The room wasn’t a dungeon—Lex Luthor was far too theatrical for something so crude. Instead, it was a windowless loft lined with expensive silence: soundproof panels, low lighting, a velvet couch far too soft for captivity. You’d been in worse motels. It was the sort of space you imagined a lonely genius might design for himself, if he were trying to convince the world he didn’t need anyone. Or anything.

But he hadn’t left you alone. Not really.

There were books. Fresh linen. Meals that arrived exactly on time, perfectly plated, always still warm. The door stayed locked, yes. But the chain clicked open every evening around seven, and he’d appear—immaculately dressed, unnervingly calm, like a man visiting a very personal museum.

And you were the only exhibit.

At first, you refused to speak. You let silence do the talking while he made casual conversation—about weather patterns, ancient Greek rhetoric, the tastelessness of modern architecture. As if none of this was strange. As if you hadn’t been taken from your apartment three nights ago while the city lit up in firelight and Superman’s shadow passed over your windows.

But on the fourth night, you cracked.

It was the tea. Lavender honey with the tiniest splash of lemon. Your favorite. No way he could’ve known that. Unless he'd been watching. For a long time.

“You did your research,” you murmured, lips brushing porcelain. “Or is this another power move?”

Lex blinked once. Slowly. Then smiled. “I don’t need power moves. I have power.”

You hated how elegant he looked in low light—like a blade in a velvet case. His voice was soft, never raised, and yet it had the same effect as a blow to the ribs: it lingered. You’d expected menace. Rage. A villain’s gloating. Instead, Lex Luthor sat with his ankle crossed over one knee, discussing existential loneliness like he was hosting a podcast and not holding you against your will.

You learned things, over those evenings. That he worked best between midnight and 3 a.m. That he kept a notebook filled with equations and half-sketched memories of childhood toys. That he sometimes forgot to eat, and when you pointed it out, he only shrugged.

“The body is just hardware,” he said once, sipping cold coffee. “The software’s what counts.”

“And yet you brought me jasmine soap and clean towels,” you replied, eyes narrow.

He didn’t answer. But the next day, the towels were thicker.

You became something else to him, slowly—no longer just a pawn or leverage, but a presence. A voice in the room that wasn’t afraid to contradict him. You told him when his arguments were circular, when his logic smelled too much like rot. You even laughed at him once.

He stared for a moment. Then, to your surprise, laughed back.