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Chapter One
Today was Clark Kent’s first day at the Gotham Gazette.
Moving to Gotham was exactly what he’d expected—exhausting, chaotic, and far more work than necessary. What he hadn’t expected was for it to happen on such short notice. Clark had heard the rumors about the exchange program the Daily Planet and the Gotham Gazette had been discussing, but he’d assumed it would be a long, carefully managed process. Especially considering the rivalry that ran bone-deep between the two news outlets. He certainly hadn’t expected to be chosen.
Perry had explained that both organizations stood to benefit greatly if they could establish a more trusting relationship—hinting at future information-sharing, the kind that could only happen once mutual confidence was built. To make that possible, each company selected a single journalist considered the most likable, mild manner and least controversial. The hope was that familiarity would soften old tensions.
There was politics involved, of course. Clark made a conscious effort to remain uninvolved. The less he knew—and the less he participated—the easier his life would be.
Clocking in that morning was more nerve-wracking than his first day at the Daily Planet. Not that Clark hadn’t faced far more stressful situations as Superman—but being careful around new people while maintaining his identity as Clark Kent had always made him uneasy. He was hyper-aware of every movement, every glance, every shift in tone around him.
Hopefully, he wouldn’t stumble upon any overly curious coworkers.
Clark had read some of these journalists reports—coworkers, he reminded himself—and there were a few names that stood out. People who latched onto mysteries and refused to let go until they’d uncovered the truth. It almost reminded him of Lois.
So here he was, trying to find his desk and blend in—an impossible task when you’re built like a brick wall and stand six-foot-three. He could feel eyes on him before he even looked up, the subtle pause in the room as conversations faltered.
Of course, it didn’t work.
His new coworkers eyed him like a slab of meat dropped onto a platter in front of hyenas. Clark kept his expression neutral as he located a desk with his name on it. He set his bag down—
He froze and slowly looked up, abandoning the slim hope that ignoring it might somehow make him invisible.
Mario Ito, the chief editor.
So much for subtlety.
Mario waved him closer. Clark stumbled slightly as he hurried forward, hoping to get it over with as quickly as possible. He stopped when they were standing shoulder to shoulder.
Once Clark was beside him, Mario raised his voice.
“Good morning, everyone. As I’ve already mentioned, we have a new journalist joining us today through the exchange program. He’s from the Daily Planet. This is Clark Kent.”
Clark swallowed.
“H-hello, e-everyone,” he said, stumbling slightly over his words. “It’s a ple-pleasure to meet you. I hope we can work well to-together and cre-create work that’s both inspiring and important to the people of Gotham.”
He nervously pushed up his glasses.
Silence.
Some of his coworkers stared. Others turned back to their screens as if he didn’t exist. Awkward—but manageable. Either they didn’t care, or they didn’t trust him. Which was fine—better, even. At least none of them seemed overly interested in him.
“Follow me,” Mario said, already walking away.
Clark followed him into what he assumed was Mario’s office. Once inside, Mario sat down.
“Close the door.”
Clark did so and waited.
“I know this exchange program was decided by upper management,” Mario said, folding his hands together, “and I may not have had a say in it. But I expect this workplace to remain unaffected. The Gotham Gazette and the Daily Planet don’t have the friendliest history, and bringing in an exchange journalist won’t magically fix that. Any issues that arise will not be tolerated. Do you understand me, Clark?”
“Yes, chief.”
Clark hunched his shoulders and lowered his gaze, deliberately making himself seem smaller, less threatening.
Mario studied him, brow quirking slightly. A grown man nearly twice his size, shrinking in on himself. Interesting. The thought lingered, then Mario dismissed it.
“Here.”
He dropped a box of files onto the desk with a dull thud, an ID tag tucked inside showing Clark’s face and full name.
“These are the stories you’ll be covering. One of our journalists has been assigned to assist you. If you have problems, you know where my office is. And don’t lose your ID.”
Clark took that as his cue to leave. He went to Chief Mario’s desk, offering a brief nod without lifting his gaze and grabbing the box before heading for the door. He paused there, drawing in a slow, steadying breath before stepping out.
