Clark Kent sat at his computer, one knuckle resting absently against his chin. His thick black-rimmed glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he didn’t notice. The glow of the screen washed over his face, revealing something rare there—hesitation.
He was thinking.
Not about how to stop an alien invasion.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVhYMCKUx0D
Not about how to craft tomorrow’s headline in defense of justice.
He was thinking about what he should do.
Because, truthfully, he had a secret. An absolute, under-no-circumstances-can-anyone-ever-know kind of secret.
If it came out, it wouldn’t just be embarrassing. It could fracture trust—real trust—within the Justice League itself.
Worse still…
Batman.
Just picturing that dark cape, those cold, assessing eyes watching from the shadows, made Clark shiver.
If Batman found out—
His best partner.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡDFObZXi4JV
His most trusted ally.
It wouldn’t be anger. It wouldn’t be reprimand. It would be that subtle lowering of the brow. That quiet, devastating disappointment.
More effective than kryptonite.
He—Superman of Metropolis, the world’s most recognizable hero, Chair of the Justice League—was a fan of Nightnest.
If this were ever exposed, he might rather be chained in kryptonite a hundred times over.
How had things spiraled this far?
It had started before he knew that Batman was Bruce Wayne.
Back then, he had been in what he would call his “rational deduction” phase—newly suspicious of the identity beneath the cowl. The funding, the resources, the technological support—none of that screamed “ordinary citizen.”
So he did what any responsible journalist would do.
He researched.
Online.
Naturally.
And that was how it happened.
Innocent. Naïve. Entirely unprepared for the labyrinth of human internet culture, he was gently—then enthusiastically—guided by overzealous forum users.
From “Speculation on Batman’s True Identity”57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCLSUrc9ghE
to “Analysis of Billionaires and Vigilantes”57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgXkZWFZvSx
to one post with a bold title and an explosive comment count.
Beneath the Cape.
Clark had frowned at the words.
Beneath the cape?
That certainly sounded like identity clues.
There were thousands of comments. Threaded analyses. Screenshots. Supposed evidence chains.
As a professional reporter, he reasonably concluded this might contain actual leads.
So he clicked.
And found himself staring at a heartbreakingly dramatic—and deeply blush-inducing—work of fiction.
The first line under the title barely registered before his super-vision had already skimmed three pages ahead. By the time he consciously slowed down, the story had fully unfolded in his mind.
Batman’s obsession. His restraint. His distance.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ93yCwgegL3
Set against Bruce Wayne’s charm, recklessness, and relentless pursuit.
Darkness and spotlight.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡuH3C0Sgrhw
Cape and tailored suit.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7ZVLgioUtj
Silent vigilante and charismatic playboy.
In a rain-soaked city of gargoyles and crime, they clashed and saved each other in equal measure. Rain clinging to cape fabric. Water trailing along a suit collar. Confrontations heavy with tension—and something dangerously close to longing.
Clark froze in his chair.
His rational mind knew it was fiction.
But the writing…
It flowed.
If he strategically ignored the more explicit passages that left his hopeless romantic soul red-faced and steaming up his glasses, he could almost convince himself this was merely “heightened emotional tension.”
The entangled love-and-hate dynamic between Gotham’s vigilante and its prodigal prince was strangely compelling.
The razor-sharp dialogue. The emotional push-and-pull. The unspoken “you know I care” threaded through confrontation.
He reread one gargoyle-top standoff three times.
He had hesitated after the third chapter.
Truly hesitated.
This was inappropriate. Morally questionable. In some sense, defamatory toward two people he knew.
Batman was his disciplined, restrained partner who drank his coffee black.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡwZovgtiLXK
Bruce Wayne was a man he had interviewed—a polished smile, deliberate flamboyance, fleeting glimpses of fatigue.
And here the internet had them gazing at each other in the rain for three full minutes, complete with inner monologue.
Clark closed the page.
Took a deep breath.
This was wrong.
It truly was.
Five minutes later—
He reopened it.
In incognito mode.
He triple-checked his browsing history. A man who could hear the whisper of galaxies was now hyper-focused on the quiet click of his mouse.
He intended to take this secret to his grave.
He kept reading.
Chapter by chapter.
The pacing was masterful. The foreshadowing subtle. When Bruce turned away after an injury—only to pause in shadow—Clark felt an unexpected ache in his chest.
Then he realized—
It wasn’t finished.
The latest chapter ended cruelly.
An unspoken confession.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡl62tE362ux
A half-turn at the edge of departure.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ2Wm91TNF43
To be continued.
Clark stared at those words.
Ten silent seconds passed.
Then he committed an act he could never confess.
He liked a comment urging the author to update.
Specifically the one that read, “Please update soon—we’re heartbroken waiting.”
He became an invisible fan.
No comments. No bookmarks. No digital footprints.
