Lucinda groaned like someone who had just been spiritually defeated by life, rolling left, then right, then dramatically starfishing just to make sure gravity still worked.
Finally, her eyelids twitched, wobbled, then pried themselves open like reluctant curtains. She blinked once—then immediately slammed them shut.
"That was just a dream, Lucinda," she whispered to herself, trying to convince her soul.
But the moment she replayed what she'd seen when she opened her eyes—the chandelier so massive it looked like it could host its own royal coronation—she slapped her own mouth shut.
Because that ceiling? That obscene, expensive, fresco-adjacent, billionaire-level ceiling? It was the same one in Lex Luthor's mansion.
"Tanginang shet," she hissed, sucking her lips like they owed her money. She opened one eye, just the left, saw the same glare of polished luxury, then shut it again.
"What the hell is happening," she muttered as she forced herself upright.
The bed beneath her was a queen-sized cloud of Egyptian sheets, plush pillows piled like royalty had napped and complained about softness levels, and a velvet duvet that felt like it had been imported on horseback by medieval knights.
The mattress hugged her too perfectly, as if it was trying to convince her to stay forever and never question how she got there, because c'mon! This is perfect! She was about to feel like a Disney princess when someone spoke.
"You tell me."
"HOLY mother of—" Lucinda swallowed her curse so fast she nearly choked on it. She snapped her head left and—dear universe, why—there sat Michael Rosenbaum.
Perched casually on a deep red Victorian couch near the tall double doors, he looked like he had been posing for an expensive magazine spread since dawn.
His legs were crossed, ankle resting over his knee with the confidence of a man who owned the entire building. In one hand, he held a neatly folded newspaper, yes, an actual newspaper, not a tablet.
The couch itself was carved with ornate gold details. Behind him, the room stretched out in full Luthor glory: tall arched windows draped with heavy burgundy curtains, polished wooden floors that reflected her panic back at her, and a fireplace with a marble mantle wide enough to park a motorcycle on. A dozen intimidating artworks hung on the walls—abstract, dark, Lex-like—each one silently judging her existence.
Lucinda blinked rapidly. "I—I don't know either," she stammered, keeping her head still but letting her eyes dart around the room like a panicked GPS recalculating.
The room was too big, too majestic, too expensive for someone who owned a towel from Divisoria. She didn't even dare to breathe too deeply. What if she inhaled the wrong air molecule and it cost her a million pesos?
Michael calmly turned a page of his newspaper, still not looking at her. And that alone made her want to faint again. How dare one man flip a page with that much elegance and danger?
Lucinda cleared her throat—loudly, dramatically—just to make him look at her. Finally, he did. Barely. He moved nothing but his eyes, the rest of his body remaining statue-level still, as if carved by the gods of sarcasm and wealth.
"Anything you wanna say?" he asked, voice smooth enough to butter toast.
Lucinda blinked. Then again. She didn't know where to begin.
Hi, I got electrocuted in the Philippines and woke up in your billion-peso mansion felt like a terrible opener.
Why do you smell like expensive villainy? wasn't any better. And asking Are you Lex Luthor right now or Michael Rosenbaum pretending to be Lex Luthor pretending not to be Michael Rosenbaum? would only prove she needed psychiatric intervention.
Besides, she had already noticed it. The way he spoke. The calm menace. The little tilt of his head. He was acting like Lex. Too much like Lex.
And Tom yesterday? He was acting like Clark. Friendly, dorky, sunshine-boy Clark.
If they were shooting, she wouldn't be here. They wouldn't let her wander into the set like a lost ghost. They would have sent her straight to a hospital after she passed out. At the very least, security would have dragged her out by the ankles.
But no. She'd been placed in a queen-sized bed in a mansion bedroom that screamed Luthor wealth, and Michael was sitting there like he was waiting for her to explain why she'd appeared in his life uninvited.
It had to be the lightning. The huge, sizzling, skin-frying lightning bolt she remembered all too clearly—the smell of burnt hair was practically a trauma souvenir. She'd closed her eyes, everything went white, then black, then BOOM! Canadian Mansion.
Michael smirked, folding the newspaper with the slow, precise movements of a man about to interrogate someone for sport. He placed it on his lap and leaned back ever so slightly.
"Let's cut the chase," he said, tone light but sharp. "Would you mind telling me how you got inside my office without any of my guards seeing you?" His lips twitched into a deeper smirk. "And to say the least, my office door is always locked whenever I'm not around."
Lucinda stared, utterly frozen. Because that? That wasn't Michael Rosenbaum.
That was one hundred percent Alexander Joseph Luthor, in all his smug, terrifying, billionaire glory.
She swallowed hard. "I—"
She paused so long you could practically hear the clock ticking in the background. Michael's stare sharpened, turning from mild curiosity to mild interrogation.
"I-I was looking for a job," Lucinda blurted out with the confidence of someone jumping off a cliff without checking the water depth. She forced a smile so tight it could've cracked her jaw. "As a housemaid, Mr. Luthor."