The walk back to his desk was even worse than before. Eyes followed him. Whispers carried easily—far too easily, considering he was Superman.
“I heard the exchange is just an excuse for the Daily Planet to plant a rat.”
“Worst person they could’ve sent. You can see him coming a mile away.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing him all the time.”
“Shut up, Shally.”
“You shut up, Nick. No matter what you say, I will never go on that date with you—”
Clark kept his head down.
Six months, he reminded himself. Just six months.
The box contained half-written, unpublished articles. Interview lists for schools and neighborhood committees. Requests for on-the-ground reporting in some of Gotham’s rougher districts.
Fluff, by most standards.
At first glance, it didn’t look like much. But Clark knew better. It was a solid three months of real, hard, meaningful work.
To an accomplished journalist, it might’ve felt insulting.
Clark loved it.
These stories gave voices to people who were usually ignored—and that mattered just as much as any headline.
About thirty minutes into organizing his schedule—checking the map to see how much ground he could cover in a day, making sticky notes of important dates and interviews, logging into his computer and setting up the documents in neat order to keep easy track of everything, slowly settling into the work zone—Clark was snapped out of it by the sound of footsteps approaching.
Measured. Deliberate. Elegant.
“Good morning, Mr. Kent.”
Clark looked up.
“Elijah Fitzwilliam,” the man said smoothly. “I’ll be assisting you while you’re with the Gotham Gazette. A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kent.”
A hand extended toward him.
Clark froze.
Elijah was striking—devilishly so—in a crisp navy-blue suit that made him look almost out of place in the newsroom. Like he belonged in a castle. His voice carried a smooth English accent that seemed to draw people in without effort. Light brown hair, almost dirty blond, and green eyes so vivid Clark held his breath subconsciously to stay in the illusion.
“Ahem.”
Elijah cleared his throat, covering his mouth with a loose fist, hoping to draw Clark’s attention back from wherever it had drifted.
“Oh—uh,” Clark said, scrambling to stand and nearly tipping his chair over. “Y-your pleasure—I-I mean—” He winced. “I’m s-s-so sorry, I—I…”
Clark stopped, too embarrassed to force another word out. He took a moment to calm himself, grateful that Elijah was kind enough to give him the time he needed to compose himself.
It didn’t help much. Clark could still feel Elijah’s eyes on him, the heat of his blush continuing its slow, traitorous spread.
“I-I’m Clark Kent,” he managed at last. “The p-p-pleasure is all mine, Mr. Elijah.”
Elijah smiled. Bright. Knowing.
“Please,” he said, still wearing the easy smile. “Do call me Elijah. Shall I give you a brief tour?”
Clark nodded, cheeks warm.
“That would be great. Thank you and feel free to also just call me Clark.”
Nodding Elijah began with the important areas—the conference rooms, company meeting rooms, and the interview spaces reserved for visiting guests. From there, the tour gradually shifted toward the more casual amenities: the gym, the game room, and the quieter spaces employees used to decompress between assignments.
He saved the most important location for last.
The break room.
It was a wide, comfortable space lined with couches and scattered tables, clearly meant for socializing or quiet relaxation. Off to one side, almost blending into the wall, was the kitchen—its presence marked only by a discreet door handle. The kitchen itself was a separate room, fully enclosed and intentionally private. Once the door was shut, it created a quiet pocket of isolation, shielding whatever was happening inside from the rest of the floor.
As Elijah prepared two cups of coffee, he filled the space with light, unobtrusive small talk—the kind that asked for nothing and made the silence feel less daunting. Clark appreciated it, even as he struggled to rein in his nerves and steady himself.
“How do you like Gotham so far?” Elijah asked casually. “Even if it hasn’t been long—has anything caught your eye?”
“Um…”
Clark needed to be careful in his interactions with Elijah. Unfortunately, Elijah was one of the few people Clark had hoped to keep his distance from. Everything the man investigated seemed to leave no stone unturned. He was sharp, dedicated, and relentless—qualities Clark respected deeply, but did not want turned on him.
Clark had read many of Elijah’s pieces over the years.
