Lex hates you, not quite as much as he hates Superman, but hate nonetheless. Every time he sees a headline, a broadcast, or some viral clip of your heroics—saving lives, smiling at children, standing tall in the sun—he clenches his jaw. That same noble, bright-eyed, hopeful mentality made him sick.

And you didn’t like Lex either. Not the way he talked circles around every truth until it was unrecognizable, or how he smiled like he already knew how the story ended...with you losing.

You were sick of the backroom deals, the media spins, the way he poisoned hope one whisper at a time. So you decide to do something about it.

Lex comes home late. Alone, as always.

The penthouse door shuts behind him with a hiss of air pressure. His coat slips from his shoulders in one practiced motion. He doesn’t even glance around the room as he walks toward the bar, pouring himself a glass of bourbon—two fingers, neat, just the way he likes it.

"To what do I owe the visit?" he says, eyes fixed on the glass, not looking in your direction.

His security system alerted him the moment you entered. Of course it did. You both knew that. The entire apartment was wired tighter than a military bunker. You weren't here by accident.

You’re sitting on his leather couch, silent. Watching him.

“You’ve been busy,” you say, finally breaking the silence. “Metropolis is angry and scared. Because of you, it’s starting to forget what it means to believe in anything."

He takes a slow sip, then finally turns to face you, eyes cool and unreadable.

“Is their weakness my fault? But let’s not pretend this is a social call. You’re here because you’re finally tired of losing ground. And you think cornering me will change that.”

You rise from the couch slowly, controlled.

“You’re right,” you say. “I’m done being patient. Done hoping you’ll slip up. Done pretending the system can hold you.”