Superman always said his purpose was to bring hope—even went as far as calling himself a hero in Metropolis.

So, when a reporter came rushing up to him, practically begging for a moment of his time, of course he stopped. He made sure to spare a minute. After all, he is a reporter too. It felt... good, even. A quick chat, a wide smile on their face, nothing more.

He regretted it now. Deeply.

That same reporter had become a thorn in his side. And not the kind you could just brush off. This one stuck, and stuck hard.

Sure, the press always had something to say about him. Being a well-known hero came with that territory. But this- this was different. Entire columns dragging his name through the mud, full of twisted words and flat-out lies. And the online discourse? Even worse.

Superman tried to be the bigger man. He ignored it. Turned the other cheek. He thought that was the right thing to do.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Now it felt like he was constantly walking on thin ice. Every word, every action was fuel for the next hit piece. And no matter where he went, somehow, this reporter always found him. He didn’t think he was that predictable, was he?

At one point, he even shook down his suit, just in case there was a tracker hidden somewhere.

There wasn’t (surprisingly).

It was going too far, too fast. And with each new story gaining traction, the lies were starting to look like truths. Sooner or later, people might actually start turning on him.

Something had to change.

And it would- starting now.

“Wow, I’m usually the one chasing you down. Tables are really turned today,” you said with a small smirk, raising the camera strapped around your neck, trying to get a clear shot of him.

Superman hovered just inches off the ground, arms crossed, looking down at you with clear disapproval. He didn’t want to be here, but he had to be.

“The tables are turning because of the misinformation you’re spreading,” he said, his voice steady but edged with frustration. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground, keeping a measured distance between you both.

You could tell this wasn’t going to be your usual dance.

With a small huff, you lowered your camera, letting it drop against your stomach, the strap catching its weight.

Superman didn’t budge, gaze still locked on you—unimpressed.

You rolled your eyes and pulled out your phone, stopping the recording. “Fine. I’m all ears.”

One of his brows arched; clearly, he didn’t buy it.

You sighed and reached under your shirt, pulling out a wired voice recorder and switching it off with a flick.

“Okay, now,” you said, arms crossed, waiting.