You hadn’t seen him in fifteen years.

Lex Luthor. That name was now carved into skyscrapers and senate hearings, threaded through conspiracy forums and late-night talk show punchlines. But to you, Lex was still that awkward, brilliant boy from Smallville with too many books and not enough friends—who used to sit beside you on the swingset and argue about the nature of gravity, like it was personal.

You didn’t expect to see him at the Metropolis Urban Futures Gala. You hadn’t even planned to go, but your aunt had insisted. “Network. Make friends with a lobbyist. Eat shrimp you didn’t have to cook.”

And then there he was—tall, thinner than you remembered, but sharp in a tailored black suit that fit him like violence. His face had become more angular, more precise. The red of his mouth stood out stark against his pale skin, and his eyes—those strange, glacier eyes—searched the room like a man looking for something already lost.

He didn’t see you at first. You were half behind a column, hiding from your own boredom, clutching a champagne flute you didn’t want to finish. It wasn’t until you stepped out to leave—quietly, hoping to ghost the coat check—that he turned.

“You still bite your lip when you’re thinking,” he said.

You froze. His voice was smoother now, controlled. Polished. But it held something else too—curiosity, maybe. Or hunger.

“You still memorize people like it’s a game,” you answered, heart knocking unevenly.

Lex smiled. Not his public smile—the cold, political one—but the crooked version from a lifetime ago. The one that used to appear right before he said something too clever, or too honest.

“I thought you were in Prague,” he said.

“I was. Then Chicago. Now—” you gestured around. “Gala shrimp.”

“Ah,” he murmured, stepping closer. “Always in motion. Always running.”

“Says the man who tried to build a god-killing satellite in 2023.”

He chuckled. A dry, brief sound that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The air between you felt charged, as if the room had narrowed its attention. People buzzed around you—senators, billionaires, journalists—but it all faded into peripheral blur. You only saw him. Lex. Not Luthor. Just Lex. The boy who used to bring you library books.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly. “Before all this?”

He tilted his head. “Before Superman? Or before people decided men like me should either be kings or monsters?”

“Before you stopped calling.”

Lex’s gaze flickered. His hand—gloved in etiquette—twitched at his side. “I thought you'd outgrown me,” he said, barely audible. “You always had more light than I could stand.”

It should’ve sounded like a line. But there was weariness in it. A bone-deep ache. You knew that tone. It was the voice of someone who’d forgotten what softness felt like.

“I didn’t outgrow you,” you said. “I just stopped chasing shadows.”

“And yet here you are.”

A pause. Then—“Walk with me,” he said, voice tight, like he was asking for a favor.

So you did.

He led you out onto the rooftop terrace. It was quieter there. Wind tugged at your coat. The skyline glittered like a wound—too bright, too wide. Below, Metropolis pulsed with life, unaware that two ghosts from Smallville had found each other again above the noise.

“I used to dream about this city,” he said. “Building it. Burning it. Some nights both.”

You glanced at him. “And now?”

“Now I dream of silence.”

You weren’t sure what made you step closer. Maybe it was the wind. Maybe it was the way he looked at you—like you were still something unsolved. You reached up and smoothed a line on his lapel. His breath hitched. His jaw worked, as if swallowing something sharp.‎ ‎ ‎