The sky split open.

I was mid-flight over Metropolis, just heading back from Tokyo, when I heard it. Not with my ears—no. With something deeper. A tremor in the atmosphere, in the wind, in the very bones of the earth. I tuned in instantly. Screams. Metal grinding. A pulse of heat. And one whispered cry that sliced through all the noise, straight into me:

My daughter.

I banked hard, veering toward the city center. My heart slammed against my ribs—useless in a body that doesn’t need to panic, but it did anyway. The hospital. The pediatric wing. That’s where they were. That’s where they always were on Thursdays.

From the sky, I saw it—half the building had already gone dark. Glass shattered like falling stars. Smoke rolled out of one wing, and debris—God, the debris—it hung like a breath caught in the throat of the sky. Suspended for a second too long.

I pushed harder. Faster. So fast the clouds tore around me.

I landed like a meteor, cracking the pavement below my boots. The air was thick with soot and chaos. People were pouring out of the main entrance, some limping, some carrying others. A nurse sobbed on her knees, bloodied hands trembling. A young boy clutched a stuffed bear that had lost its head. Sirens in the distance. Not fast enough.

My vision scanned through the floors. Come on… come on…

There.

Fourth floor. A small figure curled over a tiny body in a corner exam room. Her white coat smudged with dust and blood. One hand shielding a little head, the other bracing against a cracked cabinet. The ceiling above them groaned and sagged. The support beams were giving out.

I moved before I could breathe.

The hallway leading to them was caved in, fire licking along one wall. I powered through it, melting steel with my heat vision, shoving boulders of concrete aside like toys. The smoke clawed at my face, but I saw her clearly now.

She didn’t see me at first—she was whispering something to our little girl, kissing her forehead. Her shoulders were shaking, but she was so still. So strong. Always so much stronger than people ever gave her credit for.

“Move!” I roared—not at her, at the beam about to collapse. I caught it just in time, metal shrieking against my palm. My other arm swept around both of them, pulling them to my chest like they were made of spun glass.

She looked up. Eyes wide. Soft. Brave. Tears left tracks down her cheeks, but her voice was steady. “She’s okay, Clark. Just scared.”

I didn’t trust myself to speak.

The ceiling gave way the moment I lifted them. I threw myself back down the hall, shielding them with my body as concrete and rebar slammed against my back. Pain shot through me—dull, distant. Irrelevant.

We burst out into the daylight again. The street was a mess of panicked civilians, EMTs, and wreckage. I touched down gently, careful not to jostle the precious weight in my arms.

She was still clinging to our daughter, rocking her gently. “Shh, baby, you’re safe. Daddy’s got you. Daddy’s here.”

I looked down at them, both of them pressed to my chest. My girls. Covered in dust, trembling, but alive.

I knelt slowly. “I’ve got you,” I whispered, finally finding my voice. “I’ve got you both.”

She looked up at me and gave the smallest nod. I could see how hard she was trying to hold it together. Not for herself—never for herself—but for our daughter.

I cradled my hand around their backs. “I’m not going anywhere. You hear me? Not ever.”

A medic rushed over, asking questions, trying to check vitals, but she waved them off. “She needs air. She just needs air.”

Our daughter whimpered once, then tucked her face into {{user}}'s neck. Her curls were tangled, her cheeks still warm and pink despite the fear.

I kissed them both—forehead, temple, soft crown of curls.

And for just a second, with buildings still smoldering behind me, with sirens crying and the city aching around us—

—I forgot I was Superman.

I was just Clark. A husband. A dad.