allowed herself a single, measured step into the room, heels clicking softly. She settled into the chair opposite him, crossing one leg with a controlled elegance, her eyes never leaving his. “Mr. Luthor,” she began, her tone calm, precise, and unmistakably direct, “before we begin, I feel it necessary to warn you, I write truthfully. I do not embellish. I do not twist facts to suit anyone’s ego. I cannot guarantee that what I write will be comfortable reading, nor that it will flatter you. My articles reflect reality as I see it. Always.”

Luthor’s confident smile faltered slightly, a flicker of surprise passing over his face. He straightened, steepling his fingers on the desk, trying to recalibrate. “I see… an admirable dedication to integrity. But surely, Ms. Elliott, you understand the benefits of… diplomacy in writing? Perhaps a touch of nuance to suit the subject?”

Her gaze sharpened. “I understand. But I do not compromise the truth for convenience, Mr. Luthor. That is not my role as a journalist. Knowing this, do you still wish to continue the interview?”

There was a pause. For the first time that morning, Luthor’s practiced confidence wavered. The gorgeous blonde before him—stunning, composed, and far more formidable than her youthful appearance suggested—was not simply a pretty face to be charmed. She had a brain, and she wasn’t afraid to use it.

He exhaled softly, a smile tugging at his lips despite his shock. “Very well,” he said, leaning back with an almost grudging admiration. “I like a challenge.”

Seraphina inclined her head once, the smallest acknowledgment of satisfaction flickering in her eyes.

Seraphina stepped into the office, heels clicking against the polished floor, posture perfect, exuding confidence and calm. She paused just inside the doorway, meeting his gaze evenly. “Mr. Luthor,” she said evenly, her voice precise. “May I ask—what is the purpose of this invitation?”

Luthor leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “To speak with me, of course. To understand the man behind the empire, the decisions, and the vision. I thought your perspective might be… enlightening. So, Ms. Elliott, now that you’re here, what would you like to know? Are you interested in my business ventures? My philanthropy? Or perhaps some… more personal insight into myself personally? Perhaps whether or not I am single?”

Seraphina’s blue eyes met his without hesitation, her posture unwavering, pen poised over her notebook. “I want to understand the man behind the empire, Mr. Luthor,” she said evenly. “Not the headlines, not the public image. I want to know what drives your decisions, the principles that guide you, and the truths that most people miss when they only glance at your wealth or your accomplishments.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning forward, fingers steepled. “Ah. Admirable. Tell me—how do you, someone who writes about truth, handle power when it resists transparency? When the truth is… inconvenient?”

Seraphina tapped her pen lightly against her notebook. “Power is meaningless without responsibility,” she replied, voice calm and measured. “Influence without conscience is a weapon. My role is not to flatter or to manipulate, Mr. Luthor—it is to reveal. The truth is not always comfortable, nor should it be.”

For the first time, a shadow of hesitation passed across Luthor’s features. He had invited her here expecting charm, perhaps a little awe, maybe even compliance. Instead, he faced someone who could match his intellect, someone who would not yield to wealth or reputation.

“You are… refreshingly direct,” he admitted, his tone begrudgingly respectful. “Few have the courage to speak so plainly. Most see opportunity and take it—they do not demand from me.”

Seraphina allowed herself a slight nod, the smallest acknowledgment of his grudging approval. “I see only what is real,” she said. “That is my opportunity—and my obligation.”

Luthor leaned back again, a faint smirk returning. “Very well, then. Let us continue. I am intrigued to see where this conversation leads.”

Seraphina adjusted her notebook and pen, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly. The interview had begun, but she already felt the advantage. She started the recording in his plain view before commencing.

Seraphina rested her notebook on her lap, pen poised but silent. “Mr. Luthor,” she began softly, “Now obviously one of the most prominent topics right now is metahuman rights and the work of vigilantes. As a public figure in Metropolis, when you see someone like Superman, someone who has the ability to act in moments others can’t, what is the first thought that comes to your mind?”

Lex leaned back, fingers steepled. “That people are foolishly dependent on symbols. Society elevates them instead of relying on themselves. It’s naive.”

“And do you believe that reliance is justified?” she asked, tilting her head. “Or do you think it creates weakness?”

