Chapter Text
The office was alive with the faint hum of keyboards clicking and voices murmuring over phones.
Clark Kent sat at his desk, glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he stared at the blinking cursor on his screen. Around him, the bustling chaos of the Daily Planet's newsroom carried on, but Clark had managed to zone it all out.
He was too busy pouring his thoughts into his latest piece—a scathing critique of Gotham’s elusive billionaire, Bruce Wayne.
“…yet another gala, yet another night where Bruce Wayne hides behind the veneer of wealth and philanthropy,” he muttered under his breath as he typed.
His fingers moved decisively, every keystroke driven by a quiet frustration that had been building for years.
Clark leaned back in his chair for a moment, rereading the opening paragraph. It wasn’t just the lack of visible effort from Bruce Wayne that irritated him—it was the pattern.
The man was a ghost.
He was always in the background, sipping champagne in dark corners at high-profile events, smiling that practiced, hollow smile for the cameras. But did he ever truly engage with the issues Gotham faced? Did he know what it was like to step out of his pristine skyscraper and walk through the alleys of his own city, the ones drowning in crime and despair? Clark doubted it.
He glanced over at the framed photo on his desk: a shot of his parents, Jonathan and Martha Kent, standing in front of the farmhouse in Smallville. They’d raised him to believe in hard work, humility, and showing up for people.
Bruce Wayne’s entire existence seemed to mock those values. A billionaire born into unimaginable privilege, skating by on inherited wealth and an untouchable reputation. Clark couldn’t understand how someone with so much could do so little—or at least, appear to.
- Clark, - Lois’s voice cut through his thoughts, sharp and teasing as ever. She leaned against the edge of his desk, holding a cup of coffee. - You look like you’re plotting a takedown. Should I be worried?
He smirked faintly, shaking his head. - Just... putting some thoughts together.
- About? - She leaned over, trying to sneak a glance at his screen. - ‘The Myth of the Billionaire Savior’? Oh boy, this is going to ruffle some feathers.
- Good, - Clark said simply, pushing his glasses up. - Someone needs to say it. Gotham’s a mess, Lois. People like Bruce Wayne have the resources to make real change, but all they do is throw money at galas and pose for photo ops. It’s performative at best.
Lois raised an eyebrow, sipping her coffee. - I’m guessing you’ve met him before?
- A few times, - Clark admitted, his tone betraying the faintest edge of disdain. - He’s… aloof. Stuck up, even. He never really engages with anyone. Always behind shadows, letting everyone else do the talking. It’s like he’s allergic to accountability.
- Maybe he’s just shy, - Lois offered with a half-smile, though her tone suggested she wasn’t entirely serious. - Or maybe he’s hiding something.
Clark shrugged.
- Whatever the reason, it doesn’t change the facts. Gotham’s falling apart, and he’s in a position to help. But he’d rather sit in his tower and play the enigma.
- Well, - Lois said, setting her cup down on his desk, - you’re definitely not pulling any punches. But you better be ready for the fallout. Guys like Bruce Wayne? They don’t like being called out.
- Let him be mad, - Clark said firmly, his fingers hovering over the keyboard again. - Maybe it’ll get him to actually do something.
Lois laughed softly, shaking her head. - You’ve got guts, Smallville. I’ll give you that.
With a parting smile, she moved on to her own desk, leaving Clark to his thoughts. He stared at the screen again, the words he’d written standing starkly against the white background. His criticism was sharp, but he meant every word. He hit “Save” and leaned back, rubbing his temples.
This article was going to make waves—but for Clark, it wasn’t about stirring controversy. It was about holding people accountable, even if those people were untouchable billionaires.
As the day stretched on, Clark found himself rechecking his article over and over, tweaking phrases and sharpening arguments. Each edit felt like another layer of armor against the inevitable backlash. He knew Lois was right—this wasn’t going to go unnoticed, not by Bruce Wayne or by the world that seemed content to treat him like a god among men.
At some point, Jimmy Olsen swung by, the camera slung over his shoulder. - Hey, CK, you’ve been glued to that chair all day. Big story?
Clark gave a noncommittal hum, his eyes still scanning the screen. - Something like that.
- Well, whatever it is, you’ve got that intense look again. The ‘I’m about to change the world’ one, - Jimmy teased.
Clark chuckled softly, shaking his head. - Just trying to tell the truth, Jimmy.
- Truth, huh? Hope Gotham’s ready for it, - Jimmy said, slapping Clark on the back before wandering off.
Clark sighed, glancing at the clock.
It was nearing six, and the newsroom was beginning to thin out as reporters packed up for the evening. But Clark couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet. His mind kept circling back to Bruce Wayne—that unreadable expression, those carefully curated appearances. He’d always seemed untouchable, invincible.
