Chapter Text
Monday, 7:00 a.m.
Jonathan Byers’s alarm goes off, signaling the beginning of yet another long week in his voluntary purgatory called the Daily Planet. He turns off the alarm and gets up, the smell of something Argyle liked to call “a slap to the panther” already hitting his nostrils. He heads toward the wardrobe, grabbing the pieces that served as his armor against annoying coworkers, deadlines, and everything that came with an office job. His tie was always rolled up on the hanger—he didn’t know how to tie one, so why the hell did he even still have it?
Byers leaves the bedroom to go to the bathroom. The smell grows stronger, but Jonathan is far too sleepy to care. He steps into the shower, turning it on in a somewhat abrupt motion, and little by little he becomes more alert.
Jonathan dries himself and gets dressed. As he walks down the hallway, he hears the TV on, playing one of those weird shows Jonathan is sure only Argyle watches. There was no way for Jonathan to avoid that hallway—well, there was, but that would involve jumping out his bedroom window… which was on the sixth floor. Considering the fact that he was an alien, he’d survive the fall, but it would draw attention.
Jonathan grabs his camera, which was sitting on the small white side table between the living room and the hallway, and places it inside his worn gray messenger bag.
— FOR FUCK’S SAKE, ARGYLE! — the guy lifts part of his blazer to cover his nose. — It’s not even 7:30 and you’re already smoking. I told you that smell sticks to us. I can’t go to work smelling like… whatever the hell that is.
Jonathan knew exactly what it was, and in situations like this,
he’d learned to apply his cologne outside the apartment. There was always a faint trace of weed left, but it blended in with the perfume and Metropolis’s naturally polluted air. He walks quickly toward the door, slightly irritated—and forgets one detail… to measure his strength.
The result:
First came a dramatic, sharp CRACK, and then the doorknob was LITERALLY in Jonathan’s hand.
— DIOS MÍO, JONATHAN — Argyle finally turns around, staring at the damage his strangely strong roommate caused. — Dude, you broke the door again.
— I’ll fix it later. — Jonathan drops what’s left of the doorknob on the side table. — Bye!
He steps through the door, which would now remain half-open for the rest of the day… and maybe the next one too.
The air of Metropolis rushes over Jonathan the moment he leaves the building. Sometimes he missed Hawkins. It wasn’t exactly homesickness, more like nostalgia—back when times were easier and harder at the same time… when he wasn’t alone. He had Will, Joyce, and Hopper. Now, he was just Jonathan Byers, the “country boy” from Indiana in a big city.
He walks toward the subway, something he now does more on autopilot than with any real awareness—something he used to do at the beginning. Inside the train car, he’s just another guy: a man in office clothes he’d never wear by choice, staring into nothingness. It was a kind of peace he’d learned to appreciate.
That peace ends when he reaches the station. After exiting and pushing through the crowded staircase, there it is—the Daily Planet. Jonathan greets the receptionist, Buckley, with a nod and steps into the elevator. From inside his bag, he pulls out his cologne, and the elevator doors begin to close… but then a hand stops them, forcing them back open.
She steps inside.
Nancy Wheeler.
She’s wearing a long-sleeved white shirt with a gray knit vest over it, along with a crossbody bag slung from her right shoulder to her left hip.
Jonathan knows her by name. She’s an investigative reporter. He’s read some of her work—her most well-known piece uncovered an epidemic of rats contaminated with toxic substances (causing rabies-like symptoms), supposedly leaked from Creel Corp. She’d also taken down a few minor politicians. Sometimes he wondered why she’d never been promoted.
The elevator doors close. Now it’s just the two of them.
Jonathan feels her gaze.
— You’re Jonathan Byers, right? — she turns toward him, her tone firm, confident.
— Yeah, that’s me. — He furrows his brow.
— You’re the one who took the photos of Superman when he stopped that truck on Maple last week, right? — she doesn’t even wait for an answer. — Actually, you’re the one who takes most of them. They’re good photos.
— Thanks. — Jonathan nods, genuinely grateful, though he hadn’t expected this inside a corporate elevator. — You’re Nancy. Nancy Wheeler.
— Yes. — Nancy nods. — How do you… always know where he is? You know—Superman. You always get the best angles and the right moments. She asks with what sounds like genuine curiosity, but Jonathan—someone who’s learned to fake normalcy whenever someone comes close to his secret—knows it definitely isn’t just “pure curiosity.”
— I guess it’s intuition. — he answers firmly. — I mean, he always saves people. So wherever there are people—safe or in danger—he’s going to be there. His tone grows slightly uncertain. He has to pretend—she’s not insignificant. If he slipped up, she’d pull something out of him.
The elevator doors open.
— It was nice talking to you, Nancy. — Jonathan heads toward his desk. A few seconds later, she steps out as well.
Nancy watches Jonathan walk away.
Intuition?!
That’s what she’d just heard. Seriously? She’d built a profile on that hero for months. She could predict appearances—but never the moments. Superman had NEVER been interviewed. It was as if he knew how to avoid reporters and onlookers.
So how did he—Jonathan Byers, the photographer—manage to get everything? The best angles, positions, everything needed for solid material. How was he the only one with the best Superman coverage?
She sits at her desk and casts one last glance at Jonathan, who’s flipping through folders while his computer boots up.
