Hadrian Peverell woke up with the sort of groan that suggested he'd been punched in the soul, run over by a fleet of Hogwarts Expresses, and then forced to binge-watch every single Fast & Furious movie—with commentary.
His brain felt like it had been used as a dueling ground between Gandalf and Doctor Strange. Memories—some his, some less so—were being downloaded into his skull like someone had hit CTRL+A on a stranger's entire life and pressed paste.
"Merlin's flaming knickers," Hadrian muttered, dragging a hand down his face. "Why does my brain feel like it just swallowed the entire Marvel Cinematic Universe, Gossip Girl, and the entire Wall Street Journal archive in one gulp?"
Across the aisle, James Peverell was blinking rapidly, looking like a man caught between memories of champagne-fueled sword duels and a very unfortunate poker game involving a monkey and a prince from Monaco.
"Did I… did I actually write a bestselling political thriller and get into a public brawl with Elon Musk?" James asked, voice hoarse with the unmistakable weight of too much inherited cool. He was the type of man who could wear a velvet suit on a Tuesday and make it look like Wednesday was just jealous.
"Yes," Lily Peverell answered, not even glancing up from the sleek tablet she was already scanning. Her red hair was perfect. Her tone, however, had enough chill to flash-freeze a volcano. "Also, your interview with Oprah trended for three weeks. Something about your tragic youth in the Scottish highlands."
"I was born in Wiltshire."
Lily arched one brow, looking every bit the graceful predator portrayed by someone like Bryce Dallas Howard with a side of MI6. "Not anymore."
Sirius Blackwood stirred beside them like a jungle cat waking from a long nap and deeply regretting his life choices. He tugged off his silk sleep mask—emblazoned with DO NOT DISTURB UNLESS THE SHIP IS SINKING—and scowled.
"Why the hell do I know how to pilot a helicopter, seduce a Swiss banker, and bake a soufflé that got five stars from Gordon Ramsay?"
"Congratulations," Hadrian said dryly. "You're now a Swiss Army Knife in human form."
"Also," James added, "I'm fairly certain you own a bar in Zurich called The Velvet Fang."
Sirius frowned. "Oh yeah. That place has great mojitos."
The overhead speaker crackled to life. The pilot spoke in the smooth tones of someone who definitely had a side hustle narrating nature documentaries.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we'll be landing shortly at Metropolis International. Please fasten your seatbelts, and ensure that all magical artifacts, snarky familiars, and cursed swords are properly stowed in the overhead compartment. Thank you for flying Peverell Air."
A beat of silence.
Sirius buckled in. "Even the pilot's funnier than me. We're doomed."
Lily, already strapped in and lipstick applied with the deadly precision of an assassin, spoke without looking up. "We're in Metropolis for the P&B Holdings expansion. First stop: The Daily Planet. Then Gotham for the Gazette."
"Right, our media empire," James said, flashing a grin that could sell secrets and cologne. "Nothing says 'power couple' like owning half the truth."
"And the other half," Lily added, "we print when it's convenient."
Hadrian rubbed his temple. "So let me get this straight—I'm richer than Tony Stark, I have the public image of a royal philanthropist with trust issues, and we now own two of the biggest newspapers in the U.S."
"And possibly a vineyard in Italy," James added helpfully.
"Excellent. All the ingredients for a heroic breakdown or a villain origin story."
It was then that Dobson stepped forward, looking every bit the personification of disapproval in a three-piece suit. He wore white gloves, a pocket watch, and the kind of expression that suggested he'd seen Hadrian naked as a baby and was still mentally judging him for it.
"Sir," Dobson said with his usual mix of long-suffering patience and devastating dryness, "I suggest you check the file by your side. It contains your itinerary for the day. As well as a hand-scribbled note you left yourself reminding you not to duel any billionaires before lunch."
"Sound advice," James murmured.
Hadrian accepted the manila folder, flipping it open. His eyes scanned the page.
"9:00 AM – Touchdown in Metropolis. 10:30 – Meet with Perry White about the Daily Planet's editorial direction. Noon – Lunch with Lois Lane and Clark Kent. 3:00 PM – Company jet to Gotham for a Gazette tour. 7:00 PM – Wayne Foundation Gala. Notes: formalwear mandatory. No capes. No fireworks. Hostile takeovers allowed only if they're hilarious."
