Prologue
Metropolis downtown was a battlefield, its gleaming spires reduced to a haze of ash and ruin. The air choked with dust, thick and acrid, swirling through streets littered with shattered glass and twisted metal. Screams pierced the chaos. A woman stumbled through the debris, her face streaked with soot, voice raw as she called out, "Ellie! Ellie, where are you?" Her cries drowned in the cacophony of collapsing concrete and distant explosions. Cars burned, their frames glowing molten red, spewing black smoke into the sky.
Then—KROOM!—a deafening blast shook the ground. A discarded fuel tanker, already teetering on its side, erupted in a violent bloom of fire as something—no, someone—slammed into it with the force of a meteor. His impact sent a shockwave rippling outward, scattering debris like leaves in a storm.
He rose slowly, silhouetted against the flames. A man, broad-shouldered, his jaw set like granite, dark hair matted with dust. His blue suit clung to him, torn at the shoulder, the iconic red 'S' emblazoned on his chest scorched but defiant. The red cape, tattered at the edges, billowed faintly in the hot wind, and his red boots crunched against the shattered pavement. Superman. His eyes, piercing and resolute, scanned the chaos, unyielding despite the blood trickling from a cut above his brow.
Superman stood amidst the wreckage, his piercing blue eyes sweeping the ruined street. His superhearing caught every sound, each jagged sob, each trembling cry for help, each desperate shout of a name swallowed by the chaos. A man clutched a bleeding arm, pulling a stranger from beneath a fallen beam. A teenager stared at Superman, eyes wide with fragile hope, while others gazed with hollow despair that cut him deeper than any kryptonite. The weight of their pain pressed against his chest, a silent ache beneath the scorched 'S'.
A sharp banging snapped his focus. His head whipped toward the source of the sound, a mangled sedan, wedged tightly between two wrecked SUVs, their twisted frames locking it in place. Inside, a mother pounded on the window, her face pale with terror, her little girl sobbing in the passenger seat, clutching a tattered stuffed bear. The mother's eyes met his, pleading.
With a whoosh! that stirred the ash-laden air, Superman surged forward, a blur of blue and red. He reached the car in an instant, his hands gripping the nearest SUV. Muscles flexed beneath his torn suit as he shoved the vehicles apart with effortless strength, metal groaning under his power. The sedan's doors were free.
He knelt by the driver's side, his voice steady but warm, cutting through the mother's panic. "You're safe now. I've got you." The woman's hands trembled as she fumbled with her seatbelt, tears streaking her face. The girl whimpered, clinging to her mother. Superman's gaze softened. "It's going to be okay," he said, his tone a lifeline in the storm. "I promise."
He offered the little girl a gentle smile, warm enough to pierce the chaos. Her wide, tear-streaked eyes met his, clutching her stuffed bear tighter. "Come on, sweetheart," he said softly, extending a steady hand. "Let's get you and your mom out of here."
BOOM! A fist like a meteor slammed into his face, the impact a thunderclap that echoed through the ruined street. Superman hurtled backward, crashing through the glass facade of a skyscraper across the block. Concrete crumbled, and steel groaned as he slammed into a support column, the building shuddering around him. A grunt of pain escaped his lips, raw and unbidden, as he tried to push himself up. His arms trembled, muscles straining, and he collapsed back against the debris, dust clouding around him.
The little girl in the car screamed, her mother pulling her close. A shadow loomed over the wrecked street, massive and menacing. Mongul, the alien warlord, stood towering, his yellow skin gleaming under the flickering streetlights, eyes burning with cruel amusement. His armored bulk dwarfed the wreckage, a living engine of destruction. He stepped forward, boots crunching glass, a sneer curling his lips.
"Is this the best the last Kryptonian can muster?" Mongul's voice boomed, deep and mocking, shaking the air. "A savior of insects, scraping in the dirt?" He stalked toward the fallen hero, each step cracking the pavement. "I expected more, Superman. A warrior. Not a weakling playing nursemaid to vermin."
Superman's jaw clenched, blood trickling from his split lip. He forced himself to one knee, eyes narrowing as Mongul closed the distance. "You talk too much," he rasped, voice low but defiant, his fists tightening against the rubble.
The image of Superman, bloodied and defiant, froze mid-frame, a glowing pause symbol flickering over the footage. The scene shifted, pulling back to the sleek, brightly lit studio of MNN—Metropolis News Network. The studio's polished desk gleamed under stark lights, the city skyline projected on a massive screen behind. The network's logo pulsed in the corner, sharp and authoritative.
Cynthia Lauren sat ramrod straight, her presence commanding. Her jet-black hair was pulled into a severe bun, not a strand out of place, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and piercing green eyes. She wore a tailored crimson blazer over a crisp white blouse, her expression a blend of calculated intensity and subtle disdain, like a predator sizing up prey. A single gold bracelet glinted on her wrist, catching the studio lights as she leaned forward.
Across from her sat Dr. Ray Hartman, professor of ethics and emergency response at Metropolis University. His graying beard was neatly trimmed, but his tweed jacket, slightly rumpled, betrayed a man more at home in lecture halls than under studio spotlights. Wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, and his kind, weathered eyes carried a quiet conviction. His tie, a muted blue, was slightly askew, as if he'd loosened it moments before going on air.