Nancy unlocks her drawer—the one where she keeps the physical files of her investigations—and pulls out a folder. A red envelope labeled “Superman.” Jonathan Byers was something worth analyzing. From inside the folder, Nancy takes out a photo. Working at the same newspaper had its perks, after all. The photo had the same quality as Jonathan’s—it had been developed in the Planet’s lab. A small, satisfied smile appears on her face.
— Morning, Nance. — Steve appears in front of her. — You didn’t text me back yesterday about our date. Is it still on?
He leans in for a kiss, but Nancy dodges it by standing up.
— We’re at work, Steve. — she says, placing the folder on the desk. Harrington follows the movement with his eyes.
— You’re still on that? — He points at the folder. — Nance, you know he’s never talked to anyone, right?
— Thanks for the support, Steve! — she gives him a forced smile. The tone is ironic, and it’s enough to make Steve back off.
Mission accomplished.
Her eyes return to the folder. If Jonathan knew that much about Superman, maybe he knew him personally. Maybe the hero was an arrogant jerk who’d signed an exclusivity deal with Jonathan Byers. The possibilities were endless.
In the middle of her mental speculation, her email pings.
It’s from Murray Bauman—the supervisor of the investigative department. Her boss.
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From: Murray Bauman
To: Nancy Wheeler
Subject: Urgent.
Wheeler,
Drop everything you’re doing—especially that project involving the secret folder you keep in your third drawer, the one locked up tight about our wonderful Superman. Yes, I know about it. Anonymous source.
According to them, toxic waste from labs associated with Henry Creel and Creel Corp. is not being disposed of properly. SUPPOSEDLY, it’s being diverted to another facility. Trucks carrying this waste have been tracked onto cargo ships.
And you, as a veteran investigator, know THIS IS NOT A COINCIDENCE!!!
So, Nancy, as our resident Creel Corp. expert, you’re perfect for this assignment. Be careful—if you turn up dead behind a truck, your family should not blame me.
Also, get a photographer to accompany you on this suicide mission. Pick one and inform me so I can formalize the assignment.
Don’t disappoint me. And don’t die. The newspaper’s health plan is TRASH (don’t tell Perry I said that).
Bauman.
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The opportunity had landed right in her lap. “Pick a photographer.” And the photographer Nancy wanted was the hardest one to get.
Jonathan.
If he knew the real Superman, this mission would be dangerous. If she invited him formally, the odds of him refusing were higher than him accepting—especially after their elevator conversation. But then she remembered something: she had access to the newspaper’s email. The corporate one—not Murray’s. But if she could write an email convincing enough, mimicking Murray’s style, and send it through the general system… maybe he’d believe it.
And so Nancy began her new mission—something a little wrong. The ends justify the means, she whispers to herself. An excuse she always used when doing something morally questionable.
She was going to forge an email.
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. The last bit of hesitation makes her clench one hand, forcing her to take a deep breath and lower her head.
— It’s just an email, Nancy. — she murmurs.
Her hand relaxes. Her head lifts. There’s a new gleam of determination in her eyes.
The email composition window is already open. Sender:[email protected] Recipient: [email protected]—typed with precision. His professional email, or at least the one he’d put on his paperwork.
Now, Nancy Wheeler had to become Murray Bauman.
The strangest boss she’d ever had.
She closes her eyes.
Time to face her newest persona.
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From: Murray Bauman
To: Jonathan Byers
Byers,
Drop everything you’re currently working on. Reporter Nancy Wheeler is leading a high-risk investigation into toxic waste diversion by Creel Corp. This is the hottest (and deadliest) story we have right now.
You have been personally assigned by me to provide full photographic coverage for her, effective immediately. This overrides any other tasks. Understood?
This choice was not random. Your recent work covering the “Superman” incidents—yes, I’ve seen your photos; they’re the only usable ones we have—demonstrates a remarkable ability to be where the action is. We need that same “luck” to document Creel Corp’s movements before they bury us.
This is not a suggestion. It’s an order from the editor-in-chief. Report to Ms. Wheeler immediately for briefing. Do not discuss this matter with anyone. Not even your roommate, who—by reports—maintains a peculiar indoor garden.
Keep your eyes open and your finger on the shutter. And try not to become a headline.
Bauman.
-------
Jonathan already had his inbox open when the email arrived.
From the Daily Planet’s account—which was strange in itself. He’d received corporate emails before, sure, but they usually came directly from supervisors’ personal accounts.
According to the message—or rather, the assignment—he was to assist Nancy Wheeler in investigating toxic waste.
Something about the email felt off.
It sounded like Murray… but also didn’t. Bauman wasn’t usually this formal or controlled. Maybe it was because he was using the corporate account—but still, it felt suspicious.
And also… strangely convenient for a certain investigative reporter.
The same reporter who’d confronted him in an elevator that morning while he was spraying cologne. She’d been interested in Superman, and now—on the same day—a partnership proposal appeared.
Slowly, Jonathan lifts his gaze from the screen and looks for Nancy Wheeler.
She’s at her desk.
And she’s looking at him.
That’s when Jonathan’s suspicion is confirmed.
She forged the email.
She pretended to be their boss to force a partnership.
And now, Nancy had placed him between a rock and a hard place.
Refusing wouldn’t hurt his job—but it would increase her suspicion.
And if Nancy was capable of forging an email, who knew what she’d do if he refused?
Back in reality, Nancy isn’t looking at him anymore. She’s flipping through something inside a red folder.
Jonathan Byers would have to play her game now.