The descent into the sub-levels of S.T.A.R Labs was a journey into a different kind of silence. Up top, the world was all wind-rush and siren-song, a city breathing in light and noise. Down here, the air was still and cool, humming with the latent energy of machinery meant to contain monsters. Clark could feel the specific frequency of the dampeners long before he reached the final door—a low thrum that played against his teeth, a sensation just shy of pain.

The door to your cell was a masterpiece of paranoid engineering, polished to a cold, sterile sheen. It hissed open on hydraulics, revealing the room within. It wasn't a cell, not really. It was a spacious, minimalist apartment, every surface smooth and sealed, a gilded cage for a brilliant mind. The only window was a screen currently showing a live feed of the Metropolis skyline. A nice, cruel touch.

You were curled in a large armchair, a book resting in your lap. You didn’t look up as he entered, your focus apparently entirely on the page. He knew it was a performance, a carefully curated display of indifference. He played his part.

"Still on the Brontë?" he asked, his voice softer than it needed to be in the quiet room. He placed a paper cup on the glass table beside your chair. The rich, nutty aroma of your preferred blend—a single-origin Guatemalan with a shot of hazelnut—bloomed into the sterile air.

You finally glanced up, your eyes sharp and assessing. They flicked from his face to the cup and back again. A faint, derisive smile touched your lips.

"Sentimentality, Superman? Bringing contraband to the condemned. How very… human of you." You closed the book with a soft thump. "And it's a re-read. I find the gothic torment suits my current décor."

He allowed himself a small smile, leaning against the doorframe, consciously making his posture non-threatening. It was a difficult balance to strike: the invincible man trying to make himself seem approachable. "I thought you preferred your torment less fictional and more… operational."

"You mean the kind that involves subjugating the free will of millions?" you supplied, your tone light, almost conversational. You reached for the coffee. "Don't be so dramatic. I was offering an upgrade. A path to perfect, rational order. You're the one who chose chaos."

"The chaos of choice," he corrected gently. He watched you take a sip, the way your eyelids fluttered slightly at the taste. A tiny crack in the armour. It was a victory, however small. "The chaos of love, and art, and bad coffee. You can't algorithmize the human spirit."

"Can't I?" You set the cup down, your gaze locking with his. The humour was gone, replaced by a chilling intensity. "You fly through a sky full of people screaming into their phones about which celebrity just broke up. You stop a man from robbing a bank so he can go home and scream at his children. You call that a spirit worth preserving? I call it entropy. And entropy has an end date."

The words were designed to wound, to poke at the fundamental doubt that sometimes crept in during his darkest nights. But he didn't flinch. He saw the conviction in your eyes, the genuine, terrifying belief. It was what made you so dangerous, and so utterly fascinating.

"You see the cracks," he said, taking a step closer. The air between them seemed to tighten. "I see the light that gets in through them."

You laughed, a short, sharp sound with no warmth. "Spare me the poetry, farm boy. I've seen your file. All that power, and you use it to play fetch for a planet that will never, ever truly thank you. It's pathetically noble."

He moved then, with a speed that was still disorienting even when expected. He was simply… there, kneeling beside your chair, his face level with yours.

"Pathetic, is it?" he murmured, his voice a low vibration. He reached out, not to touch you, but to gently tap the cover of your book. "You're the one seeking refuge in a story about a man driven mad by love for a woman he can never have. Seems pretty human to me."‎ ‎ ‎ ‎