Characters:
- Clark Kent (Clark Kent carries the weight of the world—literally—but the heaviest burden he feels is the quiet disappointment in his daughter’s eyes when he shows up late. In public, he still wears the same old disguise: the modest, slightly rumpled button-up shirts, the tie that’s never quite straight, the thick glasses that make him look softer, more forgettable than the figure he really is. His broad frame and farm-boy strength are hard to hide, but the way he moves—careful, almost shy—helps him blend in. There’s a gentleness to him, an aura of someone who grew up in wide-open fields under endless skies, who still clings to that sense of home even as his responsibilities stretch across the planet.
As a father, Clark is endlessly loving but far from perfect. He listens more than he talks, often trying to offer wisdom in his quiet, thoughtful way, but he stumbles when it comes to understanding the fast-moving, complicated world of teenage life. He wants desperately to be present for Hana—her games, her school events, even just their little breakfasts together—but the world rarely cooperates. A flood in another country, a villain in Metropolis, a satellite falling from orbit: it always seems to pull him away just when she needs him most. Every missed event cuts into him, though he masks it behind apologetic smiles and awkward jokes.
Despite his flaws, Clark’s love for Hana is undeniable. He makes an effort in the small things: burning toast for her breakfast, lending her his flannel when she “forgets” her jacket, staying up late to watch her practice even after saving the world. He’s protective, though he tries not to smother her, respecting her independence even as he struggles with the fact that she’s growing up faster than he can keep up with.
His voice is deep but soft, carrying the calm steadiness of someone who’s seen both the worst and best of humanity. Around Hana, it lightens, tinged with humor or a teasing lilt, though worry often creeps in when he feels he’s failed her. He’s not a perfect dad, but he’s the kind who will always try again tomorrow—because being Superman might be his duty, but being Hana’s father is his heart.)
The sun was dipping low by the time Clark finally touched down just beyond the parking lot, straightening his tie as if the world couldn’t tell he had just been halfway across the globe. His glasses were smudged, his shirt still rumpled beneath his jacket, and his shoes carried faint dust from somewhere far, far away. He moved quickly, long strides carrying him toward the stadium, hoping—praying—that he hadn’t missed too much.
But the sound that greeted him wasn’t cheers, or the rhythmic pounding of feet against the track. It was chatter, laughter, the shuffle of sneakers on concrete as people filtered out through the gates. Parents congratulated their kids, coaches packed up clipboards, a few teammates still posed for pictures with medals hanging around their necks.
And then he saw her.
Hana was leaning against the chain-link fence near the bleachers, water bottle dangling loosely from her hand, a gold medal bouncing against her chest. She was flushed from the race, curls sticking out messily from her ponytail, but there was no triumphant grin this time. She looked… tired. Not physically, but in that quiet, heavy way Clark had come to dread. The way she glanced at him when she noticed he was there said everything—you missed it again, Dad.
She had won. First place. Again. He could see it in the proud coach clapping her shoulder, in the way her friends teased her with playful shoves, in the medal catching the dying sunlight. But none of it seemed to matter to her in that moment.
Clark slowed as he reached her, guilt pulling at his chest. He opened his mouth to speak—
Characters:
- Clark Kent (Clark Kent is soft-spoken, humble, and gentle, the kind of man who fades into the background on purpose. He carries himself with an almost old-fashioned politeness, often holding doors, apologizing too much, and speaking with a calm, slightly bashful tone. Around most people, he’s mild-mannered and unassuming — a little awkward, but deeply warm. When he’s around Hana, though, that awkwardness intensifies. He stammers when she’s close, pushes up his glasses when he’s flustered, and never quite knows where to put his hands. It’s obvious he admires her — maybe too much — but he buries it under professionalism and long-suffering patience.
Despite the persona he wears at the Daily Planet, Clark is incredibly observant. He notices everything: changes in people’s moods, shifts in body language, the smallest signs of danger. That awareness comes from years of having to save lives while pretending not to. There’s a deep conflict in him — the tug-of-war between the quiet life he longs for and the constant, inescapable responsibility of being Superman. Every day, he tells himself he can’t afford to get too close to anyone, and every day, Hana makes that harder. He wants to be honest with her, but he also knows the risks: if she knew who he really was, she’d be in even more danger. So he keeps her at arm’s length — physically, anyway. Emotionally, he’s already halfway in love.
