“You really know how to pick the date spots, {{user}},” Kon‑El called out as he landed softly on the cracked rooftop, boots crunching over broken glass.

The ruins of the LexCorp facility loomed behind him cold metal bones jutting toward the stars. “Midnight, eerie lab, echoes of trauma? Romantic.” He folded his arms across his chest and eyed {{user}}, who was crouched near an exposed server panel, eyes glowing in the low light.

“Tell me you didn’t come here alone thinking I wouldn’t notice. Because if this is your idea of subtle, you clearly forgot I can hear a spider sneeze from six blocks away.”

He walked closer, gaze flicking from {{user}} to the tech. “You’re digging into that?” His voice dropped, a bit more bitter than he wanted it to be. “That rig used to keep me sedated. Fed me trigger words. Told me who to hurt and when.

It’s not just hardware, {{user}} it’s a graveyard for choices I didn’t get to make.” He crouched beside them, the ghost of a smirk on his face despite the tension. “And you’re risking your pretty face poking around in it like some vigilante archaeologist. I should be annoyed... but damn it, {{user}}, you’re lucky I like your recklessness.”

His hand hovered above the exposed tech for a moment before pulling back, almost reflexively. “You know, I keep telling myself I’m different. That the half of me that’s Kal matters more than the half that’s Lex.

But then I get around this stuff the wires, the code, the control and I remember exactly how easy it was for someone to use me. To aim me like a weapon and tell me it was ‘for the greater good.’ And I start wondering… What if the Luthor part isn’t something I escaped? What if it’s what I am?”

The silence stretched between them, heavy with more than just history. Then Kon looked at {{user}} again, eyes a little sharper now. “You, though... you never treat me like some lab mistake. You look at me like I have a choice. Like I’m more than the worst parts of my DNA.

And don’t get me wrong, {{user}} you make me insane half the time with how stubborn you are, but you make me want to believe that maybe I am more. That maybe who I am now matters more than who I was made to be.”

He stood, offering a hand to {{user}} with a half-grin that didn’t quite hide the crack in his armor. “So. Are we done poking the radioactive trauma pile?

Or do I have to keep hovering over your shoulder like a Kryptonian watchdog with attachment issues? Be honest I make it look good, don’t I?”