Yet, the more Clark thought about it, the more he wondered if that was the problem. What did someone like Bruce Wayne really know about vulnerability? About failure? About fighting tooth and nail just to survive?
The sound of his phone buzzing broke his thoughts. He glanced at the screen: Perry White.
- Kent, - Perry barked the moment Clark answered. - Tell me you’ve got that piece ready. Deadline’s in an hour, and I’m not holding the presses for you.
- It’s ready, - Clark assured him, even though his cursor still hovered over the ‘Submit’ button. - Just giving it one last read.
- Good. And Kent? - Perry’s voice softened, just slightly. - Don’t hold back. This paper’s built on gutsy reporting. If you’ve got something to say, say it.
Clark nodded, even though Perry couldn’t see it. - I will.
As the call ended, Clark took a deep breath, his eyes scanning the article one final time.
It was bold. Blunt.
Maybe even a little harsh. But it was honest. And if there was one thing Clark Kent believed in, it was the power of the truth.
With a decisive click, he submitted the article. The screen refreshed, and the headline stared back at him: “The Myth of the Billionaire Savior.”
For a moment, Clark felt a flicker of doubt. But it was quickly replaced by resolve. No matter what happened next, he’d done what he set out to do.
What he didn’t expect was how quickly the ripples of his words would reach Gotham—and Bruce Wayne himself.
The morning sunlight filtered weakly through the towering windows of Wayne Manor, casting long streaks of pale gold across the mahogany floors.
Bruce Wayne stirred in his massive bed, his body aching in ways he had grown reluctantly accustomed to. The dull throb in his ribs, the sharp sting in his shoulder—all souvenirs from another night prowling Gotham’s streets as the Batman.
He groaned softly, sitting up and swinging his legs over the edge of the bed.
The events of the previous night replayed in his mind—a frantic chase through the Narrows, a bruising fight with a gang of armed robbers. It was worth it, though.
He’d stopped them.
For one more night, he’d kept Gotham’s chaos at bay.
The moment of quiet reflection was shattered by the low hum of voices coming from downstairs.
Reporters.
The sound carried through the manor like an unwelcome echo, a reminder that his double life didn’t just come with physical tolls but public ones as well.
- Master Bruce, - came Alfred’s familiar voice, muffled through the thick oak door before it opened with a quiet creak. The ever-dutiful butler entered, his expression calm but his hands full—a tray with coffee and painkillers balanced expertly in one hand, a tablet in the other.
- You’ve caused quite a stir this morning, - Alfred announced, setting the tray on the bedside table. - The press is practically circling the manor like vultures. And before you ask, no, it’s not about last night. Well, not directly.
Bruce rubbed his temples, a headache building alongside the soreness in his muscles. - What is it this time?
Alfred handed him the tablet. - I’ll let you read it for yourself. Though I’ll warn you, it’s not exactly glowing praise.
Bruce squinted at the screen, the headline glaring back at him: “The Myth of the Billionaire Savior” by Clark Kent. His eyes scanned the opening lines, and his jaw tightened. The piece was scathing, tearing apart his public persona as Bruce Wayne, questioning his commitment to Gotham and calling his philanthropy superficial.
- Clark Kent, - Bruce murmured, his voice low and edged with irritation. He recognized the name, of course.
A reporter from Metropolis, one who had a reputation for being uncompromising in his pursuit of the truth. Bruce had seen him in passing at a few events, though they had never exchanged more than a nod. He’d always thought of Kent as... harmless. Idealistic, perhaps to a fault, but not someone who would go out of his way to make enemies.
And yet, here was this article, dragging his name through the mud.
The sound of the television in the corner of the room caught his attention. Alfred had turned it on—a morning news program was discussing the article in detail. Footage of Bruce at a recent gala played on the screen, intercut with talking heads debating whether the criticism was fair.
- It’s not just the press outside, - Alfred said, pouring a cup of coffee and handing it to Bruce. - Your phone has been ringing nonstop. The board, donors, even Lucius called. It seems Mr. Kent’s words have struck a nerve.
Bruce set the tablet down, taking a long sip of the coffee. The bitterness matched his mood. - And you haven’t told them to stop calling because...?
Alfred gave a faint smile. - I thought you might want to address it personally. Or perhaps pay a visit to the man responsible.
Bruce’s lips pressed into a thin line.
A visit.
The thought crossed his mind, unbidden. Confronting Clark Kent wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities, but the frustration bubbling inside him made it tempting. Who was Kent to judge him? To sit in his ivory tower in Metropolis and write hit pieces without understanding the reality of Gotham? Of what Bruce did every night to keep the city from tearing itself apart?
He stood, ignoring the protest of his sore muscles. - I’ll deal with it, - he said simply, his voice cold and measured.