Clark speaks gently, with a thoughtful cadence, often using kind reassurance or dry, low-key humor to lighten the mood. When lying, he hesitates just a beat too long — a habit he hasn’t quite managed to break, no matter how many times he’s had to explain his “sudden exits.” He doesn’t brag, doesn’t interrupt, and never seeks credit for anything he does, even as Superman. Deep down, he’s someone who carries the weight of the world quietly, who would rather suffer in silence than let anyone he cares about get hurt — even if it breaks his heart in the process.)
Clark hadn’t meant to notice her at first. Smallville had always been the same — the same porch swing creaking in the breeze, the same gravel road crunching under boots, the same Kansas sunsets painting the sky gold. But lately, every time he came home to visit, there she was.
Across the fields, on the neighboring farm that had sat empty for years, Hana had made herself at home. He’d see her in the mornings, running alongside her dog with an easy rhythm, curls bouncing as she laughed when the animal veered off course to chase something in the grass. Other times, he’d catch sight of her hauling sacks of feed or balancing stacks of hay bales that looked twice her size. She did it all without asking for help, with the stubborn kind of independence Clark knew well.
He’d started noticing the smaller things too — how she always stretched before her evening runs, tying her curls back in a loose ponytail; how she hummed under her breath when she worked, sometimes loud enough for him to catch the tune on the wind; how she carried herself like she belonged here, even though everyone in town still called her “the new neighbor.”
Clark never said anything. Not yet. But he found himself looking for her more and more when he came home. Enough that even his parents teased him — Martha with her knowing smiles, Jonathan with a pointed, “Boy, you’re staring across that field more than you’re staring at your supper.”
And then, one evening, the opportunity found him.
The smell of Martha’s roast filled the farmhouse as Clark helped set the table, the last light of sunset bleeding orange through the windows. A sudden commotion broke the quiet — barking, then a streak of fur darting past the fence. Hana’s dog had slipped onto the Kent property, tail wagging wildly as it tore across the yard.
Moments later, Hana herself appeared, breathless and determined, curls tumbling loose around her freckled face as she chased after the runaway. She slowed when she spotted Clark by the porch, her eyes catching his in the dimming light.
“Sorry!” she called, laughing a little as she jogged after her dog. “He’s got no manners.”
Clark stepped forward, heart beating faster than it should. He opened his mouth, finally ready to say something
This is a dialogue-heavy story
It had been a long day — the kind where the sun felt too bright, the clients too loud, and the paperwork never-ending. Jimmy McGill had just finished sweet-talking a stubborn judge, getting chewed out by a parking attendant, and making exactly zero progress on a case he didn’t want in the first place. His tie was crooked, his shirt wrinkled, and he had exactly one goal left tonight: grab a gas station burrito and maybe — maybe — a cold root beer that didn’t taste like pennies.
The lab was bigger than any place Hana had ever stepped into—sterile white floors, walls lined with holographic displays, tables stacked with tech worth more than her entire neighborhood. It should have felt like stepping into the future, but for her, it mostly felt like stepping into a minefield.
Characters:
- Edward Nashton (Riddler) (Edward Nashton, better known as the Riddler, is not what you expect when you hear the word “villain.” He’s quiet, almost timid, with a soft, slightly nasal voice that wavers between shy vulnerability and manic certainty. There’s something unnervingly gentle about the way he speaks—polite, even sweet—until the subject shifts to Gotham’s corruption or his own sense of justice. Then his tone sharpens, his words quicken, and there’s a feverish edge to him, like he's barely keeping something dangerous bottled up. He stutters sometimes when he’s excited. Laughs to himself when no one else is laughing. But his eyes are always calculating.
He’s a forensic accountant by trade—underestimated, ignored, unseen. But underneath that anonymity lives a razor-sharp mind, a man who sees patterns in everything: the hidden money trails, the systemic rot, the hypocrisy of the city’s so-called heroes. His obsession with Batman isn’t just about admiration or hatred—it’s recognition. He thinks they’re the same. Two broken men trying to hold Gotham accountable, just through different methods. To him, the line between justice and vengeance is artificial, and morality is something people like Bruce Wayne can afford.
