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POV: 3rd Person
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The jewelry store had descended into chaos.
Glass crunched underfoot as two of the masked robbers tore through display cases, their duffel bags rapidly filling with glittering necklaces, rings, and gemstone-covered bracelets. One of them let out a low whistle as he swept a handful of diamond earrings into the sack.
"Keep it movin'," he growled to his partner, "We've got two minutes, tops."
Behind them, a group of terrified civilians lay face-down on the ground—store clerks and unlucky customers—all ordered to keep their hands behind their heads. One of the robbers, taller than the others and built like a linebacker, paced slowly behind them, cradling a matte-black rifle as his eyes scanned their backs.
"Don't even think about being a hero," he muttered. "I'll put you down."
Near the front entrance, the fourth member of the crew pressed himself against the wall just beside the window, peeking out through the edge of the curtain. His gloved fingers gripped a walkie.
"Still clear," he said into it. "Cops are slow tonight. Maybe we're lucky."
The second he said it, a distant sound broke the night—the faint echo of sirens. Faint, but growing louder.
He swore under his breath. "Change of plan. We got maybe one minute now. Let's wrap it up!"
Inside, the robbers quickened their pace, glass spraying with every smash, jewelry clinking loudly into the bags.
The hostages trembled.
Then the air trembled everyone froze.
The ground trembled slightly, just enough for dust to shake loose from a light fixture above. Then—
CRASH!
The front doors to the jewelry store exploded inward, the glass and metal frame blown apart by a sudden force of air and motion.
Before anyone could react, a blinding blur of red and blue streaked into the room. The lookout didn't even manage to turn his head. One second he was standing near the window, the next—SLAM!—he was unconscious, crumpled on the floor. His weapon lay beside him in pieces, as if it had been taken apart midair and tossed aside like junk.
The three remaining robbers froze, blinking in disbelief.
There, standing where the door had once been, he stood.
The man from the news.
The so-called "hoax." The supposed "viral marketing campaign."
But now? He was all too real.
Superman.
He stood tall, broad-shouldered and powerful, a red cape flowing behind him like a banner caught in an invisible wind. His blue suit clung to his muscular frame like armor, the bold crimson 'S' on his chest radiant beneath the shattered store lights. Red boots stomped lightly against the cracked tile floor. A simple black mask covered his lower face and eyes, but it did little to hide the aura of strength he radiated.
The hostages stared, wide-eyed. For a moment, no one spoke.
Then he did.
"Put down your weapons…Or end up like your friend."
His voice wasn't loud, but it carried through the room with unmistakable authority. Calm. Controlled. Unshakable. His chin tilted slightly as he gestured toward the unconscious man on the floor.
There was a beat of silence.
Then one of the robbers—shaking—tightened his grip on his weapon.
"Screw this!" he barked.
The others followed his lead, lifting their guns.
They opened fire.
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POV: Detective George Stacy
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Detective George Stacy gripped the wheel tight, his jaw set and eyes locked on the road ahead as the unmarked cruiser screamed down the avenue, sirens wailing. His foot pressed hard on the gas, weaving through traffic with practiced precision.
Beside him, Yuri Watanabe, young, sharp, and only mildly regretting accepting the transfer to Midtown, clutched the door handle with white knuckles.
"Detective, not to question your instincts here," she said through gritted teeth, "but why are we chasing this like it's the Enforcers? Reports say four guys. They run as a trio. This doesn't match their MO."
George barely blinked as they veered around a parked moving truck, tires squealing.
"It matches if you look at the timing," he said, voice calm despite the speed. "The robbery started exactly during the shift change—same thirty-minute dead zone we've been warning about for months. Almost no patrols within six blocks when it hit."
"So… inside info?" Yuri asked though it sounded like a accusation.
"It's them. Same pattern. Same precision. But if we catch them this time—with all four in custody—we'll finally have what we need to plug the leak."
Yuri looked over, eyebrows raised, but didn't argue.
Moments later, the cruiser came to a hard screeching stop in front of the jewelry store, lights flashing. Both detectives jumped out, guns drawn as they advanced with the first few uniformed officers who had just arrived.
But what they found wasn't the chaos of a robbery in progress.
It was the aftermath of something else entirely.
Inside the shattered doorway, the four masked robbers lay unconscious on the floor, bound neatly with thick ropes, their balaclavas removed and resting in their laps. Their weapons were disassembled, stacked in a harmless pile like discarded toys.
The hostages weren't panicked—they were smiling, some crying in relief. A woman, probably the store owner, was tearfully offering a reward, but the man she offered it to simply shook his head and waved her off gently.
There, in the center of it all, stood the figure from grainy phone videos and late-night news chatter.
Superman.
The red cape draped behind him, the 'S' on his chest gleaming in the broken light. He turned his head as the police entered, nodding once before stepping back.
For a few heartbeats, George Stacy just stared.
"...Well," Yuri muttered beside him, lowering her weapon. "That's new."
George didn't respond right away. He took in the scene—hostages safe, suspects neutralized, no casualties. Efficient. Clean. Surgical and impossible.
"I'll be damned," he finally said. "He's real."
George Stacy had seen the reports. The viral clips, the blurry CCTV, the late-night news segments dissecting every frame like a Zapruder film. A man flying. A man lifting cars. A man in blue and red who moved like a ghost and hit like a missile.
He hadn't believed it—not entirely.
But now, walking into the jewel store with Yuri Watanabe behind him, he couldn't deny it anymore.
Superman was real.
And George was walking right up to him.
He tried to keep his posture confident, his expression neutral. Professional. But it took effort. The closer he got, the more he felt the weight of the moment—not fear, exactly, but the disorienting sensation of standing next to something that shouldn't exist.
