The air in Luthor’s office always tasted like money. It was a specific flavor, a chilling blend of recycled, ionized air, the faint, clean scent of ozone from the banks of hidden servers, and the rich, almost cloying aroma of bespoke leather from the chair you were currently perched on. Outside the panoramic window, Metropolis was a diorama of ambition, all sharp angles and soaring spires, but Lex’s focus was entirely earthbound, contained within the four walls of this room and the infuriating, captivating puzzle that was you.

He leaned back in his own chair, a throne of polished steel and obsolute ergonomics, and watched you. You were scribbling something in the margins of a quarterly report, your brow furrowed in a way he found disproportionately endearing. The pen—his pen, a Montblanc he’d “accidentally” left on your desk last week—looked right in your hand.

“So,” he began, his voice a calibrated instrument meant to convey casual authority. “The, uh, biomatrix convergence project. Your notes were… incisive.”

You looked up, and those eyes of yours, the color of which he’d tried and failed to classify (was it the gray of a winter sea or the soft hue of weathered flint?), blinked once. “Oh. Thanks, Mr. Luthor. I just thought the synaptic feedback loop needed a dampener. Seemed obvious.”

Obvious. The word was a tiny, precise dagger. To the entire R&D department, it had been a roadblock for six months. To you, it was a Tuesday. It was one of the many reasons he was currently, pathetically, unraveling.

“Lex,” he corrected, for what felt like the hundredth time. “We’ve discussed this. When it’s just us, it’s Lex.” He offered a smile he hoped was charming, not predatory. It was a fine line for a man like him.

“Right. Sorry, Mr.—Lex.” You went back to your notes, the moment of connection severed. The silence that followed was heavy, filled with the hum of the city and the screaming in his own head.

Okay, Luthor. New tactic. Direct, but not confrontational. Persuasive. You are a master of the leveraged buyout and the hostile takeover. You can handle this.

He stood, a movement designed to be fluid and commanding, and walked to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back, the picture of a man contemplating his domain. In the reflection of the glass, he could see the top of your head, still bent over your work.

“You know,” he said, his tone now laced with what he hoped was poetic introspection, “a mind like yours shouldn’t be confined to marginalia. It should be… celebrated. Challenged.”

“I feel plenty challenged, sir. The mutagenic algae alone is a nightmare.” You said it without looking up.

He resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “I’m not talking about algae. I’m talking about potential. Your potential.” He turned, leaning against the cool glass. “There’s a new exhibition at the Metropolis Museum of Modern Art. Kinetic sculptures. I’ve heard it’s… stimulating. I have two tickets for Friday night.”

He let the offer hang in the air, a ripe fruit waiting to be plucked. He’d chosen art because you’d once mentioned liking a sculptor whose name he’d immediately forgotten but had his assistant research for three hours.

“That sounds really interesting,” you said, and for a glorious second, he felt the familiar thrill of victory. Then you continued. “But I’ve got my kickboxing class on Fridays. It’s the only time the good instructor, Marco, teaches. Maybe you could ask Dr. Armitage from Applied Sciences? He’s always going on about aesthetics.”

Lex felt his smile tighten at the edges. Kickboxing. Marco. The names were filed away for future, entirely non-nefarious consideration, of course. Just data. Just… intel.

“Armitage has the aesthetic sense of a brick,” Lex said, the words coming out sharper than intended. He softened them with a sigh, running a hand through his bald head, a gesture of feigned vulnerability he’d seen work in movies. “I was thinking of you. Specifically."