Michael's brows rose like they were auditioning for a separate role. "I personally look into the applications for this house's applicants, and I believe I have not seen your résumé, Miss…" he paused expectantly.
"Lucinda…" she said quickly, sweating from panic and embarrassment. "Lucinda Delos Santos, sir."
"Delos Santos," he repeated, brows rising even higher—at this point they were close to reaching the chandelier. "You don't look Spanish to me," he said with a small giggle, one that somehow managed to sound both polite and vaguely threatening.
"Oh, I'm Filipino, sir," Lucinda answered, ramping up the awkward smile. "Technically the Spanish Asians."
She mentally patted herself on the back. Good save, Lucy. Solid. Very cultural. Ten out of ten.
"So, how did you get inside?"
"Oh yes, I truly apologize for sneaking in. I didn't exactly have the luxury of printing resumés since I am, technically, h-homeless…"
Well—now she definitely was.
"I don't even have slippers, as you can see. And I—I haven't eaten, which is why I passed out after climbing into your office to, uhm… personally speak with you so I could explain my... misfortune... I was taking risks."
Michael's lips twitched into a smile, amused despite himself.
"I must say, Miss Delos Santos… I admire your ability to slip past my guards. That isn't something most applicants put on a resumé."
And based on Michael's reactions—on the way he smirked, questioned, and analyzed her—she could finally confirm her suspicion:
This wasn't just an actor messing around.
He was Lex here. Completely, undeniably Lex.
Which meant Lucinda was not only in the wrong country—she was in the wrong universe, the wrong decade, and quite possibly the wrong genre.
At the very least, she needed to figure out how the cosmic Wi-Fi teleported her here. And if that required staying in the mansion as a housemaid-slash-unwilling-guest-slash-dimensional-refugee, then so be it.
She could only hope she figured out a way home before Michael—Lex—whatever version of him this was—did a background check and realized "Lucinda Delos Santos from the Philippines" had no legal records, no résumé, and no business existing in his perfectly secure mansion.
Because if Lex Luthor kicked her out… well, she doubted she'd get an Uber back to her own universe. Multiversal travel didn't exactly come with surge pricing.
"Well, then… you're hired."
Lucinda's eyes shot open. Hired? That fast?
Woah! Lex Luthor doesn't hire strangers. He investigates them, dissects their secrets, and cross-references their DNA with three separate databases before offering them a glass of water.
Which season did she land in? Which episode? Perhaps, this is still the earlier ones. He and Tom looked younger, too. Maybe Michael—Lex, for her sanity's sake—is still not on his villain era yet.
Lex tilted his head, waiting for her reaction. When she remained dazed, he simply shrugged.
"So," he continued smoothly, "would you care for dinner?"
"With you, sir?" Lucinda asked, wide-eyed and aggressively innocent.
Lex blinked, then let out a soft giggle. "It would be my honor, however I need to head to Metropolis," he stood, placed the newspaper aside, and reached for his immaculate black coat.
"The head housemaid will bring your meal," he added. "She'll show you around. You can start tomorrow."
Lucinda rose quickly to pay some respect—too quickly that the pain in her ankle, probably from the lighting strike in her real world, flared like a betrayal, and she stumbled—straight into Lex's arms.
She effectively hugged him and inhaled half of his Premium villain cologne.
"Clive Christian Number One…" she whispered, her lips dangerously close to Lex's ear.
He heard it. Of course he did. He steadied her and guided her back to the bed with slow, deliberate care.
"For someone claiming to be homeless," he remarked, "you're surprisingly familiar with luxury colognes."
Lucinda nearly committed self-slap. She knew he was suspicious. She knew. And yet here she was, sniffing Lex Luthor like a deranged connoisseur.
"I—I read about it somewhere," she said with an innocent smile that deserved an award for Best Actress in a Panic-Induced Lie. Her hands were still on his arm; he hadn't let go yet. And as a long-time fan, she would absolutely take that win.
"You smell like nutmeg, sandalwood, and Tonka," she added with a lopsided grin. "I'm literally just guessing."
Lex's smirk twitched wider—half amusement, half suspicion, all Lex Luthor.
"Well then… I'll see you around, Miss Delos Santos."
And just like that, he turned, adjusted his coat with that signature billionaire flourish, and walked out of the room as if he hadn't just hired a universe-displaced stranger who sniffed him like a premium fragrance tester.
The door clicked shut.
Lucinda sat frozen for a full two seconds. Then five. Then ten.
Holy multiverse…
She never realized how soothing Lex's voice was. That man could read tax law out loud and she'd fall asleep smiling.
She exhaled, finally letting her legs dangle off the side of the bed.
"So… which episode am I in?" she muttered, rubbing her forehead. "And—more importantly—how the hell am I supposed to go back home?"
She glanced around the lavish room, half expecting a cosmic portal, or at least Clark Kent crashing through a wall by accident.
Nothing.
Just silence.
A suspiciously soft bed.
A probable concussion.
And a high likelihood of starring in an unplanned Smallville spin-off titled 'Surviving Lex Luthor Without Getting Arrested.'