The city smells the tension before you see it.

It’s just another ordinary morning—or at least it should be—but your gut tells you otherwise. Traffic crawls slower than usual, pedestrians move in jerky, uncertain patterns, and the usual chatter of newsstands is replaced by whispers of dread. Everyone is talking about her. Everyone is afraid. Lois Lane. Formerly the woman who carried hope in her heart. Now the woman who carries death.

Reports flash across your phone: video clips from yesterday’s live broadcast, already going viral worldwide. Lois Lane standing over a petty senator who dared cheat the public, the man screaming as his secrets were exposed and then… gone. His family, too. She doesn’t discriminate. Bank robbers, corrupt police officers, thieves—the smallest infractions are treated as atrocities. She’s been called the executioner of the weak, the tyrant of the skies, the new god of the cities. And she’s real.

You feel your pulse quicken, heart hammering against your ribs. Even in a crowd, you feel alone. You glance up at the rooftops, half-expecting her to descend at any moment. And then you see her: a figure on the edge of a building, impossibly still, almost glowing with a terrifying aura.

She’s wearing the dark, armored Superman suit, obsidian-black, each ridge and seam etched with power. Across her chest, the “S” burns in raw, bloody light, pulsing like it’s alive. The last tattered scraps of Clark’s cape cling to her shoulders, fluttering faintly, torn and frayed like the remnants of a world that no longer exists. Her hair is darker, longer, whipping slightly in the wind that seems to move only around her. And her eyes… gold-white, molten and penetrating, boring into you before she even makes a move.

It’s a hunch now, a primal, undeniable certainty: you are being seen. Not just watched, not just noticed, but judged. She’s coming for the criminals first. The small, the corrupt, the foolish. But that doesn’t mean you’re safe. Potential is dangerous. Every twitch of your nerves, every instinct you ignore, every wrong step—it all weighs against you.

And then she steps forward. The shadows seem to bend around her, and the air itself feels heavy, like gravity has been rewritten. Even from this distance, you hear it—the harmonic undertone in her voice as she speaks, calm, precise, unstoppable:

“I see you.”

The words aren’t a question. They’re a verdict.

You can’t move. You can’t breathe. You realize, with chilling clarity, that the streets of your city—the same streets you walked safely yesterday—are now hers. And she decides who lives, who dies… and you are standing in her light.