He looked up. "We're scheduled tighter than Hermione's revision planner."
"I demand waffles," Sirius said, now actively trying to manifest breakfast by glaring at the seat tray.
James rolled his eyes. "Pick one of our restaurants and threaten the chef with Yelp. You know the drill."
"Already done," Dobson replied crisply. "Brunch has been reserved at Lucienne's. Rooftop terrace. Organic. Magical. And—tragically—overpriced."
"Dobson, you're a miracle wrapped in judgment."
"I am an elf, sir. Miracles are overtime."
Outside the window, the skyline of Metropolis shimmered in the morning light—towering glass spires, skybridges, and at the heart of it all, the iconic Daily Planet globe gleaming like it belonged in a superhero's résumé.
Sirius leaned back, stretching like a smug panther. "Welcome to America, boys and girl. Home of the brave. And more caped weirdos than a Hogwarts costume party."
Hadrian smirked. "Let's go shake things up. Just remember—no setting anything on fire before brunch."
—
As the plane landed...
The Peverell family's private jet didn't so much land as descend from the heavens like a smug, billionaire thunder god. The sunlight bounced off its polished obsidian exterior like it was allergic to dullness, and as it taxied to a halt on the private Metropolis airstrip, the air shimmered around it like it was too cool to even touch the ground.
The hatch hissed open with a dramatic sigh, stairs unfolding like the red carpet at a royal coronation — if that carpet was lined with titanium and a subtle whiff of billionaire-grade cologne.
Hadrian Peverell was the first to step out.
He didn't walk down the stairs. No, Eidolon made an entrance. His sunglasses slid onto his face with magical timing — possibly literally — and his long black coat caught the wind in that just-barely-billowing way that made it seem like he had a wind machine following him around for effect. Which, to be fair, he probably did.
Behind him came James Peverell — British aristocrat, business mogul, and the kind of man who could charm the socks off you while robbing your offshore account blind. His navy suit looked like it had been made in a Savile Row thunderstorm and ironed by angels. His tie was already loosened, his curls artfully tousled in a way that made you wonder if he had a team of stylists hiding behind the jet.
"Bloody American sun," James muttered with a squint. "So vulgar. It's trying far too hard to impress."
"Funny, that's exactly what Wall Street said about you," Hadrian replied without looking back.
James snorted. "And yet they still invited me to keynote."
Lily Peverell followed her husband with the effortless grace of a queen who could conquer a nation with a smile and a spreadsheet. She wore a white designer pantsuit and red stilettos like she was on her way to seduce the Senate. Her hair — thick, copper, glossy, and utterly defying gravity — didn't move an inch in the breeze. Metropolis air, upon sensing Lily freaking Peverell, seemed to politely step aside.
She paused at the top of the stairs, took one look at the waiting convoy of SUVs and limousine below, and sighed.
"I told them I wanted something low-profile," she muttered.
"Yes, darling," James said, linking arms with her. "And they interpreted that as 'bulletproof, presidential, and could drive through a war zone in heels.'"
Sirius Black emerged next, yawning wide enough to scare small birds. He was six-foot-five of muscle, tattoos, roguish stubble, and I-don't-play-by-the-rules energy. His black blazer was open over a deep maroon shirt, and his grin hit somewhere between 'rock star' and 'escapee from a charm school for bad decisions.'
"Do I get to punch anyone today?" Sirius asked, cracking his knuckles. "Or are we playing nice?"
"Nice," Lily said sweetly. "Until they try to flirt with me. Then you may unleash hell."
"I live to serve," Sirius said with a mock bow.
And then there was Dobson.
Human butler, former house-elf, current miracle. He descended the stairs silently, pale, crisp, and perfectly pressed in a charcoal suit that made him look like the world's deadliest maître d'. His presence was so subtle he didn't so much walk as haunt the air tastefully.
"Master Hadrian, I have your itinerary," Dobson said in his soft, deliberate voice. "The brunch has been rescheduled to 10:45 to avoid the protestors outside the Daily Planet."
"Which protestors?" Hadrian asked, taking the leather folio without looking.
