Clark did not sleep.

  He did that thing where his eyes closed, his body lay still, and the brain kept sprinting in circles like a dog trapped in a fenced yard. Every time he almost drifted, the comic’s cover flashed behind his eyelids—S-shield, cape, smiling certainty—and his stomach tightened all over again.

  By morning, he had achieved the kind of rest that could only be described as “technically not dead.”

  Mrs. Shibata greeted him in the kitchen with the exact expression of a woman who had raised someone stubborn for decades and recognized the signs. “You stayed up,” she said.

  Clark blinked. “I… thought,” he admitted.

  Mrs. Shibata set rice down in front of him like an offering to a god of poor decisions. “Thinking is fine,” she said. “Thinking until your face looks like a ghost is not fine.” She glanced at his shoulder wrap. “And you are not going out today.”

  Clark opened his mouth.

  Mrs. Shibata’s eyes narrowed.

  Clark closed his mouth.

  Koji arrived five minutes later, shoes wet from yesterday’s mud and attitude intact. He walked in like he owned the house, which he basically did at this point. He sniffed the air, spotted Clark’s exhausted face, and immediately went on the offensive. “You look terrible,” Koji announced.

  Clark gave him a tired, flat stare. “Good morning to you too,” Clark said.

  Koji leaned in, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t faint,” Koji said, suspicious. “So what happened? Did you read yourself into an existential crisis?”

  Clark froze.

  Koji’s eyes widened. “Oh,” Koji whispered, delighted. “You did.”

  Mrs. Shibata set down tea with a sharp clink. “Koji-san,” she said pleasantly, “if you make my son’s face worse, I will throw you into the canal.”

  Koji immediately straightened. “Understood,” Koji said. He turned back to Clark and lowered his voice. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on,” Koji whispered, “or do I have to guess? Because my guesses get dramatic.”

  Clark swallowed. “After,” he said quietly.

  Koji’s brows knitted. “After what?” Koji asked.

  Clark nodded toward the door. “After we do something useful,” Clark said. “I need to… verify something.”

  Koji stared at him for a long moment, then exhaled like he had just accepted a mission he didn’t understand. “Fine,” Koji muttered. “But if you’re verifying aliens, I’m quitting.”

  Clark didn’t answer. If Koji said the word “aliens” out loud while Mrs. Shibata was in earshot, Clark was going to have to fake a second head injury just to reset the conversation.

  ◆

  They went to town on foot.

  “Town” was generous—it was a slightly larger cluster of shops, a station, a few concrete buildings that looked like they were designed by someone who hated charm. The roads were still wet. The air smelled like damp leaves and cleanup. People moved with the subdued energy of post-storm recovery: sweeping water out of doorways, stacking broken branches, checking on neighbors.

  Koji walked beside Clark with hands in his pockets, scanning like a guard. “So what are we verifying?” Koji asked.

  Clark glanced at him. “Pop culture,” Clark said.

  Koji blinked. “Pop culture?” Koji repeated.

  Clark nodded. “I want to see how widespread it is,” Clark said. “If it’s normal. If it’s… recent.” Koji squinted at him. “You’re acting like a detective,” Koji said. Clark’s mouth twitched. “Habit,” Clark murmured.

  Koji’s eyes narrowed. “Takumi,” Koji said slowly, “you’ve never had detective habits.”

  Clark swallowed. “New habit,” Clark said.

  Koji stared at him, then shook his head like he couldn’t decide whether to be angry or impressed. “Fine,” Koji muttered. “Let’s go interrogate manga.”

  The first stop was a convenience store. Clark avoided the clerk’s gaze like he was doing something illegal. Koji, on the other hand, walked straight to the magazine rack with the confidence of a man who had no shame because shame was for people who weren’t Koji.

  Clark’s eyes scanned the rack. There were manga volumes, gossip magazines, crossword books, and a section of imported Western comics tucked low near the bottom, as if the store had decided they were less important than snacks and local celebrity scandals.

  And there it was again.

  Superman.

  Not just one. Several. Different covers. Different years. Different art styles.

  Clark’s stomach tightened.

  He picked one up slowly, as if the paper might burn him. He opened it, flipped to an inside page.

  Clark Kent. Lois. Metropolis.

  He closed it.

  Koji watched him, eyes sharp. “Okay,” Koji said quietly. “This isn’t just one random comic.”

  Clark nodded, swallowing hard. “No,” he said.

  Koji leaned in closer, voice lower. “Why do you look like you’re being haunted by your own face?” Koji whispered.

  Clark didn’t answer. He bought two issues anyway, hands steady through pure willpower. “Research,” he said to the clerk when the clerk gave him a curious look.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  The clerk nodded like he had heard stranger lies.

