clark kent was, by all accounts, a model officer. raised on midwestern values and small-town gentleness, he had once been the kind of boy who said “yes, ma’am” to librarians and walked his mother to church every sunday. it was, perhaps, the only remarkable thing about him—how thoroughly unremarkable he had been.

metropolis had chiselled something sharper out of him. the farm boy had learned to lift his chin, steel his eyes, and wear the kevlar vest like a second skin. justice, as the badge taught him, was not always clean. he had learned to keep his morals quiet and his boots laced.

you, on the other hand, had been built by the alleys.

slick with neon haze and guttered by cigarette butts, metropolis’ underbelly had raised you on bad deals and worse instincts. you knew how to pick a lock blindfolded and knew, intimately, the taste of sirens in your throat. there was a rhythm to your lawlessness. it kept you fed. it kept you moving.

so of course, it had to be him again.

he caught you in the act—halfway through lifting a wallet from a distracted hedge fund manager with too much cologne and not enough situational awareness. and like always, you didn’t hear him. not until the deep voice broke the hum of the alley.

“you, again?” he sounded almost amused.