"New York Police Department," he announced, voice steady. "Is everyone alright?"
There were nods and soft affirmations from the hostages. A woman sobbed quietly, thanking someone above. Another offered a trembling thumbs-up. George didn't take his eyes off the man in the cape.
Superman stood in the middle of it all—calm, collected, almost humble despite the fact he had single-handedly dismantled a professional robbery crew.
George didn't know how to feel.
Some of the officers who'd witnessed the first "incident" were sold immediately. They liked him. Believed he was the real deal. A hero.
George wasn't so sure. Not yet.
What could he do? What else could he do? Can he be hurt? If he ever turned on us—could we even stop him? Why the cape? Why the mask? What's he hiding?
Questions churned in his head as he stepped up, standing face-to-face with the man. Superman was taller, but not by much. What stood out more was his build—like an ox in a skin-tight suit. Not bulky. Efficient. Everything about him looked... designed.
George kept his voice level. "Detective George Stacy. NYPD. This is my partner, Yuri Watanabe. We'd like to ask you a few questions... sir."
Yuri said nothing, but George could feel her just behind him, her gaze sharp and unblinking.
Superman gave a small nod. "Of course, officers."
His voice was calm. Warm. Not forced. No hint of arrogance or superiority. It made George's jaw tighten a little more.
As the three of them stepped out of the shattered doorway, more police cruisers arrived in waves. Lights flashing. Officers pouring out. But the moment their eyes landed on the caped figure, everything slowed. No shouting. No barking orders. Just stunned silence.
They were seeing it too.
Superman.
Real. Tangible. Standing right in front of them like a page ripped from a comic book.
And George Stacy still didn't know if that was a miracle…
…or a problem waiting to happen.
We stood just off to the side of the jewelry store, near the crushed remnants of what used to be a newsstand. The air still smelled like smoke and scorched asphalt. Behind us, flashing red-and-blue lights reflected off broken glass and polished marble. Officers moved with mechanical efficiency, but I could feel it—the weight of their eyes on us.
On him.
Superman.
I kept my notebook open, pen in hand, and tried to focus on my job. Beside us, Yuri was busy loading the four suspects—The Enforcers—into separate cruisers. Each man was cuffed, bruised, and looked like he'd gone ten rounds with a steel wall. Their newest member—some kid in a ski mask—was out cold. EMTs had already cleared them, confirming what the scene made obvious: they weren't getting up on their own anytime soon.
I reviewed the notes I'd taken and repeated the statement back carefully.
"So, you were in the area, heard the robbery in progress, and decided to intervene. Is that correct?"
Superman gave a small nod. "Yes, Detective. Once I heard the scream and the sound of shattered glass, I knew I had to intervene."
He said it simply. No theatrics. Just… fact.
I studied his face as he spoke—young, maybe late twenties, clean-cut. His expression calm. Not smug. Not apologetic. Just certain. He didn't look nervous. Didn't seem worried about being questioned. And that made part of me uneasy.
He wasn't one of us.
Not NYPD. Not even human, as far as I could tell. Yet here he stood, talking like some kind of off-duty firefighter who happened to stumble across an emergency.
"You arrived alone?" I asked, pen scratching across the page.
"I always am."
"And how did you subdue the suspects?"
"I disarmed them quickly, restrained them non-lethally. No one was seriously harmed."
That much was true. I'd seen the security footage. The man moved like a bullet—dodging fire, disabling weapons, tying the crew up in ropes he must've found god-knows-where. It had all taken less than a minute. Maybe less than thirty seconds.
"You disabled their weapons too?"
"They didn't need them anymore."
His tone was calm. Dry. I almost smiled at the absurd understatement, but caught myself.
I turned the page in my notebook, pretending to check my questions when really, I was buying time to think.
What am I supposed to do with this?
What box do I put this man in?
Citizen? Vigilante? Something else?
He wore a mask, but gave no name well no real name. His fingerprints had been found on the ropes inside, but there was nothing in any database to match. No ID. No license. No jurisdiction.
"You know this could be considered vigilantism."
"I'm not here to undermine the law, Detective Stacy. I'm here to help. That's all."
I looked up sharply. "I didn't tell you my name."
He offered the faintest hint of a smile. "It's written on your badge."
Right. Of course.
I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of how close we stood. He wasn't threatening. Wasn't posturing. And yet… I'd questioned killers, gang leaders, corporate crooks. None of them made me feel quite like this. Not afraid.
Just… outmatched.
"What are you?" I asked before I could stop myself. "A mutant? An alien? A science experiment gone right?"
He hesitated—just for a second.
Then he spoke.
"A friend."
It wasn't an answer. Not a real one. But the way he said it, looking me in the eye like he meant it, left me unsure of how to respond.
Before I could press further, Yuri returned, brushing glass off her jacket.
"They're loaded and secured," she said. Then, lower: "You alright, sir?"
I gave a slow nod. "Yeah."
Turning back to Superman, I snapped the notebook shut. "We may have more questions later. Will you be available?"
"If you need me, I'll be around."
"Any number to reach you?"
He shook his head. "No phone. But I hear pretty well."
And then, just like that—he turned, crouched, and lifted off the ground, rising into the air like it was the most natural thing in the world.
No wires. No sound.
Gasps rang out from officers and civilians alike. Someone dropped a coffee cup.
And in the span of a heartbeat, Superman was gone—just a red blur against the gray skyline.
I stood there, still gripping my notebook, as the wind stirred the edge of my coat.
Yuri let out a low whistle. "You believe it now?"
"I don't know what I believe," I said turning away from where superman flew away. "But I know this much the world had just changed.
And its someone else's job to figure out weather in a good way or bad."