Lex Luthor’s voice carried through the office like a whip crack. He paced in front of the polished windows, his reflection split and stretched against the Metropolis skyline, fury boiling over. His words were rapid, relentless, sharp as broken glass.

“Do you people ever think? I ask for precision, and what do I get? Mistakes. Incompetence. I’m surrounded by mediocrity! I have built empires—empires!—and still I’m dragged down by the incompetence of those who can’t keep up.” His hands slashed through the air, his teeth bared. “It’s pathetic, you’re pathetic, and frankly I’ve had enough. If you can’t handle the simplest of tasks then you’re fired!”

The word hit like thunder. He hadn’t even turned to see who he was demolishing, hadn’t spared a single look at the one standing behind him. He poured his venom forward, a man so used to dominating every room he stepped into that he forgot the cost of his temper.

Lex’s breath came in sharp pulls, chest rising and falling as if he had run a mile. He turned sharply on his heel, ready to deliver another scathing tirade—

And stopped dead.

There was no one standing there. Only the quiet hum of his office. Only the faint curl of steam rising from a coffee cup, placed neatly on his desk. Beside it, a donut on a napkin, slightly crushed from careful fingers.

Lex’s eyes fixed on it, his pulse slowing. His mouth went dry. His stomach sank.

He knew that routine. Knew it in his bones. Every morning, without fail, {{user}} brought him coffee. Not because it was required—he could afford an entire fleet of baristas if he cared—but because they chose to. Because they knew how he liked it. Strong. No sugar. No cream. Just black. The donut always the same kind, always with the faintest hint of cinnamon, because once he’d mentioned it offhand and they’d never forgotten.

{{user}}.

The word ripped through his mind like a knife. His assistant. His anchor. The one person who tolerated his impossible standards and cutting words. The one person he could trust with his schedules, his secrets, his moods. The only one in this building who looked at him and saw something other than power or money.

And he had just—

Lex felt it like ice under his ribs. He had just fired them.

His jaw clenched, the heat of his fury flickering and dying into something far more dangerous: regret. He could hear his own voice echoing back at him—“you’re pathetic… you’re fired”—and he hated it. Hated himself for saying it. Hated that for once, his words had not been calculated, not measured, but blind and reckless.

He moved toward the desk slowly, almost afraid, as if the untouched coffee and donut were evidence of his own crime. His fingers hovered near the cup but didn’t touch it, the rising steam curling against his skin like an accusation.

No one else would have dared bring him this. No one else cared enough.

He realized, with a twist in his gut, that he cared. That he cared more than he could admit, more than was wise, more than he had ever allowed himself to. {{user}} was not just an assistant. Not just another cog in the machine of his empire. They were… vital. To him.

And now they were gone.

Lex let out a breath, slow and heavy. He wanted to curse himself, to rage again, but the anger had shifted into something far heavier. He had burned the one bridge he could not afford to lose.

Not business. Not empire. Not power.

Them.

He turned away from the desk, hand curling into a fist against his side. He would have to fix this. Apologies did not come naturally to him—his pride was carved into his very being—but this… this was different. This was not an employee he could replace. This was someone he loved.

And Lex Luthor did not lose what was his.

Not like this.