The ballroom was all glass chandeliers and black marble floors, the air humming with the rustle of gowns and the low clink of champagne glasses. Clark adjusted his tie for what had to be the eighth time since he’d walked in.

What the hay am I doing here?

Perry White had been blunt.

“Kent, the Planet needs an exclusive with Bruce Wayne. The man dodges reporters like they’re process servers. If you can’t land him, I’ll send Lois.”

Clark had laughed nervously and said, “I’ll do my best, sir,” which apparently translated to standing awkwardly by the shrimp cocktails for twenty minutes.

He spotted Bruce near the far side of the room, tall, lean, wearing a perfectly tailored black suit that looked like it cost more than Clark’s apartment building. His expression was unreadable, eyes scanning the room like a man assessing threats rather than enjoying a party.

Clark started toward him, weaving through the crowd. Unfortunately, someone stepped right into his path with a tray of champagne, and Clark, in his usual luck, managed to stumble just enough to nearly send both of them toppling.

“Oh, s-silly me,” Clark stammered, catching the waiter’s elbow before any glasses could fall. “I should really watch where I’m—” He stopped. Bruce was now looking directly at him.