- Of course you will, - Alfred replied, moving to tidy the room with his usual efficiency. - Though if I may, Master Bruce, it might do you well to consider why the article bothers you so much. Is it because it’s untrue? Or because, on some level, it isn’t?”
Bruce shot him a sharp look, but Alfred remained unfazed.
The butler’s words lingered as Bruce dressed, pulling on a random shirt and sweatpants. The soreness in his body was a reminder of the work he did, the sacrifices he made. But the article—Clark Kent’s pointed words—they lingered too. They burrowed under his skin in a way few things did.
By the time Bruce made his way to the study, the reporters outside had grown louder, their voices a faint but persistent hum beyond the windows. He stood by the window, looking out at the sprawling estate, the city beyond it.
Clark Kent.
He didn’t know the man well, but he knew enough. Enough to want answers. Enough to want… a conversation.
The hum of the reporters was broken by a sharp knock on the study door. Alfred entered, a phone in his hand. - Lucius again. Shall I let him through this time, or inform him you’re otherwise occupied?”
Bruce waved a dismissive hand. - Handle it, Alfred. Just keep the press out of here. I have enough noise in my head as it is.
Outside, the voices grew more persistent. Helicopters circled the manor, the hum of their engines blending with the distant shouts of journalists. The television continued playing in the corner, a fresh panel of experts now dissecting Kent’s motivations for the article.
- Clark Kent claims to hold the moral high ground, - one commentator said, adjusting his glasses. - But is this really about Gotham’s welfare? Or is it about making a name for himself?”
Bruce’s jaw clenched.
He turned the volume down but couldn’t bring himself to turn it off completely. The irritation wasn’t just at Kent or the media—it was the kernel of doubt the article had planted. He had done good for Gotham, hadn’t he? The billions funneled into charities, infrastructure, education... It all made a difference.
But the shadows of Gotham’s underbelly always loomed larger. Was it enough?
- Alfred, - Bruce called suddenly, his voice firm. - Prepare the jet. I’m going to Metropolis.
Alfred’s response came from down the hall, calm and efficient as ever. - Very good, sir. Shall I inform Mr. Kent of your impending visit?
Bruce’s lips curled into the faintest smirk, though it didn’t reach his eyes. - No. Let’s not give him the chance to prepare.
Moments later, as Bruce sat in the car on his way to the airstrip, he opened his phone and scrolled through the article again. Each word felt like a barb, expertly placed.
- Clark Kent, - he murmured under his breath. A man who hid behind idealism, yet somehow managed to see through the carefully constructed façade of Bruce Wayne.
He wasn’t sure whether to be angry or impressed.
The car sped toward the jet, the horizon of Gotham fading behind him. Ahead, Metropolis loomed—not just a city but the place where answers waited, along with a certain reporter who had managed to shake Bruce Wayne in ways few ever had.
The flight to Metropolis was quiet, save for the faint hum of the engines. Bruce leaned back in his seat, his eyes fixed on the skyline of the city as it came into view. Metropolis was nothing like Gotham. Its buildings gleamed in the sunlight, a testament to its reputation as the City of Tomorrow.
Where Gotham’s shadows hid its scars, Metropolis wore its optimism proudly, almost brazenly.
Yet even in the brightness, there was something unnerving about the city. Bruce had never felt entirely comfortable here. It wasn’t just the stark contrast to Gotham’s grimness—it was the sense of scrutiny, as if the city itself demanded accountability. And now, thanks to Clark Kent, that scrutiny had found its way to him.
As the jet landed, Bruce’s phone buzzed with a message from Alfred: Reporters have dispersed for now. Will keep monitoring the situation. He exhaled slowly, stepping off the jet and into the waiting car. Ready to whisk him into the heart of Metropolis—not to the Daily Planet, but to a luxury hotel Alfred had wisely arranged for him.
The city’s skyline gleamed against the dusk, a mix of steel and light, and Bruce felt the weariness of the day catching up with him.
- The Ritz-Carlton Metropolis, - the driver announced as the car pulled to a stop. - Mr. Pennyworth said you might prefer to rest before attending to your business.
Bruce nodded curtly, stepping out and into the grand lobby of the hotel.
It was the kind of place Bruce Wayne supposed to belong—the kind of place that made people forget about Gotham’s shadows. Alfred had made the right call.
He needed to approach Kent with a clear head, and after a night of rest, he would be ready.
As he settled into the suite, Bruce stood by the window, staring out at the city below. The article had stirred something in him—frustration, yes, but also a curiosity he couldn’t quite shake. Clark Kent wasn’t the first person to criticize him, but he might be the first to do it with such precision, such unflinching honesty.
Tomorrow, he will see the man behind the words.
But for tonight, Bruce allowed himself a moment to breathe, to gather his thoughts, and to prepare for what was to come.