(THE “S” STANDS FOR HOPE) CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE: MAX II

Max Anders prided himself on understanding patterns, on recognizing the shape of things before others even realized there was something to look at. Power, money, ideology, and fear all left traces behind them. People accumulated history the way buildings accumulated grime, slowly and inevitably, until it became difficult to tell where the structure ended and the stains began.

Clark Kent had none of that.

Max remained alone in his office long after the staff had gone home, the lights of Brockton Bay spreading out beneath him. The file resting on his desk was thin to the point of insult. It consisted of only a handful of pages, neatly organized, all of them verified, all of them useless.

There was a brief stint as a dishwasher in the city, barely worth mentioning, the sort of disposable employment that existed only as a line in payroll records and tax filings. There were no prior jobs, no educational history, and no family connections that could be traced with any degree of certainty. Just a man who appeared, working quietly without leaving a footprint any deeper than absolutely necessary. And then there was Carol Dallon.

That detail lingered longer than the rest. Carol was not careless, not with her reputation and certainly not with the people she allowed into her life. She did not form relationships without caution, and she did not ignore consequences when they were inconvenient. The fact that she had allowed Clark Kent anywhere near her personal life suggested either an unusual degree of charm or something far more dangerous.

Max steepled his fingers and leaned back in his chair, eyes drifting briefly to the ceiling. Men without histories tended to fall into two categories. They were either carefully protected, wrapped in layers of influence so thick that digging further became unwise, or they were the sort of people who erased themselves because discovery was not an option.

Given how intentionally this smear campaign had been aimed at him, Max had initially assumed the former. Someone with resources was using Kent as a tool, or at the very least as a convenient intermediary. It would have made sense. He had accumulated enemies as naturally as he had wealth, and even within the Gesellschaft there were those who resented his authority, his visibility, and his refusal to remain quietly in the background.

His ex-wife, for one.

The thought surfaced and was dismissed almost as quickly. She despised him, that much was true, but hatred alone did not translate into this level of examination. She was not the sort to orchestrate something this subtle or this public without leaving evidence behind. And Max had taken care not to provoke her further than he already had, and she had never shown the kind of ruthlessness this would require unless she was backed into a corner.

Which left everyone else.

Politicians he had outmaneuvered, business rivals he had crushed, and idealists who still clung to the belief that the world could be reshaped without blood on the floor had been systematically wiped out. The list was long, and for the first time in years, none of the names stood out.

The uncertainty gnawed at him.

After a slow exhale, Max reached a decision. If the answers refused to present themselves, then he would seek them directly. Clark Kent was either a pawn or something far more interesting, and in either case, a face to face conversation would reveal more than any background check ever could.

Max did what he had always done best. He arranged circumstances.

The meeting was scheduled for early afternoon at a quiet cafe a few blocks from the Boardwalk, a place frequented by office workers and journalists who valued anonymity over atmosphere. It was public enough to discourage theatrics and dull enough to keep anyone from paying attention. Max arrived first, selecting a table near the window where he could observe both the street outside and the slight reflection of the interior in the glass. Old habits died slowly, and the ones that kept him alive tended to linger the longest.

Clark Kent arrived exactly on time.

Punctuality, by itself, was not impressive, but it was often indicative of discipline, and discipline was rarely accidental. The man approaching the table matched the sparse profile Max had been given almost too well. He was tall and broad shouldered in a way that suggested strength rather than just bulk, with an awkwardness to his posture that might have appeared disarming if Max wasn't one to suspect everything.

His suit was inexpensive but clean, his tie slightly crooked, as though it had been adjusted repeatedly without ever quite satisfying its wearer. On the other hand, the glasses were an affectation, Max was certain of that much, though to what end he could not yet say. Kent moved with an easy confidence that did not draw attention to itself, and his eyes took in the room in a single, casual sweep before settling on Max. There was no flicker of recognition, no tightening of posture, and no hint that he knew exactly who he was approaching.

Either he was exceptionally skilled, or he was genuinely unconcerned.

Kent smiled politely as he reached the table and extended a hand. “Mr Anders,” he said, his voice warm with just enough nervousness to sound timid. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me.”

Max rose just enough to return the handshake, keeping his grip firm without testing. He studied Kent’s face as they exchanged the gesture, searching for cracks in the presentation, but found none that immediately stood out.

