Clark returned to Metropolis, its shining stainless steel, its endlessly reflecting towers of glass, its spotless concrete sidewalks and its freshly scrubbed streets. Its weather that was so often mild and pleasant, and its people, who had greeted him warmly upon his arrival. He nodded and smiled and said thank you when appropriate.
He got his photo taken.
He returned to work at the Daily Planet, its clacking cast-iron typewriters and its towers of papers, its hand-crank pencil sharpeners and its smell of ink, the bustle of the bull-pen, and its hustle as everyone tried to get their stories done by their deadlines.
He returned to his apartment, perfectly ordered and clean and empty, with its tucked away kitchen and its minute living room, its single bedroom and bathroom with shower stall only.
Sometimes, thoughts of another city came to mind. Of ominous gray skies and grit and grime on the ground. Buildings of stone and brick. Litter filled streets and rat infested subways. Of a manor there, full of ancient dust and stories and secrets.
Sometimes, he remembered the meals he had there, with the keeper of those secrets, at the table that had reminded him of his mother's, when he was sitting alone in his apartment at night, eating a meal he'd hastily prepared himself.
And sometimes, he thought of the master of that manor, its ultimate secret. Of piercing, startling eyes. Of midnight black hair. Of fair skin that appeared even more so in contrast. Of a dark and illusory cape, its rippling that could be mistaken for running water under a moonless night. Of movements that were as silent and predatory as the ones he hunted down, ones that, if you should ever have the misfortune of hearing them, it would already be too late.