Chapter Text
There’s a number above everyone's head.
Always has been, for as long as I can remember, like some quiet, invisible code the world forgot to mention existed, except to me.
A harmless old man crossing the street? Two.
A moody teenager glued to his phone, sulking through life in a cloud of teenage apathy? Three.
A cop with a gun—six or seven, depending on the day, depending on the mood, depending on whether the universe decided to play nice.
The numbers don’t tell me who people are, not really. They don’t whisper secrets about kindness or cruelty or how often someone holds the door open for strangers. They just tell me one thing: how dangerous a person could be. Potential. Threat. The possibility of harm distilled into a simple number, glowing above every head like a secret only I can see. And I’ve learned to live with it. Learned to breathe through it. Learned to sip my overpriced office coffee and type up article drafts with the rest of the world while these silent numbers drift over everyone’s heads like casual, ordinary ghosts.
Most people hover somewhere between one and five. The harmless masses. The quiet, mundane faces you pass on sidewalks without ever wondering if they could kill you. I’ve seen sixes—rare, but they happen. I’ve seen a seven, twice, both times leaving me rattled for days after, nerves wired too tight.
But I’ve never seen an eight.
I didn’t even know ten existed.
Until now.
The guy sitting three desks away from me wears slacks that don’t quite fit, a dorky tie that probably hasn’t been in style since the 90s, and glasses so thick they could double as windshields. He has that awkward little half-smile people get when they’re new somewhere and trying not to take up too much space. And above his head, as steady as the sun, is the number: Ten.
For a second, I just… freeze. Not physically—physically I’m fine. Normal. Calm. But my brain? My brain is running every emergency scenario I’ve ever imagined, and none of them end well. Full-blown sirens blaring in my head, adrenaline kicking so hard I’m pretty sure I could outrun a moving car right now, heart punching my ribs like it’s got somewhere better to be.
A ten. A ten. In the middle of the Daily Planet. The exact kind of place where danger shouldn’t exist, where the worst thing I should have to face is a printer jam or Lois Lane on deadline.
And yet here he is.
What. The. Actual. Hell.
I should stay at my desk. I should keep my head down. I should pretend this isn’t happening because that’s what I’ve always done.
But something some reckless, deeply stupid part of me, makes me stand up instead. Makes me smooth the crease on my sleeve, makes me put one foot in front of the other like I’m not already calculating the distance to the nearest exit, wondering if I could vault over the receptionist’s desk in an emergency.
I should walk away.
I should run.
But I don’t. Because apparently I’m an idiot.
He turns when I approach. Smiles—awkward, genuine, almost painfully harmless. The kind of guy who probably says things like “golly” without even meaning to sound old-fashioned.
“Hey,” I say, voice flat but polite, because I’ve spent my whole life mastering this tone. “Didn’t catch you yesterday. You new?”
“Yeah,” he says, offering me his hand. “Clark. Clark Kent.”
I shake it. His grip is firm but gentle, practiced but not overbearing, the kind of handshake you read about in HR manuals that tell you how to seem trustworthy. But it’s his eyes—blue, clear, impossibly steady—that throw me. Because they don’t just look at me. They look through me. Like he’s seeing everything I am, everything I could be, everything I’ve ever tried to hide.
“Nice to meet you,” I say smoothly, because I am nothing if not professional. “I'm Janet, staff writer.”
Nice to meet you, walking apocalypse.
He laughs, soft, a little self-conscious. “First day jitters, you know? But working at the Daily Planet has always been a dream.”
“Yeah,” I nod. “Welcome to the Daily Planet.”
And I smile, polite and plastic, because that’s what I’m supposed to do, even as my mind is already spiraling, cataloging exit strategies, eyeing heavy objects I could maybe throw if this turns bad (spoiler: it’s basically staplers and coffee mugs).
I sit back down.
I type some nonsense into my computer.
I glance up, once, twice, three times—and the number hasn’t changed. Ten. Unshakable.
Something’s off.
Something’s very off.
I’ve never been more terrified in my life.
And I intend to find out what…
I think...