But he memorized the name.
Nightnest.
Years passed.
Clark could proudly admit—internally—that he was a longtime Nightnest reader.
From Beneath the Cape onward, he had watched the fictional universe expand. The prose grow sharper. The emotional threads deepen between rain and moonlight.
He could quote certain lines by heart.
Even after he learned Batman’s true identity, he didn’t stop reading.
If anything, he became more cautious.
When a new chapter dropped, his super-hearing often caught the faint buzz of his phone before it even finished vibrating. He would calmly stand and say, “Excuse me,” before moving at near-impossible speed to the nearest restroom.
Lock the door.
Sit.
Open incognito.
Read.
He had nearly cried over a confession scene in a public bathroom. Smiled foolishly at a resolved misunderstanding.
He never told anyone.
The Chair of the Justice League could not recommend serialized romantic fiction about Gotham’s vigilante and a billionaire.
That was the line.
So he carried it alone.
He found joy. Heartache. Embarrassment. Warmth.
Sometimes, flying high above Metropolis at night, he would recall Nightnest’s dialogue and feel something tender stir in his chest.
He thought it would continue like that.
Until now.
He sat at his computer, super-brain racing.
On the screen:
Nightnest was retiring.
The announcement struck like a blow. He stared at it as though hit by kryptonite.
He reread it three times.
Calm. Elegant. Unsentimental.
And he felt regret.
He had never left a comment. Never thanked the author. Never said the stories had kept a superhero company on lonely nights.
He had only liked. Refreshed. Read.
Never spoken.
The comments section flooded instantly—readers who had grown up with the story, who called it part of their youth, who begged the author to reconsider.
Then Nightnest replied.
A few simple lines.
Family life had grown busier. Maintaining the same quality was no longer possible.
The tone was gentle. Rational.
Clark lingered over the phrase family life.
The Gotham commenters accepted it with gratitude and well-wishes.
Clark sat there.
Hands hovering over the keyboard.
He wrote a letter.
Not a quick comment. Not a rushed paragraph.
A letter.
He typed, deleted, rewrote. Eventually, he rewrote it by hand. It felt more sincere that way.
Ten pages.
He thanked the author—not dramatically, but earnestly. He described the gargoyle confrontation he had replayed during patrol. The rain-soaked misunderstanding that made him pause in a restroom and breathe. The chapter where Bruce turned back in shadow—one that had made him hover in the sky at 2 a.m., watching Metropolis lights flicker below.
These ten pages were not a column. Not an interview. Not an editorial.
They were gratitude.
He wrote about missions that had gone wrong. Arguments left unresolved. Long, solitary flights through the night.
The stories had been a light.
He paused once, removed his glasses, blinked away moisture.
Then finished with a simple line:
Thank you.
He sat back in his chair and stared at the letter.
Something in his chest loosened—like a knot finally giving way.
And then he realized something.
He didn’t know Nightnest’s address.
He stared straight ahead.
He turned it over in his mind again and again, his super-brain running through possibilities at speed: the site administrator? a submissions inbox? a publisher contact? IP tracing?
No. No—he couldn’t.
That would be too far.
This wasn’t an investigation.
This was personal.
And then he thought of someone.
Batman’s third son.
Tim.
A born tracker.
Data analysis, digital footprints, social patterns—those things came as naturally to Tim as breathing.
Of course, Batman’s detective skills were the best in the world.
But how could Clark possibly place something that looked like “criminal evidence” directly in front of a paranoid vigilante?
“Bruce, so, for years I’ve been reading this ongoing romance series about you and… you, and now the author’s retiring, and I want to send a thank-you letter—”
No.
Absolutely not.
Clark took a deep breath.
He decided to ask Tim for help.
Short of going to Red Robin, Clark couldn’t think of another option.
He had tried to come up with plenty.
Probe indirectly as a journalist? No—too obvious.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡse6E8SVlvU
Use League resources to search? Even worse—misusing authority.57Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡj7xchDDMnc
Use super-hearing to track the sound of someone typing? He killed that thought the moment it appeared.
Because no one knew who Nightnest really was.
There was no published collection. No public appearances. No collaborations on forums. No confirmed gender—nothing.
Just a pen name, and a string of cool, controlled, devastatingly tender words.
Mysterious as Gotham’s night itself.
But one thing was undeniable: the author’s love for Batman.
Not flashy. Not sensational. Not voyeuristic.
A love rooted in bone-deep understanding—an understanding of why Batman stayed silent, why he clung to the mission, why he chose the dark.
Clark understood that.
He understood because he loved Batman the same way.
Otherwise, no one could write something so tragic and aching, so entangled in devotion and ruin.
It wasn’t simple fantasy.
It was resonance—the kind that recognizes loneliness from the inside.
One day—
Wayne Enterprises’ young executive—no, not “young executive” anymore. CEO now.
