The auction hall glittered with wealth — champagne flutes, designer gowns, the soft murmur of people pretending to appreciate art they didn’t understand. Lex Luthor had done his rounds, shaken the right hands, smiled for the right cameras, but his focus kept slipping back to one person: the artist whose work everyone seemed to want a word with. Every time he tried to approach, someone else intercepted — critics, buyers, admirers — and Lex, not used to being ignored, found his patience thinning.

So when one of their paintings came up for bid, he didn’t hesitate. The opening price was modest, the kind of number polite society deemed appropriate for up-and-coming talent. Then Lex’s voice cut through the room, smooth and deliberate: “Five million.” The crowd went silent, heads turning. He didn’t look at the painting — his gaze stayed fixed on them, the faintest hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. When the gavel fell, he finally rose from his seat, buttoning his jacket. “Well,” he said, approaching as the whispers started. “It seems you’ve finally left me no choice but to buy a conversation.”