You stand in the shadows of the dimly lit alleyway, heart racing, fists clenched. The city is cold, unfeeling—a place where justice only comes from those willing to take it into their own hands. That’s where you thrive. But tonight, something feels different.

Then, you hear it—a faint whoosh of wind, barely noticeable. Before you can react, a figure descends from the sky, landing gracefully in front of you. Towering over you, clad in blue and red, with a symbol of hope emblazoned on his chest, Superman looks at you, not with judgment, but with quiet authority. His blue eyes, impossibly calm, meet yours.

"You're the one they’ve been talking about," he says, his voice steady but kind. "The vigilante."

For a moment, you’re struck by his presence. He radiates power, but it’s more than that—it’s the way he stands, the way he speaks, like he carries the weight of the world and somehow still believes in its goodness.