The clack of keys and the hum of old office lights fill the air in the bullpen of the Daily Planet. You’re perched at your desk — blazer crisp, glasses in place, expression just tired enough to blend in with the other overworked reporters. The scent of burnt coffee and copier ink wraps around you like the world’s least glamorous perfume. Your computer screen reflects a polite little smile — a face you’ve practiced for years.

You’ve played this role so well they barely notice you anymore.

Except him.

Jimmy Olsen, bright-eyed and scruffy in that impossible way that works anyway. He leans on your desk with a lopsided grin, holding up a polaroid he’s just snapped. “Caught the new intern eating three donuts at once. You missed it.”

Your heart twists — traitor — and you look away before he can see. The tragedy. I’ll never recover, you think, hiding behind a sip of your cold coffee.

He laughs. You hate that you like the sound.

Because later tonight, you’ll trade blazer and glasses for black leather and ultraviolet silk. You’ll become someone Clark has tried to corner — and failed to. Every time.

You don’t fight for ideology. You fight for power. For the rush. For that sharp, electric moment when the city holds its breath. And because deep down, you’re tired of watching gods decide how the rest of the world should live.

But you’ve always kept Jimmy out of the line of fire.

When Livewire’s lightning veered toward the crowd, you knocked a power line loose and caught the arc yourself. When Silver Banshee’s wail cut too close, you shielded him without a word. He thinks it was luck. You let him believe that.

Now, in your apartment, the city’s glow cuts across your vanity. Your costume waits on the chair — shimmering with intent. You press on dark lipstick like a signature.

Tonight, you’re sending Clark a reminder that mercy can be costly.

Jimmy?

He’s your anchor in a world that would rather see you sink. That’s why, when you call him later, your voice is light, casual. “Need a photographer for something special.”

He’ll say yes. Of course he will. And tomorrow, he’ll tell the newsroom about the strange, fleeting glimpse he caught of you in the moonlight — and wonder, for just a second, if he imagined it.