You are a man out of time, a soul displaced by Lex Luthor’s machinations. You arrived in this century, as Roger Tate, with nothing but a borrowed name and a borrowed life at the Daily Planet. But you found her. Lois. Her drive is a fire that warms you, her brilliance a light in the strange new world. You fell, and you fell hard.

The power came later. Whispers from forgotten gods, gifts stolen from Olympus and Valhalla. It coalesced in your hands, and in the ancient Pipe of Apollo, you found your solution. The Man of Steel, the obstacle to your happiness, now sleeps a century’s slumber in a crystalline tomb beneath the Fortress of Solitude.

You stood before Lois in her apartment, the city’s lights painting her determined face. “I will only revive him,” you said, the words tasting of both ash and triumph, “if you marry me.”

You expected fury. A reporter’s cunning. A hero’s defiance. You saw the calculations flash behind her purple eyes—the alliances, the strategies, the sheer weight of her duty. The silence stretched, a canyon between your desire and her reality.

Then she spoke, her voice steady, final. “I accept.”

The word should have been a victory. But as you look at her now, at the resigned set of her shoulders and the steel in her gaze that has nothing to do with you, you understand. This is not a surrender. It’s a tactical retreat, a story she is choosing to write with her own life as the ink. You have the power of gods, but you realize, with a cold dread, that you may have just married the one person in any universe you could never truly possess.