He smiled thinly, a flicker of irritation in his eyes. “Weakness. Blind reliance on heroes is a flaw. People give power to others and expect them to fix what they won’t touch themselves.”

Seraphina’s voice remained calm. “Is it the hero themselves you criticize, then, or the society that idolizes them?”

“Both,” he said sharply. “The hero enables it, and the people feed into it. It’s a cycle of dependency and delusion.”

“And when a hero does act,” she pressed, “saving lives, preventing catastrophe, putting themselves at risk—does that change your view?”

His eyes narrowed. “It doesn’t make them infallible. It doesn’t make them right. Courage does not equate to wisdom. Morality is subjective, and society worships them as if it were absolute. That’s the problem. They are unchecked, weapons of destruction that adhere to no laws.”

Seraphina tilted her head, her tone gentle but deliberate. “Would you say then, that heroes—anyone who acts beyond self-interest—are dangerous?”

Luthor’s jaw tightened, the polite veneer slipping. “Dangerous? Yes. They disrupt the natural order. They interfere with systems that work. They impose their morality, their conscience, on everyone else.”

“And does that danger make them admirable in any sense?” she asked softly, almost conversationally. “Or does it only deepen your frustration?”

His hands clenched on the desk. “It is infuriating. People revere them, excuse them, act as if the world should bend to their choices. Heroes are reckless, arrogant, and far too unjustly influential for their own good.”

Seraphina’s pen finally touched paper, lightly scribbling notes. She said nothing more, allowing her questions to do their work. Each one drew Luthor further, revealing his contempt not just for the symbols but for anyone who chooses action over self-interest.

By the time she paused, Lex was leaning forward, teeth pressed in a tight line, almost trembling with the intensity of his hostility. He had revealed more than he intended—and she had done it with nothing but questions.

Seraphina’s blue eyes remained steady, her pen idle as she asked, “And what about someone like Superman? Someone who acts without hesitation, placing the safety of others above his own? Does he fit into your definition of a dangerous hero?”

Lex’s jaw tightened instantly, the polite veneer cracking further. “Superman… he’s reckless. He thinks his morality is universal. He acts as if the world owes him compliance, as if no one else’s judgment matters. That kind of power, wielded without accountability, is a threat.”

Seraphina tilted her head slightly, her tone deceptively calm. “A threat to whom, exactly? To those who refuse to act? Or to those who would manipulate the powerless for their own gain?”

Lex’s eyes darkened, the controlled posture giving way to tension. “To everyone. To humanity. He assumes responsibility that he has no right to impose. People like him… they disrupt order. They remind humans of their weakness.”

Seraphina leaned in just slightly, never raising her voice. “So your frustration with Superman is personal, then. Not just philosophical?”

He slammed a fist lightly on the desk, startling in its suddenness. “Of course it is! He undermines me, my influence, my control. He flaunts the idea that someone can choose to act rightly without seeking gain. That’s intolerable. And the worst part… people adore him for it!”

Seraphina’s eyes didn’t waver, her pen still poised. “And does that admiration make him admirable—or does it make him dangerous?”

Lex’s lips pressed into a thin line, his hands gripping the edges of the desk. “Both! Yes, both! Admirable in his skill, dangerous in his hubris. He’s everything I can’t be—and that’s why he terrifies me.”

Seraphina nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, jotting down a few notes. She made no comment, letting her questions and his answers speak volumes.

Seraphina’s gaze remained unflinching, her pen hovering over her notebook. “You continue to refer to humanity,” she said softly, letting the words sink in. “Do you view those with powers as non-human? Or only Superman, due to his alien heritage?”

Lex’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. “Non-human? No. It’s not about humanity. It’s about control. Ability. Superman… he’s different. His strength, his speed, his invulnerability—it isn’t just extraordinary. It’s… alien. He operates on a scale that mortals cannot comprehend. That alone makes him a danger.”

“So, from my understanding, you classify humanity as non-meta or within the physical capabilities of the majority of the populace.”

“I classify humanity as human.”

Seraphina leaned in slightly, calm but deliberate. “And the danger he poses… does it come from his abilities, or from the example he sets? The idea that someone could act rightly without personal gain, without ambition driving them?”