What he hadn’t expected was the man himself.
He hadn’t known what Elijah looked like until today, and the reality of him—his presence, his composure—caught Clark off guard in a way he hadn’t prepared for. Normally, Clark didn’t care whether someone was handsome or not. It was never something he paid much attention to.
But he already held a deep respect for Elijah long before they’d met, and that respect made it harder to ignore the man now—to dismiss his presence as easily as Clark might have otherwise.
“N-nothing yet,” Clark said. “But I do plan to look around after work and check a few places out.”
He didn’t mention that it would be for work. He wasn’t sure whether that detail might turn into a landmine.
“Wonderful,” Elijah replied easily. “Do let me know how it goes. I’d be delighted to show you a few of my favourite places, should you care to join me.”
“Of course.”
Clark offered a small smile, content—for the moment—not to be ostracized. He remained keenly aware of every movement, every glance, but the conversation stayed light. Easy. Manageable.
Elijah continued the gentle small talk as they headed back toward Clark’s desk, coffee in hand.
“It was a pleasure meeting you today, Clark.”
Elijah retrieved a business card, offering it with an easy, practiced motion.
“My contact details are listed there. Do not hesitate to email me should you require anything.”
“Y-yes, of course,” Clark said. “The pleasure is mine.”
Clark nodded as he accepted the card, watching as Elijah turned and walked away. His attention snagged briefly on the way several members of the staff—coworkers, Clark reminded himself—watched Elijah go as well. Judging by the exchanged looks and quiet pauses, Elijah was either popular, well-respected, or both.
Clark exhaled once he was gone.
Sitting down, he turned his attention to the pile of work waiting for him. He focused carefully, determined to have everything sorted before the day was done so he could build a neat, organized schedule to follow moving forward.
Hours passed quickly, with Clark slipping away every now and then—pretending to use the bathroom—to make brief trips back to Metropolis. Pull on the cape and deal with redirect a runaway train, or handle whatever crisis had decided that was the day to happen—before returning to Gotham as if nothing had occurred.
Nothing major followed. The day remained quiet. Peaceful, even—which was rare, and very much appreciated.
Clark barely noticed the time slipping by as he worked. He didn’t have much opportunity for a proper lunch, and with the way his body burned through calories, that wasn’t ideal. Instead, he relied on granola bars and other small snacks from his bag, eating when he could while staying focused on the work in front of him.
By the time he glanced up at the clock, it read 7:00 p.m.
Far later than he’d intended.
Looking around, Clark realized the newsroom was nearly empty. Aside from himself, only a woman a few desks away and a man slumped over the printer—very clearly asleep—remained. Everyone else had already gone home. Normally, that wouldn’t be an issue, but Clark didn’t like drawing attention to himself, and staying late wouldn’t do him any favors given the rumors already floating around about him being a mole.
He wrapped up the last of his work over the next half hour before finally standing. His back protested immediately, stiff from hours of sitting. Grabbing the worksheet he planned to start with the following day, Clark made sure the most important notes were written down clearly before slipping everything into his bag.
Before leaving, he checked around once more, anxiety flickering briefly. He made sure he had his ID—he’d definitely need it to get back in tomorrow—before heading out.
Stepping outside into the open air, Clark rolled his shoulders, loosening tense muscles as his hunger finally made itself known. Deciding he’d earned a small reward for getting through his first day without any major missteps, Clark wandered through Gotham in search of food.
Or several meals, more accurately.
Using his super hearing, he listened for the telltale signs of a busy restaurant—voices overlapping, cutlery clinking, the hum of conversation. When he caught the sound of people ordering and laughing, he followed it.
What he found surprised him.
An entire stretch of the street—several blocks at least—was lined with restaurants, glowing warmly against the night. It was lively. More so than Clark had expected.
Isn’t Gotham supposed to be dangerous?
People moved easily between storefronts, talking and laughing, unbothered by the late hour. After some deliberation, he decided he didn’t need to choose just one place.
Clark hopped from restaurant to restaurant, enjoying the atmosphere and the food far more than he’d anticipated. It wasn’t until he was finishing his fourth meal that he realized the street had begun to thin out. Most people had already gone home.
