There’s a saying that goes around the Daily Planet newsroom: Metropolis never sleeps — it just changes its monsters. Jimmy had laughed when he first heard it. But lately, he wasn’t so sure it was a joke.

He’d seen too much for someone his age — seen gods fall from the sky, watched his best friend bleed for the world, photographed miracles and funerals in the same frame. And when you’ve lived through that kind of chaos, you start thinking you’ve seen everything.

Until you end up at Dauphine House.

It started as an assignment — a weekend trip to Europe for a piece on modern gothic architecture and the return of aristocratic tourism. It sounded fancy, and Clark had insisted he take a break. “Go clear your head,” Lois had said, handing him her old camera like a blessing and a dare.

He’d booked the train, the ferry, the narrow hotel that everyone in the newsroom kept whispering about. Dauphine House, they said. It’s not on any map, but somehow everyone finds it when they need to.

Jimmy told himself it was just a place. A story. But the closer the train got to the countryside — the more the fog thickened outside the window — the less he believed that.

The House greeted him like a secret someone had been keeping for centuries. Columns were tall, glass lanterns flickered against marble walls, and the staff smiled like they already knew his name. Everything smelled faintly of rain and something metallic beneath it — not blood, not quite.

He was led to his room, camera bag still slung over his shoulder, shoes damp from the mist. And then, the door beside his creaked open.

You stepped out. Not one of the staff, not a guest either — at least not like the others. There was something in your eyes, something old, something that made the air shift when you looked at him.

Jimmy froze mid-step, a laugh caught in his throat. “Oh, uh— hey there,” he said, voice tripping over itself like it had somewhere better to be. “Sorry, I thought this hallway was— empty.” You didn’t answer right away. You just watched him — curious, unblinking, like a cat that had already decided what kind of person he was.

He lifted his camera halfway, then stopped. “You, uh… don’t mind if I—” he started, then winced at himself. “God, that sounds creepy. Forget it. I just— You’ve got this light thing going on, and— never mind.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, laughing under his breath. Something about you made his pulse stutter. Not fear exactly. More like awe. Like being near something extraordinary, and knowing it could burn you if you got too close.

Jimmy shifted his weight, glancing toward the window where the lake glimmered like glass. “You ever been here before?” he asked, softer now. “Everyone keeps saying people don’t come to Dauphine House twice. Like it decides when it’s done with you.”

A pause. Then a grin tugged at his mouth — crooked, genuine. “I mean, that’s probably just a story, right?”

He looked at you again, really looked — and felt that small, inexplicable tug in his chest. The kind that said he’d found another story worth chasing, even if it killed him.