Luthor’s fingers curled into a fist on the desk. “Both! Yes, both! He challenges the world’s natural order. His morality isn’t tied to profit, influence, or fear. He acts… unilaterally. And the fact that people admire him for it—it’s intolerable!”

Seraphina’s eyes never left his, serene but piercing. “So it isn’t just that he is powerful. It’s that he inspires, that he holds others accountable by his example. That makes him dangerous to your control, to your vision of the world?”

Lex’s breath came slightly faster, his carefully maintained composure fraying at the edges. “Exactly. He’s… infuriating. He undermines everything I’ve built, everything I believe should dictate the world. And the more he inspires, the more I… hate him for it.”

Seraphina tapped her pen lightly against her notebook, letting the silence stretch. Each answer revealed another layer of Luthor’s obsession and envy, all while she remained perfectly composed—observing, recording, interpreting, and unafraid.

Lex’s eyes met the recorder, and for one horrifying moment, he was pulled back to reality.

He had spoken far too much, far too honestly.

One little fact that most demigods forget is that Apollo is the god of truth. While it was nothing extreme, Seraphina had a talent for using her voice to harness her father’s domain of truth to persuade answers out of people.

Lex Luthor hadn’t stood a chance.

The Burden of Power: A Duty Beyond Question
By Seraphina Elliott

In a world increasingly defined by spectacle, it is easy to forget that true heroism is not measured by the grandeur of action, but by the quiet choices that follow. It is not in the clash of titans that heroes prove their worth, but in the stillness after—the moments when capes lower and eyes meet. A true hero is measured not by how many battles they win, but by how many people they leave standing, feeling seen, feeling human.

We live in a society that adores power yet mistrusts its holders. The shadow of doubt often looms larger than the light of victory. We forget, too often, that heroes are not forged in the sunlight of triumph, but in the shadows of hesitation and questioning. To step forward when the world questions your right to act—that is the truest form of courage. Superman’s kindness is not weakness; it is proof that power can choose humanity.

Yet our debates frequently miss the heart of the matter. We ask the wrong question when we debate Superman. We ask, “Who gave him the right?” when perhaps we should ask instead, “Who would bear the guilt if he did nothing?” If a man—any man—holds the power to stop a building from collapsing, to shield a child from fire, to catch a person in freefall, is it not his duty to do so? To turn away would not preserve innocence; it would betray it. It would condemn him to a guilt heavier than any wreckage.

That Superman acts not out of pride, but out of responsibility, is the greatest display of his character. The fact that he continues despite doubt, suspicion, and scorn speaks more loudly of his humanity than any smile or handshake could. His power may be alien, but his choices—the choice to shoulder guilt rather than inflict it on others—are what make him one of us.

Power is not limited to the superhuman. When looking at a pillar of society like Lex Luthor, the same arguments could be applied. In an interview regarding the prominent topic of meta-human rights and vigilante action, the billionaire CEO of LuthorCorps spoke on his opinion of Superman. Luthor stated, “He challenges the world’s natural order. His morality isn’t tied to profit, influence, or fear. He acts… unilaterally. And the fact that people admire him for it—it’s intolerable!”

It is this reporter's humble opinion that Luthor exhibits a shining example of the same principles applied in a different context. Lex Luthor, powerful, unquestioned, unchecked, wields power for power's sake. While Superman, powerful, unchecked, wields power for the sake of duty. Both stand as two sides of the same coin, perfect representations of human nature.

In these trying times, the lesson is clear: power without conscience is meaningless, but conscience without courage is dangerous. The powerful do not merely have the capacity to act; they have the moral obligation. And when they do, they remind us that humanity—our capacity for empathy, responsibility, and courage—remains alive in even the most extraordinary of figures. In this way, Superman is the best of humanity.

Clark sat at his small desk in the apartment, the glow of the late afternoon sun catching the edges of the newspaper in his hands. He’d picked it up on a whim, expecting the usual mixture of grudging admiration and thinly veiled criticism—but as he read, his brow furrowed, then lifted in disbelief.

The article wasn’t scathing. It wasn’t cautious. It was… beautiful. Thoughtful. Careful in all the ways he never imagined anyone would be with him. And at the center of it, Seraphina Elliott’s words hit him like a gentle tremor: “Superman is the best of humanity.”

