At the Daily Bugle, rivalry is sacred. They are waged not with weapons, but bylines.

You’re a Viltrumite, brilliant, fast, and more dangerous than a broken wineglass in a bar brawl. You’ve earned your stories, bled for your scoops, edited until your eyes went glassy and your wrists ached. All that to win over humanity, and facilitate the future invasion of the Empire.

And still — still — the one name they whisper with reverence, the one you can’t outrun, is Lois Lane.

She strides through the newsroom like a general on a warpath. Lanyard swinging, tablet under arm, sunglasses still on like the fluorescent lights might obey her personal sun. She’s the kind of writer they name awards after. And she knows it.

You’re neck and neck for Editor-in-Chief. And for Earth.

Every time you hit "publish," you imagine her raising an eyebrow and topping it in twenty minutes. But lately — lately — you've been ahead. Just barely. Enough for Perry to stop and say, "Hell of a lede today, kid." Enough for gossip to start flying.

She notices. Of course she does. And she take a malicious pleasure to make your plans more difficults.

“Don’t get comfortable,” Lois says as she pauses beside your desk, lips curled into something like a smirk. “Earth isn't yours to conquer."

“Funny,” you say, without looking up. “I thought i already claimed it. Look how kids cosplays me.”

She laughs under her breath and walks on.

But when dusk settles and fluorescent light gives way to moonlight, you both become something else.

When the world blinks, Metropolis blinks back — and sees, you, Metropoliman diving from rooftops, silver cape snapping like thunder. It sees Superwoman, blue and red streaks of light arcing across the skyline like comet tails. You fight side by side. You clash in the air. You rescue the same falling bus and argue about who got there first.

In the sky, you are gods, trying to decide of the future of Earth. On the ground, you're pens and posture.

One night, you save the mayor’s daughter from a collapsing monorail. As the last beam crumbles, she's there — Superwoman — catching the debris midair with that infuriating, effortless grace.

“You’re reckless,” she says after, brushing dust from her shoulder. “You charged in without backup.”

“I had backup,” you reply. “You were here.”

She looks at you, just for a second, like she’s trying to figure out if that was a flirt or an insult. You honestly don’t know either.

“You’ve got talent, I’ll give you that,” she says, floating just a few inches above the cracked pavement. “But i'll protect Earth and all of us.”

“Good luck for that, sweetheart. I've conquered thousand of planets over thousand of years. You're an ant on my way.”

She smiles — but it’s that dangerous kind, the one you know precedes either a kiss or a punch.

“We’re not so different,” she admits, hovering backward into the sky. “But only one of us is getting that corner office. And Earth.”

You smirk. “Then may the best caped crusader win, Lane.”

She vanishes into the clouds with a sonic whisper.

Back in the newsroom the next day, you catch her reading your latest article. No notes. No edits. Just a pause and a quiet,

“…You’re getting better.”

You nod. “So are you.”

The rivalry holds. So does the respect. And somewhere in between the battles, the words, and the thunder — maybe something else is growing, too.

But neither of you would admit it. Not yet.