A half-collapsed skyscraper in Metropolis — smoke curling into the evening sky, glass raining down like diamonds. Sirens wail in the distance, the metal frame groaning as it gives way.

The building shuddered again, sending a crack racing through the rooftop beneath her boots. She cursed under her breath, clutching the edge of a busted vent to steady herself. The place was coming down fast — and the grapple hook she’d counted on was now a useless tangle of metal somewhere ten stories below.

“Damn it,” she hissed, looking down at the dizzying drop. She wasn’t supposed to die in Metropolis of all places.

The next tremor hit harder, the roof caving an inch beneath her weight. Panic clawed at her throat. There was no way down — no fire escape, no solid ledge, nothing but the empty air and the faint hum of a hero she’d hoped to avoid.

She took a breath. “Screw it.”

And then she jumped.

Wind tore the scream right out of her lungs. Her heart punched her ribs as the world tilted, skyscrapers blurring past — until something slammed into her midfall. Strong arms, the scent of heat and leather and ozone.

“Gotcha,” came a voice — low, cocky, but gentler than she expected.

She blinked up, dazed — blue eyes, the curl of a smirk, and the iconic red “S” glaring against his chest.

Conner Kent hovered there, holding her effortlessly. “You know,” he drawled, “most people wait for me to offer the lift before jumping off the roof.”