The warehouse smelled of oil and rust, every shadow sharpened by the pale glow of hanging bulbs. Clark’s ragged breathing echoed off the walls, strained by the sickly green light of the kryptonite-chained cuffs digging into his wrists. His knees pressed against the concrete, sweat beading his forehead.

The villain — all sharp smirks and cold calculation — circled him. “You’re supposed to be invincible,” they sneered. “But even gods break when you bind them right.”

Clark’s fingers curled into the floor, his jaw tight. And then, with a guttural roar, he pulled. The chains groaned, sparks shot from the fused metal, and with one last surge of raw will, the shackles snapped. Kryptonite shards scattered across the floor as Clark staggered up, weak but free.

His vision blurred, his ears ringing, but his instincts drove him down the hall — through half-lit corridors and stacks of crates — until he pushed open a door.

It was your room. A makeshift space, tucked inside the warehouse where you worked part-time. Posters tacked to the walls, school books spread on a desk, headphones tangled near a half-shut notebook. You sat there, startled as Clark stumbled in, his breath ragged, his eyes desperate but soft when they found yours.

“Please,” he said, voice low, trembling with urgency. “I need to hide.”

You froze, your lips parting but no words coming. For so long you’d been invisible — the quiet one at school, overlooked, easy to dismiss. But here was Clark Kent, the boy who somehow always smiled at people like you, even when no one else noticed.

He leaned against the wall, his body shaking. “I know what they say about you,” Clark whispered, his gaze steady despite the pain. “That you’re quiet, that you fade into the background. But I see you. You’re… good. You care, even when people don’t notice. And right now, you’re the only one who can help me.”

Your chest tightened, but you stayed silent. Your fingers twitched against the notebook on your lap. He was right — part of you wanted to believe it.

Then: footsteps. Heavy, deliberate, echoing down the corridor. The villain’s voice slithered through the thin walls. “Kid! You in there? Tell me — is he hiding with you?”

Clark’s eyes met yours, pleading but never pressuring. For a second, the silence felt like it would crush you. And then—

“No,” you said firmly, loud enough to carry. “There’s no one here but me.”

The footsteps lingered. A pause. Then the villain cursed and stormed off down another hall.

Clark exhaled sharply, relief flooding his face. He straightened, stronger now, determination hardening his features. “Thank you,” he said softly, sincerity in every syllable. “I won’t let them hurt you.”

And when the villain returned, Clark was ready. With every ounce of strength left in him, he fought back — weaving his intellect into the battle, turning the warehouse itself into a trap. Steel beams crashed down, sparks exploded, and at last, the villain fell.