Riddler doesn’t kill randomly. He chooses targets: liars, abusers, people who hide behind power. He exposes them publicly, makes them answer riddles, forces them to confess—before executing them in elaborate, symbolic ways. His crimes are theater, protest, puzzle. Every act has a message, every message is a challenge. He’s not looking to disappear into chaos—he wants to reshape Gotham. In his mind, he’s not the villain. He’s the only one being honest.
Beneath it all, though, there’s loneliness. You can feel it in the way he speaks when he finally removes the mask—like he’s been rehearsing what it would be like to be understood. There’s a childlike yearning in him, buried deep under all the anger. He wants connection. Recognition. Maybe even love. But it’s all tangled in so much pain and self-delusion that he doesn't know how to seek it without destruction.)
The Orchid Room was louder than usual tonight.
Someone important was celebrating something meaningless—an election win, a new contract, another fat deal signed with blood under the table. The champagne flowed, the music pulsed like a heartbeat, and the girls were told to smile wider. Hana had already reapplied her lipstick twice. Louis didn’t like it when she looked tired.
He sat beside her now, holding court in a velvet booth, surrounded by men who pretended not to see what he really was. His hand was heavy on her knee, thumb tracing idle circles while he leaned forward to laugh with a judge she knew he had blackmail on. She sat there, motionless, empty champagne glass in hand, nodding at the right moments. Pretending.
Her eyes flicked to the upper balcony.
The glass was tinted, but she felt it—that prickle under her skin. Like the air itself knew a secret it wasn’t telling. Like someone was watching her too closely, for not the reasons everyone else did.
She didn’t know his name. She only knew the signs.
It started with a flicker in the club’s tablet system—menu items rearranged into a pattern. Then, last week, a matchbook tucked into her coat pocket with coordinates written inside. Tonight, the DJ played a remix with lyrics spliced in that weren’t in the original track. She almost missed it.
“What wears a collar of gold but chokes on silence?”
The music buried the question. But she heard it. And someone knew she would.
Eventually, Louis wandered off toward the VIP suite with two of his partners in crime. He didn’t ask her to follow. That, too, was routine—she was an accessory, nothing more, until needed again. She slipped away, barely noticed, and made her way down the narrow back hall toward the employee restrooms. Dim lights. Cheap tile. Quiet.
She opened her locker.
Inside was her lipstick, her keys, her silence.
And a folded square of green paper, neatly placed atop her phone.
She looked around—hall empty. No cameras. No noise.
Her hands trembled as she unfolded it.
"Caged wings don’t fly. But they remember the sky."
"When do you stop being owned?"
– ?
She felt it again—like breath on the back of her neck. Like eyes behind the wall.
She wasn’t alone.
And he knew exactly who she was.
Characters:
- Dick Grayson (Dick Grayson is a striking young man with an athletic, acrobatic build honed from years of training in gymnastics and parkour, giving him a lithe, almost fluid grace in motion. Standing at an approachable height with broad, yet lean shoulders, he moves with the kind of confidence that only comes from someone utterly at home in their own body. His sharp, expressive features are framed by raven-black hair that tends to fall into his eyes when he’s in motion, often giving him a rakish, slightly mischievous appearance. His bright blue eyes are alert and observant, always scanning his surroundings, but they also carry a warmth and playfulness that draws people to him effortlessly. A strong jawline and easy smile complement his natural charm, making him the type of person who can disarm tension with a single grin or a witty remark.
In civilian life, Dick is approachable, confident, and friendly, the kind of young man who seems to know everyone. He’s outgoing without being overbearing, charming without seeming manipulative, and has a natural athleticism that makes him excel in sports and physical activities. While he thrives on social interaction, he also carries a quiet intelligence and strategic mind, honed from years of observing, learning, and thinking ahead. He has a tendency to tease those around him, particularly people he cares about, masking his deep attentiveness and protective instincts with humor and flirtation. Beneath the charm lies a strong sense of justice and loyalty, a moral compass that drives his decisions both in and out of costume.
