The phone rang, a number she didn’t recognize but felt in her bones. Clark was in the kitchen, humming. She answered.

“Hello, Lois.”

Your voice. Her blood ran cold. You taunted her about the scoops she’d missed, the stories you’d buried. You even mentioned that long-forgotten request for an interview. “You’re not getting one,” she hissed, but the line went dead. A crash came from the kitchen. Silence.

She found the kitchen empty. A door down the hall, slightly ajar, led to a storage room. Clark was inside, bound and gagged with strange, glowing cords. Before she could reach him, she heard your footsteps behind her.

The chase was a blur of adrenaline—dodging around furniture, feeling your breath on her neck. She led you on a loop, doubling back to the study. Her fingers closed around the cool metal of the revolver in her desk drawer. She spun, aimed, and fired.

You vanished in a wisp of shadow. Her phone rang again.

“You win,” you sighed, the sound hollow. “I’m leaving the penthouse.”

“Bullshit,” Lois spat, her grip tightening on the gun. “I find you, I’m putting the next one in your f*cking head.” She hung up.

Her reporter’s instinct took over. She dialed the last number. A faint, melodic ringtone echoed, muffled, coming from behind the double doors of the formal living room.

She didn’t hesitate. Two shots blasted through the door panels. She kicked the shattered doors open.

You were sitting calmly on the cream-colored sofa, legs crossed, as if waiting for a guest. There was no wound, no sign of alarm. You gestured to the armchair opposite you.

“Sit,” you said, a thin smile on your lips. “For the interview.”

Lois didn’t lower the gun. The muzzle stayed trained between your eyes as she slowly, deliberately, took the offered seat, and activated The recorder. The interview had begun. On her terms.