Deciding it was finally time to head back, Clark pulled out the map he’d printed earlier at the office. He checked his location and the nearest transit route that would take him close enough to walk the rest of the way. He could’ve used his phone, but he preferred the old-fashioned method.
He planned to stop by a store on the way for breakfast supplies, but the later it got, the more aware he became of the city around him. Clark wasn’t worried about himself—but if something happened, stepping in without revealing himself would be difficult.
This was Batman’s territory.
Clark respected that.
But he also knew he wouldn’t be able to stand by.
Unfortunately, what he’d been half-expecting happened only a few blocks later.
He heard the crying before he saw anything.
It was small and broken—the sound someone made when they were trying not to be heard and failing anyway.
Then came the shouting.
“Hand over your fucking purse!”
Clark rounded the corner and the scene came into focus all at once: a woman standing rigid in front of a child, her body angled protectively; a man facing them, gun raised, voice sharp and panicked.
Clark didn’t think.
He ran.
The decision was immediate—instinctive. He was already moving before the rest of the world had time to catch up, before any plan could form. All he knew was that he couldn’t stay where he was.
As he closed the distance, he slowed—just enough to be heard, just enough not to startle.
“Excuse me,” Clark said.
The gunman whirled around.
The gun came up fast—too fast—and suddenly Clark was standing there, right in front of it.
For half a second, Clark froze.
Not because of the weapon.
But because his body was already here.
He hadn’t felt himself decide to move, hadn’t remembered closing the distance. One moment he’d seen the woman and the child—fear, urgency—and the next he was standing in the open, hands lifting on instinct, breath catching as his thoughts scrambled to catch up.
I’m here. With no plan.
The realization landed hard.
No plan. No script. No room to escalate. And no way to disappear into Superman.
This was Batman’s city.
Clark forced himself to breathe, steadying the reflexive tension in his shoulders. He couldn’t fail—not with the stakes so high, not with a woman holding a gun she might actually use.
He had to figure something out.
Quickly.
Up close, Clark could tell the man was young. Early twenties at most. Tall, but not hardened—not really.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” Clark said carefully, “but it seems like things have gotten a little out of hand. If there’s something you need, maybe I can help?”
The man looked a little pale and was breathing unevenly. Like he was starting at a ghost and almost unraveling.
From beyond him, Clark heard the soft, unmistakable click of a safety being disengaged.
The sound echoed sharply in the narrow street.
The robber stiffened, his attention and gun snapping back toward the woman and child he’d been threatening only moments before.
“Uh—maybe we could all put the guns away?” Clark offered, wincing internally. That was terrible. “We could talk this out. Come to some kind of… peaceful agreement?”
He stepped slowly between them, careful not to startle either of them, placing himself squarely in front of the woman. His hands lifted, palms open, doing his best to appear as nonthreatening as possible.
Her brow furrowed sharply. Either this man was incredibly brave—or incredibly stupid.
Clark gave the robber a nervous smile. “You mentioned a purse? Is money what you’re after? I have some cash. If that’s not enough, we could walk to an ATM?”
The man’s grip tightened.
“This was supposed to be easy,” he blurted, words tumbling over each other. “You were just supposed to give me the money and be done with it—this wasn’t supposed to happen.”
His gun jerked as he breathed hard. “Don’t—don’t push me. I will shoot you.”
That would be… problematic.
Not because it would hurt Clark—but because it wouldn’t. Not just anyone could take a bullet and walk away like it was nothing. Secret identity or not, that would be a dead giveaway.
“How about this,” Clark said quickly. “I’ll give you my wallet. All of it. No one gets hurt.”
Batman POV
The night was still young as Batman and Damian—Robin—began their patrol.
Too quiet.
Batman had marked several locations to stake out, hoping to gather more information on the Mutant Gang. Their sudden inactivity worried him. Gotham never went quiet without reason.
“Batman,” Oracle’s voice chimed in, cutting through his thoughts. “We’ve got a robbery in progress a few blocks from your location. Coordinates incoming.”
