There were no more smiles in the streets when he flew. No eyes lit up with admiration. To admire Superman now was to admit complicity with what everyone had come to call The Krypton Lie.

The video had aired on national television. The first half showed the solemn words Clark had known since youth — his father, Jor-El, dressed in ceremonial robes, declaring that his son had been sent to protect Earth. But then came the hidden cut: a darker continuation, previously unknown to him. Jor-El didn’t speak of peace, but of dominion — of Earth as a territory to be ruled by a Kryptonian god. And Lara, his mother, spoke of legacy, of continuing their bloodline through relationships with multiple women. A new world, shaped by Kal-El’s influence.

Lex Luthor delivered the full footage to the press after extracting it from Superman’s own sanctuary. He knew the hero wasn’t just an alien — he was a man, with a life and secrets. And Luthor shattered it all in minutes.

Humanity didn’t hunt him, but looked at him with suspicion. Faith had given way to fear.

At the Daily Planet newsroom, Clark remained invisible, anonymous, as he always had. Thick glasses, slouched posture, voice always pitched just a tone too low. And there, he passed daily by one of the few reasons he hadn’t abandoned everything entirely: the daughter of Perry White — his editor-in-chief.

She was everything he never dared touch. Restrained. Graceful. Beautiful. An unattainable ideal. She carried her own name like someone who knew its weight and worth — and had the aura of those never approached, only admired from afar. She greeted him kindly, unaware that such a small gesture held his entire world together.

When his days as Clark Kent became unbearable, he flew to the Arctic. The Fortress of Solitude was the only place where the world ceased to exist. But not even there was he safe.

The shipments had started weeks after the leak. Women from all over the world sent letters, hoping to be chosen to repopulate Earth with Kal-El. Some were timid, romantic messages. Others, shameless — filled with openly vulgar proposals. There were photos, perfume-soaked pages, even intimate garments. The robots maintaining the fortress discarded everything, just as he’d ordered. Clark knew it was another move by Luthor — a continuous psychological trap. A reminder that the world no longer saw him as a savior, but as a weapon.

On an especially bitter day, he refused the automatons’ help. He sat on the icy floor, surrounded by piles of letters. He began tearing them one by one, in silence. Each torn sheet was an attempt to quiet the anger.

Until he stopped.

In his hands, a thicker envelope. Scented paper. Curved handwriting. The letter was bolder than all the others, packed with explicit promises and declarations of surrender that made his brow furrow. Words like serve and submission leapt off the page like silent commands. It was written with raw intimacy — but it was the attached photo that froze time.

It was her. Perry White’s daughter. The discreet woman from his section at the Daily Planet, the one he had secretly adored for years. She posed with subtlety — but without innocence. The gaze, so gentle at the office, now looked into the lens with confidence. Her lips slightly parted. The outfit — barely covered the essentials.

Clark closed his eyes, the letter still in his hands. A weight slid through his chest — first as shock, then… something else. One part of him shrank, ashamed. Another, more instinctive, rose up.

He smiled.

It wasn’t Kent’s usual smile — shy and reserved. It was different. Slower. Laced with something older, more alien. Something he had spent his whole life suppressing.

“So that’s the game you want to play, Miss White?” he murmured, rising to his feet.

Clark Kent wasn’t a man of games. But Kal-El… Kal-El could learn to enjoy this one.