"The ones protesting wealth inequality," Dobson replied calmly. "Though I suspect they may be more inclined to ask for autographs after seeing your entrance."
"Well," Hadrian said, sliding into a smirk, "I do strive to be inspiring."
They reached the bottom of the stairs — where the limo awaited, sleek and obsidian like the jet's better-dressed twin. The P&B Holdings logo glinted faintly on its door, flanked by three matte-black SUVs with security so serious they probably had six-packs on their eyelids.
And in front of it all, she stood.
Miranda Cain.
Early thirties. All angles and elegance, like a panther in a power suit. Her blonde hair was twisted into a tight bun that looked sharp enough to file paperwork on. Her black heels didn't sink into the tarmac — gravity didn't dare. A tailored blazer hugged her frame like it had signed an NDA, and in her hands, she held a tablet with the kind of grim efficiency that suggested she had already analyzed your weaknesses and scheduled their public exposure.
"Gentlemen. Ma'am," she said, not smiling. She didn't need to. Her voice had the cadence of someone who had once negotiated a merger during a hostage situation. "Welcome to Metropolis."
Hadrian met her eyes behind her mirrored aviators, and extended a hand.
"Miranda Cain," he said with a half-smile, "Looking like the badass executive who canceled God's apocalypse because it conflicted with a board meeting."
She took his hand, shook it once, and replied, "He was late. I hate that."
James chuckled. "I like her."
Lily tilted her head. "She's terrifying. I like her more."
"Should I be worried she'll replace me?" Sirius asked Dobson.
"Oh, quite," Dobson said seriously.
"If you'll enter the vehicle," Miranda said, already turning toward the limo, "we're proceeding directly to the Daily Planet. Your brunch has been pushed ahead fifteen minutes to accommodate an increase in press activity."
"Press interest?" Sirius raised an eyebrow.
She tapped her tablet. Instantly, a headline popped up on every screen Dobson had just handed them:
'Peverell Dynasty Lands in Metropolis – Billionaire Family Takes U.S. by Storm'
Beneath it, a photo of their jet, their descent, and Hadrian standing with all the menace of a couture supervillain at a GQ shoot.
Hadrian blinked. "That photo was taken thirty seconds ago."
"Metropolis," Miranda said, smirking slightly. "Try to keep up."
They slid into the limousine like it was choreographed. Dobson handed out sparkling water and tablets. Lily crossed her legs and opened a file with the grace of someone about to destroy someone's quarterly earnings. James was already live-editing a press statement. Sirius rolled down the privacy divider and saluted the lead SUV.
Miranda tapped her earpiece. "Protocol White Lotus is active. VIPs secure. En route to The Daily Planet."
The convoy peeled out, black SUVs flanking them like they were moving through hostile territory. The skyline of Metropolis stretched out ahead, tall, proud, and utterly unaware of what was coming.
James scrolled through his inbox and sighed. "Ten galleons says Lois Lane tries to psychoanalyze us by the second question."
"Ten more says she accuses Hadrian of being a secret alien," Sirius added.
"Joke's on her," Hadrian said, settling into his seat, "I'm British. That's already suspicious."
Miranda, without looking up from her tablet, smirked again. "Oh, I am going to enjoy working with you."
Hadrian leaned back, gaze on the skyline. "Let's go give the Planet a story that'll melt their servers."
—
The limousine cruising through Metropolis looked less like a car and more like a Bond villain's weekend toy. Soft leather seats, climate control that felt like being hugged by a cloud, and enough tech onboard to make a Stark Industries intern weep with envy. Dobson, the ever-dignified butler, poured sparkling water into crystal glasses like he was auditioning for a BBC period drama.
Across from Hadrian Peverell sat Miranda Cain, the family's executive bulldozer and PR goddess. If intimidation wore lipstick and heels, it'd sue her for copyright infringement. She was currently tapping away at a sleek tablet, her mirrored aviators still on despite the limo's tinted windows. Because Miranda Cain didn't remove her shades—she made the sun adjust its brightness.
"We may need to recalibrate our approach at the Daily Planet," she said in that signature silk-over-steel voice. It was the kind of tone that made interns reconsider their career choices.
