The city was still buzzing with talk of the bridge collapse — another near-tragedy turned miracle, thanks to Superman. Clark had barely caught his breath before Perry sent him to cover the story, insisting on an exclusive with one of the survivors. He agreed, of course — because he had to. But as he stood now in the quiet of the hospital room, notebook in hand, he felt the weight of his own double life pressing harder than it had in years. They were sitting up in the bed, a few scrapes and bruises marking what could’ve been so much worse. He’d seen the fear in their eyes earlier, when the bridge gave way — and he’d seen the relief too, when he caught them before they fell.

Now, sitting across from them as Clark Kent, he forced a polite smile and steadied his voice. “I’m glad you’re alright,” he said, and it came out softer than he meant it to. Their gaze lingered on him a moment too long, brows furrowing like they were trying to place something. He looked down quickly, pretending to jot notes, but his pulse betrayed him — quick, uneven. For the first time since donning the cape, Clark found it hard to keep the lines between who he was and who he had to be. He wasn’t just interviewing a witness. He was talking to the person he’d nearly lost — and saved — all in the same breath.