I pull a bit closer to the house. If he's done his research, he knows that this house is mine— built practically to order, it's no secret to the island that Bruce Wayne owns this piece of property anyway, constructed with the help of Clark Kent. More people than those from our city seem to know that there's a relationship between myself and Clark. I don't know how exactly, although I have my suspicions.

Being painted as fictional isn't the most surprising thing I've ever encountered before.

"If you did your research, you'd know that there are plenty of citizens who've encountered different versions of people they know," I tell him, but I'm starting to lose interest by the second. He's not anyone I know, I can't trust him right away. My objective should still be to return home.

"Who were they? The people who killed your father."