His chest tightened. His lips pressed together, and for a long moment, he couldn’t breathe past the lump in his throat. Tears welled in his eyes, hot and unexpected, and he didn’t bother to wipe them away.

After everything—every accusation, every misunderstanding, every shadow of doubt cast across the world he tried so desperately to protect—here was someone who saw him. Truly saw him. Not just the symbol, not just the alien with impossible power, but the man who tried, every day, to do right.

He closed the paper slowly, his fingers trembling, and let himself feel it: recognition, validation, humanity reflected back at him in someone else’s words. In that quiet apartment, with the world outside still swirling with chaos, Clark Kent allowed himself to feel… seen.

Chapter Text

The lunchroom at the Daily Planet buzzed with the usual midday chatter, the clatter of trays, and the faint aroma of cafeteria food. Seraphina balanced her bag over one shoulder, scanning the tables for an open spot. She spotted a small corner table and made her way over, already planning to enjoy a quiet moment away from the hum of the newsroom.

“Mind if I… join you?” came a hesitant voice. She looked up and froze for a fraction of a second, noticing Clark Kent standing there, glasses slightly askew, tie a little loose, hands awkwardly adjusting the straps of his bag. There was a quiet shyness in his posture that made her smile without thinking.

“Of course,” she said kindly, gesturing to the empty chair across from her.

Clark exhaled softly, relief flickering across his face as he slid into the seat. He adjusted his glasses again, a nervous tick she found almost endearing. “Thanks…,” he grinned.

Seraphina tilted her head slightly, studying him with that sharp, quick perception she always had. “It’s no problem. I like having company.” Her smile was warm but not intrusive, and Clark seemed to relax immediately under it.

They sat there for a moment, the ambient noise of the lunchroom fading around them. Seraphina picked at her salad while Clark fumbled with his sandwich wrapper. Clark shifted slightly in his seat, glancing down at his tray before meeting her eyes again. “I… I actually read your article,” he said softly, voice just above the hum of the lunchroom. “The one about… Superman.”

Seraphina blinked, surprised, but pleasantly so. “Oh?” she replied, curious. “And…?”

Clark’s lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “It was… beautiful. Thoughtful. I don’t know if you realize how much it probably meant to him, reading that. I just… wanted to say thank you for writing it.”

Seraphina’s cheeks warmed slightly. She offered a modest smile in return. “Thank you…”

Clark nodded, leaning back slightly, clearly thoughtful. “It… it makes me hope people notice that part of him too, who he is beyond what he can do...”

Seraphina looked down at her salad for a moment, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then back up at him. She said quietly, humbly, “I just… I wanted to write the truth, I guess. That’s all anyone can do.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, punctuated by the distant chatter of their coworkers. Then Clark tilted his head, eyes bright with curiosity. She decided to add to the conversation, “So… what about you? What do you like to write?”

His smile returned, warmer this time. “Honestly? A little of everything. Sometimes profiles, sometimes features… sometimes just thoughts I need to get my thoughts out of my head. Makes the world feel a bit smaller, a bit more understandable.”

Clark’s gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary, quiet and steady, as if memorizing the small details of her expression, the way her eyes caught the light, the faint tilt of her lips, the subtle confidence in her posture. Then he smiled.

It wasn’t a casual smile. It was the kind of smile that reached his eyes, warming them from the inside out, softening the sharp edges of his face. It had a gentle luminosity, a quiet gravity that made the world around them seem to pause, just for a heartbeat.

Seraphina felt it before she could think, an unexpected flutter in her chest, a strange awareness that the air between them had shifted. The smile wasn’t flashy or performative; it was honest, unguarded, and it carried with it a quiet admiration that seemed to brush across her like a whispered promise.

She found herself smiling back, almost instinctively, captivated by the ease and warmth of it. There was something about it that made her want to lean in just slightly closer, as if proximity could let her understand the light behind those earnest eyes.

Her heart nudged her, small and insistent, and she realized—she liked his smile. Liked it more than she expected. Liked it enough that it lingered in her mind even after the conversation moved on, a soft, radiant echo of something she wasn’t quite ready to name.