  Outside, Koji stared at the bag. “You’re buying them,” Koji said.

  Clark nodded. “Yes.”

  Koji frowned. “You hate spending money,” Koji said.

  Clark hesitated. He did. Takumi did. But this wasn’t about money. It was about… proof. Evidence. Reality confirming itself.

  Koji’s expression tightened. “Takumi,” Koji said carefully, “are you okay?”

  Clark exhaled slowly. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  Koji stared at him for a long moment, then looked away, suddenly too serious to be comfortable. “Okay,” Koji muttered. “Then I’ll be annoying until you are.”

  Clark’s chest tightened. “Thank you,” he said softly.

  Koji grunted like gratitude was an insult. “Don’t make it weird,” he muttered automatically.

  ◆

  They went to a small used bookstore next.

  It smelled like paper and dust and quietukar, the kind of place that made time slow down out of respect. The owner was an older woman who looked at Koji like he was about to steal something and looked at Clark like he might cry on her inventory.

  Clark drifted toward the back, where imported materials were shelved. His fingers brushed spines until they landed on a thin book with a familiar title.

  SUPERMAN: ORIGIN

  Clark’s heart stuttered.

  He pulled it free and flipped it open.

  And there—printed cleanly, as if it were nothing—was Krypton. Jor-El. Lara. A rocket. A baby.

  Clark’s mouth went dry.

  Koji leaned over his shoulder again. “Okay,” Koji whispered. “Now I’m officially uncomfortable.”

  Clark swallowed hard. “It’s… a story,” Clark managed.

  Koji’s eyes narrowed. “I know it’s a story,” Koji said. “I mean you’re reacting like it’s a documentary.”

  Clark’s grip tightened on the book. “Maybe it is,” he whispered, too quiet.

  Koji blinked. “What?”

  Clark closed the book quickly, heart pounding. “Nothing,” Clark lied.

  Koji stared at him, then leaned in even closer, voice low and sharp. “Takumi,” Koji said, “if you tell me you’re secretly from Krypton, I’m going to walk into traffic.”

  Clark stared at him. The absurdity hit, and for the first time since last night, something loosened in Clark’s chest. He almost laughed.

  Almost.

  He swallowed it down and said, “I’m not from Krypton.”

  Koji stared. “Okay,” Koji said slowly. “Good. Because I already have one drama friend. I don’t need cosmic drama.”

  Clark blinked. “One drama friend?” Clark asked.

  Koji pointed at him. “You,” Koji said.

  Clark’s mouth twitched faintly despite himself.

  They bought the book anyway. Three purchases now. Takumi’s wallet cried silently in Clark’s pocket.

  On the way out, the bookstore owner spoke, voice casual. “There’s a journalist in town today,” she said, like it was weather. “Some story about typhoon damage and road collapse.” She glanced at Clark’s shoulder wrap. “She’s been asking about that rescue. The canal.”

  Clark’s stomach tightened.

  Koji’s head snapped up. “Journalist?” Koji repeated. “Here?”

  The owner nodded. “From the next town over. Sharp one,” she said. “Always writing. Like she’s afraid she’ll forget something if it isn’t on paper.”

  Clark’s heartbeat thudded. The description was too specific, too close to something his brain didn’t want to say.

  Koji looked at Clark. “Why do you look like you just got hit again?” Koji demanded.

  Clark forced his face neutral. “It’s nothing,” he lied for the third time, which was becoming a bad habit.

  Koji squinted. “You’re lying a lot,” Koji accused.

  Clark exhaled slowly. “It’s complicated,” he admitted.

  Koji threw up his hands. “Everything is complicated with you,” Koji snapped. Then he paused, face hardening. “Where is she?”

  Clark’s blood ran cold. “Why?” he asked.

  Koji jabbed a finger at him. “Because if someone is asking questions about you,” Koji said, voice low, “and Kobayashi is already sniffing around, that’s bad. That’s very bad.”

  Clark swallowed. Koji was right. A journalist wasn’t a villain, but journalists were magnets for trouble. And trouble already had a clean smile and a folder.

  The bookstore owner gestured with her chin. “Town hall,” she said. “Or the ramen shop. She likes to harass people where food is.”

  Koji muttered, “Finally, someone with taste,” then grabbed Clark’s sleeve. “Come on,” Koji said.

  Clark’s shoulder protested. Clark ignored it.

  They moved.

  ◆

  The ramen shop bell jingled.

  The owner looked up, saw Koji, and immediately frowned. “No filming,” the owner said.

