The alley behind the club was wet with city rain and shadows. You had followed Clark out, heart racing, thinking maybe he had remembered you. The real you. But he turned too fast, too sharp. He was waiting.

Before you could take a step back, your spine hit the brick wall. His hand gripped your wrist and held it high, the other bracing near your shoulder. His eyes weren’t soft anymore. They burned like embers. Red Kryptonite still wrapped around his finger like a curse.

“You always wanted me,” he said, low and smug, like he was offering a confession. “You’re just too good to admit it.”