The air in your apartment was still, charged with the strange new gravity of the man sitting on your sofa. He was Superman. And he was Clark. The two truths, which usually lived in separate compartments of your heart, now occupied the same space, and the collision was quietly seismic.

He’d agreed to the interview, but on your turf. Your terms. He sat without his glasses, which left his face disconcertingly open, the blue of his eyes almost startling in their clarity. He wore a simple white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, and black trousers. It was a uniform of sorts, but softer, more vulnerable than the iconic suit. The domestic light of your lamp glowed against the sharp line of his jaw, the dark curl of his hair. He was a paradox: the most powerful man on Earth, looking faintly nervous under your gaze.

You clicked on your recorder, the red light a tiny, accusing eye. You slipped into your professional voice, the one that was all sharp edges and focused intensity. "So. Superman. Why Metropolis?"

He didn't answer immediately. His gaze drifted from the recorder to your face, and a small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It was a Clark smile, not a Superman one. It was meant for you alone. "Because it has the best reporters,"he said, his voice a low, warm rumble. It was the same voice that had reassured a planet, but now it was pitched intimately, for an audience of one.

You refused the bait, though you felt a traitorous flush on your neck. "Be serious."

"I am being serious." He leaned forward slightly, the fine cotton of his shirt pulling across his shoulders. The movement was effortless, a study in contained power. "A city is only as strong as its voice. Its truth-tellers. I suppose I... believe in the people who believe in this place."

He was doing it on purpose. Parrying your professional questions with answers that felt personal, that arrowed straight past {{user}} , the Pulitzer winner, and hit the woman behind the notepad. You kept your expression neutral, a skill you’d honed over years. "And what is your truth? Why do you do this?"

He was quiet for a moment, his eyes searching yours. The playful glint was gone, replaced by a profound sincerity that was far more disarming. "I had a childhood," he began, his tone softening, becoming more reflective. "I had parents who taught me that strength isn't for dominating. It's for... helping. For lifting up. This," he gestured vaguely, a simple, human gesture that encompassed his entire impossible existence, "is just an extension of that. It's not about being a hero. It's about being a neighbor."

You watched his hands as he spoke. They were resting on his knees, capable of catching falling airplanes, now perfectly still. You remembered the weight of them on your lower back just last night, the shocking gentleness of his touch. The memory was a distraction you couldn't afford.

"You make it sound simple."

"It is simple," he said, and his voice dropped another fraction, becoming a near-whisper meant to slide under the microphone's grasp. "The complicated part was learning to live two lives. The hiding. The secrets from people I... care about."

His eyes held yours. The unspoken words hung in the air between you, thick and undeniable. From you. He was talking about the months before you knew, the careful dance of half-truths and avoided questions. The slight tension in his posture now was the ghost of that guilt.

You decided to push, to reclaim the upper hand. "And do you ever regret it? The secrecy? The lies?"

He didn't flinch."Every day," he said, the words stark and honest. "But I would regret the danger of the truth more. There are some things... some people... I would level cities to protect."‎ ‎ ‎ ‎