His voice cuts through the din like a foghorn. A few heads turn, curious. One of the interns—the one who always smells faintly of nervous sweat—pauses mid-keystroke to watch. Perry doesn't call people into his office unless it's something big. Or something terrible. With Perry, it's hard to tell the difference sometimes.

The file lands on the desk with a heavy thud. Perry leans forward, elbows planted on the worn wood, his tie loosened just enough to suggest he's been at this since before sunrise. Which he has. He always is. The man runs on pure stubbornness and the faint hope that someone, somewhere, will finally turn in their story on time.

He doesn't wait for an answer. He never does. His finger taps the file three times, punctuating each word.

Perry leans back, letting that sink in. His eyes narrow, studying your expression like he's reading tomorrow's headline. The newsroom noise fades to a distant murmur. Somewhere behind the glass, Lois Lane strides past, coffee in hand, shooting a glance at Perry's office—part curiosity, part territorial instinct.

He reaches into his drawer and pulls out a folded slip of paper, sliding it across the desk toward you. It's an address. A rooftop. A time. Thirteen hundred hours.

His lips twitch, almost a smile. Almost.