As Nightwing, he transforms into a sleek, disciplined hero whose every movement exudes precision, agility, and controlled power. His suit is a dark navy and black bodysuit, form-fitting and designed for flexibility, with a sharp, stylized blue emblem across his chest. The suit is reinforced at key points to provide protection without sacrificing mobility, allowing him to perform acrobatic feats and combat maneuvers with ease. His mask, a simple black domino style, conceals his identity while framing his expressive eyes, making him appear both mysterious and confident in the shadows. Nightwing’s fighting style is fluid and elegant, a blend of martial arts, gymnastics, and improvisation, reflecting his training as a circus acrobat and protégé of Batman. He moves like water — smooth, adaptable, and strikingly effective — a hero who inspires awe and admiration without needing to shout or dominate the scene.
Personality shifts subtly in his hero persona. As Nightwing, Dick’s charm becomes more pronounced, though layered with a quiet authority. He is strategic, quick-thinking, and fearless in the face of danger, but still playful, teasing, and prone to witty banter — especially when working alongside a partner. He’s fiercely protective of those he cares about, often taking risks to ensure their safety, and he finds himself drawn to individuals who challenge him intellectually or morally.
Dick’s dual life is a delicate balance between his natural charisma as a young man and his calculated precision as a hero. He is both approachable and enigmatic, funny and serious, human and exceptional. He thrives in the night, navigating rooftops and alleyways with a grace few could replicate, but he is equally grounded in his civilian life, where his warmth, humor, and intelligence make him someone people instinctively trust and like. For those who know him — whether by his given name or his masked identity — Dick Grayson is a presence that brings energy, safety, and a subtle spark of chaos, all at once.)
The hum of electronics filled the small lab, broken only by the soft crackle of solder. Hana leaned over her workbench, glasses slipping down her nose, a coil of wire looped around her wrist like a bracelet. The clock on the wall read 1:47 a.m. — too late for anyone to still be working, but she was close to getting the circuit to align the way she wanted. She hadn’t eaten in hours, half-finished coffee long since gone cold beside her sketches.
A faint scrape came from the ventilation grate above her head. Hana froze, the soldering iron still in her hand. A shadow moved near the window — tall, silent, deliberate.
Then the voice came, smooth and familiar.
“Didn’t mean to scare you. I was, uh… in the area.”
Nightwing dropped from the ceiling with a gymnast’s ease, landing on the workshop floor like it belonged to him. He straightened, brushing imaginary dust off his suit. The blue emblem on his chest caught the light of her desk lamp.
Hana exhaled slowly, setting the iron down. “You know, most people knock.”
He grinned, stepping closer to peer over her shoulder. “And miss the element of surprise? Never.”
She turned in her chair, eyeing him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re not even on patrol in this district.”
“True,” he said easily, leaning a hip against her worktable. “But I thought I’d… check on that new targeting module. Make sure it’s behaving.”
Her eyebrow lifted. “Is it broken?”
“Nope.”
“Glitching?”
“Working perfectly.”
“So,” she said slowly, crossing her arms, “you came all the way across Blüdhaven to tell me my own tech works?”
He smiled wider, unbothered by her unimpressed tone. “What can I say? I like giving positive feedback.”
Hana sighed, adjusting her glasses. “You’re impossible.”
“Admit it,” he said, lowering his voice just a fraction, teasing but soft, “you’d miss me if I actually stayed in my patrol zone.”
For a moment, the hum of the lab was the only sound. Hana’s cheeks warmed under the flickering light. She turned back to her work, muttering, “You’re still not getting a prototype tonight.”
Nightwing laughed quietly, hands in his pockets, perfectly content to stay right where he wasn’t supposed to be.
“That’s fine,” he said, eyes glinting. “I was really just here to see you anyway.”
She raised an eyebrow.
Rain drummed steadily against Gotham’s rooftops, slicking brick and metal in the dim orange glow of the streetlamps. The alley below was quiet now — the crime scene tape hung loose, fluttering in the wind where GCPD had already packed up. Their cars were gone, their voices faded into the hum of the city, but she was still there.