The explosion rocked the outskirts of Geneva—a LexCorp research facility turned smoldering crater. The Justice League had responded fast, but not fast enough.

Superman had gone in first.

He always did.

But this time, Lex had planned for it.

They didn’t realize what had happened at first. He was just gone for a moment—radio silent. Then he came back.

And everything changed.

The sky tore open when he emerged. Not the calm, measured Superman the world revered, but a force. Faster than ever. Violent. Uncontrolled. His eyes glowed crimson, not with heat vision, but with something darker. Something wrong.

He didn't speak. He roared.

Green Lantern tried first—containment fields snapped like glass. Flash went in next and came out bruised, breathless, shaken. Diana wrapped her lasso around him, shouting his name, trying to reach whatever part of him might still hear.

He threw her across the air like she weighed nothing.

Batman was the one who figured it out: the red kryptonite. Microscopic. Inhaled. A mist Lex had filled the lab with. Not lethal—but corrupting. Warping his mind. Dismantling restraint. Amplifying everything he held back.

Every fear.

Every fury.

Every godlike instinct he had spent a lifetime controlling.

Now, he was tearing apart the battlefield, ripping up the sky itself.

And they couldn't stop him.

Not without hurting him.

“Call her,” Bruce said through clenched teeth, bracing his weight against one of Clark’s shockwaves. “Now.”

Your communicator buzzed only once before it connected.

You’d seen the footage already. The panic in the League’s voices. The satellite feeds trembling with each blow. It wasn’t the first time someone tried to break him—but it was the first time it might work.

You were already in the teleporter when Bruce’s voice came through.

“He’s not himself,” he said. “It’s red K. We can’t get through to him.”

“He’ll hurt someone,” Diana added. “Maybe himself.”

You didn’t respond. You didn’t have to.

The world shifted around you—one moment your apartment, the next, the scorched battlefield outside Geneva. Wind howled. Metal shrieked. Superman was above, twisting midair, restrained in a prison of golden bands and energy fields, his face contorted in something between rage and agony.

He was terrifying.

But he was yours.

You walked forward, slowly, past the League, past the debris. No shield. No hesitation.

He saw you instantly.

And everything stopped.

The fury in his body went still, mid-struggle. His glowing eyes locked onto yours, and for a second, you swore the sky held its breath. You stepped closer, until you could feel the heat rising from his skin, until the world narrowed to just him—just Clark—fighting himself from the inside out.

You reached up, cupping his face between your hands.

He trembled.

You didn’t say a word.

You didn’t have to.

Your touch grounded him—cut through the madness like sunlight. His breath hitched. The red glow in his eyes flickered. His grip on the world shifted.

He sank to his knees.

The restraints dissolved, released by a nod from Diana. He folded into you, arms circling your waist like he might fall apart if he let go. His voice was hoarse, broken—nearly lost beneath the weight of what he’d nearly done.

“…I didn’t want to hurt them.”

You pressed your forehead to his.

And you could feel it then, the storm in him easing—not because of control, or strength, or will.

But because you were there.