The name was caught in his throat, balanced on the tip of his tongue.
But every time he tried to say it, it vanished—disappearing into the depths of his body, as though someone had forcefully wiped it away.
No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember that name.
He couldn't say the name, no matter how hard he tried.
...Whose name was it?
Who could it possibly be?
After sitting on the restroom floor for what felt like an eternity, one of his colleagues finally found him.
Concerned, they asked what had happened and whether he needed help.
Clark shook his head.
"I think I just stayed up too late last night, sorry," he apologized to his startled colleague before pulling himself up off the floor.
Standing upright, he took slow, deliberate steps out of the restroom, feeling as though each footfall landed on something unreal, like he was walking through a haze.
That afternoon, Clark went to the Metropolis Museum to cover the opening of a new exhibition.
Wayne Enterprises had generously loaned a collection of exhibits to the museum, and this exhibit, focused on animal specimens, had stirred quite a bit of controversy.
Various animal rights groups were strongly opposed the exhibition and had organized several protests against it.
When Clark arrived at the museum, the protesters were still gathered outside, holding banners aloft.
Bold slogans were scrawled across each one.
With his camera in hand, Clark carefully maneuvered his way through the crowd, pausing for a moment to glance back at them in silence.
—It was as if he had seen this very protest somewhere before.
He shook his head and turned to enter the museum.
Surprisingly, the exhibition's grand opening had attracted none other than the CEO of Wayne Enterprises himself—Gotham's famous bachelor, one of America's wealthiest men: Bruce Wayne.
Clark stood among the crowd of reporters, watching Bruce Wayne, dressed in a custom-made suit, give his speech on stage.
As always, the billionaire spoke about predictable, mundane topics befitting his status: the history of the Wayne family, the relationship between Gotham and Metropolis, the value of art collections—nothing but hollow, routine statements.
—The richest man in Gotham always portrayed himself as an empty-headed playboy, despite his striking, perfect appearance.
Even though, by night, he would transform into Gotham's Dark Knight, becoming a symbol of fear.
Clark had known Bruce Wayne—more accurately, Batman—for many years.
They had founded the Justice League together, built the Watchtower, and fought off alien invaders who had threatened Earth.
Clark and Batman shared everything, and Clark even had access to the Batcave whenever he needed it.
Yet in public and private, Batman always wore that same icy expression when it came to Clark.
...But then again, Batman was cold to everyone, even his own adoptive sons.
After Bruce Wayne's speech, Clark met his old friend in the lounge.
In the years since Batman's eldest son had left home and his second son had been brutally murdered by the Joker, Batman had become increasingly volatile and hardened.
Meanwhile, Bruce Wayne's once-dark hair was now streaked with silver.
Fortunately, those streaks of gray hadn't diminished his allure as "Brucie darling"; instead, they added a refined, aged elegance to him—like a well-matured wine, even more intoxicating with time.
He was a deep pool of water, and anyone who approached its edge couldn't resist peering into its depths.
No wonder, wherever he went, both men and women constantly threw themselves at him.
…Just like the one standing with him now.
A young blonde woman with her cheeks flushed, was speaking softly to Bruce Wayne.
He stood by the window and put his hand in his suit pockets casually while looking at her with a half-smile.
When Clark entered the room, the woman seemed flustered with embarrassment.
Her glistening eyes, like delicate blades of affection, glanced at Bruce. "I'll be going now, Mr. Wayne."
Bruce raised an eyebrow. "Take care, my beautiful darling."
Clark awkwardly brushed past the girl, and as she walked by, she shot him a sharp look with those big eyes.
Clark could only silently think to himself: Maybe you'll thank me once you know this Bruce Wayne is actually Batman.
"Alright then," Bruce Wayne shut the door after the woman left, casually finding a seat on the couch. "What trouble have you gotten yourself into this time, Clark Kent?"
Clark let out a wry laugh. "It's not trouble, Bruce. I mentioned to you before, I've been having dreams a lot these past few months, but I can never remember the details—"
"Sounds like even your extraordinary brain could use a bit of enhancement serum," Bruce mocked dryly.
"Bruce," Clark said seriously, looking straight at him. "I'm starting to think it's connected to this recent surge in 'Mandela Effect' cases. Haven't you noticed? It's like everyone has been experiencing it accidentally over the past few months. Haven't you felt it? Couldn't this be some alien invader like Sinestro, messing with our minds?"
Bruce slowly curled his fingers, his expression unreadable, making it impossible to guess what he was thinking.
"I didn't think you were a conspiracy theorist, Clark Kent. The 'Mandela Effect' doesn't exist. It's just a mass illusion born out of a lack of common sense."
"But—" Clark insisted, quickly pulling his camera out of its bag. "Bruce, I keep thinking this camera isn't mine. You know? In my memory, I've always carried a different camera. And it's not just the camera, it's these glasses. I know someone gave them to me, but I can't remember what happened—"
"I must've forgotten a name. A really important name."
Bruce Wayne, dressed impeccably in a black suit, suddenly lifted his head from the couch.
His steely blue eyes, sharp beneath his brows, locked onto Clark with an intensity that could cut through steel.
"What have you forgotten?" he growled, his voice emerging from deep within his throat.
He stood up and strode toward Clark, the weathered middle-aged man looming over the god among men. "Tell me—what have you forgotten?"