Timothy Drake was in his office, reviewing financial reports, when his private phone buzzed.
Caller ID: Clark Kent.
Tim’s brow knit slightly.
Most of the time, the superhero called through League channels—official business, missions, emergencies.
But today, it was Clark.
Tim answered.
“Clark?”
There was a one-second pause on the other end.
“Tim, I… I have a personal favor to ask.”
His voice was low—less like someone making a request, more like someone negotiating a shady back-alley deal.
Tim’s eyebrow lifted, almost imperceptibly.
“What is it?”
A reasonable question. Clean. Direct.
And yet the Superman of Metropolis began to fumble.
A single sentence took him three minutes.
“It’s just… uh… there’s an author… online… and, well…”
Tim said nothing.
The office air-conditioning hummed in the background, suddenly very loud.
“I want to send her a letter… not a weird letter, a thank-you letter…”
“But I don’t know her address…”
A pause.
And then—
Finally—
The point landed.
“Please help me find Nightnest’s address.”
On Tim’s end:
Tim Drake.
Eyes dead.
He stared out through the floor-to-ceiling windows at Gotham’s skyline, and for a moment his mind went perfectly, blankly still.
Nightnest.
That name.
That very familiar name.
He slowly closed his eyes.
The greatest superhero in the world—the Chair of the Justice League—
was asking him to help locate…
his own home address.
Tim held the letter.
A thick stack, corners pressed neatly flat. Nightnest written on the front in handwriting that was tidy and restrained.
Even though Clark had said on the phone—casually—“Honestly, you could just drop it in her mailbox.”
Tim’s temple twitched.
Just drop it in her mailbox?
If Nightnest were an ordinary person and a reader had pinpointed her address with that kind of precision, Tim himself would move overnight.
He’d burn every device. Wipe every identity. Start over.
This wasn’t a thank-you letter.
This was precision tracking at intimidation levels.
But unfortunately—
Nightnest wasn’t ordinary.
Nightnest was the person Tim loved most.
His wife.
Tim looked down at the letter, thumb brushing lightly over the paper.
Nightnest—
was Nora.
Tim had actually wondered, at times, how the League’s chair—out of everyone on Earth—had somehow chosen the single most accurate “answer.”
He hadn’t asked the world’s greatest detective.
He hadn’t asked an information-warfare specialist.
He had asked the husband of the author himself.
Tim wouldn’t even need to “deliver” it in any complicated way.
Left hand to right hand.
And it would be in her hands.
The coincidence was so absurdly precise that, for a heartbeat, Tim almost suspected someone was scripting reality.
He’d already built four layers of firewall protection around Nora’s computer.
Top-tier security software.
Not just anonymity—dynamic encryption, route obfuscation, node-hopping through virtual relays.
Because he was afraid someone would trace her through the writing.
Afraid of obsessive readers.
Afraid of people with darker intentions.
Afraid Gotham itself would reach for her.
And the one who showed up was Superman.
Tim sat in silence for a few seconds.
All he could do was accept it as fate.
Truly.
That night—
Tim’s wife, Nora, sat at her vanity desk.
Soft amber light warmed the wooden surface. Her long hair fell over one shoulder as her fingers gently unfolded the letter.
Tim had handed it to her earlier, strangely secretive.
He hadn’t explained much—only said, “Just… read this first.”
Nora smiled as she read those ten pages.
Page by page.
At the gargoyle scene, her lips curved slightly.
At the rain-night misunderstanding, her gaze softened.
At the final line—thank you—she paused for a second.
Then she flipped to the last page.
The signature.
CK.
Nora blinked.
Slowly, she lifted her eyes.
Looked at her husband, who had been reading along with her.
Tim leaned against the edge of the desk, one hand in his pocket, expression so calm it bordered on innocent.
Nora looked at him.
And smiled.
A smile that said: I understand everything.
Not long after that—
Red Robin showed up at Clark’s place.
No long knock. No drawn-out conversation.
He simply placed a package in Clark’s hands.
Said it was a return gift.
Then turned and left.
Clark looked down at the package and gave it a small shake.
Light.
He carried it to his study and opened it carefully.
The box lid lifted.
Clark’s eyes widened.
A signed board.
Nightnest’s signature.
The ink flowed clean and confident, the handwriting unmistakably clear.
Everyone knew Nightnest never signed anything.
Never attended meetups.
Never responded publicly.
But this board—
had a line written plainly across it:
For CK.
Clark stood there, unmoving.
The world’s noise seemed to fall away from his ears.
This was an answer.
A confirmation.
He drew a slow breath in.
And then his mouth curved into a grin that was almost boyish.
Clark decided he would hang it on the wall—front and center, in the most obvious place—
as a family heirloom.
End of Bonus Story
ns216.73.216.217da2
and then Add to home screen.