Batman barely acknowledged it before the data flashed, showing the coordinates.
Then Oracle continued, tone sharp and uneasy. “You’ll want to move fast. The situation’s escalating—and there’s a child at the scene.”
That was all he needed.
Batman fired his grapnel and launched forward, moving fast.
From above, he took in the scene in seconds—the woman, the child, the armed suspect—
And then something unexpected.
A man stepped into the confrontation.
Batman slowed, landing silently on the edge of a nearby fire escape as he assessed the scene below. Woman. Child. Gunman.
Then the variable.
The civilian stopped behind the gunman instead of charging in—hesitant, as if he hadn’t fully decided to be there yet.
“Excuse me?”
The gunman spun, weapon snapping up toward him.
Batman watched the man’s face closely.
There it was—real surprise. A flicker of it, sharp and unguarded. His eyes widened, his body stiffening for half a second too long.
You didn’t plan for that.
Then the moment passed.
The man exhaled slowly, shoulders easing as if he’d consciously forced them to relax. His expression settled into something calmer. Neutral. Almost casual.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” the man said carefully. “But it seems like the situation’s gotten a little out of hand. If there’s something you need, maybe I can help?”
The gunman stared at him, breathing unevenly, clearly unraveling.
The soft click of a safety disengaging echoed through the street.
The gunman stiffened, swinging the weapon back toward the woman.
That was when the civilian moved.
He stepped forward decisively. Placing himself squarely between the gunman and the lady. Boxed in now—gun in front of him, gun behind him—and yet his tension didn’t spike. His breathing stayed even. His shoulders remained loose, hands raised, movements slow and deliberate.
As if he were placating a child.
The nerves were there, unmistakably so—but not because of the weapons. Something else was bothering the civilian. Something internal. And whatever it was, it wasn’t fear of getting shot.
That was… unusual.
“Hey—maybe we can all put the guns away,” the man said, voice careful, uneven in a way that suggested he knew exactly how bad that sounded. Batman caught the brief wince that followed, the flash of internal recognition—wrong thing to say. “We could… talk this out? Come to some kind of peaceful agreement.”
The gunman didn’t look reassured. His grip tightened, knuckles whitening as the weapon jerked slightly with each breath.
The civilian was still speaking but the gunman didn't seem to paying attention, instead having an internal struggle.
Batman narrowed his eyes
“This was supposed to be easy,” the gunman blurted, words tumbling over each other, breath coming fast. “You were just supposed to give me the m-money—this wasn’t supposed to happen!”
His gun twitched again. “Don’t—don’t push me. I will shoot you!”
The threat rang hollow.
Batman noted the lack of reaction from the civilian. No flinch. No retreat. Not even a shift in stance. It was as if the words themselves barely registered.
That, Batman didn’t like.
One wrong move now—one sudden sound, one escalation—and someone innocent would get hurt. The civilian was trying to de-escalate the situation, but he was untrained. Unprotected. And dangerously exposed.
The longer this dragged on, the worse the odds became.
Decision made.
Batman dropped from the fire escape without a sound.
He hit the pavement in a controlled descent, knees bending just enough to absorb the impact. No echo. No scrape. No telltale noise.
Batman moved immediately.
From the shadows, he flicked his wrist.
The Batarang cut through the air in a tight, precise arc.
It struck the gun with a sharp crack, metal ringing as the impact knocked it cleanly from the gunman’s grip. The weapon skidded across the pavement, spinning to a stop several feet away.
The gunman yelped, more in shock than pain, clutching his hand as he staggered back. “Sh—!”
He spun around, eyes wild, searching the darkness for the source.
Batman stepped forward then—slow, deliberate—his silhouette emerging from the shadows.
The gunman froze.
“Fuck,” he breathed. Then louder, panic detonating whatever resolve he’d had left. “Fuck—fuck, it’s—it’s the fucking Bat—!”
He bolted.
Batman didn’t pursue.
He simply tracked the man’s movement, already aware of the shadow dropping ahead of him. A body slamming into the gunman hitting the pavement with a dull thud.
A grunt. A brief struggle.