Hadrian arched an eyebrow. He looked like someone had photoshopped a GQ cover onto a Greek statue. "Did Clark Kent misplace his glasses and publish another expose on the dangers of gluten?"
James Peverell, Hadrian's father and the current reigning champion of sarcastic British charm, leaned forward. With his perfectly styled hair and that mischievous glint in his green eyes, he looked like someone who'd read The Art of War and thought it was a rom-com. "Please tell me Lex Luthor wasn't caught hosting a poker night with radioactive meteorites again."
Lily Peverell—red-haired, green-eyed, and elegant enough to make a swan feel insecure—sighed and smoothed a non-existent wrinkle from her emerald blouse. "If it's another scandal, we can spin. If it's a catastrophe, we'll need to get the cappuccino machine working again."
Sirius Blackwood, godfather extraordinaire and professional chaos enthusiast, kicked his boots up onto the opposite seat. "If it's a literal alien invasion, I'm demanding hazard pay. And cookies."
Dobson cleared his throat with the politeness of someone who could assassinate you with a napkin. "Mister Blackwood, the upholstery—"
"Is fine," Sirius said, grinning. "Leather's tougher than it looks. Like me."
Miranda, not bothering to hide her eye-roll behind those shades, continued. "There was an alien invasion in Gotham. Last night."
The limo went silent. Even the engine seemed to go, Wait, what?
Hadrian blinked. "...I'm sorry, did you say Gotham?"
James set his holopad down like it had just told him it didn't believe in tea. "The city finally did it. Gotham finally one-upped itself."
"Aliens?" Lily echoed, her voice calm but sharp enough to cut glass. "Are we talking area fifty-what-now aliens, or like…space sorcerers with a vengeance kink?"
Miranda tapped her tablet. "No details on the portal tech, but the leader called himself 'Darkseid.' Spelled D-A-R-K-S-E-I-D, because apparently spelling is for peasants."
"Darkseid," Sirius repeated, like he was tasting the word and not liking the flavor. "That sounds like someone who listens to death metal ironically and thinks black capes are a personality."
Hadrian—who, by the way, knew exactly what happened in Gotham because he was there in full Eidolon gear throwing alien Parademons around like LEGO bricks—managed an Oscar-worthy look of innocent curiosity. "Was anyone hurt?"
Miranda shook her head. "Surprisingly minimal casualties. The invading army was... taken care of. Swiftly. Publicly."
She turned her screen toward them. The headline read: JUSTICE LEAGUE? NEW HEROES DEFEND EARTH FROM INVASION. Below it, a cinematic shot of Gotham's skyline crumbled like stale biscuits. In the foreground? A lineup of the most photogenic saviors this side of a comic book.
Superman hovered like he'd just won a game of 'Who Can Be the Most Iconic.' Batman glared at the camera like it owed him money. Wonder Woman looked ready to rewrite mythology with a single eyebrow raise. Green Lantern, Shazam, Cyborg—and then there was him.
A cloaked figure in pitch-black armor with crimson lines pulsing like angry veins. Hooded, masked, his eyes glowed red like a really pissed-off toaster. In the center of his chest, a crimson sigil burned with raw power.
Eidolon.
"Who's the spooky guy in the goth cosplay?" Sirius asked, squinting.
Miranda zoomed in. "They're calling him Eidolon. No background, no intel. Just appeared mid-invasion, punched Darkseid during a villain monologue, blew up the alien mothership, and—get this—restored half of Gotham by waving his hand."
James blinked. "He fixed Gotham?"
"Yes."
"The same Gotham that smells like bad decisions and unpaid parking tickets?"
"Yes."
Lily narrowed her eyes. "That's going to confuse the zoning department."
Dobson, who had been polishing a silver pen like it was a prized wand, cleared his throat again. "I believe Master Hadrian once outlined a similar restoration model during a breakfast meeting. With raspberry jam on his chin."
"Raspberry," Hadrian said solemnly. "The most misunderstood fruit of revolution."
Miranda looked like she might actually smile. "Insurance companies are in chaos. Urban planners are on strike. The Mayor of Gotham is currently curled up under a desk with a bottle of bourbon and a stress duck."
