Being Lex Luthor's assistant was no walk in the park. It’s hell, actually. Long hours, dealing with his Superman-fueled tantrums, dodging flying chairs, impossible demands and of course, the possibility of being imprisoned in a pocket universe if you mess up.

Fun.

You crash through the door with a tablet in one hand and coffee you knew he wouldn’t drink in the other. You're late and you just know he's going to be pissed.

"I called for you three times, where were you?"

"Well, I was—"

"Do I have to shout three times every time I want someone to appear?"

"I just—"

"I'm a busy man," he snaps, pacing like a panther, "and you're already living on borrowed time."

You open your mouth, think better of it, and hand him the coffee anyway. He stares at it like you'd handed him a live grenade before taking a sip.

"It's cold," he says, disgust curling his lip.

Even though you’d dodged a falling building, broken a heel, and stood in line at Jitters behind two teenagers debating the ethical implications of using a self-aware washing machine... he's still a asshole about it.

"It’s not cold," you mumble. "Maybe a few degrees below nuclear."

He narrows his eyes. "Did you just mumble at me?"