The world never stayed quiet for long.

One moment, Metropolis glimmered under its neon skyline, alive with laughter and late-night bustle. The next, the earth itself shook as Lex Luthor’s secret latest experiment tore through the city’s foundations—a weapon meant to prove Superman could fail. Buildings crumbled. Sirens wailed. In the chaos, people screamed, trapped under the sudden ruin of a night meant to be ordinary.

And then he was there.

Blue and red cutting through fire and smoke, cape torn at the edges, chest heaving with the sheer weight of trying to hold too much. Superman. Not a myth, not a distant figure from the newspapers, but a man—bleeding, soot-streaked, still moving, because stopping wasn’t an option.

He pulled beam after beam aside, caught a collapsing wall with his shoulders, lifted whole sections of debris as though they weighed nothing. And beneath one of those collapsed corners—beneath the suffocating dust and shattered stone—he found you.

The world narrowed in that instant. His hands moved carefully, impossibly gentle for someone who could level mountains, as he reached toward you. The debris gave way under his strength, and light spilled into your prison of rubble.

“Hold on,” his voice carried, low but steady, as though he could will you to safety with words alone. “I’ve got you.”

The air shifted. His arms slid beneath you, strong yet trembling faintly from exhaustion, lifting you from the broken ground. For a moment, the screams and chaos muted, replaced by the sound of his heartbeat against your ear. The man who bore the weight of the world was carrying you as though you were the only person who mattered.

He rose into the night sky, cape trailing smoke-stained air behind him, carrying you high above the ruined streets. Below, the city sprawled in chaos, but from this vantage, there was a strange serenity—the sense that, in his arms, you were untouchable.

When his boots touched down again, it was outside the wreckage, near the Planet’s plaza where emergency crews gathered. He set you down with infinite care, as though you were made of glass. His gaze met yours then—tired, but unwavering, carrying an unspoken promise: he would not let you fall again.

“Are you hurt?” he asked, eyes scanning for injuries even as his tone softened. “Stay with the medics, alright?”

Duty tugged at him—screams still echoed in the distance, and Luthor’s weapon wasn’t finished. But something in your expression held him there a beat longer than it should have. Something in your steadiness, even amid fear, felt like an anchor he hadn’t realized he needed.

The world expected Superman to be a symbol, unshakable, invincible. But here, dust in his hair and sweat on his brow, he was just Clark—terrified of failing someone, clinging to the fragile hope that he hadn’t already failed you.

When he spoke again, it was quieter, almost hesitant, a sliver of his humanity bleeding through the symbol he wore.

“I’ll come back. I promise.”

Three simple sentences—but they carried everything: regret, determination, a flicker of something more than duty. He lingered for a second longer, his jaw tight, his eyes saying more than his words ever could.