Japan
The frantic scratching of Marcus's pencil on his drawing board was the only sound in his apartment. He was immersed in the details of a page for his Demon Slayer manga, trying to capture the intensity of a sword strike. Suddenly, a knock at the door made him jump.
He rose to answer it but stopped dead in the middle of his living room. A massive, dark figure was already there, motionless, blending into the shadows of his own sofa.
Utopian: Batman. Impressive. Even with my hearing, I didn't hear you arrive. And the knock at the door... nice theatrics.
Batman,his voice grimmer than usual: It's because of Superman. I've had to... adapt my methods.
Utopian,his smile fading: What's going on? For you to come see me at this hour?
Batman:I've been trying to reach Superman. He told me he was heading to the Fortress of Solitude. It's been two hours. No contact. No signal. Nothing.
Utopian:You think something happened to him?
Batman:I don't know yet. But if it's related to who he is... we need to be prepared for any eventuality. And for that, we need heavy hitters.
Utopian:Understood. Let me suit up.
He walked into his bedroom and emerged a split second later, transformed. He wore his Utopian suit, pristine white and red, with the scarlet shield emblazoned on his chest, struck by a golden eagle.
Utopian: How are we getting there? Want me to carry you?
Batman looked at him,a flicker of technological pride in his eyes.
Batman:I have my own means.
He pressed a device on his gauntlet. With a muffled roar, the Batwing descended from the Tokyo sky and hovered outside the apartment's large window, its canopy open.
Utopian, raising an eyebrow: You always have style.
The Fortress of Solitude
Meanwhile, within Superman's icy, crystalline sanctuary, the nightmare continued. Kal-El, his face serene, lay as if in peaceful slumber. But anchored to his chest was a vegetative horror: a pulsating purple alien plant with black veins, its tentacles thick as cables wrapped around his torso and adhered to his skin. The Black Mercy.
Looming over him stood a colossal being with a titan's frame and yellowish skin. Mongul. A cruel, satisfied smile stretched his lips. He had used this symbolic day, Kal-El's birthday, to set his most sadistic trap. The loss of Warworld, his gladiatorial arena empire, demanded vengeance.
He watched the Kryptonian, prisoner of his own paradise, fed by the plant that drew from his deepest desires to create a perfect, unshakable illusion.
Mongul, whispering in a voice that echoed in the crystalline silence: Happy birthday, Kryptonian. I do not give you death... I give you oblivion. Forget Earth. Forget your battles. Forget you are Superman. Forever.
In his dream, Kal-El hugged his brother, pure joy flooding his heart, while in reality, the tentacles of the Black Mercy tightened their grip, holding him captive in a happiness that was his own prison.