  Koji held up both hands. “Not filming,” Koji promised. “Just… intercepting.”

  The owner narrowed his eyes. “Intercepting what?”

  Koji pointed at Clark. “Him,” Koji said.

  Clark whispered, “Koji—”

  “Shh,” Koji whispered back. “Let me do my job. Your job is to look innocent. Do that.”

  Clark stared at Koji. “I don’t know how,” Clark whispered honestly.

  Koji sighed like this was the hardest burden in his life.

  Then Clark saw her.

  She sat alone near the window, notebook open, pen moving. She wasn’t dressed like a television reporter. No flashy suit. Just a simple coat, hair pulled back, eyes alert and focused. She looked up when the door jingled, and for a heartbeat, Clark’s chest squeezed so hard he almost forgot to breathe.

  Her face wasn’t Lois’s.

  Not exactly.

  But the shape of her attention was. The sharp intelligence. The restless conviction. The way her gaze could pin the world to the wall and demand answers.

  The woman’s eyes flicked to Clark’s shoulder wrap, then to his face, and her expression shifted—recognition, interest, calculation.

  Clark’s stomach dropped.

  Koji’s hand tightened on Clark’s sleeve. “That’s her,” Koji muttered.

  The woman stood, closing her notebook with one hand while keeping her pen ready like a weapon. She approached with a polite smile that didn’t hide her sharpness.

  “Shibata Takumi-san?” she asked.

  Clark’s throat went dry. “Yes,” he said.

  She bowed slightly. “I’m Lane,” she said. “Ayame Lane. I write for a regional paper.” Her smile sharpened just a fraction. “I heard you pulled a child out of a canal in the middle of a storm.”

  Koji hissed beside him. “Lane,” Koji whispered, too quiet for anyone but Clark. “Of course her name is Lane.”

  Clark’s brain tried to short-circuit.

  Lois. Lane.

  Clark held himself together by force.

  Ayame Lane opened her notebook again, eyes bright. “Can I ask you a few questions?” she asked.

  Koji stepped forward. “No,” Koji said immediately.

  Ayame’s eyes flicked to Koji. “And you are?” she asked.

  Koji lifted his chin. “Kojima,” he said. “Friend. Protector. Annoying shadow.”

  Ayame’s pen paused. “A self-aware one,” she murmured.

  Clark felt sweat on his palms. The ramen shop owner watched from behind the counter like this was better than television.

  Ayame’s gaze returned to Clark. “Takumi-san,” she said, voice calm, “your neighbors say you’ve been different lately. More organized. More… outspoken.” Her pen hovered over the page. “Some say it’s admirable. Some say it’s suspicious.”

  Koji bristled. “Who said suspicious?” Koji snapped.

  Ayame didn’t blink. “People who fear change,” she said simply. Then she looked at Clark again. “And people who fear trouble.”

  Clark’s stomach tightened. Kobayashi. Rumors. Isolation.

  Ayame’s voice softened slightly. “I’m not here to accuse you,” she said. “I’m here to understand what’s happening in this village. Typhoon damage. Road collapse. Land pressure.” Her eyes sharpened. “And why one farmer seems to be at the center of it.”

  Clark’s heart pounded. He could feel the line he couldn’t cross: he couldn’t tell her the truth. Not yet. Not when Kobayashi was circling. Not when Mrs. Shibata’s life was the hostage.

  So he did what he could do.

  He told the truth that mattered.

  “I’m not the center,” Clark said quietly. “The village is.”

  Ayame’s pen moved immediately. “That’s a strong quote,” she said.

  Koji muttered, “I hate journalists,” but his voice lacked venom. He was too busy watching Ayame like she might pull a truth grenade out of her notebook.

  Ayame tilted her head. “Then help me see it,” she said. “Show me what the village did. The checklists. The coordination. The documentation.” Her eyes narrowed. “Who taught you to do that, Takumi-san?”

  Clark’s chest tightened.

  Koji’s hand gripped his sleeve.

  Clark stared at Ayame Lane, at the notebook, at the pen, at the familiar shape of a person who would not stop asking questions until the world answered.

  In this world, Lois Lane was a name on paper.

  And yet here she was—almost, not quite—standing in front of him, asking the question that had always been dangerous.

  Who are you?

  Clark swallowed, forced a small smile, and said the only safe thing he could.

  “I learned the hard way,” he said.

  Ayame’s eyes sharpened with interest.

  Koji exhaled like a man bracing for impact.

  And somewhere far away, Clark could almost hear the quiet click of Kobayashi’s trap tightening—not because Ayame was an enemy, but because truth always created ripples.

  And in a village surrounded by mud and contracts, ripples could become floods.