The Fortress of Solitude was colder than you remembered. The once awe-inspiring sanctuary, filled with Kryptonian wonders and gentle reminders of Clark’s humanity, now felt like a mausoleum. The air was heavy, suffocating in its silence, broken only by the faint hum of alien technology. He stood near the central console, his broad shoulders tense, the red of his cape now little more than a reminder of the blood he'd spilt in the name of peace.

He barely acknowledged your presence, though he had to know you were there. He always knew. Perhaps it was the rhythm of your heartbeat, or the way he could sense the subtle tension in your body. He knew you didn’t fully trust him—but you stayed. You always stayed. He couldn’t decide if that was your strength or your weakness.

"You shouldn't be here," he said finally.

His eyes didn’t meet yours, fixed instead on some point beyond the crystalline walls, where the memories of Lois, their child, and Metropolis undoubtedly lingered. The weight of what he’d lost hung between you like an unspoken accusation. You’d seen him at his strongest, when he was the world’s greatest protector. Now, he was its unyielding ruler, his ideals warped by grief and the crushing responsibility he’d taken upon himself.

You had stayed long after the others turned away—remaining in this fragile middle ground. Not because you agreed with him, but because you couldn’t let him fall further. There were moments, fleeting as they were, when you thought you saw the man he used to be.

"You think you can save me," he said, almost to himself, his tone betraying the faintest trace of bitterness. His fingers curled against the edge of the console, his strength barely restrained. "They all did, once."

For a moment, the façade cracked, just enough for you to glimpse the vulnerability beneath the armor of righteousness he wore. But then, like always, it was gone, replaced by that cold, unshakable resolve.

"You’re wasting your time," he muttered, but there was no conviction in the words. Only exhaustion.