"So," James said, flashing that patented smirk. "We're walking into the Daily Planet first?"
"They're foaming at the mouth," Miranda confirmed. "You're Peverells. You breathe near an IPO and the market listens. But they will ask about this. So will the Gotham Gazette later today. People are scared. Rumors are everywhere. And no one knows who Eidolon is."
Hadrian steepled his fingers and gave the world's most legally distinct smirk. "Then let's give them something better than rumors."
"A distraction?" James asked, like he already had three headlines in mind.
"Or a show," Sirius added, cracking his knuckles.
"We've handled worse," Lily said, sipping her water like a queen plotting her next conquest.
Miranda studied the four of them behind those aviators. "Just remember—we're not here to be the story."
Hadrian leaned back, smile razor-sharp. "Miranda, darling… we are the story."
Dobson nodded sagely. "And possibly a trilogy, sir. With a Broadway adaptation."
The limousine glided toward the Daily Planet, the building's massive spinning globe catching the sunlight like it knew it was about to be upstaged.
Hadrian Peverell smiled to himself.
Let the world wonder who Eidolon was.
For now, he was just the suspiciously well-dressed, inconveniently photogenic heir to a multibillion-dollar legacy.
And definitely not the guy who'd turned a planet-crushing mothership into Fourth of July fireworks.
Probably.
—
The revolving doors of the Daily Planet spun like they were trying out for the Olympic gymnastics team. Inside, the place was chaos incarnate. Think newsroom meets apocalypse meets a Black Friday sale at a wand shop. Phones rang like overcaffeinated banshees, reporters ran in all directions, and one poor intern had definitely spilled a latte into a very expensive-looking server rack.
In the eye of the storm stood Perry White, Editor-in-Chief, sleeves rolled up, voice booming like someone had shoved a megaphone into a thundercloud.
"Unless your great-grandma was abducted by a glow-in-the-dark octopus from Jupiter, I don't want to hear excuses!" he barked. "Give me eyewitness accounts, give me clear photos, and somebody find me that Eidolon guy before I retire and start a yoga retreat!"
Jimmy Olsen, camera slung around his neck and the world's worst timing stitched into his DNA, piped up from behind a desk.
"Sir, are we sure Eidolon's even real? Could be a hoax—like Bigfoot with better lighting."
Perry wheeled on him. "Bigfoot doesn't disintegrate alien death-beetles over Metropolis and rebuild half of Gotham with hand gestures, Olsen! Get moving!"
Ding.
The elevator doors parted.
And the world paused.
Phones stopped ringing. Coffee cups froze in mid-air. One reporter actually dropped her pen like it had betrayed her.
Because they arrived.
The Peverells.
Hadrian Peverell, 24, descended from the elevator like someone had hit the slow-mo button on a movie trailer. His suit was obsidian-black and probably illegal in seventeen dimensions for how well it fit. Crimson tie. Confident smirk. Hair that could make shampoo commercials cry. He looked like the kind of man who owned not just the building, but a small country with its own designer flag.
Next came Lily Peverell, in emerald green and heels so sharp they could qualify as restricted weapons. She moved with the calm precision of a queen, the kind of woman who made CEOs feel like naughty schoolboys with overdue homework.
Then James Peverell strolled out, all casual swagger and mischievous charm. If sin had a smile, it would look like his. He tossed a wink at a redheaded reporter who immediately tripped over her own rolling chair.
Sirius Blackwood followed like a stormcloud in tailored leather. His smile was wicked, his stubble perfectly roguish, and his gum chewing made it sound like even the air owed him money.
Dobson brought up the rear—immaculate, poised, and silently judging the very molecules of the Daily Planet. His tray of cucumber water didn't spill a drop, even as an intern nearly collapsed in awe.
Miranda Cain, sunglasses still on indoors (because why not?), moved like someone who made power deals before breakfast and assassinated reputations by brunch. The tablet in her hand was practically trembling with secrets.
Reception didn't stop them. It collapsed in submission.
The group swept into the bullpen like royalty touring their dominion. Perry White turned, jaw halfway to the floor.
James grinned. "Perry, darling. You look delightfully unhinged. Gotham again? Or has Olsen found a new way to implode?"