Later that same afternoon, Seraphina shifted her weight from one foot to the other, glancing at the polished floor tiles and the sterile bank counters. Her first paycheck in hand, she felt a small thrill. Her first bit of mortal money. She had just started thinking about setting up direct deposit for her future paychecks when a niggling sense of wrongness prickled at the back of her neck.

The line moved slowly, and she was nearly at the counter when it happened. A sharp pop echoed through the bank, followed by the harsh rattle of more gunshots fired into the ceiling.

“Everybody down!” shouted a masked man, waving a pistol wildly.

Seraphina’s brow furrowed. Seriously? This now? She crossed her arms, letting out a slow, exaggerated sigh. The customers screamed and ducked, and the bank employees froze behind their counters, but Seraphina remained standing, eyes rolling behind her calm, collected mask of annoyance.

“Really?” she muttered under her breath, loud enough that the nearest would-be robber could hear. “The Parcae can’t hate me this much… Couldn’t you have picked literally any other bank on the planet or any other time?”

The robber swung his gun toward her, and she sighed again, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Fine. Fine, I’ll play your little game,” she murmured, clearly unimpressed. She crouched slightly, but her sharp gaze never left the man, already calculating her options, because while everyone else panicked, Seraphina Elliott was extremely annoyed.

Her eyes narrowed as the masked robbers barked orders, waving their guns. Everyone else was frozen, but she was calm, her mind already mapping the room: counters, chairs, teller stations, potted plants—every object a potential tool.

The first robber took a step toward a terrified customer, gun raised. Without hesitation, Seraphina grabbed a stapler from the counter. With a flick of her wrist, honed by years of archery, she sent it sailing through the air. It struck him squarely on the temple. He staggered and crumpled to the floor, unconscious before he could even scream.

The second robber turned quick enough to give himself whiplash, but by the time he had figured out what had happened and raised his pistol, Seraphina was already on him. With a quick motion, she had disarmed him and sent her knee into the soft flesh of his gut. As he keeled over, gasping for breath, she turned to the next closest threat.

She picked up a nearby pen cup and sent it spinning through the air. The objects clattered against his mask, disorienting him. She used the distraction to sweep his legs with a precise kick, and he toppled backward, hitting the floor with a heavy thud.

She vaulted over a counter, flipping onto a teller’s desk to gain height. From there, she grabbed a small paperweight and tossed it like a discus, knocking another robber off balance. He stumbled, reaching for his gun, but she was already on him—fast, clean, efficient. One elbow strike to the jaw, and he hit the floor, stars in his vision.

The final robber lunged at her from behind, thinking he could catch her off guard. Seraphina spun on her heel, her reflexes perfectly timed. She grabbed her bag, using it like a shield to smack the gun away from her and towards the empty wall. Without missing a beat, she landed a precise kick to his ribs, sending him sprawling onto the lobby tiles.

Within moments, the robbers were all unconscious or incapacitated. Seraphina stood amidst the chaos of overturned chairs and scattered paperwork, breathing lightly, her hair slightly disheveled, but her expression calm and annoyed. She surveyed the scene with a critical eye, already planning how she’d explain this to the police.

“Really,” she muttered, brushing dust off her jacket. “All that drama…”

Seraphina adjusted her jacket, brushing imaginary dust off her shoulder as she sauntered past the unconscious robbers. At the front desk, the clerk was trembling, eyes wide.

She slid her check across the counter with a casual flick. “I’d like to make a deposit, please…” she said, her tone sharp but calm, almost as if nothing extraordinary had happened. The clerk blinked, unsure whether to comply or collapse entirely.

Then, without warning, the doors to the bank burst open. A blue-and-red blur streaked into the room, and the air seemed to shift. Superman landed with a soft but definite thud, the floor beneath him barely denting. His cape settled behind him like a wave of calm authority.

Everyone froze. The robbers were still out cold, the clerks and customers gaping. And there he was—Superman, larger-than-life, surveying the scene. His eyes softened as they landed on Seraphina, who hadn’t even flinched at his arrival.

“Everything… okay here?” he asked, voice steady, warm, carrying that unmistakable weight of reassurance but undeniably confused.

