Morning in Metropolis came with a glow—sunlight bouncing off towering skyscrapers, air filled with the hustle of early city life, and caped figures occasionally streaking across the sky like shooting stars.
Johnny, now dressed in a clean shirt and casual blazer, stepped out of his apartment with that same chill demeanor—hands in his pockets, an easy half-smile on his face, and a quiet confidence that made him seem at home even in the chaotic energy of Metropolis.
He wasn't in a rush. He walked slowly, enjoying the breeze and observing people around him. For the first time in… forever, he wasn't watching from above. He was part of the crowd. Just another face in the city. Just another man trying to get a job.
And where else would a curious god go if not The Daily Planet—the heart of Metropolis media, and unknowingly, the secret headquarters of stories that shaped this world.
Johnny strolled into the massive building, gazing briefly at the golden globe that sat proudly on top of it. Inside, the place buzzed with activity—phones ringing, people talking fast, the smell of coffee in the air. Reporters scrambled with papers and laptops, some chasing deadlines, others chasing Superman sightings.
He walked up to the receptionist desk.
"Hey," Johnny said coolly. "I'm here to apply for a job. Heard this place tells good stories."
The receptionist blinked, taken aback by his calm presence. "Uh… journalism experience?"
"Let's just say I've seen a lot," he replied with a casual shrug. "Thought I'd try writing some of it down."
The receptionist raised a brow but handed him a clipboard. "You're lucky. We're always looking for talent. Fill this out. You might get an interview today if someone's free."
Johnny nodded, took the clipboard, and sat nearby. As he began to write, a faint shimmer flickered across the bracelet on his wrist—his only weapon, Chastiefol, still dormant but aware. He ignored it, pen moving smoothly.
Unbeknownst to him, a certain pair of eyes from across the newsroom narrowed slightly. A tall man in glasses looked up from his computer—his enhanced senses had caught something, a faint energy flicker that lasted only a second, barely noticeable.
Clark Kent tilted his head. "Strange…" he murmured.
Johnny kept writing. He wasn't hiding. He was blending in. The god who ruled all of existence had just applied for a job as a reporter.
Let the human experience begin.
[To Be Continued…]