“Clark Kent,” Max replied, his tone cordial and carefully neutral. “Please, have a seat. I imagine you are curious as to why I wished to speak with you.”

Kent chuckled softly as he sat, the sound unforced and easy. “A little,” he admitted. “But you are clearly interested in me, and I find these conversations tend to go more smoothly when they are handled directly.”

That earned a fraction more of Max’s attention. Most men in Kent’s position would have deflected or feigned ignorance. This one had chosen candor, or at least the appearance of it.

They ordered coffee, the exchange brief and unremarkable, and Max waited until the waitress had moved well out of earshot before continuing.

“You have had an unusual impact on my life, Mr Kent,” Max said. “One that my associates and I find difficult to explain. Concerns have been raised regarding your recent activities, particularly where they intersect with my own.”

Kent’s expression shifted, settling into a more thoughtful one as he leaned back in his chair, his fingers loosely interlaced.

“I suspected this might come up,” he said. “For what it is worth, my articles rely on public records and verified sources. If there are inaccuracies, I am always willing to address them.”

Max allowed himself a thin smile, one that did not reach his eyes. He observed Kent carefully, noting the relaxed posture, the unhurried cadence of his speech, and the way he did not shrink under scrutiny. There was a confidence there that bordered on arrogance, the kind that resisted pressure simply by refusing to acknowledge it.

“Corrections,” Max repeated mildly. “An interesting choice of words. It implies error rather than intent.” He folded his hands together, mirroring Kent’s gesture without consciously meaning to. “I am unaccustomed to being examined so closely by men whose pasts are as… indistinct as yours.”

Kent inclined his head slightly, accepting the observation without conceding anything. “I can understand why that would be unsettling,” he replied. “Public office invites attention, even when that attention comes from unexpected places.”

Max exhaled slowly, as though weighing whether to laugh or object, before choosing neither. “You speak as though you are familiar with power, Mr Kent,” he said. “Not merely the sort that wins elections, but the sort that shapes outcomes quietly, without ever appearing on a ballot.”

For the first time since the conversation began, Kent paused before answering. The silence lasted just long enough to be intentional, but not long enough to appear defensive. “I am familiar with consequences,” he said at last. “They tend to follow those who act in the open.”

Max leaned back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Kent as the words settled between them. He watched with the patience of a man accustomed to command, assessing the space Kent occupied as much as the man himself. There was no fidgeting, no unconscious effort to assert dominance, and no visible impatience. Kent remained exactly where he was, as though scrutiny were simply another environmental factor to be endured, and that in itself was a provocation.

“And yet,” Max said, “you operate openly while remaining largely unaccountable. A man with no history, no affiliations of note, and no apparent stake, who nevertheless manages to unsettle people who are not easily unsettled.”

Kent met his eyes evenly. The calm was not performative, Max decided, nor was it the brittle stillness of someone suppressing fear. It was something more aggravating, a composure that seemed effortless. “If that is the case,” he said, “then perhaps the discomfort has more to do with what is being revealed than with who is doing the revealing.”

Silence followed, and Max allowed it to linger, using it as he had learned to use most things, to think over his next move. He had built careers, broken alliances, and redirected entire movements in quieter moments than this, but Kent did not rush to fill the pause with explanation or apology. That, more than the words themselves, unsettled him more than the earlier provocation. Men with nothing to hide usually hurried to prove it. Men with something to lose were far more careful. Kent did neither.

Eventually, the thin smile returned, sharper than before and edged with something colder, as though a decision had been reached rather than a point conceded. Whatever Clark Kent was, he was not an accident, and that realization demanded a level of caution Max had failed to apply from the outset. This meeting had been a mistake.

He rose from his chair and extended a hand across the table, the gesture outwardly cordial and inwardly seething. “An intriguing perspective,” he said. “I suspect our paths will continue to cross.”

Kent stood and took the offered hand, his grip firm and unremarkable. Max noted the restraint this time, the way the contact was neither firm or loose, and committed it to memory alongside a growing list of unanswered questions.

“I imagine they will,” Kent replied, releasing his hand without haste.

As Max watched him turn toward the door, his thoughts were already shifting to contingencies, to which doors might need to be opened next, and which ones would have to be closed quietly before they became more of a liability.