Perry blinked like his brain had just been hit with a memory charm. "James. Lily. Hadrian." His eyes landed on Sirius. "Blackwood. You were banned from the premises. Twice."
Sirius popped his gum. "And yet, here I am. Evolution."
"You can't just stroll in here during an alien invasion—"
"We can," Miranda cut in smoothly, already updating the building's security system from her tablet, "and we did. Also, we own the building."
Hadrian clapped Perry on the shoulder like they were old pals and not two men who'd once had a three-hour debate on journalistic ethics that ended with a table flip.
"Think of it as a spontaneous wellness check. For democracy."
Across the room, Lois Lane stared. Clark Kent adjusted his glasses like they were suddenly made of lead. Jimmy Olsen was halfway through snapping a photo before realizing his mouth was open.
Lois recovered first. "Mr. Peverell. What's the occasion? Alien invasion not thrilling enough from your penthouse?"
Hadrian's smile could've melted glaciers. "Miss Lane. A pleasure. I thought I'd drop by, maybe offer a few calm, reassuring soundbites. A cucumber water or two. Possibly adjust the global narrative. You know. A Tuesday."
Dobson silently appeared beside her. "Infused with intention and cucumber, Miss Lane."
"Thanks...?" Lois replied, staring at the glass like it might bite her.
Hadrian turned to the gathered reporters, voice rising just enough to command attention. "We understand there's fear. Confusion. Chaos. One or two intergalactic lawsuits pending. But Earth has always had one thing that sets it apart."
He paused.
"Hope."
Lily clapped softly, like he'd just delivered Hamlet in Italian. James made a gagging sound and whispered, "You dramatic sod," while Sirius muttered, "Ten galleons says he's rehearsed that line."
Hadrian turned toward Perry again. "We're not here to give an interview. Yet. We're here to listen. To observe. And, perhaps... gently massage the narrative."
Perry opened his mouth. Closed it. Then opened it again. "You're serious?"
"No, he is," Hadrian replied, jerking his thumb at Sirius. "I'm the one with better cheekbones."
And then—just because the universe clearly hadn't had enough fun—Hadrian turned toward Clark Kent. Locked eyes. Smiled.
"Nice to see you again, Big Blue," he said softly, voice pitched so low only Clark could hear it.
Clark blinked. "I'm sorry?"
Hadrian leaned in slightly, not breaking eye contact. "Oh, come now. The chin gave it away. Glasses? Really?"
Clark's breath caught for a moment, but his smile didn't falter. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Of course you don't," Hadrian replied, voice rich with mischief. "But for what it's worth—you did good last night."
He patted Clark's arm once, and turned away, already gesturing for Dobson to distribute water to the rest of the newsroom.
Above them, the globe of the Daily Planet spun slowly.
Somewhere in the city, alien debris still smoked.
But here, inside these walls, a new story was unfolding.
And Eidolon? He was no longer just a rumor.
He had a name. A face.
And a front-row seat to the show.
—
Got it! Here's a rewrite of your scene in Rick Riordan's style (third person POV), with Clark Kent (as Henry Cavill), Lois Lane (as Rachel Brosnahan), and Jimmy Olsen (as Dylan O'Brien). It's loaded with wit, banter, British-level savage burns from Hadrian, and the warm chaos of the Daily Planet. Buckle up:
Clark Kent had stared down angry gods, alien warlords, multiversal parasites, and—once—a sentient sun with abandonment issues. He'd been punched into the moon, vaporized into atoms (he got better), and once had to talk Batman out of committing tax fraud.
Point is, Clark Kent was used to weird.
But even he wasn't ready for the moment Hadrian Peverell—the billionaire, tech wunderkind, recently-crowned media mogul, and now Clark's very charming, very well-dressed boss—walked past him, clapped him on the shoulder like they were college roommates, and said:
"Morning, Big Blue."
Clark froze like someone had just whispered Martha in his ear.
Big Blue.
The nickname.
The exact same nickname that Eidolon—aka the terrifying crimson-eyed magic knight who fought like a vengeful myth and smelled like bonfires and peppermint—had called him last night after they turned a Darkseid clone into cosmic confetti and yeeted an entire Parademon army off the face of Earth.