Cynthia's voice cut through the air, smooth but edged with steel. "This footage, captured two months ago during Superman's brutal clash with the alien warlord Mongul, continues to ignite fierce debate across the globe. The question remains: should the Man of Steel prioritize combat over rescue? Many argue he's spread too thin, saving lives while trading blows, risking more destruction. Others claim it's his very humanity that defines him. Dr. Hartman, you've been vocal in Superman's defense. Why should he be splitting his focus in a war zone?"
Dr. Hartman adjusted his glasses, leaning forward slightly, his voice calm but firm. "Cynthia, Superman's strength isn't just in his fists, it's in his choices. He fights because he values life, not in spite of it. Expecting him to abandon people trapped in the crossfire, ignores what makes him more than just a weapon. He's not a soldier; he's a protector. If he stops saving lives to focus solely on fighting, we lose the very thing that makes him a symbol of hope."
Cynthia's lips twitched, a faint smirk. "Hope doesn't rebuild cities, Doctor. Critics say his rescues during battles like this one caused delays, leading to more collateral damage. Buildings fell. Lives were lost. Can Metropolis afford a hero who tries to do everything?"
Hartman's eyes narrowed, undeterred. "Metropolis can't afford a hero who does less. Superman's not perfect, but he's carrying a burden no one else can. If he prioritizes destruction over lives, we're left with a city in ashes and no one left to save. That's not victory, that's surrender."
The MNN studio hummed with tension, the air thick with the weight of the debate. Cynthia Lauren's piercing green eyes glinted as she leaned forward, her crimson blazer catching the studio lights like a warning flare. Her voice, sharp and unrelenting, sliced through the silence. "Dr. Hartman, you speak of Superman as a protector, but let's talk numbers. The Mongul attack left 7 dead, over 300 injured, and damages in the billions. Critics argue that if Superman had neutralized the threat faster -focused on Mongul instead of playing good Samaritan, those numbers could've been lower. How do you justify that cost?"
Dr. Ray Hartman, his tweed jacket slightly askew, adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, his weathered face steady despite the verbal onslaught. He clasped his hands on the desk, his voice measured but resolute. "Cynthia, numbers don't tell the whole story. Every life Superman saved—every person he pulled from that wreckage—was someone's family, someone's hope. If he'd ignored that mother and child to chase Mongul, what's the cost of that? A city that sees its hero as a cold machine? Superman's not a calculator; he's a man making impossible choices in seconds."
Cynthia's smirk tightened, her fingers tapping the desk. "A man, you say. But he's not human, is he? He's an alien with godlike power. Shouldn't he be held to a higher standard? People are saying he's too emotional, too distracted by individual lives to see the bigger picture. Mongul leveled half of downtown. Couldn't a more strategic approach have ended the fight sooner?"
Hartman's brow furrowed, but his tone remained even. "Strategic? You mean abandoning people to die so he can punch harder? That's not a hero—that's a mercenary. Superman's power doesn't make him infallible; it makes his choices harder. He's not choosing between lives and victory; he's trying to achieve both, because that's what he believes in. The alternative is a world where might trumps compassion, and I don't think any of us want to live there."
Cynthia leaned back, her voice dripping with skepticism. "Compassion is noble, Doctor, but it's a luxury in a crisis. Social media—X, especially—is flooded with posts calling Superman reckless. Hashtags like #SupermanFail trend every time a building falls. People want a hero who wins decisively, not one who risks everything for a single car in a war zone. What do you say to them?"
Hartman's eyes flashed with quiet fire. "I say they're asking for a fantasy. No one—no matter how powerful—can stop every tragedy. Superman's not a god who snaps his fingers and fixes the world. He's one man, carrying the weight of a city's hopes and fears. Every choice he makes, he's damned either way—save a life and risk the fight, or win the fight and lose what makes him worth rooting for. Those posts on X? They're from people scared and hurting, but they're not seeing the whole picture. He's not reckless—he's relentless."
Cynthia opened her mouth, her next question poised like a blade, but Hartman raised a hand, cutting her off with a respectful but firm nod. "Please, Cynthia, let me finish." He turned to the camera, his gaze steady, voice carrying a weight that silenced the studio. "I want to speak to everyone watching. Superman is not perfect. He's not a god. He bleeds, he doubts, he feels the same pain we do when he sees a city in ruins. But what makes him extraordinary isn't his strength—it's that he tries. Every single day, he wakes up and chooses to stand between us and the kind of destruction Mongul brought. He doesn't have to. He could walk away, live a quiet life, but he doesn't. He stays, he fights, he saves—because he believes in us, even when we doubt him."
Hartman's voice grew softer, almost pleading, his eyes searching the camera as if reaching for every soul watching. "He's not a machine. He's human in every way that matters—his heart, his hope, his refusal to give up. But we can't expect him to carry this alone. No one can shoulder the weight of a world without breaking. He's out there, right now, trying to save us all, but he needs us too. He needs our trust, our support, our voices to drown out the noise of doubt. Because you can't save the world alone. You just can't."
The studio fell silent, the weight of his words hanging in the air.
Cynthia's lips parted, but for once, she had no retort.