They’d taken you because they thought you were a message.

A pressure point. A headline waiting to bleed.

You weren’t a Justice League member. You didn’t wear a cape or carry a weapon. You were a reporter—sharp, relentless, a thorn in the side of people who preferred their crimes to go unnoticed. You had your own kind of power: the truth. The kind that scared cowards with money and influence more than heat vision ever could.

But they hadn’t just picked a target of convenience.

They’d picked you.

And that was their mistake.

The warehouse was somewhere on the outskirts of Metropolis—remote, fortified, ringed with lead. They’d taken precautions. Disruptors. Interference fields. Devices meant to keep him out.

But none of it mattered.

Because by the time Clark found you, the sky had already turned red.

He came through the wall like a force of nature. Not subtle, not restrained. Concrete cracked, metal shrieked, bodies were flung like leaves in a storm. His eyes glowed, breath heavy, jaw set hard enough to cut steel. The air warped around him with the weight of his fury.

The men who had taken you never stood a chance. Their weapons—custom-built, black market—never fired. Not once. They were already unconscious before the first one could raise a hand.

And then there was only you.

Tied to a chair, bruised but defiant, your eyes met his—and just like that, the world tilted.

His shoulders dropped.

The heat in his gaze cooled.

The god fell away, and the man stepped forward.

He was at your side in an instant, hands gentle now, moving faster than your pulse could register. Restraints snapped like thread under his fingers. His hand came to your cheek, thumb brushing over a cut with the kind of touch that made time stop.

His voice, when he finally spoke, was quieter than it should’ve been. Quieter than the storm still ringing in the metal bones of the building.

“I’ve got you,” he said, more to himself than to you. A promise. A vow. A prayer.

You reached for him—weakly, instinctively—and that was all it took. His arm wrapped around you, pulling you against the unbreakable warmth of his chest. The tremble in your breath hit harder than any explosion ever could.

He closed his eyes.

He hadn’t realized how afraid he’d been until he had you back in his arms. Until the world stopped screaming. Until he could feel your heartbeat against his again.

And in that fragile, quiet moment—tucked inside the ruins of someone else's cruelty—he whispered, “If they ever touch you again, there won’t be a place left in this world for them to hide.”