That nickname wasn't public. Heck, it wasn't even friendly. It was… personal.
Only a handful of people knew it. And most of them either wore capes, carried shields, or had extremely complicated relationships with Gotham.
Clark turned his head, eyes narrowing behind his glasses.
Hadrian Peverell was already halfway across the bullpen, casually talking to Lois Lane like he hadn't just dropped a metaphysical hand grenade into Clark's soul.
"You're telling me," Lois was saying, "that your new app for the Planet is going to detect clickbait and shame the headline in public?"
Hadrian smirked, one brow arched. "Naturally. If people are going to write like they failed tenth grade English, they should at least be embarrassed about it."
Lois let out a laugh so real and so loud that Jimmy Olsen—camera in hand, sneakers untied, and about three seconds away from walking backwards into a filing cabinet—nearly dropped his lens.
"Did you just roast half of Twitter in one sentence?" she asked.
"I'd say a third," Hadrian replied. "But let's not be cruel to fractions."
Jimmy looked like he'd just found a unicorn. "Dude, can I quote that on Instagram?"
"Only if you spell all the words right," Hadrian said with a smirk that could've sunk the Titanic.
Clark's brain was still rebooting.
Hadrian Peverell was Eidolon.
Eidolon.
The man—was he even a man?—who had taken an Omega Beam to the chest and walked it off like it was heartburn. The one who, when surrounded by Parademons, had grinned, snapped his fingers, and teleported the entire army into their mothership—then blew the whole thing up with a spell Clark still couldn't pronounce.
And then reappeared, fully healed, to help clean up.
Clark had barely scratched the Darkseid clone. Eidolon had punched it into the stratosphere like he was hitting a baseball.
And now here he was. In a three-piece suit. Wearing expensive cologne. Discussing journalism ethics while sipping what was definitely not a Starbucks-brand coffee.
Hadrian turned slightly, and their eyes met. For a split second, the world shrank. No newsroom. No shouting Perry White. Just a billionaire magic knight giving Superman the same grin he'd given him after the fight.
"You held the line, Big Blue," he'd said last night, back when he wore black leather armor, a crimson-gleaming chest symbol, and a hooded cloak that made him look like a medieval warlock cosplaying as Darth Revan. "Proud of you."
And now?
Now, that same grin whispered, I see you. And I remember.
Clark blinked. He adjusted his glasses, because that's what he did when the world stopped making sense. Jimmy walked past him, holding up a camera.
"Hey CK, you okay? You look like someone just told you Batman has a TikTok."
Clark gave a smile that was definitely not hiding an existential crisis. "I'm good. Just… long night."
"Oh yeah," Jimmy said, completely missing the subtext. "Dude, did you see that footage from Gotham? Some new hero in black armor just decked a Darkseid-looking thing like he was punching a soda can. People are calling him 'Eidolon.' Kind of a spooky name, right? Like—'Hi, I'm here to fight crime and haunt your dreams.'"
Clark opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
Meanwhile, Lois turned back toward Clark, one brow arched like a heat-seeking missile.
"Hey Smallville," she said, "don't suppose you have any insights on our new boss?"
Clark hesitated. "He's… impressive."
Lois leaned closer. "That's the understatement of the century. The guy speaks twelve languages, rewrote our operating system over the weekend, and got Perry to use the words 'good idea' without a heart attack. I'm telling you—he's either a genius… or an alien."
Clark gave her a look.
Lois smirked. "Alright, maybe not alien. But definitely hiding something. You get that vibe too?"
Clark shrugged. "Maybe."
Hadrian glanced over his shoulder again. This time, his smile had a faint flicker of fire behind it—like he knew exactly what Clark was thinking.
And he did.
Because he was Eidolon.
The man who stood in fire and shadows. Who had saved a city with magic and fury. Who had looked a clone of one of the most dangerous beings in the universe straight in the eye and punched it off the planet.
Clark inhaled deeply, exhaled through his nose, and muttered under his breath, just loud enough for no one to hear:
"…Guess I know who's buying the drinks next meeting."
Because whatever Hadrian Peverell really was, one thing was for sure.
This League they were forming?
It just got a lot more interesting.
---
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