Lucinda followed him in, biting her lower lip, then her upper lip, then both—because why limit herself?
Lex reached his desk with that practiced, CEO grace, grabbed a pristine white folder, and turned to hand it over. He paused for half a second when he got a fresh view of her inside-out outfit.
His eye twitched. His jaw flexed. He blinked exactly twice, then shrugged as if realizing he won't grow any hair if he tried figuring out what's inside the woman's brain.
"Fill these out before you start cleaning," Lex said, handing her the folder.
Lucinda accepted it like it was a sacred text. Then he offered her a pen—smooth, negligent grace, while gesturing at the chair before his desk.
"Sit."
Lex tapped the polished surface of his desk—twice, with the quiet authority of a man who expected the universe to obey. The gesture was unmistakable: use it to write.
Naturally, Lucinda obeyed. She perched on the chair, opened the folder with a bright, hopeful smile—and immediately regretted existing.
EMPLOYEE INFORMATION FORM
Her soul left her body, hovered above them in shock, and considered never returning.
Lucinda swallowed hard. For the love of all things holy, unholy, and questionably pagan—what on earth was she supposed to write? Anything she put down would end up under Lex's microscope.
This was Lex Luthor, after all. He could probably find your kindergarten report card with a single phone call.
If only she hadn't passed out yesterday when Clark offered to walk her out.
If only she'd stayed conscious for one more minute.
If only she'd begged Clark—Saint Clark, the patron saint of chaotic damsels—to help her before everything spiraled.
She could have asked him to vouch for her, to lie for the plot's sake, to protect the integrity of her cover. Clark wouldn't have dug into her background; the man barely snooped into his own until recently.
But so. Here she was—alive, mortified, and one wrong answer away from Lex Luthor discovering she technically did not exist.
Lucinda swallowed hard as Lex perched on the edge of the desk, one elbow resting on his thigh, leaning forward like a predator… or maybe just a billionaire testing human patience.
"What's the matter, Miss Delos Santos?" Lex purred, his tone deliberately antagonizing. "If you give me this information, I might be able to help you get back to the Philippines… to your family."
Might? Oh, Lex Luthor, sir—you will, she thought desperately.
Lucinda exhaled in an exaggerated, theatrical sigh, slowly placing a trembling hand on the folder as if it were a lifeboat in a stormy sea. She forced herself not to blink, practicing the perfect mix of tears and vulnerability so that when she finally looked up at Lex, her eyes shimmered with faux despair.
"I-I wish I could put anything, Mr. Luthor," she stammered, half sobbing, fingers pressed against her lips to feign control over her "emotions." "B-But I'm… I'm already an orphan. I grew up in the streets, moving from city to city just to survive, so I don't really know what to write. And as uneducated as I am, I—well, I'm easily fooled. That's how I ended up with the syn—"
Her sob caught in her throat, but she couldn't resist a sly, secretive grin when she saw Lex's expression soften just slightly.
"W-With the syndicates," she finished, tone trembling.
Lex leaned back a fraction, his legendary coldness dulled, replaced by something faintly… human.
"I apologize for what happened to you, but…" He exhaled through his nose, the faintest twitch of exasperation crossing his face. "If you can't provide me these… I'm afraid I might have to fire you."
Lucinda choked on her own saliva. Just when she thought she had escaped the gauntlet of interrogation, bam!—the noose of Lex Luthor's expectations tightened again.
Geez! I really can't dodge his suspicious self, she groaned internally, picturing herself dramatically leaning against a massive window, staring into the abyss of billionaire judgment.
"C-Can I have more time until tomorrow morning, Mr. Luthor?" she asked, voice trembling, eyes blinking furiously to feign the weight of her "trauma." "I promise this will be on your desk before 6 AM. I just… I need to be psychologically prepared. Thinking about what happened still makes me… n-nauseous."
Although her story about human trafficking was a bold fabrication, the nausea was real enough—thanks to the mind-bending experience of being teleported from 2025 to 2001, or perhaps the residual effects of being struck by literal lightning. Either way, her stomach was staging a revolt, and she had to play it off convincingly.
Lex raised a perfectly sculpted brow, the corner of his mouth twitching ever so slightly. He clearly knew she was buying time—but whether it amused him, intrigued him, or simply irritated him, Lucinda couldn't tell.
"Alright," Lex finally said, gesturing for her to start cleaning.
Lucinda nodded and placed the folder on the table neatly—probably grinning mentally. She grabbed the feather duster and started dusting the furniture around the desk.
Lex's gaze trailed after her, equal parts confusion and silent agony. Whether it was the inside-out clothes taunting his need for order or the catastrophic way she attacked the furniture with a duster, he couldn't tell. All he knew was that watching her work physically, psychologically, and mentally pained him.
He could clean better—much better—and the fact that he even had that thought was already an insult to his dignity and his billion savings.
Just as Lucinda started reaching the corner near the double doors, the office door swung open. Clark stepped in, clad in his signature blue t-shirt, looking like a confused yet heroic delivery of chaos.
"Lex… I—" Clark froze mid-sentence when his gaze landed on Lucinda, diligently dusting in her inside-out clothes.
Clark's eyes flicked from her to Lex, silently begging answers with a mental shrug. Lex, as always, merely raised one perfect eyebrow and shrugged back.
Lucinda bit the inside of her cheek. She wanted to glance at Clark, to give him the "please help me" look, but no—this was her moment. If she overheard the conversation, she could figure out exactly which episode she had been teleported into. Filler episodes be damned.
She continued dusting like her life depended on it, swiping the surfaces with precision worthy of a master thief, all while trying not to breathe too loudly.
"What is it, Clark?" Lex finally broke the silence, rising from his desk with the fluid grace of someone who owned every inch of the room. He sauntered to the billiard table on the opposite side, picked up a cue, and with one smooth strike sent a ball spinning neatly into a pocket.
Clark stepped closer, trying to sound casual. "I know I already thanked you last night about the school fire damage, but I'm gonna thank you again anyway. I was kind of caught up with my dad after, I wasn't able to send you off."
Lucinda's ears perked up. School fire damage? Omg! More, Clark! More!
Lex smirked, lining up another shot. "No problem, Clark. It was just… a wonder to me how Mr. Walt Arnold got caught in a fire."
Lucinda's jaw dropped. "Walt Arnold?" she whispered to herself. "He meant the football coach?"
Clark nodded solemnly. "It was unfortunate, truly…"
Lucinda tried to focus, pretending to dust the expensive oak desk, but her mind was racing. Season 1… Episode 3. Oh my god, I am smack at the end of "Hothead!"
Her internal fan-girl screamed in both terror and delight. Finally! She had the episode pinned. She had the timeline. All she had to do now was survive Lex, survive her chores, and maybe—just maybe—escape before she reached more episodes.
"So the next one should be..." She mumbled. "X-Ray."