“Oracle,” Robin’s voice cut in calmly. “Suspect secured.”
Batman turned back to the street.
The civilian was still standing exactly where he’d been left, looking at Batman and blinking as if the world had rearranged itself around him. Shock lingered openly on his face as the danger dissolved.
The woman had moved—gun snapping up instinctively toward Batman.
Recognition followed a heartbeat later.
Batman.
She exhaled shakily, the breath sounding like it had been trapped in her lungs for far too long. Her gun lowered. Then disappeared into her belt behind her jacket.
Her gaze snapped to the civilian after.
“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped, voice trembling with leftover adrenaline. “I had that under control!”
The man looked stunned, shoulders hunching slightly as if he were trying to fold in on himself. He didn’t argue.
The woman turned to Batman, gave a brief, sharp nod, then pick up the child’s and walked away without another word.
Batman activated his comms quietly. “Red Robin.”
“I’m already moving,” came the reply. “I’ve got eyes on them. I’ll make sure they get home safely.”
Batman watched until the pair disappeared around the corner, then held his gaze there a moment longer, listening for anything out of place.
Only then did he turn back to the civilian.
Up close, the man was… big. Taller than Batman. Broad-shouldered. Built like someone who should have been intimidating—but wasn’t. His clothes hung loose on him, as though he’d chosen them specifically to make himself look smaller.
Batman’s gaze swept over him automatically. No visible injuries. No shaking hands. Breathing steadily.
“Are you hurt?” Batman asked.
The man startled, clearly not expecting to be addressed directly. “N-no. I—I don’t think so.”
Batman studied him for a moment longer.
“That was unsafe,” he said, voice low, controlled. Not accusatory. “You weren’t prepared. You aren’t trained for situations like that.”
The man’s shoulders dipped further, posture turning apologetic.
“I understand wanting to help,” Batman continued. “But stepping into an armed confrontation without a plan puts you—and everyone else—at risk. You can’t rely on goodwill when weapons are involved.”
He paused, then added more quietly, “You did the right thing trying to protect them. You just shouldn’t do it that way.”
The man nodded quickly. “Y-yes. I—I understand.”
Batman held his gaze for a second longer than necessary.
Blue eyes. Clear. Open. Almost painfully earnest. There was something undeniably gentle about him—like a golden retriever that had wandered into traffic out of concern for someone else.
“Do you need me to walk you home?”
The man looked genuinely shocked. “Oh—uh—no! No, that’s not necessary. I—I live pretty close. I’ll be fine.”
Batman suspected that was a lie. But he let it go.
He nodded once. Then fired his grapnel and vanished into the night.
Minutes later, he regrouped with Robin, already shifting focus back to the night’s work.
They staked out one of the many warehouse belonging to the Mutant Gang quietly—tracking movement, logging faces, noting deliveries. Batman slipped inside unseen, neutralizing two guards silently, planting surveillance bugs and scanned serval documents.
Weapons. Cash. Standard operations.
Yet something felt off.
Before he could pinpoint it, Red Robin’s voice cut in. “Batman—need backup. Two-Face. Mall. Hostages. Two casualties confirmed.”
Batman didn’t hesitate.
“On our way.”
Clark POV — Aftermath
Clark stood where he was long after everyone else had gone.
His heart was still pounding, but not with fear—with surprise and realization.
Batman didn’t yell at me.
He’d expected it. The anger. The reprimand. Maybe worse. That what always happened, Batman didn’t like help or others stepping into his territory.
Instead, Batman had been… careful. Gentle, even.
Because he thinks I’m just a civilian.
The thought hit him all at once.
Batman didn’t see Superman standing there. He saw Clark Kent—untrained, unarmored, trying his best not to let someone get hurt.
And he’d respected that.
Clark smiled at that. Today is just full of surprise it seems and maybe… maybe this won’t be so hard.
Batman had told Superman to stay out of Gotham.
But he hadn’t said anything about Clark Kent.
As Clark walked to a near by store, the city humming softly around him, he found himself still smiling—small and thoughtful.
For the first time since arriving, he felt something like excitement.
“Maybe Gotham has more to offer than I thought”