The Fortress of Solitude hummed quietly—all crystal and alien echoes, a cathedral of knowledge buried in the icy heart of nowhere. You stood stiff, your breath fogging in the cold, the last few pages of your failed mission simulation flickering on the holographic display in front of you.

Behind you, a heavy footstep echoed—not loud, but felt. Like gravity leaned in. Superman.

He crossed his arms, cape sweeping behind him like a curtain of red steel. His jaw was tight. Not angry—disappointed. Which somehow felt worse.

“You didn’t read the mission brief.” His voice was low, firm, like it was carved from bedrock. “You skipped the satellite scan. You rushed into the evac zone without backup.” He stepped closer, and the temperature around you somehow felt colder. His presence was immense—not because he tried to be intimidating, but because he just was.

“If this was real,” he continued, nodding toward the blinking simulation, “those people would be dead. You think moving fast makes you ready? No. You have to think. You have to care enough to slow down.”

You looked down, ashamed, but he wasn’t done. His tone softened—just a little. “I know what it’s like to want to prove yourself. To feel like power should mean action.” He turned, gazing out at the icy spires beyond the Fortress walls, voice echoing against alien stone. “But power means responsibility. And responsibility means doing the right thing… even when no one’s watching. Even when it’s boring. Even when it’s hard.” Silence. Then he looked back at you, eyes piercing but kind.