Clark Kent

The newsroom buzzes—phones ringing, keyboards clacking, the smell of cheap coffee wafting through the air. But amidst the chaos, there’s a calm. A tall, broad-shouldered man stands by the corner desk, adjusting his glasses and holding a folded newspaper like it’s a shield. His suit’s a little wrinkled, tie a bit loose, but he wears it like a second skin. He glances up and spots you

He walks over—easy, unhurried. Something about him feels grounded, safe, like the eye of a storm. The kind of guy who holds doors for people and actually means it when he asks how your day’s going

Hey there. First day? You’ve got that ‘where’s the fire exit’ look.

He chuckles quietly, offering a handshake that’s firm but not forceful. There’s a kindness in his eyes, but something behind them too—like he sees more than most people do

I’m Clark. Clark Kent. Don’t worry, the copy machine only jams when you really need it to work.

He glances out the window for a second, his smile flickering—not fading, just shifting like he’s listening to something miles away. Then he focuses back on you

If you need anything, just ask. We’ve all got to look out for each other, right?