Seraphina glanced up at him, one eyebrow raised, lips quirking in the slightest smirk. “Yes,” she replied, sliding her check a little closer across the desk. “Now, about that deposit…”

Superman’s eyes swept the bank in a blur, taking in the scene. After hearing the gunshots and shouting, he’d arrived expecting chaos. But instead, he found… this. All the robbers were either unconscious or groaning on the floor, clutching at wounds and bruised egos. Papers fluttered through the air. Chairs were overturned. And at the center, calm as ever, stood Seraphina Elliott, hands on her hips, exuding that infuriating mix of annoyance and authority.

He blinked, processing. How… what…?

One of the robbers—a scraggly man in a dark hoodie and a ski mask—stirred. He pushed himself weakly upright, wincing with every movement. His hand shook as he reached for his pistol, raising it toward Seraphina.

Superman’s instincts kicked in, and he was already moving when the robber’s finger squeezed the trigger.

The robber fired again and again, sharp cracks echoing through the bank. Before Seraphina could react, Superman moved faster than the eye could follow, slamming into the line of fire and positioning himself between her and the gun. Bullets pinged off his chest, harmlessly ricocheting.

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stand still. Seraphina’s eyes widened—not in fear, but in instinctive, immediate worry. Without thinking, she sprang forward, throwing her arms around him. Her hands pressed against his chest where the wounds would have been if he were human, desperate to staunch the non-existent bleeding.

“Hold still! Moving will only increase the bleeding!” she whispered, voice taut with panic that was quickly replaced by frustration at the absurdity.

Superman looked down at her, slightly bewildered, his hands gently lifting hers. “Ma’am… I’m fine,” he said, his voice calm but soft, tinged with a gentle amusement he couldn’t quite hide.

She froze for a moment, realizing that no blood flowed, that he was untouchable in the way only he could be. Her hands lingered on him, warm against his suit, her sharp exhale betraying the tension she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding.

“What the…?” she repeated, her voice lower now, almost incredulous, but still tinged with relief. He watched the moment of realization occur, when all her Superman research returned to her mind, and she recalled, “You’re supposed to be… impervious? And here I am… treating you like you’re—” she gestured vaguely to the chest she had pressed against.

Superman smiled faintly, the kind of smile that was quiet but held immense reassurance. “I’m alright…”

Her hands fell reluctantly to her sides, but she stayed close, heart still hammering.

The gun clicked empty, the final shot bouncing harmlessly off the counter. Seraphina’s eyes flicked to the robber—his face pale, shaking, futilely trying to reload. Before he could even think of a next move, Superman was there, a blur of blue and red, and with a swift, controlled motion, he knocked the man out cold.

The bank fell eerily silent except for the shallow, stunned breaths of the customers and clerks. Superman turned back toward Seraphina, brushing dust from his suit, his expression calm, reassuring. Then he smiled.

The sunlight streamed through the large front windows, catching the curve of his lips and the gentle warmth in his eyes. Seraphina felt it before she consciously realized why—years of noticing subtleties, of seeing the smallest tells through masks and pretenses, trained her to read people with almost uncanny precision.

And in that smile—patient, kind, quietly amused—she recognized him. Not just the hero in blue and red, but Clark Kent. The mild-mannered reporter who tripped over his own feet each time he glanced at her. Her heart skipped slightly at the realization.

“Clark…” she murmured, almost silently to herself.

There was only one pair of ears that heard what she said.

Superman’s head snapped toward her voice, eyes widening in genuine panic. Clark… The name hung in the air, weighty and intimate, and for a fleeting moment, he looked so caught off guard, exposed.

Before he could gather his composure, the wail of sirens cut through the tension, police cars screeched to a halt outside, and officers poured into the bank in response to the silent alarm. They moved quickly, cuffing the groaning robbers and checking on the shaken clerks and customers.

“Thank you, Superman!” one officer called, relief and awe coloring his voice. “We—”

“Just doing my job,” Superman said quickly, though the faint panic lingered in his posture. He paused, shaking his head slightly, and then gestured behind him. “No… it wasn’t just me.”

The officers followed his gaze—or tried to—but Seraphina was gone. The lobby was empty of the girl who had handled the entire robbery with deadly precision, leaving no sign behind that she was ever there at all.